Chapter Fifty-Three: Hearing Thunder in the Silence

Liu Xuan’s eloquence bested the gathering of scholars, yet in the end, the laurels of victory still fell to Wang Tong. As he walked past Wang Tong, Liu Xuan smiled broadly and patted his shoulder—perhaps as a gesture of encouragement. For the sake of Wang Tong’s triumph, he had all but cast aside his pride.

Wang Chong had promised that, should Wang Tong emerge victorious, Liu Xuan would receive five thousand strings of cash. For the impoverished Liu Xuan, whose life had grown ever more arduous since being dismissed over the matters of the Guizang and Lianshan classics, this sum was of great significance. Forced to maintain the pretense of a renowned scholar while living in want, five thousand strings meant everything to him. His official prospects lay in ruins; what was pride compared to silver and gold? History records that, at the end of the Sui dynasty, Liu Xuan’s poverty led to the dispersal of his family and, ultimately, to his death by starvation on the roadside. One cannot help but wonder: if he truly claimed this reward, would his fate differ from the tragic end he met in history? No one can answer that question.

Wang Tong’s face was flushed—not with joy at his victory, but from embarrassment. He dared not lift his head; when Liu Xuan patted him, he instinctively shrank away, as if afraid of being touched. Liu Xuan, however, merely chuckled, utterly unconcerned. Wen Junyou swept his sleeves and departed, while Yu Zhonghua and Li Xia could only shake their heads with wry smiles. When a man discards all sense of shame, he becomes invincible; what more can be said of someone who cares nothing for his own dignity? Enough—just as Zheng Yanqing had remarked: what does it matter who wins or loses? If word spreads, it will be nothing more than a topic for laughter.

Wang Tong did not dare leave through the main gate of the General’s Hall, but slipped away through a side entrance, returning secretly to his residence in Luoyang before departing the city that very night. His victory was laughable, even outrageous. Liu Xuan could afford to be shameless, but Wang Tong could not discard his own self-respect. After this episode, much of Wang Tong’s arrogance melted away. In his native Longmen Mountains near Taiyuan, he built a simple hut by the stream of White Ox and lived there in seclusion, studying diligently for twelve years before emerging once more—only to find the world utterly changed.

“My worthy nephew, what do you think of this boy?” In the old Dou family residence, Dou Wei asked a middle-aged man with a cheerful smile.

That man was none other than Li Yuan, known to posterity as the founder of the Tang dynasty, and at present the Duke of Tang under the Sui, descendant of one of the Eight Pillars of State.

Li Yuan’s face, with its feminine features, gave him a matronly appearance. Upon hearing Dou Wei’s question, he nodded. “The boy is extraordinary. Xiaoji has wandered for years, and to have such a son must be a comfort. But are you certain he is truly Xiaoji’s child?”

“All signs point to it,” Dou Wei replied. “When the Zheng family took him in, it was the very day after Ning Changzhen was ordered to slaughter the village. Zhoushan is not far from the Sishui Pass; if he were not Xiaoji’s son, what are the odds of such a coincidence? Xiaoji himself said the boy resembles his mother. I never met her, but surely Xiaoji knows his own child.”

Li Yuan agreed. “But still, some evidence is lacking. After the massacre, only Xiaoji’s wife’s body was found; Yan Hu’s was never recovered. Yan Hu was a master of the lance, skilled in arms. If he escaped with the child, it is not impossible. Yet what happened afterward remains a mystery… If Yan Hu is alive, finding him would clarify everything.”

Li Yuan gave a bitter smile. “The world is vast, and Yan Hu is a cautious man. Finding him will not be easy.”

“Indeed, that is the trouble,” Dou Wei sighed, and the two exchanged wry smiles.

After a long pause, Li Yuan said, “Never mind. It hardly matters if Yan Hu is found; as long as Xiaoji believes, it is enough. You should have seen him when I met him briefly in Qizhou—his spirit was utterly transformed, as if life had returned to him. It gladdened my heart. Xiaoji has suffered much these years.”

Dou Wei nodded in agreement. “By the way, why were you suddenly sent to Xingzhou?”

“The stability of the Luo River region depends on Xingzhou. The Crown Prince sent me as governor to keep watch over the movements of the Shandong gentry and troops. I doubt it will last long. Bishamon is getting on in years; it is time he married into the Zheng family. My chief task in coming to Luoyang is to arrange his marriage with their daughter. With a family of his own, I hope he will become more steady.”

Bishamon was Li Jiancheng’s childhood name.

Dou Wei said, “After you reach Xingyang, see if you can find an opportunity to send Yanqing to Xiazhou, to spend time with Xiaoji.”

“That…” Li Yuan considered. “It must be done carefully. Yanqing is much in the public eye; if I raise the matter abruptly, the Zhengs may object. Better to wait for the right moment—when the time comes, I’ll see to their reunion.”

“Very good,” Dou Wei replied. He dropped the subject, and Li Yuan did not pursue it further.

After another moment, Li Yuan said suddenly, “Uncle, could you arrange for me to meet him?”

Dou Wei laughed. “I knew you would ask. I shall see to it—Fengjie is with him now; I’ll have him bring him over in the next days.”

The conversation turned to court affairs. Emperor Wen of Sui was gravely ill; it was said his mind was unsteady, at times unable even to recognize his sons. Of his five children, only the Crown Prince Yang Guang remained by his side; the rest were scattered, some far away, such as the Prince of Han in Bingzhou.

