Chapter 3: The Wild Monk in the Mountains

"Who is she?"

Feeling the hunger at last, Eleven Lang cradled his bowl, blowing gently at the steam rising from the millet porridge as he asked Xiang'er.

"Even Eleven Lang has forgotten her?"

Xiang'er, smiling and cupping her face, suddenly let her expression grow serious, clear distaste appearing: "That's the eldest branch from our Third House. You should call her Aunt..."

"Oh?"

Xiang'er watched him for a while, as if something held her back, but under Eleven Lang's urging, she finally spoke.

The eldest branch of the Third House was a close relative of Eleven Lang, but this Aunt Liu had always disliked Ye Chang. When Ye Chang's father was away, she often came over to stir trouble, beating Xiang'er whenever she caught her at fault, scolding Ye Chang for anything she could find, and even pilfering things before leaving. Ye Chang had always been gentle and timid, and, hearing tales of old, knew that the legendary Immortal Medicine King Sun Simiao once gathered herbs and refined elixirs for ascension between Six True Mountain and Cauldron Mountain beside Wu Ze Po. Thus, he admired the way of immortals, and at a young age, took after them, venturing into the mountains for herbs. That was how he had slipped and fallen from the mountain, struck by that ill-fated star.

"It’s laughable. Even if my father isn’t home, since when does she get to meddle in my family’s affairs... If she comes again, I’ll throw her out," Eleven Lang said carelessly.

"Yes, the young master is right!"

Xiang'er’s eyes lit up, beaming with delight. After all, she was just a young girl, and hearing her little master vow to confront Liu, who had always bullied her, naturally brought her joy.

But Eleven Lang was well aware things were far from simple.

It was the era of the Great Tang, the heart of ancient China, a time when clan power was formidable. His being called "Eleven Lang" was because he was the eleventh among his generation within the clan.

Clan authority in those days was so strong it could enforce laws in the countryside, even execute those who disgraced the family by adultery or theft. Disrespecting elders meant anything from being disciplined in the ancestral hall to possible expulsion from the clan!

And without the clan’s protection, one was at the mercy of all sorts of misfortune in the countryside, even the most destitute households dared to trample over such people.

"After lunch, take me outside for a walk. I don’t remember things… Don’t tell anyone, just whisper to me when you can, alright?" With a bowl of millet porridge in his stomach, Eleven Lang felt he ought to prepare for any troubles that may come.

Xiang'er quickly gathered the dishes, when Eleven Lang suddenly remembered something: "Have you eaten? Why did you cook just enough for me?"

He saw the sun shining outside, it was lunchtime, yet Xiang'er had only cooked enough for him.

"There’s no custom of eating at midday, the day is still young. We won’t have supper till after the hour of Yin." Xiang'er pursed her lips, smiling. "Eleven Lang really has forgotten, even the mealtimes are lost to you."

Ye Chang now recalled, in ancient times food was scarce. Three meals a day were a luxury for the wealthy; ordinary people ate breakfast when the sun was well up, and supper at sunset—just two meals a day.

Looking at Xiang'er, noticeably thin, Ye Chang felt a twinge in the softest part of his heart.

His own daughter had been much more plump than Xiang'er, and when she accompanied him to town, leaning against his arm, her weight was unmistakable.

Ye Chang was clear-eyed about his situation in this era: there was no going back.

Since he could not return, he must live well. If he was to live well, he must cherish those who cared for him, and look after those he cared for.

He did not say much, only took the bowl from Xiang'er: "Let me wash it."

"Eleven Lang knows how to wash dishes?"

"It’s hardly difficult… Where’s the water, the ladle, the cloth… detergent… ah, never mind about that."

"Detergent? What’s detergent?"

Xiang'er’s ears were sharp, and Ye Chang’s careless words caught her curiosity.

"Uh, the water in the bucket—did you fetch it?" Ye Chang had no way to answer her, so he changed the subject.

—

"It’s from the pond. Eleven Lang, you must use it sparingly. There’s little water left in the pond, and I hear the elders are planning to pray for rain. This year, it’s been two months since we’ve had any real rain."

