Dawn Departure from the Boat Shed
The sky had not yet fully brightened when the old boat shed first stirred to life.
The fire from the night before had long since collapsed into a ring of pale ash, though a few dull-red embers still lay buried underneath, as if they had kept watch all night and were only now willing to die away. Wind slipped down through the gap in the sagging roof and brushed across the ashes. At its touch, those last hidden sparks brightened and dimmed by turns, and their faint glow caught for an instant on the rim of the old pot beside them. The pot was empty now. Only a thin slick of fish oil clung to the bottom, carrying the scorched smell of burnt wood and, beneath it still, the lingering freshness of last night's fish soup. A few charred branches lay scattered across the ground, and on the dusty floor several crooked lines remained visible—the route Old Daoist Xuan had idly scratched out the night before. Pingsha Market, Xiaoping Wharf, Beikou: the rough directions could still just be made out.
Fang Yingjie woke to a prod that was neither light nor heavy, just the tap of a toe.
When he opened his eyes, Old Daoist Xuan was crouching by the fire pit, stirring the ashes. The hem of his old Daoist robe trailed on the ground, picking up a ring of soot, but his mouth had already started complaining ahead of the day.
"You sleep like wet firewood. Can't even be stirred."
"If you don't get up now, the crowd will be into the market before long, and whatever hot broth and hot cakes Pingsha Market has left will be scraped clean."
Fang Yingjie pushed himself upright and felt the stiffness in his back at once. The old blanket slipped from his shoulders, and the damp chill of morning slid straight down through his collar. Bracing one hand against a broken plank nearby, he slowly shifted himself into place. His left shoulder and the ribs beneath still drew tight in a dull, buried way, as though some heavy bluntness remained pressed under the old wounds. His right ankle, too, still swelled when he set it down, though less than it had the past two days. But the worst of that turbulent, floating force in his chest, after last night's struggle by the fire, was no longer so wild that the slightest movement sent it surging toward his throat.
He drew a low breath and, following what Old Daoist Xuan had taught him the night before, began to guide it slowly downward.
This time there was no palm pressed between his shoulders to steady him. He had to find the path on his own. At first it still did not go smoothly. A faint tightness seized his chest and ribs, as though something were lodged there, barring the way. Fang Yingjie clenched his teeth, but did not force it. Instead he kept his patience and sank that breath downward little by little. The chaotic force rose twice in rebellion, but in the end it did not scatter. At last he pressed it down into the space below his navel. It was only one attempt, yet already a fine sheen of sweat had gathered on his brow.
Old Daoist Xuan stood nearby with his wine gourd in his arms, watching him from the corner of his eye. He gave a grunt through his nose.
"Not bad."
"At least you didn't cough yourself over the moment you started moving your breath."
Fang Yingjie answered softly, then pushed himself to his feet with the help of his wooden staff. Old Daoist Xuan had already rolled up the old blanket from the night before and stuffed it into his bundle. Then he bent to kick the old pot into the corner of the shed, as if this night had been nothing more than borrowing a patch of ground to sleep on, and now that morning had come, they could dust themselves off and be gone.
His mouth, meanwhile, never stopped.
"Don't think just because you can breathe twice without falling apart your leg has somehow stopped being useless. When we get into the market, don't show off, and don't gawp."
"And especially—don't go losing your wits the moment a sleeve or a back looks familiar."
At that, he lifted his eyes and shot Fang Yingjie a glance.
"You hear me?"
Fang Yingjie nodded.
Old Daoist Xuan still did not seem satisfied. He tapped the ash-marked lines on the ground with the tip of his foot.
"First we go to Pingsha Market."
"When we get there, we eat something hot, then ask around. If those acquaintances of yours are really nearby, a little more time won't matter."
"If you lose your head first, then even if they're standing right in front of you, you may not recognize them for certain."
The words still carried their usual edge, but there was something a shade heavier in his tone than before. Fang Yingjie said nothing more, only answered quietly, "Yes," and set his staff firmly. Yet before he left the shed, he could not help glancing back once more at those crooked lines on the ground. Their talk by the fire the night before, this rising to his feet now—it all seemed to have pushed the vague and shapeless things before him into something firmer. The road had truly been decided. The search had truly begun.
Outside the boat shed, the morning was still only a wash of bluish gray.
Dew still weighed on the grass by the old drainage ditch. Half-toppled reeds leaned against the dark water and did not stir. The ditch itself had never been wide. In the night it had looked like a dead snake, dark and cold, but now, as the light slowly grew, he could make out the silt banked along its edges, the splintered wood caught in the mud, the broken blades of grass floating on the surface, and half a rotten plank drifting there.
The two of them first followed the narrow raised strip of earth along the ditch for some distance. The embankment was uneven, rising and dipping underfoot. Beside their steps there was either wet mud or broken stones and tile half-buried in it. Old Daoist Xuan walked ahead. His shoes left shallow damp prints behind him, and his mouth ran on the whole way.
"This place looked like a ghost's nest at night. Now that it's daylight, it doesn't look much better."
