Chapter Sixteen: Everyone Is a Landscape (1)

Chapter Sixteen: Everyone is a Part of the Scenery

While Tie Xinyuan regarded others as scenery, he himself, unbeknownst to him, had become a part of someone else's scenery.

A gray-robed elder, holding an unusually plump little girl by the hand, stood not far away, gazing at Tie Xinyuan with puzzled eyes.

Had it been simply a chubby, tiger-faced child, nothing would have seemed out of the ordinary—Tokyo was full of such children. Children under two, after all, watched people without purpose or method; wherever the noise was loudest, wherever the colors were brightest, there the child’s attention would be drawn.

Tonight, the puppet show above Jinming Pond was dazzling, captivating even adults. Yet this child, Tie Xinyuan, remained interested in the people around him. His gaze bounced from one person to another, scrutinizing them from head to toe, his small face bearing a mysterious smile. The old man in the blue robe instinctively felt that this smile carried a cunning, fox-like slyness.

"Interesting!" The old man laughed silently, then led the reluctant little girl into the Seventh Brother Noodle Shop.

Seeing the shop full of soldiers and porters, he frowned slightly but still entered, choosing to sit near Tie Xinyuan.

He was the first scholar to enter the shop. The matron gently nudged Wang Rouhua, who was absorbed in watching the puppet show.

Wang Rouhua, awakening from her reverie, glanced at the jade embedded in the old man’s hat and knew immediately that such a person was far beyond her reach. To obtain poetry from a man like him, her humble establishment was simply not qualified.

“Old gentleman, what would you like to eat? We only have noodles and pork—country fare, perhaps unworthy of your taste.”

The old man nodded, replying, “Your business is honest. Though this is merely a grass-roofed hut, its cleanliness rivals that of Fan Tower. As for whether the pork is edible, that depends on personal opinion. One of my friends cannot enjoy a meal without pork. Since you claim your pork is the best in Tokyo, I’d like to see for myself. Don’t let me down.”

Wang Rouhua bent in a brief bow and went off to prepare the pork.

The plump little girl leaned against the bath barrel where Tie Xinyuan was sitting, forcefully turning his head. “Speak! My grandpa wants to hear you talk.”

Tie Xinyuan responded with a silly grin and reached out to grab the little girl’s chubby cheeks. What a meddlesome imp.

The old man smiled at his granddaughter. “Bu’er, since you know he’s a clever little rascal, what’s the use of questioning him like this?”

The plump girl quickly asked, “Grandpa, what method works best?”

The old man chuckled, “When I was in office, I usually dealt with troublemakers by intimidating them. But with this little demon, I fear that wouldn’t be suitable.”

Just as the little girl was about to lift Tie Xinyuan, she hugged her grandfather’s leg tightly. “Grandpa, since we can’t scare him, what should we do?”

“At times like this, I usually entice them with benefits.”

The plump girl turned around, pulling a beautiful purse from her bosom to tease Tie Xinyuan. Tie Xinyuan opened his mouth wide, laughing as he tried to snatch the purse, seemingly captivated by it. The old man, who had been observing Tie Xinyuan’s demeanor all along, felt a bit confused, shaking his head. It seemed he had read too much into it—coming here at his granddaughter’s whim, nearly making a fool of himself by jumping to conclusions.

Though this dynasty had produced prodigies that astonished all, such as Sima Guang breaking a vat at the age of four, Wang Anshi possessing perfect memory at five, and Ouyang Xiu composing songs as an infant, those feats were performed at the dawn of intelligence. This child, after all, was still too young...

Wang Rouhua brought over the finest cured pork, scalded the chopsticks and bowls with boiling water, then invited the old man to taste.

The old man inspected the well-prepared meat and nodded, picking up a slice and dipping it in garlic sauce for flavor. After a bite, he conceded that Seventh Brother Noodle Shop’s pork was indeed unique. If his old friend were still in the capital, he would surely be delighted.

Despite his age, the old man’s appetite was impressive—accompanied by a small bowl of noodles, he quickly polished off the plate of pork.

Satisfied, he wiped his mouth. “Pack two more pounds for me to take away.”

The purse was eventually snatched away by Tie Xinyuan, who fiercely guarded it. Whenever the little girl tried to reclaim it, he would open his mouth to bite her, unconcerned about damaging his teeth—her body was all soft flesh.

The old man sat there, smiling as he watched his granddaughter and Tie Xinyuan wrestle. When Wang Rouhua wrapped up the pork in lotus leaves and brought it over, he paid the bill and led his weeping granddaughter back into the crowd.

Once the old man and the girl had left, Tie Xinyuan tossed the purse aside and settled down, ready to sleep.