Yang Guang had appointed Li Yuan as governor of Xingyang, both to monitor the gentry and military of Shandong and, more importantly, to replace the current governor, Yang Zhan, one of the sons of the deposed Crown Prince Yang Yong. Though Yang Yong had fallen, his ten sons were not heavily implicated, and Yang Zhan, the eldest and most capable, had been entrusted with Xingyang by Emperor Wen. Should the emperor die, the hidden crown prince might attempt a comeback, and Yang Zhan would not stand idle. Thus, Yang Guang determined to send Li Yuan, his cousin and a high-ranking minister, to take charge—confident in his loyalty and ability.

As Li Yuan and Dou Wei spoke, footsteps sounded outside.

“Granduncle!” Dou Fengjie bounced in, startled to see Li Yuan, and then bowed in embarrassment.

“Fengjie, what brings you back?”

Dou Fengjie produced a letter from his robe. “Yanqing and Brother Du are going hiking and wouldn’t take me along. But he wrote this letter and asked me to give it to you, Granduncle. He says he doesn’t wish to join in these tiresome games anymore—he wants to study properly.”

“He’s gone into the mountains? When will he be back?”

“That’s hard to say. Last time he and Brother Du went, they stayed ten days.”

Dou Wei opened the letter and glanced over it.

“Mr. Li once told the story: There was a peasant’s son in Longzhou named Zhong Yong, who, at five, had never seen writing implements, yet wept and begged for them. His father, astonished, borrowed some, and Zhong Yong immediately composed a four-line poem and signed his name. The poem expressed filial piety and care for his kin, and scholars from the region came to marvel at him. Thereafter, he could compose poetry on any object at a glance. The townsfolk admired him, and guests flocked to his father, offering money for a verse. His father, seeking profit, took Zhong Yong visiting day after day and forbade him to study. I asked, what became of Zhong Yong? Mr. Li said: He is now an ordinary man. Zhong Yong’s talent was a gift of Heaven, surpassing all others. Yet in the end, he became ordinary, for he received nothing from men. If Heaven grants such talent, but a man does not learn, he will be ordinary. If he receives nothing from Heaven, and nothing from men, how could he be anything but ordinary?”

Mr. Li was, of course, Li Ji. Yanqing, citing Li Ji, used this story as a pretext to stop composing poetry and devote himself to study. Both Dou Wei and Li Yuan were deeply impressed.

“My worthy nephew, what do you think of this boy?” Li Yuan burst out laughing. “I was governor of Longzhou for years, yet know less than a boy a thousand miles away!” He nodded repeatedly. “This is a worthy youth. If he truly… it would be a blessing for the Li clan.”

“Only pity I may not meet him this time. I must leave for Xingyang the day after tomorrow, so it will have to wait,” Li Yuan said with regret, and Dou Wei could only shake his head.

——————————————————————————————

After the rain, the Longmen Mountains were more beautiful still. Lush and verdant as far as the eye could see, the sight filled one with sudden clarity and joy. Zheng Yanqing, sweating, climbed atop a stone outcrop, sat down, and gazed at the breathtaking view. Du Ruhui, panting behind him, smiled wryly. “Yanqing, why are you running so fast? You’ll be the death of me!”

Yanqing laughed. “This is the best time to see the scenery. If Brother Du hadn’t lingered so long at the twentieth station, we wouldn’t have been in such a rush. Ah, what a magnificent sight!”

Du Ruhui sat down beside him, and together they watched the mountain’s wind and rain in silence.

“Yanqing, are you still troubled?”

“Ha, what is there to be troubled about? It was all a farce—who won and who lost, everyone knows in their hearts.”

Du Ruhui said, “Yanqing, I really don’t understand you. Sometimes you’re open-minded, other times you fuss over small things. Most of the time, you don’t seem like a child at all. I can’t tell which is the real you. Can you?”

Yanqing started and fell silent. Then, suddenly, he said, “Laugh when it’s time to laugh, cry when it’s time to cry. If you say something is real, it may be false; if you say it’s false, it may be real. When truth is made to seem false, the false seems true; when the false is made to seem true, the true becomes false. Brother Du, which is true, and which is false?”

Du Ruhui scratched his head and gave a helpless smile.

Ten days later, Yanqing and Du Ruhui returned from the mountains and resumed their usual lives. By this time, Zheng Yanqing’s “On the Way” had spread far and wide, winning praise from all. Yet few came to call on him, for his “Lament for Zhong Yong” had given many cause for deep reflection: talent is important, but without effort, even the greatest gift is wasted.

Yan Shigu praised: “Half of what you say makes the whole world blush with shame.” Thus he calmed his mind and focused on his annotations to The Records of the Three Kingdoms.

In the seventh month of the fourth year of Renshou, Emperor Wen of Sui died in the Palace of Renshou. That same year, the Crown Prince Yang Guang ascended the throne and ordered the reconstruction of Luoyang, building a new city twenty li southwest of the old one. In October, the Prince of Han, Yang Liang, rebelled in Bingzhou and seized Taiyuan. In an instant, the world was plunged into chaos, and the winds of change swept the land.

In the bamboo study beneath the Longmen Mountains, Zheng Yanqing set aside his book and gazed through the window at the gloomy sky. The thunder of winter rolled on, unceasing…

End of Volume One.