"Not even a proper road. I really don't know why boatmen, debt-dodgers, and petty thieves all love crawling into places like this."
He complained, but his footing was steady. The wine gourd at his back bumped lightly against his waist, and he moved more briskly than usual. Fang Yingjie followed behind him on his staff, one step deep, one step shallow. At first the swelling in his right foot still pulled at him, but after they had gone a little way, his bones and tendons seemed to loosen somewhat instead. Even so, there was too much weighing on his mind. Without meaning to, he quickened his pace a little, and the breath he had only just subdued in his chest began to float upward again.
Old Daoist Xuan seemed to have eyes in the back of his head.
"What are you hurrying for?" he said without turning around.
"The market isn't going to sprout legs and run."
Fang Yingjie was checked at once by the rebuke, and his pace slowed half a step.
After about the time it took to drink a cup of tea, the land gradually leveled out. The ditch split into several narrow channels, winding away around the shallows. Signs of habitation began to appear along the road. First came half an overturned old hull on the bank, then wooden racks for drying nets. Damp nets still hung from them, not fully gathered in the night before. When the wind came through, it carried a faint smell of fish. Farther on, the outline of low houses came into view. Their roof ridges were not high, but smoke rose early from their kitchens, slanting in pale threads into the gray-white morning. The cries of chickens and the barking of dogs drifted over little by little—not loud, but enough to thin the desolation and chill of the road behind them.
Old Daoist Xuan twitched his nose suddenly.
"There's porridge ahead."
"At last—we've reached a place where living people stay."
He spoke as though genuinely relieved, and his steps quickened of their own accord.
A little farther on, the roadside was no longer just a few scattered households. A man carrying empty shoulder poles was heading toward the market, his baskets still smelling of damp. A woman stood in her doorway with a bamboo basket on her arm, scraping scales from a fish; her hand rose and fell, and the scales flew bright onto the ground. Two half-grown boys came running barefoot up the slope, a thin cord swinging from one hand with a small fish from the night before strung through it. At the sight of Old Daoist Xuan in his dingy old robe, they stared in curiosity for a moment, then turned and ran off again laughing.
This was no longer the deep valley, the broken cliff, the ruined hall—none of those places that wrapped a man up in one knot of cold.
Fang Yingjie lifted his head and looked ahead. The sky was already much brighter than when they had left the boat shed. A faint band of pale white showed behind the clouds, and even the ends of the branching waterways seemed touched with light. The simple wet chill of wind off the water had, by here, begun to mingle with woodsmoke, rice porridge, fish broth, and the smell of damp clothes hung out to dry. Such ordinary signs of human life were not the sort of things to shake the heart. Yet after coming all the way from the ravine, the ruined hall, the forsaken ditch, the mere scent of them made it feel as though someone had pressed lightly against the center of his chest.
Old Daoist Xuan, however, was in no mood for such delicacy. He only craned his neck this way and that, smacking his lips as he looked about.
"If there's anywhere around here selling hot cakes, odds are they'll be good."
"Families by the water rise early, and their pots go on the fire early too. If Pingsha Market has a few wine stalls besides, I'm afraid we may be delayed a while today."
By the end of it, he sounded half-tempted already. The wine gourd at his back swung to and fro, as though the dregs inside had come back to life.
Fang Yingjie paused at that. The small warmth that had just settled in him was tugged taut again by a single remark. He had been anxious enough already to get to Pingsha Market and find someone; now, seeing that Old Daoist Xuan had turned his thoughts first to hot cakes and wine, the string wound tight inside him drew tighter still. But then he thought better of it. This old Daoist had been like this all along. That he had helped regulate Fang Yingjie's breathing the night before, helped preserve his life, and this morning was leading him onward by those ash-drawn lines was already more than anyone could have asked. To expect him now to turn solemn, mount up like some grim-faced hero, and devote himself wholeheartedly to helping search for people—that simply was not Old Daoist Xuan.
At that thought, Fang Yingjie could only force down the flicker of restlessness in his heart and keep following in silence.
After another half hour or so, the voices ahead suddenly thickened.
First came the hollow knock of wooden oars striking against boat hulls. Then someone lifted his voice in a shout somewhere in the distance. After that came laughter, curses, the cries of bargaining, and the barking of dogs, all tangled together in the wind. A few steps more, and the smell of frying cakes, sour wine from the drink stalls, fish from the shoulder loads, and the mildew of damp hemp rope all arrived together.
Old Daoist Xuan's spirits rose at once. He narrowed his eyes and peered ahead, and even his beard seemed to lift.
"We're here."
Fang Yingjie followed his gaze.
Ahead, where land and water met, awnings and sheds crisscrossed in layered shadows, banners leaned at half-slant, and people moved to and fro without end.
It was Pingsha Market.
His hand tightened unconsciously around the wooden staff, and the breath in his chest lifted with it.
At last—they had arrived.
A False Shadow in the Alley
When Pingsha Market finally came into view, the first thing that struck them was not the smell of water, but the noise.