On Dragon Boat Festival night, the moon rarely appeared. The sound of bells and drums from Tokyo City could be heard—it was now midnight. The flow of people near Jinming Pond thinned out; his weary mother and the two exhausted matrons kept watch by the stove, drinking tea. The water bubbled, the faint aroma permeating the hut, and none had the strength for conversation.

Distant footsteps of patrolling soldiers echoed; every Dragon Boat Festival, the army guarded Jinming Pond until the festivities ended, then withdrew.

Tie Xinyuan couldn’t sleep either. He had been careless today—success makes one arrogant, and though the crowds allowed him to observe the distinctions of each class among the Song people, he forgot that a child viewing others through adult eyes was, ultimately, inappropriate.

Since coming to the Song, he’d found himself with little advantage in wisdom over the locals. Neither his mother nor anyone else he’d met was a fool; even Tongzi, that fellow, needed gourmet food as motivation for any task.

Perhaps because the crowd had thinned, a breeze began rising over Jinming Pond. From the painted boats drifted melodious singing—a courtesan was performing a song Tie Xinyuan could not comprehend, likely the “Heavenly Questions” by Qu Yuan. Many times, he’d managed to catch fragments of the song: “In the beginning of ancient times, who imparted the Way? When above and below were undefined, how can we ascertain it? Darkness and light, who can fathom them? With the wings and image, how can we discern them?”

Each time the singer posed a question, a chaotic chorus of answers followed. Tie Xinyuan wondered how these people could possibly respond to Qu Yuan’s questions to the heavens—he thought they were all spouting nonsense.

A monk, treading slowly to the rhythm of the song, paused in front of Seventh Brother Noodle Shop, positioning his face in the light. Before he could utter a Buddhist chant, Wang Rouhua screamed, splashing boiling tea onto the monk’s bald head.

The monk, thoroughly embarrassed, barely had time to wipe the tea leaves from his face before Wang Rouhua snatched up her son, clutching him tightly in terror.

Tie Xinyuan waved a yellow slip of paper before his mother’s eyes. Wang Rouhua focused on it, seeing written: “This person is not dead, merely an illusion.”

Though this did not fully calm her, it did stem the flood of tears brought on by witnessing the dead return to life.

The two matrons, unsure what had happened, positioned their sturdy bodies protectively before Wang Rouhua, cursing the monk in foul language and shrieking for help in piercing voices.

Tie Xinyuan held a stack of yellow papers. Wang Rouhua grabbed them and inspected each carefully, and at last, a hint of color returned to her pale cheeks.

She pushed past the matrons, stepped forward, and bowed. “Master, are you from the land of the Buddha?”

The monk paused, pressed his palms together in imitation of Han Chinese monks, and replied, “Indeed, I come from the land of the Buddha. I saw that your child has affinity with the Buddha and came specially to enlighten him.”

“Does Master possess the art of resurrection?”

The monk smiled wryly. “It is merely a minor supernatural trick to deceive the masses. There’s no need for alarm, benefactress. Life and death, death and life—who can truly understand them?”

Wang Rouhua glanced at the crowd, drawn by her scream and the matrons’ calls for help, and the last trace of fear faded from their faces. Though she did not know who had written the slips her son held, they explained the bizarre events before her with remarkable clarity.

She suspected the old man who had eaten pork at her stall; aside from him, no one else seemed capable of such writing.

The monk was in no hurry; he, too, seemed to be waiting for everyone to gather. The first to rush over was the constable Chen Shi, who, upon seeing the monk, cried out in shock, “Aren’t you dead?”

He then turned to look at Yang Huaiyu, still dressed in lavish attire.

Yang Huaiyu’s eyes were full of terror. He remembered breaking the foreign monk’s neck in the Kaifeng County office—the coroner had confirmed his death, yet here he stood, alive. Could it be a ghost?

“Twins?”

Yang Huaiyu spat out the words through clenched teeth. The monk loosened his robe, pointing to the still-healing wound on his shoulder. “Where are the twins?”

Yang Huaiyu, disbelieving, brought the lantern closer to the wound. The cut was distinctive—a slanting slash, not deep enough to reach the shoulder blade, but the skin and flesh had folded, making it gruesome.

Wang Rouhua suddenly laughed, handed the papers to Yang Huaiyu, and stepped forward. “Master, you come from the land of the Buddha. I have heard that your homeland possesses myriad secret arts to induce false death—so you, too, are versed in these mysteries?”

The monk’s face twitched. He gazed at Wang Rouhua. “How could Buddhist miracles be so lightly revealed? The ignorant do not understand that this is the Buddha’s compassion—yet they grow suspicious, giving rise to delusion, unable to let go of their children, how can they attain true liberation?”

Wang Rouhua smiled. “I do not question the Buddha’s wisdom, Master. I merely ask that you take your teachings elsewhere and spare our orphaned family.”

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