"How much land do we have, and how’s the harvest this year?"

Hearing it had barely rained for two months, Ye Chang’s heart tightened. In ancient times, all depended on the heavens. If the sky was unkind and disaster struck, famine would follow.

This mattered for his life—and Xiang’er's. He had died once already, and now, having resolved to cherish what he had, he couldn’t ignore it.

"We have ten acres, but they’re rented out to clan members. The harvest isn’t good, I hear. In a few days, we may have to gather wild vegetables and eat nothing but wild vegetable porridge."

Xiang'er spoke vaguely, and Ye Chang understood—she was still young, and not clear on these matters.

The two stepped out, one after the other, and Ye Chang finally saw the village he lived in. Though called Wu Ze Po, it was actually a settlement of about two hundred households. Ye Chang had seen so-called "ancient towns" like Wuzhen in later years, but seeing a truly living ancient village now, the differences stunned him.

Much of history as we see it is simply how later generations choose to understand it.

The village lay beneath a grove. Ye Chang looked up and saw, not far away, the branches of a locust tree looming over the village. The old tree was so vast, it seemed to drape a tent over the village—not a small tent for two, nor some showy tent for celebrities, but a massive tent that could shelter many. Beneath the locust tree's canopy were the homes: some brick and tile, some old wooden houses, but most were rammed earth cottages.

The houses were scattered haphazardly, and after winding about he found it impossible to reach the end. He was pointed out and whispered about, people coming to greet him, asking if he had really been struck by a shooting star. To that, Ye Chang neither confirmed nor denied, only smiled and took his leave, even when the tone was mocking; he paid them no mind.

"That shooting star has struck Eleven Lang differently. Look at him now—he’s not the same as the old Eleven Lang obsessed with alchemy and immortality."

"Of course. I hear he even drove Aunt Four away just now. In the past, whenever she came to his courtyard, he would always quietly endure her scolding."

"Eh? Even daring to drive Aunt Four out? That’s rare—she’s not someone to trifle with!"

Whispers floated to his ears, but Ye Chang pretended not to hear. After a while, he reached the old locust tree, the village entrance of Wu Ze Po.

"Young master, where are we going?" Xiang'er tilted her face up.

"Let’s go see our fields first."

Xiang'er nodded, her hair in a typical triple bun, though unsecured by hairpins, leaving strands falling across her forehead. She broke off a twig, stripped it, fashioned it into a wooden hairpin, and stuck it in her hair, turning to smile at Ye Chang.

Their fields lay some distance from the village. On the way, Xiang'er explained that the land wasn’t truly Ye Chang’s, but belonged to the entire Ye clan, with his branch allotted to cultivate it. Ye Chang’s father had rented it to other clan members before leaving, and Ye Chang and Xiang’er lived off the rent.

They walked for half an hour—a full hour by modern reckoning—before Ye Chang saw the ten acres. The fields were on a high slope at the foot of Cauldron Mountain, the soil cracked with drought. The crops, unfamiliar to Ye Chang, were withered; without rain, they were doomed.

Ye Chang frowned. The area around had two or three hundred acres, likely the livelihood of many villagers; trouble was not just his alone. But why were there no farmers carrying water to irrigate?

He knew history well. During his years teaching in mountain villages, he’d read every historical record he could find—even technical histories. On reflection, he understood: although China had always prized intensive farming, agricultural technology peaked during the rapid population growth of the Song dynasty. Here, on high slopes, water was hard to bring in; in Tang times, such irrigation methods were not yet widespread.

But it puzzled him that the elders weren’t organizing even basic water carrying.

"Why is no one fetching water?"

"Some did, but in the last ten days, everyone lost hope," Xiang’er replied. "They’re planning to collect offerings and invite the abbot from Cauldron Mountain’s Temple of Mystic Response to perform a ritual for rain."

"Praying for rain..."

That was the common drought remedy. Ye Chang lowered his gaze, surveying the lush mountains. "Is there water in the mountains?"