The place had grown up along a dirt road, a small market town of narrow lanes and low-roofed sheds. From a distance, what one saw first were crooked banners, weathered awnings, and the pale gray haze of a morning market not yet fully awake. Though it stood close to the water, it did not front directly onto the moorings. The true place for loading and unloading goods, for passengers to come and go, for boats to tie up and oars to rest, lay a short way outside the market at a stretch of wharf. And that "wharf" did not mean one broad, well-built pier, but several little landing places scattered along the bank. The smaller, more out-of-the-way one, where skiffs and mixed river craft most often berthed, was simply called the small landing wharf.
Because the waterway lay so near, the moment the morning wind shifted, the smells of fish, damp rope, river mist, and wet planks came rolling straight into the mouth of the market. Add to that the steady stream of men shouldering baskets of fish and crabs on their way in, and one knew before ever setting foot in the street: the riverbank had long since sprung to life.
But it was only after entering the market that one understood what chaos truly meant.
The main road began with a row of rough food stalls. Cake griddles, porridge cauldrons, braising pots, and wine jars were all crammed together, steam and white smoke piling upward in layers. Farther in were fishmongers' poles, butchers' blocks, mats where men sat repairing nets, stalls mending bamboo ware, sellers of medicinal plasters, scribes drafting contracts for hire, fortune-tellers reading faces, peddlers hawking old odds and ends—all wedged beneath the eaves wherever there was space enough to stand.
At the mouths of the narrower alleys sat shabby little shops hung with faded blue cloth curtains, and in their doorways leaned women with powder on their faces and flowers in their hair, smiling lazily at passing boatmen. Gamblers crouched around broken tables, slapping dominoes hard enough to make them crack. Drinkers already had red eyes though the day had barely begun. Porters with empty shoulder poles shoved and cursed their way through the press. Men dressed like impoverished scholars spread half-torn mats to write legal petitions for a few coins. Bare-armed laborers squatted by the wall, gulping down hot porridge while arguing with the fish seller next to them over whose dog had stolen fish offal the night before.
There was not a clean patch of ground anywhere. Fish scales, chicken feathers, rotting leaves, broken bones, frayed straw rope, spent wine mash, overturned broth, half-dried mud and slops—all of it had been trampled into a single slick mess. One either slipped on it or stuck to it. A few gaunt dogs darted beneath the stalls, snatching half a fish head and baring their teeth at anyone who came too near. A woman dragged a wailing child through a gap in the crowd; the child stumbled and nearly pitched headfirst into the mud, and no one even spared him a second glance. Hawkers' cries, shouting, bargaining, laughter, curses, and the drunken roar of a man overturning a table at a wine stall all mingled together until the ears rang.
A place like Pingsha Market—half land, half water, full of every kind of passing trade—had always been a nest of mixed company, where anyone could come and anyone could disappear into the crowd. Even if the yamen sent patrols through once or twice a day, that was only to show a token presence. At the height of the morning rush, when the whole place boiled over into disorder, who would truly bother to keep every corner in hand? And who even could?
The moment Old Daoist Xuan stepped into such a place, he seemed to come alive.
He did not look at the road first, nor at the people. He sniffed.
The rank mixture of fish, wine fumes, lamp smoke, braised meat, and hot cakes would have made most people wrinkle their noses, but to him it seemed to stir awake the last of his wine-heavy sluggishness. His eyelids lifted. Without seeming to mean to, his feet had already drifted toward the richest smell in the street, and he began grumbling even before he got there.
"This place really knows how to live," he said. "The sky is barely light, and already the cake griddles, wine jars, gaming tables, and painted women's doorways are all warm."
"Better than that broken boat shelter, at least. This looks fit for the living."
As he spoke, he had already turned toward a stall giving off a thick cloud of heat. It stood beneath a patched old oilcloth canopy. Several thick cakes, golden-brown and glistening with oil, were pressed against a flat iron griddle. Beside it sat a small brass pot of braising liquor, dark red and gently simmering, with offal, bean curd, and scraps of meat bobbing within. The fragrance rolled straight outward.
Old Daoist Xuan came to a stop in front of it, narrowed his eyes, and took one long sniff.
"The fire's half a measure too fierce on these cakes," he declared at once.
"And that braising pot's running salty. You probably didn't bank the coals properly last night."
The stall owner looked up and glared. "If you dislike this and dislike that, then don't buy."
Old Daoist Xuan clicked his tongue, not offended in the least. If anything, he seemed even more delighted. He tucked his wine gourd behind his waist, drew in his sleeves, and assumed an air of grave seriousness.
"Who said I wasn't buying? I know what I'm talking about."
"If you add half a slice of ginger to this pot and ease the fire just a touch, the flavor will rise another notch. Try it before you close up today, if you don't believe me."
With that, he actually reached out, pinched off a little bit of cake crust, and lifted it to his nose.
And that still was not enough. He cast a sidelong glance at the wine stall nearby. It too had just opened for the day. A damp blue wine banner hung above it, and coarse porcelain bowls sat upside down on the counter. A few boatmen were already pounding on the tables for warmed wine. The instant Old Daoist Xuan looked that way, his feet nearly turned of their own accord.
