Chapter 47: The Swan Song Lingers Still

Everyone was astonished that Ye Chang could compose two poems in such a short span of time—could it truly be that he copied them from his dreams, and that was why he was so quick? But if he were merely copying poetry, how could his dreams have captured the very scene before them? Why was each poem perfectly suited to the present moment?

The notion of copying poems from dreams left everyone half-believing, half-doubting, and now their confusion deepened. On one hand, Ye Chang had always been obscure and unknown—how could he possess such swift talent? On the other hand, they could not deny that both poems perfectly captured the mood and setting of the occasion.

Ye Chang inwardly roared with laughter. Had he been anywhere else, copying poetry would have been no easy feat. But here—this was the Qinglong Temple, the Lyouyuan, one of the most beloved sights of Chang’an for poets of the Tang dynasty!

Having already recited two of Du Mu’s poems written about Lyouyuan, Ye Chang felt it was time to go further—he had to make Yuan Zai so utterly disgraced that he would have no face to remain in Chang’an and would have to leave at once. So, not waiting for the crowd to recover from their astonishment, Ye Chang began again: “Once I followed the east wind, dancing at banquets; in spring’s pleasure gardens, heartbreak fills the air. Now, on the day the Guanyin Path is completed, both the slanting sun and the cicadas accompany us.”

This time, he borrowed from Li Shangyin, though he made a small change, replacing “How could I bear to wait for autumn days” with “Now, on the day the Guanyin Path is completed.” Though the sense of the poem was a bit diminished, it was still a fitting, well-crafted response to the occasion.

Finishing the poem, Ye Chang paused for breath, then asked Yuan Zai, “Master Yuan, do you wish me to copy yet another poem from my dreams?”

“Heh, heh…” Yuan Zai was not so easily frightened. He remained convinced that Ye Chang possessed no real poetic talent, so he forced himself to say, “I wonder which friend prepared these poems for you in advance…”

At this, he looked toward He Zhizhang and Zhang Xu—both renowned for their poetry. If they had written some verses for Ye Chang to recite… But even if they had, the number would surely be limited, and by now they must be used up! Besides, this last poem seemed a little weaker than the previous.

Yuan Zai, thinking ill of others’ motives, suspected He and Zhang of helping Ye Chang. Having nothing left to lose, he pressed on: “Given this scene, these three poems you’ve presented—prepared for you by others in advance—do you take us all for fools, Ye Chang?”

Ye Chang regarded him with a half-smile, half-mockery. “So, you mean to ask me to copy yet more poems from my dreams?”

“Let us see how many poems you have in your dreams.”

“Very well, since you wish to see, I will oblige.” Ye Chang seemed to be wagering with him, and began anew: “Ten thousand trees with cicadas, across the river the rainbow arches; on Lyouyuan a western wind blows. The sun’s charioteer, resting at Yu Spring, will not let the slanting sun move east again.”

“Excellent!” He Zhizhang could not help but exclaim.

The previous two poems, whether “Ode to Bamboo” or “On Fengling Ferry,” had been more about expressing feelings. But this poem, describing the scene itself, displayed true poetic craft. As a master of literature, He Zhizhang’s praise was quickly echoed by those around him, who all voiced their approval. Yuan Zai’s face shifted between white and green, and even Lu Qi felt a pang of sympathy.

He had meant to humiliate Ye Chang, but instead had provided him an opportunity to shine.

“Such preparation—truly thorough. I wonder, do you have any more?” Yuan Zai forced himself to remain calm.

“Still not enough? Then I must bring out my ultimate weapon,” Ye Chang murmured to himself.

None present understood what he meant by “ultimate weapon,” but seeing his demeanor, they sensed that whatever he had in store would surely be powerful. Lu Qi, unwilling to let Ye Chang continue to steal the limelight, quickly stepped forward: “Enough, enough…”

“Not enough. If there are good poems, how can we not recite them?” He Zhizhang stroked his beard.

He was deliberately helping Ye Chang’s reputation as a poet. Ye Chang glanced at him, feeling a pang of guilt.

But guilt was guilt—events had reached this point, and the poem was like an arrow on the bowstring; it could not be withheld.

“At dusk the heart is ill at ease, I ascend the ancient plain with companions. The sunset is infinitely beautiful, yet it draws near to dusk.”