"Not much, and even if there is, it can’t be brought here."

Xiang’er, weary and muddled, answered. It was past noon and the journey had been long; she was exhausted. Seeing her like this, Ye Chang felt a pang and let her return home while he wandered further.

"What if you forget the way?" Xiang’er worried.

"I remember. I memorized the route when we came."

—

Hearing this, Xiang’er, thinking of the chores awaiting her, turned back in a daze.

Ye Chang stood alone in his field, kneeling to pinch the clods and check the moisture, then shook his head, stood, and watched Xiang’er’s retreating figure. He wiped the sweat from his brow and looked toward the nearby mountain.

There must be water in the mountains. The lush forest proved there were likely springs. Ye Chang was no stranger to finding water in the wild; the mountain village where he taught had endured two years of relentless drought until a professional water-finding team solved the crisis. Ye Chang had taken the opportunity to learn from them, and those lessons might help here, where drought had lasted only two months.

The key was to follow the mountain’s contours to locate a source.

It was still early, so he climbed the slope, occasionally poking at the ground with a stick to check for moisture. Wu Ze Po’s mountains were steep and beautiful; untouched by the devastation of the An Lushan Rebellion, the vegetation was pristine. Everywhere he looked was green, the ground beneath the canopy thick with grass and shrubs. Birds sang and flowers bloomed; there was none of the dryness outside, and one could only marvel: what a cool, pleasant haven.

Such a place could not lack water; even if officials did nothing, local gentry or elders ought to organize water collection.

But bringing water from here to Ye Chang’s ten acres would be difficult.

At his fourth likely spot, digging half a foot with a branch, he saw traces of water seep up. He replaced the soil, looked at his fields—over two li away. That distance, over hills and slopes, was impossible for him alone to overcome.

Moreover, there were several ridges to cross, and without mechanical tools, only manpower, he would need some clever solutions.

From afar, a bell sounded—the mountain temple starting its afternoon prayers. Ye Chang guessed it was about four thirty, and decided to check one more spot before heading back. Just then, from the woods, came faint rustling. At first he thought it was wildlife, but rounding a rocky outcropping, he was confronted by a fierce-faced, blue-skinned fellow.

"Mountain fiend!"

With a shout, Ye Chang turned and ran, and the blue-faced creature also yelled and bolted. They were on a steep slope, with no paths; both tripped and tumbled down, colliding at the bottom.

"Why did you run?" The creature demanded before Ye Chang could react. "Aren’t you the mountain fiend?"

"You are! Your whole family’s mountain fiends!" Now Ye Chang realized—the "fiend" shout had come from this man. He was simply hideous, and dressed oddly, which had startled him.

"You’re not a mountain fiend?" The man glared at Ye Chang. "I’ve never seen someone so ugly!"

"If you talk about ugly, who can beat you?" Ye Chang, seeing his dopey manner, laughed. "Have you ever looked in a mirror?"

"I am ugly, but I know I’m human. I just never knew there was someone as ugly as me in the world." The ugly man was self-aware. He pressed his palms together and bowed: "Amitabha, this humble monk offers his respects."

"...You...Sir...Master..."

Ye Chang tried several forms of address, none quite suited the man. He claimed to be a monk, but his hair was a filthy bird’s nest, his features ferocious enough to frighten a butcher.

"I’m no master, just a wandering monk. By the way, ugly fellow, do you know where there’s a temple?"

He kept calling Ye Chang ugly, and Ye Chang grew curious. He’d looked in the bronze mirror before; though not perfectly clear, he thought himself handsome enough. Was this monk simply blind to beauty and ugliness?

He hadn’t realized that, after wandering the wilds so long, he was filthy and naturally looked ugly.

"There’s a temple over there—I heard the bell just now."

"Excellent! At last, I can break my fast!" The brute rejoiced. "Ugly fellow, come with me. If I have a bowl of temple food, you won’t go hungry!"

Though the monk was hideous, he was warm-hearted. Ye Chang reckoned there must be a path down from the temple, which would be easier than retracing his steps, so he followed him toward the temple.