"The color on that rough wine isn't bad," he remarked. "Question is how much water they've cut it with."
The wine seller heard him and barked at once, "Old Daoist, don't go talking nonsense before you've even had a drink!"
Old Daoist Xuan burst out laughing and actually took two steps closer. Stretching out his neck, he peered into the wine jar and sniffed hard.
"I can smell the truth without drinking it," he said. "If that jar wasn't opened fresh last night, it'll be turning sour by this morning. Warm me up half a cup first, then we'll argue the matter properly."
The man cursed his fussy tongue even as he reached for a ladle.
But just then Old Daoist Xuan caught sight of the gambling table beside it, where dominoes were cracking sharply and a handful of dice went rattling through a chipped bowl. His eyes lit at once. Four or five coarse men stood around the table—some boatmen, some carriers, and a pair of idlers who looked as though they had come straight from an all-night game without ever sleeping. All of them were red-eyed, shouting over one another. Old Daoist Xuan only listened for a moment or two, yet his fingers had already begun rubbing unconsciously against each other.
"The dice aren't crooked, at least," he muttered.
"And that dealer's hands are slow. He wins too clumsily."
He had sniffed the cakes, judged the wine, and now lingered over the gaming table. He looked for all the world like a man freshly released from the mountains. There was not the slightest trace left of the man who had sat by the fire the night before speaking soberly of coming to Pingsha Market to ask for news and find the road.
To be sure, now and then he still tossed a question to a stall owner—"How many boats put in at the landing wharf this morning?" or "Did the small landing wharf take in any travelers from other districts last night?"—but the questions were casual, thrown out almost as an afterthought. Even he did not seem to press them deep into his mind. They sounded more like idle chatter dropped between his shifting interests in food, wine, and gambling.
Standing behind him, Fang Yingjie could feel his anxiety being worn raw, thread by thread.
At first he had thought that even if Old Daoist Xuan was greedy for good food and fond of drink, he would still remember the real business of the day. Surely he would not truly forget they had come to look for people. But now, watching the old man criticize cakes, appraise wine, and crane his head toward the gambling table until he was a breath away from actually drinking that warmed wine, Fang Yingjie felt the taut string inside him pull tighter and tighter.
It was not that he did not know what kind of man Old Daoist Xuan was.
It was because he knew that he grew more uneasy by the moment.
The old Daoist had made it perfectly clear by the fire the night before: they were coming to Pingsha Market to ask after the northern road and the wharf, to see whether Xuanyuan Xi, Feng Feiyun, and the others might still be somewhere nearby. Yet the instant they entered the street, he had tangled himself up with a cake stall, a wine stall, and a gambling table instead. If they truly depended on him to eat his way down the street, drink his way through it, and watch the gambling until the mood took him to remember—ah yes, they were supposed to be looking for someone—the sun would likely already be slanting west before that happened.
And then, just then, Fang Yingjie looked up and caught sight of a figure.
The man wore blue-green robes and had a long, lean build. He was slipping sideways between two shoulder baskets. It was only that small turn, and the half of his face was mostly hidden by shadows from the awnings and the moving crowd. Yet the slight lift through the shoulders, the steadiness of his pace—never hurried, never slow—struck Fang Yingjie like a needle driven straight into the heart.
His heart dropped with a thud.
In that instant he almost believed with certainty that it was Xuanyuan Xi.
"Senior—"
The word leapt from him before he knew it.
But Pingsha Market was too loud. The griddle hissed, boatmen slammed tables and cursed, and someone at the gambling stall suddenly roared, "Open it!" All the sounds crashed together and drowned him out. Old Daoist Xuan, meanwhile, was still arguing with the wine seller about watered wine. Without even turning his head, he flicked a hand behind him.
"Stop rushing me. Stand still."
"The cakes aren't even off the griddle yet. What are you running for?"
After saying that, he actually bent to look at the dice bowl again, as though he truly wanted to see whether the throw would come up big or small.
Fang Yingjie halted for a heartbeat, but inside it felt as if someone had given him a hard yank.
The blue-green figure was already moving away.
If he waited another two breaths—waited for Old Daoist Xuan to take a sip, finish his bickering, and turn around for one proper look—perhaps it would still be possible. But the crowd surged ahead, banners swayed, and the figure was on the verge of being swallowed up. When he glanced back once more, Old Daoist Xuan was still planted by the stall, half his mind on the wine, the other half on the gambling, while the matter of finding people had truly been washed thin by all the bustle of the street.
For one brief instant, Fang Yingjie felt a faint chill run through him.
It was not that he thought Old Daoist Xuan meant to ignore him. It was simply that the old man, at this moment, truly seemed too distracted to care. If he did not chase after that figure now, then by the time Old Daoist Xuan finally remembered what they had come for, the man ahead would already have vanished into the flow of people at the northern end of the market, impossible to find again.
The talk he had overheard in the tea shed, the searchers still haunting the northern road, the shoe by the cliff, and that one terrible line—no body had been found—all surged back at once.
What if it really was Brother Xi?