At the words “draws near to dusk,” all conversation ceased. The gazes around him froze in an instant, and Yuan Zai was utterly dumbfounded.

After borrowing two poems from Du Mu and then two from Li Shangyin, Ye Chang had been waiting for this moment. The first four poems were fine, but the last one was like thunder from a clear sky, shaking everyone to the core—some were uneasy, others’ eyes flickered.

Ye Chang had changed just two words from Li Shangyin’s original, replacing “drive my carriage” with “ascend with companions.” The rhythm remained intact, and everyone felt it was perfectly suited to the time and scene.

Of all those present, none felt the impact more deeply than He Zhizhang.

“‘The sunset is infinitely beautiful, yet it draws near to dusk…’” he murmured, and with a long sigh, he broke into sobs, tears streaming down his face, then turned and left with a sweep of his sleeves.

He was already in the twilight of life, and Ye Chang’s poem spoke directly to his soul, moving him to weep and depart. Zhang Xu, also deeply shaken, followed in his wake. Yan Zhenqing almost did the same, but seeing Ye Chang still present and fearing he might suffer at the hands of the crowd, chose to stay behind.

Ye Chang, lightly fanning himself, approached the stunned Yuan Zai, and with a crisp “snap,” closed his fan and tapped Yuan Zai lightly on the head. Yuan Zai flinched and trembled, “What… what are you doing?”

“Do you want more?” Ye Chang whispered.

“No… no need, truly no need…”

At that moment, Yuan Zai was on the verge of collapse. Who could have imagined Ye Chang would recite five poems in one go—and not only that, each was of high quality, with the last an immortal masterpiece!

“No need? Good. I’ve finished copying anyway—there were only five poems about Lyouyuan in my dream,” Ye Chang shrugged.

But who would believe such a claim now?

People had heard of someone recalling one or two good poems from a dream, but to have five, all about the same place? Unheard of! Now everyone was convinced Ye Chang had set a trap, waiting for troublemakers to fall right in.

Everyone present secretly congratulated themselves that it was Yuan Zai who had a grudge with Ye Chang and thus jumped in first, becoming the sacrificial scout.

A few people felt sorry for Yuan Zai—already denounced by Ye Chang as ignorant, he was now reduced to a mere foil, and hardly fit to stay in Chang’an.

Ye Chang was eager for Yuan Zai to leave. Though not yet a threat, in twenty years he would become a seasoned and powerful minister—if he ever gained influence, Ye Chang’s days would be difficult indeed.

So Ye Chang tapped him on the shoulder with his fan again. “See that door over there?”

He pointed eastward. Yuan Zai looked, then nodded blankly, still in a daze.

“Go now, gather your things, walk out that door, and don’t come back,” Ye Chang said.

Yuan Zai turned and stumbled away, even forgetting to bid farewell, and left Qinglong Temple. Ye Chang clicked his tongue. He’d only meant to embarrass Yuan Zai a bit, but the man, clever enough, had seized the opportunity to leave before suffering further humiliation.

By leaving at once, Yuan Zai avoided greater disgrace. He only needed to leave Chang’an for a while or stay quietly at home; once the storm blew over, he could reappear.

Truly, a master of political survival.

But Ye Chang had achieved a resounding victory—there was no need to press further.

What Ye Chang did not know was that, as Yuan Zai descended the pagoda, he encountered several young women. But absorbed in his own misery, he avoided them and left without noticing their unusual appearance.

These women were all dressed in Daoist robes. At their center was a very young girl, slender and frail—her delicate, graceful figure quite out of place in a Tang era that prized fullness. Her brows were slightly knitted, her eyes shadowed with fatigue—clearly not in the best of health. At that moment, she was lost in thought, her delicate wrist trembling beneath her sleeve, her skirt swaying gently. She glanced up at the pagoda’s narrow corridor, through which Ye Chang could be seen among the crowd.

Ye Chang, in his blue robe, stood calmly, as if the immortal verses just uttered had never existed.

“The sunset is infinitely beautiful, yet it draws near to dusk…”

The Daoist girl sighed softly, lowered her head, and gestured to return. The other priestesses gathered around her, leading her down from the pagoda.

Unaware of this, Ye Chang turned to Lu Qi, his smile returning.

Lu Qi grinned. “What now? Are you coming after me next?”

“You never forced me to recite poetry—why should I come after you?” Ye Chang replied. “It’s just that Master He has gone and forgotten to take me with him. I’ve managed to steal half a day of leisure—Lu, if you are not yet tired, would you care to take a walk with me?”

