17. Returning to Old Habits

When they first arrived here, they had devised a whole set of contingency plans about interpersonal relationships and intrigues—how to contend with the local gentry, how to spar with the veteran employees; the process was supposed to be fraught with danger and full of excitement.

But upon arrival, they found none of that. The people here were simply hastily assigned and essentially drawing salaries without working. A monthly salary of two taels of silver was not much for a government clerk; with current prices, five taels barely sufficed to support a family. Most of those stationed here were the elderly, weak, sick, or disabled—an arrangement made by the county as a form of care when the area was transferred from Poyang County.

For about half a year, this place became a no-man’s-land. The yamen had no funds and no real superior authority. So the clerks and guards either worked or retired as they pleased, their positions merely nominal. When Xia Lin arrived, he even paid out of his own pocket to supplement their previous salaries and promised them five taels monthly, thereby rallying these old workhorses once more.

Together, the six of them were older than Xia Lin’s mother’s generation, with the eldest clerk already sixty-seven. His eldest grandson was nearly of marriageable age, two years older than Xia Lin, and the youngest grandson was about three. With such a lineup, scheming seemed an overreach; their main contribution was catching fish from the river to add some meat to Xia Lin’s meals.

The jail warden couldn’t come because he had injured his foot under a cow, so his wife came to take his place. She was in charge of the kitchen now. Her cooking was mediocre—barely edible but not lethal—yet at least they no longer worried about what to eat morning, noon, and night, which was a relief.

Now, it was time to set off for the provincial capital to request funds. Constantly paying out of pocket was unsustainable—they were officials, not philanthropists. They refrained from embezzlement out of youthful idealism, but the countryside needed development, cities needed expansion, and transportation routes needed opening. If they had no people, at least they deserved some funds, right?

This time, they didn’t bring Chun Tao along, citing the inconvenience of two men and one woman traveling for ten to fifteen days in midsummer. So Chun Tao stayed behind to assist with local affairs, which were mostly autonomous among villages. They could hardly interfere; as long as no major crimes occurred, everything was fine.

A black canopy boat, an old boatman, and a journey along the Changjiang River began with creaking sounds. Their backpacks contained rice cakes sun-dried by the kitchen aunt, dry and a bit tough, with no oil—sticky between the teeth but better than nothing when hungry. They also carried a jar of pickles and a jar of fermented fish—this was their provision for the trip.

The water travel was uneventful; they drifted for seven or eight days to reach Poyang Lake, switched to a larger boat, and then floated lazily toward Hongdu Prefecture, another seven or eight days.

The constant upheaval left Xia Lin speechless. Lying in the rocking cabin, he felt like a piglet sold to the gold mines of Jinshan, while old Zhang slept like a dead log beside him.

The sky was heavy and gray, promising a downpour. The captain ordered the boat to dock and wait for the storm to subside. Sure enough, shortly after anchoring, a relentless torrential rain fell, its roar deafening against the oilcloth.

Old Zhang woke, rubbed his sleepy eyes, looked outside for a few seconds, and exclaimed, “Can’t waste this!”

Without hesitation, he stripped off his clothes, grabbed a towel, and dashed out onto the deck, where rainwater cascaded like a waterfall over the sail. He began scrubbing himself vigorously under the downpour.

Xia Lin followed suit, shedding his clothes and joining the wash. In the blistering summer heat, such a heavy rain felt like a long-awaited blessing; cleaning oneself under such conditions was truly refreshing.

After washing, they returned to the cabin to clean their ears when voices from outside drifted in. The crew spoke of unusual weather, severe flooding across Gan and Po regions, and fears of another poor harvest. Certainly not a good year.

Hearing this, Xia Lin felt a knot of anxiety. If true, this trip to request funds might be for naught.

Well, if it didn’t work out, he’d just have to trick the young princess. Guilty conscience was nothing compared to a full stomach.

As he pondered how to secure the money, someone entered the cabin. He hung his soaked coat, bowed politely to the captain outside, and said, “Thank you. There hasn’t been a single ferry for days. Without your boat, I wouldn’t have known how to return to Hongdu Prefecture.”

The captain replied in dialect, roughly saying, “No need to thank me, you paid, so it’s fine.”

The simple values of ordinary laborers were plain: no need for fancy words; money was the best thanks.

“Good day to you both,” the newcomer, a scholar-like man, greeted Xia Lin and old Zhang with a bow before seating himself in a corner.