What if one more look, one more pursuit, would be enough to find them again?
The thought flashed through him. In the end he could not hold himself back. Leaning on his wooden staff, he hurried after the figure.
At first, he was able to keep up.
The blue-green shadow flickered between fishmongers' baskets and the shoulders of passing porters, never all that far ahead. Fang Yingjie squeezed past a wheelbarrow, nearly overturned a bamboo basket of vegetable leaves, then dodged a laborer carrying a bowl of hot porridge with his head down and his steps quick. He was almost close enough when a wooden frame strung with drying nets swung out across his path. The nets were still wet, and with a single sway they blotted out half his view. By the time he went around them and looked again, the figure had already turned into a side street.
His heart tightened further, and he could only pursue.
As he did, the surroundings gradually changed.
The uproar of the main street still thundered somewhere behind him, but this lane was plainly narrower. The sheds on either side were lower, their eaves pressing close overhead, and all manner of rubbish was heaped out against the walls: broken fish baskets, snapped planks, old hampers, sagging wooden frames, loose coils of hemp rope, split reed mats. Everything seemed piled there without order. The mud underfoot was black-yellow, as if last night's rain, dirty water flung from fish stalls, and somebody's sour kitchen slops had all run together. It was sticky and treacherous. Along the base of the wall ran a thin black gutter where vegetable leaves, fish entrails, and a shining skin of grease floated together. When the wind stirred, the reeking staleness blew straight into his face.
Another turn, and the way became more twisting still. One bend here, another there. Between shed and shed, wall and wall, it seemed as though a handful of narrow passages had simply been stuffed in wherever space remained. Even his staff had to be angled sideways to get through. In one corner, a skinny dog ran past with half a fish bone in its mouth while two children gave chase, laughing, one of them stepping straight into the mud and splashing black specks up both trouser legs. Against another wall leaned half a broken bucket filled with foul water of uncertain age, green-white foam floating on the surface. The noise of the main street could still be heard faintly, but in here the light had dimmed, and the air smelled even more mixed and foul, as though he had sunk out of the living crowd into some neglected dirty hollow behind it.
By then, Fang Yingjie had already begun to feel that something was wrong.
Too remote.
And the blue-green figure ahead, though he still caught glimpses of it at the turns, always seemed to remain precisely half a step beyond him—never entirely lost, but never truly within reach. Yet each time unease began to stir in him, the figure would happen to flash once more beneath the shadow of a shed, a sweep of blue-green cloth so like the movement of someone familiar turning back that it crushed his doubt again before it could take full shape.
Then, around one more bend, the space ahead opened suddenly.
The figure was gone.
Fang Yingjie stopped dead. Only then did he truly come to himself. Somehow, he had been lured into a place like this. Ahead lay a disused river corner piled with goods. Behind him stretched those winding, refuse-choked lanes. The bustle of the main street could still be heard faintly, but it seemed muffled now, as though a dirty cloth had been thrown over it somewhere far away.
His heart gave a hard jolt, and he turned at once to go back.
He had barely gotten halfway around when a coarse sack dropped over his head.
Darkness slammed down in an instant. At the same time, something clamped hard around the back of his neck. Someone seized him from behind, pinning shoulder and throat, while another hand jabbed hard into his side—straight into the injured ribs beneath his waist. Pain flared so sharply that white burst across his vision even through the blackness. His wooden staff clattered to the ground, and then several hands were on him at once, grabbing and dragging, hauling him bodily off to one side.
"Move!"
"Hold him down!"
"The brat's leg is hurt—he won't get far!"
The voices were rough and hoarse in his ears, vicious and vulgar, the sort of low street voices that belonged to the very worst filth of the market. Beneath the black sack Fang Yingjie could not even tell direction anymore. He only felt his feet hit a plank, then something like an empty bucket go over with a crash, rolling away across the ground. Whoever had seized him did their work with practiced ease. One could tell at once that they had done this sort of filthy business more than a few times. In a place like Pingsha Market, where the crowd was thick and mixed, kidnappers, human brokers, and black-market scum who trafficked people on the side were hardly unheard of.
Only this time, he had stumbled straight into their hands.
The breath he had only just managed to steady that morning at once turned wild again in his chest. His throat tightened. Pain sawed under his ribs. Even struggling became difficult.
And then, in the midst of that blind confusion, a voice rang out from outside:
"What are you doing?"
It was not shrill, but it carried weight.
In the next instant something like a staff or cudgel struck a wooden post with a sharp crack. One of the hands dragging him loosened at once. Someone else cried out in pain—clearly they had been hit.
Kindness at the Side Wharf
When the sack was yanked off Fang Yingjie's head, the world before him first flared white, then swam again, until even the strip of daylight at the mouth of the side wharf seemed to waver.
The wild turmoil in his chest had not settled. He could barely keep his feet. He only felt the hand that had been dragging him suddenly let go, while someone beside him gave a muffled grunt and staggered back half a step. Boards clattered underfoot, striking against broken tubs, and the sharp, messy racket had not yet died away when a voice barked close by,
"Still not letting go?"