The crowd’s spirits rose once more—there was more to see!

Ye Chang and his companions descended the pagoda and strolled out the back of Qinglong Temple. They were surprised to find the usual bustle of monks had vanished.

Passing out the back gate, they saw a group of women laughing and chatting. In the quietest corner were four Daoist priestesses.

“Wasn’t Chongniang climbing the pagoda? Why is she back?” one woman asked.

“The pagoda is too high, and Chongniang is too frail—she couldn’t manage,” replied the lead Daoist girl.

Ye Chang noticed her soft, delicate voice. She looked no more than—years old, trying to act mature, but with a trace of childishness in her features. Her appearance was unlike that of an ordinary Tang girl; her skin was whiter, her eyes larger.

She was about the same age as Xianger…

Ye Chang’s heart was stirred, as if seeing a girl the same age as his own daughter from a past life. A gentle, paternal affection welled up within him, and he smiled at the young priestess.

She happened to turn and meet his gaze, and was shaken by the warmth and kindness in his smile.

Though young, her complex background and upbringing in the most intricate environment had made her wise beyond her years. Hearing Ye Chang’s line—“The sunset is infinitely beautiful, yet it draws near to dusk”—she had felt a resonance that belied her age.

Now, facing Ye Chang’s smile, she felt a warmth she could not suppress.

She looked up at him, until her companions gathered around to shield her. Only then did she realize that such direct attention from a young man was quite improper. Seeing the stern looks of the other priestesses, she whispered, “That is a protégé of Master He. Don’t trouble him. Let’s go.”

They rejoined the lively group, but remained quiet. Among the other women, it was clear that those of higher rank called her Chongniang. The name caught Ye Chang’s attention. Whatever melancholy this girl carried, she was still far more fortunate than Xianger, who from childhood had to bear the burdens of household chores.

He did not dwell long on the group of women. In the flourishing Tang era, it was common for women to be out enjoying themselves or managing family affairs; and on the day the Guanyin Path was completed, countless women came to pray and make offerings, including those from noble families.

In the open ground behind Qinglong Temple, shaded by Lyouyuan’s elevation, it was pleasantly cool. Here, Lu Qi finally noticed that the missing monks had gathered, apparently to keep order.

Seeing this, Lu Qi stiffened and shot Ye Chang a glare.

Ye Chang pulled him along toward the monks, who were indeed maintaining order around a football field. Dozens of men with shaved heads and wearing short foreign-style robes were warming up.

“What… what is going on?” asked Li Zha, who knew full well it was a football pitch. Lu Qi had asked him to pressure the magistrate of Jingzhao to forbid Ye Chang from organizing football matches. So why were these people still playing?

Ye Chang beamed. “A Buddhist event, of course. Qinglong Temple’s Buddhist event.”

Everyone now understood, and all eyes turned to Lu Qi, nearly making him choke with rage.

What kind of Buddhist event was this? Shaving a group of ruffians’ heads, making dozens of monks walk around the field chanting the Prajnaparamita, and calling it a Buddhist ritual?

“The Jingzhao magistrate has explicitly forbidden it…” Lu Qi protested. “Ye Chang, how bold you are! Do you think, just because you have Master He’s support, you can defy Magistrate Han?”

He had been boasting everywhere these past days that he had suppressed Ye Chang, but if this match went ahead, all his boasts would be rendered hollow. He would become, after Yuan Zai, this month’s second tragic figure.

“Indeed, Magistrate Han, out of misguided affection, has forbidden me to play. So I have been diligently studying at Master He’s residence these past days—Yan here can vouch for me,” Ye Chang replied, pulling over the dazed Yan Zhenqing, who was so upright and honest he made a perfect shield.

Yan Zhenqing nodded woodenly in assent.

“I am not participating in the match. Today, I am just here to watch, like everyone else. As for the Buddhist football event organized by the monks—it has nothing to do with me. Oh, and the match has a name: ‘The Right General’s Cup—First Tang Dynasty Buddhist Football Tournament.’ Look, it’s written right there on that red banner!”

Everyone looked up to see a length of red silk strung up, bearing exactly the words Ye Chang had said. Then all eyes turned to Lu Qi and Li Zha: they had tried every trick to stop the match, but here it was, underway—how would they respond?