Xia Lin and old Zhang ignored him, staring out at the torrential rain until evening when it finally eased.

They didn’t sail that night, so they found an inn by the dock to enjoy a meal with meat. Yet the prices were noticeably inflated, likely due to the widespread flooding affecting the market.

Returning to the boat after dinner, they saw the scholar eating soggy cakes, a pitiful sight.

Feeling sorry, Xia Lin offered him one of his own cakes, sparking a conversation.

“Where are you headed, looking so disheveled?”

“I’m originally from Qiantang. I heard that Prince Teng invited Yu Boshi to transcribe the Preface to Prince Teng’s Pavilion. I wanted to go to Hongzhou Prefecture to see the pavilion and study the masterful brushwork of Yu,” the scholar said, scratching the back of his head with a sheepish smile.

“That Preface is hailed as the finest parallel prose under heaven, coupled with Yu’s calligraphy, coveted by scholars everywhere. Unfortunately, the author—rumored to be from Yangzhou—disappeared without a trace afterward. If only he had written more, how much inspiration he could have given to students nationwide.”

Xia Lin pursed his lips, inwardly sneering: “You think this is just a trite poem? Calling it the greatest parallel prose in the world is an understatement. This work is like a nuclear bomb in literature—no one before or after has matched it. Even the original author Wang Bo himself might not have handled it well. More such works? What nonsense!”

Yet seeing someone so earnestly praise it amused Xia Lin. He chuckled and asked, “Yu Boshi? You mean Yu Shinan? Quite impressive to have him write it—his calligraphy is renowned.”

“Not just impressive, he’s invincible in our time. He’s my standard,” the scholar said.

“Do many of you head to Prince Teng’s Pavilion to admire the Preface?”

“I don’t know about others, but from my hometown alone, twelve have gone to appreciate and see if the pavilion truly matches the line, ‘The rosy clouds fly with solitary wild ducks, the autumn waters blend with the long sky.’”

Xia Lin felt a flush rise: “I heard the author of the Preface never even visited Hongdu Prefecture.”

“That only makes it more extraordinary. Such literary skill and boundless imagination is a perfect match. Besides, if it weren’t fitting, why would the Preface be displayed in the pavilion?”

Hmm… logically sound, but the praise made Xia Lin somewhat embarrassed. Though other famous works like “Spring River Flower Moon Night” and “Butterfly Lovers” came out alongside the Preface, their fame paled in comparison. The might of this supreme parallel prose was terrifying indeed.

“But I heard that ‘Spring River Flower Moon Night’ and ‘Butterfly Lovers’ were also released with the Preface. Why aren’t those two as famous?” Xia Lin teased. “I think those are quite good too.”

“Daosheng… that’s enough,” old Zhang interrupted, rolling his eyes. “Let the man rest.”

But the scholar waved off the concern. “Not at all. ‘Spring River Flower Moon Night’ is now a famed romantic piece. It’s said that Feng Lingyue, the foremost courtesan of Qinhuai, wept uncontrollably when she first heard it. She promised to give a hundred taels of gold and a property in Jinling within three years to whoever could meet the author.”

“A hundred taels of gold!” Xia Lin’s eyes lit up. “Within three years?”

“Yes!” The scholar’s gaze and tone brimmed with envy. “You don’t know Feng Lingyue’s beauty. She always wore a veil, for those who saw her face were said to go mad.”

Xia Lin immediately recognized this as hearsay and exaggeration. What woman could drive people insane? This was a woman, not an alien—what nonsense.

“When I get the chance, I must see her,” old Zhang suddenly blurted out. “I, the fishing sage of Luoshui, have yet to bow for any woman.”

Xia Lin snorted. The courtesan’s boasting was just for fun, but it caused old Zhang to speak nonsense. He called himself the Luoshui fishing sage, fishing every night for half a month, catching only a tiny whitebait on the first day, and empty-handed every night after. He claimed to be the Luoshui swimming god; without Xia Lin nearby, he’d be a catfish of the Changjiang. Now he’d added “Luoshui’s female patron saint” to his titles. Yet Xia Lin had known him for years and never saw him visit a brothel except once when invited to paint a courtesan’s portrait. He never spent a coin there himself.

“Enough, enough,” Xia Lin said, fearing old Zhang would spout more nonsense. He lay back on the wooden plank. “Time for sleep. Tomorrow we reach Hongdu. There’s much to do.”