Fang Yingjie forced himself to steady his breathing. Only then did he begin to make out what stood before him.
The first things he saw were two burly men dressed like household guards blocking the way ahead. One held a short cudgel. The other still gripped the pole that had been used to beat people moments before, its tip dripping wet, plainly snatched in haste from the back of a cart. One stood on the left, the other on the right, sealing off the entrance to the side wharf. Behind them, the traffickers were shrinking back with hunched shoulders, anger and alarm mixed on their faces, yet none of them dared rush forward again.
Beyond them stood a small cart with a blue canopy just outside the wharf entrance. The shafts were not new, but the whole thing had been kept in perfect order; even the tassels hanging from the corners were neat and still. Two older serving women stood nearby. One was already hurrying this way, while the other remained by the cart, keeping her place without a trace of agitation.
Only then did Fang Yingjie see the middle-aged woman standing before the carriage.
She wore a skirt and jacket the color of lake water, with a plain cloak over them. The colors were chosen with great restraint: neither eye-catching nor shabby. She looked somewhere past thirty, perhaps nearing forty. Her features were delicate and gentle, her complexion no longer bright with the tender freshness of youth, yet marked by a soft, fine fairness that seemed to have been nurtured slowly by time itself. Not a strand of hair was out of place at her temples. At her ears hung only a small pair of pearl drops, nothing ostentatious, nothing meant to dazzle. In sheer beauty she was not the sort of woman to strike like lightning at first glance, but the quiet dignity and generous warmth in her bearing made it strangely difficult to look away.
She stood there without raising her voice, without fluster, without rushing forward. She merely looked in this direction with calm, steady eyes, as though no matter how disorderly the scene, once it came beneath her gaze it would slow, settle, and come back under control.
Checked by the guards, the traffickers had still looked ready to start trouble. But when they saw that the other side was not lacking in hands, and that two or three passersby with shoulder-poles had already stopped to stare, their swagger faltered at once. The leader clapped a hand over his arm, spat out a curse, shot a look at the others, and dared not press the matter. After flinging out a few more filthy words for face, they ducked behind the piles of junk and slipped into a winding alley, vanishing in the blink of an eye.
All at once, the side wharf fell quiet.
One of the serving women stepped forward to help. Her hand had barely touched Fang Yingjie's right arm when the woman spoke gently:
"Do not touch his right leg."
"Let him steady himself first."
Her voice was not loud, nor her tone severe, yet the serving woman answered at once and immediately changed the way she supported him, lightly bracing only his left arm and avoiding the injured side.
By then the other serving woman had already taken a small porcelain cup from the carriage. Steam still rose faintly from it; the water inside was warm. The woman accepted it, tested the heat with a touch against the outside of the cup, and only then offered it to him.
"Do not speak yet," she said softly. "Drink a little first. Settle your breath."
Fang Yingjie's chest had been left tight and aching by the sack and the struggle, and his throat was dry and raw. Hearing her say it, he found himself obeying almost without thinking. The half cup of warm water touched his lips, warmed his throat at once, and seemed to press the turmoil in his chest gently back down. Holding the cup, he raised his eyes to look at her again, and at closer range she seemed somehow even more striking than from afar—not with any bright, aggressive beauty, but with a softness and steadiness that made the heart feel unexpectedly safe.
Only after his breathing had grown a little more even did she ask quietly, "The child is badly hurt. Did that scuffle just now strike an old injury?"
The woman supporting him lowered her head to look and replied, "There are older injuries under the ribs, and the ankle was hurt before as well. Those men dragged him so hard they threw all his breath into disorder."
A faint furrow touched the woman's brow. It was gone almost as soon as it appeared.
"Support him slowly," she said. "Do not let him force himself."
There was no pose in the way she spoke. Even these few instructions were delivered in the gentlest tone, yet each was precise, each in its place, and not a word wasted. The two serving women and the household guards alike seemed long accustomed to her manner. Who should stand where, who should do what—none of it required further explanation. Everything was carried out smoothly, calmly, and at once.
The shock and chill that had sunk through Fang Yingjie only moments ago eased little by little beneath these few ordinary words.
At that moment, hurried footsteps came pounding in from outside.
"Out of the way! Out of the way!"
The voice was edged with frantic irritation and anger. Fang Yingjie knew who it was without even turning to look.
In the next instant, Old Daoist Xuan came charging in.
Mud spattered the hem of his gray robe. The wine gourd at his back was thumping against his waist. Half his beard seemed ready to stand on end. Plainly he had been searching and cursing his way here at full speed. The moment he entered the side wharf, his eyes swept once across the scene and found Fang Yingjie still standing. The line of his shoulders loosened on the spot, as if the stone pressing on his heart had finally dropped away. Yet before that breath had fully left him, he caught sight of the woman standing nearby and gave a brief, involuntary start.
Only then, as though suddenly remembering his own mud-spattered robes, wine fumes, and disordered beard, did he gather himself up and offer her a half-serious, half-hasty salute.
"This little blockhead of mine never has any sense," he said. "I have troubled the madam to expend her efforts on him."
There was still the usual trace of sly humor in his words, but compared to his ordinary careless manner, it counted as positively courteous. The woman returned the courtesy with the slightest inclination.
"You are too polite, Daoist Master," she replied, her voice as gentle as ever. "When one comes upon such a thing on the road, how could one refuse to lend a hand?"
One of the serving women added from the side, "Our mistress is on her way back to visit her family home on Taihu Lake. Who would have thought we should happen across such vile creatures passing through Pingsha Market?"
Old Daoist Xuan gave an "oh," as though only now truly taking in the words family home on Taihu Lake. His gaze rested on the woman once more. Earlier, all his thoughts had been fixed on finding Fang Yingjie; now that the panic had ebbed, he could at last see her clearly. At first he had only thought her some respectable lady. At close range he saw more: not merely an orderly face and a gentle voice, but that rare composure, that natural care for others, as if thoughtfulness were bred into her very bones.
A woman like this—why, even in the filth and confusion of such a side wharf she would have seemed remarkable. Put her instead inside the deep, proper courtyards of a great household, and she would surely have been the one able to hold an entire hall beneath her hand.
Old Daoist Xuan had never been a man of pure and passionless restraint. Good wine, fine food, noise, beauty—his heart always stirred a little more readily at such things. He liked pretty faces, yes, but he still knew measure; he was not the sort to lose himself and behave lightly just because a woman was fair to look upon. Yet this lady was not merely pleasing in appearance. Her conduct, her speech, the way she treated others—there was not a single fault to be found in any of it.
Warmth stirred faintly in his chest, and an exceedingly vulgar but utterly sincere thought rose in his mind:
A woman like this—if a man could marry her and bring her home, would that life not truly surpass that of the immortals?
Had fate not turned this poor Daoist into a robe-wearing wanderer, what more could any husband ask?
The thought passed through him, and with it some of the oily glibness went out of his face. For once, something like plain sincerity showed through.
"The madam has the heart of a bodhisattva," he said, smacking his lips once, and for once not veering off into nonsense. "If this child had not happened to run into you today, he would truly have suffered for it."
The woman only smiled lightly at that and did not accept the praise.
"I am no bodhisattva," she said. "When one is away from home and sees such a thing, one cannot very well pretend not to have seen it."
She spoke with such simplicity that there was not the least hint of taking credit. Yet it was exactly that plainness that made it clear she truly meant it. She was not performing kindness for anyone's benefit. Old Daoist Xuan heard it and felt his opinion of her settle even more firmly into place.
Fang Yingjie, still unsteady from the fright, had been listening in silence. By now he too had calmed somewhat. He had always been clumsy with words. Faced with a woman at once so gentle and so dignified, he knew even less what answer would sound proper. In the end he could only say in a low voice,
"Thank you, madam, for saving me."
Her gaze fell on him.
The way she looked at people was soft, but not empty. In that one glance she saw the forced steadiness on a young boy's face, the wear at the edges of his clothes, the slight strain with which he favored his right foot, and the lingering disorder in the breath that fear had kicked up and not yet fully settled. She asked nothing about his origins. She only said softly,
"What is there to thank me for? So long as you are safe, that is enough."
Then she looked once more at his right foot and his ribs and gave the faintest sigh.
"You are still so young, yet you carry so many injuries. You must have suffered greatly on the road."
"Pingsha Market is a mixed place. All kinds of people pass through it. If you come here again in future, do not stray too far from the adult looking after you."
She said it lightly, as if taking him for no more than a young lad who had blundered into a rough market town. There was not the slightest intent to pry deeper. Yet when Fang Yingjie heard it, something warm stirred unexpectedly in his chest. He only answered with a soft, "Mm."
Old Daoist Xuan, listening from the side, found her more impossibly thoughtful with every word. A mistress from some grand household, under other circumstances, would likely have complained first of the filth of the side wharf, then of Fang Yingjie's dusty and disheveled state. Who would soothe him so patiently, line by line, as she did? The more he thought about it, the more he felt that her husband must have stored up merit for eight lifetimes to win such good fortune.
By then the guards had already cleared the road, and the serving women had straightened the carriage curtain again. Plainly the party still had miles to cover and could not linger. The woman turned slightly, as if preparing to get into the carriage, but then seemed to remember something and let her eyes rest on Fang Yingjie once more.
It was only the briefest pause, yet there was real pity in it—the pity of an elder looking upon a younger one.
"You have this Daoist Master to look after you for now," she said gently, "but those who travel abroad may meet hardship at any time. If one day you truly cannot find a safe place to go, there is no need to panic."
As she spoke, she raised a hand slightly toward the maid at her side.
The maid at once drew out a small jade token from her sleeve and offered it with both hands. The jade was warm in color and entirely unostentatious, yet the carving upon it was very fine: a lake moon reflected over rippling water, with a pale blue silk cord hanging from one corner. It was clean and elegant, plainly no vulgar trinket from the streets.
The woman took the token and held it out to Fang Yingjie with her own hand.
"My surname is Wen. I live at Biyue Manor on Poyang Lake."
"If you truly come upon a pass you cannot cross, and cannot find anyone you trust, bring this token and come to me."
She spoke so lightly that it seemed no more than a casual leaving of a road behind the road for a frightened, injured boy. There was no air of conferring a favor, no expectation of gratitude. And because of that, the gesture felt all the more generous.
Fang Yingjie stared for a moment and did not reach out at once.
It was not that he did not wish to take it. It was that the token had come too suddenly, and with too much quiet warmth. Ever since his fall from the cliff, danger, wounds, drifting, and hiding had followed one after another. Almost every step had felt like dragging himself forward through mud by sheer force alone. And now, all at once, a grave and gentle lady was telling him in so soft a voice, If you truly have nowhere to go, come and find me.
The feeling stirred in him more deeply than any grand speech could have done.
It was Old Daoist Xuan who coughed softly at his side and muttered,
"If the madam gives it to you, then take it."
"You do not run into such goodwill everywhere."
Even as he said it, there was a faint sourness in his heart—not sour over Fang Yingjie's good fortune, but because he genuinely thought this Madam Wen too fine by half. Good-hearted, fair of face, gracious in bearing—even the way she left another person a path of retreat was done without show. To put it crudely, if there still existed in this world a living image of a virtuous wife and tender mother, then the woman before them surely counted as one.
Fang Yingjie came back to himself at last and hurriedly accepted the jade token with both hands.
"Thank you, madam," he said again in a low voice.
Seeing that he had taken it, the woman smiled. The smile was warm and unassuming, without the least trace of display. She only gave a small nod. In the pale light of early morning, that single smile somehow subdued a little of the squalor around the wharf.
"Take care of your wounds," she said.
"And do not force yourself."
Only then did she turn and step into the carriage. The two serving women assisted her, quick and practiced, yet without any sign of flurry. The guards returned to their places. The older, more seasoned driver flicked the reins gently, and the blue-canopied cart rolled slowly out of the side wharf and back toward the main street.
Soon enough, the noise of Pingsha Market came swelling in again.
The cries from the gaming stalls, the curses of drinkers, the oily smoke by the cake stove, barking dogs, human laughter, the soft grinding of wheels through mud—all of it returned to the ear at once, as though the danger and the gentleness of a moment ago had been nothing more than a brief gust passing through a chaotic town.
But the jade token in Fang Yingjie's palm was real.
The surface was cool, the edges smooth and rounded, the silk cord lying softly against his hand. Holding it, he felt as though the thoughtfulness in Madam Wen's voice had been left behind with it.
Old Daoist Xuan stood beside him watching. First he smacked his lips once, then at last seemed to remember that in the middle of all this he had failed to finish his cakes, taste his wine, or even watch the gambling to the end. He cursed immediately:
"This damned Pingsha Market is full of filthy hands and filthy tricks."
"I knew you little blockhead would be trouble. Take my eyes off you for one moment and sure enough, you go and stir something up."
His mouth was fierce enough, but his hand still reached out to give Fang Yingjie a light slap on the back of the head. The blow was not hard. It felt more like the remnant of his anger with nowhere proper to go.
"Have you learned your lesson?"
The tips of Fang Yingjie's ears went warm.
"...I have."
Old Daoist Xuan snorted.
"Good."
"If there is a next time, I will not bother fishing you out of the streets again."
For all that, his eyes swept Fang Yingjie over once more. Seeing that aside from his pale face there were no fresh injuries worth mentioning, he finally set his heart at ease.
Then his gaze dropped to the jade token in Fang Yingjie's hand. He clicked his tongue softly. It was not disdain—rather something closer to a sigh.
"Put it away carefully," he said. "A lady like that, willing to leave you a road to retreat by—that counts as luck."
As he spoke, he could not help looking once more in the direction the blue-canopied cart had gone.
It was nearly out of the side street now, with only the last corner of the carriage top still visible. Yet in Old Daoist Xuan's mind the image of Madam Wen lingered on: gentle in speech, proper in conduct, careful with others, and blessed with such pleasing features to boot. The more he thought of her, the more agreeable she seemed. If not for the crooked fate that had long ago trapped him beneath old covenants and a Daoist robe, then for a woman of such virtue and grace—
Why, even to marry her and keep her enshrined at home would have been worth it.
What more could a man ask?
The thought rolled through him once, and the corners of his mouth lifted before he could help himself. Then, as if ashamed that the smile made him look foolish, he hastily tucked the wine gourd farther behind his waist, pretended nothing had happened, and jerked his chin toward the main street.
"Come on," he said. "After all this commotion, they have probably started on a second batch of cakes already."
Poetic Coda
With morning noise the mixed bazaar of Pingsha woke;
A single glimpse of blue threw all the wanderer's heart astray.
He strayed by error into mean and twisting streets,
Where cruel hands closed in before he knew the way.
Then from the dust there came a scented carriage, swift with grace,
And gentle words drew back the breath that terror shook apart.
A little jade left one last road within the martial world—
For storms to come, and for a lakeshore kept within the heart.
(End of Chapter Twenty-One)