Chapter Twelve: Recommending a Mentor

Building a hut among the people, yet untouched by the clamor of carts and horses. When asked how this is possible, one’s heart, being distant, makes the place remote in itself. Gathering chrysanthemums under the eastern hedge, I gaze leisurely upon the southern mountain. The mountain air is lovely at dusk, as birds return together in flight.

Walking along the mountain path at dawn, Du Shiyi heard the woodcutters singing verses in the forest, their voices echoing like shouts, and could not help but smile. Now, hearing these songs again, he no longer felt the awe he had when first climbing the mountain. Though he might not recognize every character from Tao Yuanming’s “Drinking Wine,” the woodcutters atop Junji Peak could all sing this poem—yes, sing, not merely recite. He had once stopped to ask where they learned it, and the answer was that it spread through the market, or simply by hearing it often enough. At this moment, strolling down the mountain with the wind brushing his face, he rounded a grove to see the very woodcutter he encountered nearly every day on Junji Peak, singing that renowned poem; naturally, he approached.

“Old master, have you chosen a new poem today?”

The woodcutter looked back and laughed. “Ah, it’s Young Lord Du! I heard this tune just yesterday in the market, not my own work. They say it’s from a reclusive scholar of a previous dynasty, Tao of Five Willows. It’s quite old, but its clarity struck me, so I remembered it. But I’ve composed a woodcutter’s chant myself these days—would you like to hear it?”

Without waiting for Du Shiyi to agree or decline, he sang aloud: “Feet treading amidst white clouds, firewood bound to a damp back. In dense woods a fierce tiger appears, at the cottage door a fair maiden waits...” Finishing, he laughed heartily. “I made this up after lazing about and napping on the mountain, then spun a tale for the old woman at home. She always complains I earn too little for all the time spent on the mountain. But hearing I met a mountain tiger, she forgot all else and gave me a rare taste of her youthful tenderness!”

Du Shiyi chuckled at the woodcutter’s jest and added, “You’re quick-witted, old master.”

“Just trying to fool folks and amuse myself! Ah, two years of locust plagues now, hard times, so we find joy where we can. By the way, how did you find the cured meat I gave you last time?”

Having gotten to know the woodcutter, Du Shiyi was often drawn into conversations about poems suitable for woodcutters, and had once received a strip of cured meat from him. At the mention, Du Shiyi smiled, “Savory and tender, truly delicious! Old master, you have fine skills.”

“Haha, glad you liked it! It’s from the pigs we raise—slaughtered at New Year, but couldn’t eat it all at once, so I cured quite a bit. If you like it, I still have more.” As he spoke, the woodcutter suddenly slapped his head. “Oh, Young Lord Du, I’ve seen you climb Junji Peak every morning, looking ever more refreshed. Your illness must be gone? If you wish to study, I have a suggestion: go visit Xuanyan Peak. Lu Gong of Xuanyan Peak is a true recluse of our age, many seek him for learning!”

Du Shiyi thanked him with a smile. But the woodcutter pressed him for a new poem, coaxing from him a recitation of Lu Zhaolin’s “Journey from Yizhou to Chang’an, Departing Zhongyang Station.” Hearing the line, “On the plain, I see fishing companions; on the narrow path, I hear woodcutter songs,” the woodcutter beamed, saying he had learned a new verse, and finally let him go.

Delayed by this encounter, Du Shiyi returned to his thatched hut to find the sun high in the sky. To his surprise, as he approached the fence, he saw Tian Mo, who had been tending the fields, suddenly rise and dash toward him.

“Master, a guest has arrived!”

A guest, come to see him?

“Who is it?”

“It’s Sima, the one who brought me to you, and he’s accompanied an elderly Daoist.”

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Du Shiyi was startled and hurried to the hut. Inside, he saw Sima Chengzhen serenely seated cross-legged, while Sima Heyun stood nearby. Zhuying was nowhere to be seen; instead, Du Shisan-niang was personally serving drinks.

“Sima Master!” Du Shiyi quickly stepped forward, bowing deeply, and said, “Had I known you would visit, I wouldn’t have tarried so long on Junji Peak. Forgive me for making you wait.”

“The sun heats the road quickly, and besides, with many visitors at the temple, it’s hard to get away. That’s why I chose this time to come. Didn’t expect you’d indulge your refined tastes and linger so long in the mountains!” Sima Chengzhen laughed, waving his hand. Once Du Shiyi was seated before him, Sima began, “Heyun brought back those books and explained your idea. I’ve just examined your desk and chair—indeed, writing and copying with them is twice as efficient as before! No wonder others haven’t finished even one copy, while you’ve nearly completed two. So young, yet so inventive.”

“Sima Master, it’s not much of an invention—at heart, it’s all for convenience.” Du Shiyi smiled calmly. “Though I spoke grandly before Sima, truly, I seek leisure and ease. Since childhood, I’ve studied and written, composed poems and essays. Though praised as a prodigy, my family knows best: it’s diligence and skill, nothing more. As for celebrated works, there are none—merely empty fame.”

At this, he noticed Du Shisan-niang’s face pale, and he quickly gestured to stop her from interjecting. “This is something I realized after my illness. To live for empty fame is pointless; better to follow one’s nature and be free. Take reading and writing—let form and posture be unbound, so long as it pleases the heart and clarifies the mind. Remember, in the Qin and Han eras, people knelt to read bamboo slips; now we sit cross-legged with scrolls. In a thousand years, perhaps there’ll be other ways. As long as the purpose of clarity and insight remains, why not make this refined pursuit accessible and affordable to all aspiring scholars?”

Sima Chengzhen saw Du Shisan-niang biting her lip in worry and smiled. “Young Lord Du speaks eloquently—no wonder the famed Daoist Taichong left Songyang Temple empty-handed! Indeed, your method may draw criticism as unconventional, but the ancients used bamboo slips and silk manuscripts, while today we use paper scrolls. Your thread-bound books save time and energy, perfect for poor scholars. Many wish to learn and improve, but few stand out—most live in hardship. Whether desks, chairs, or these books, even in small matters, aiding those who seek wisdom is a good deed! Moreover, printing books becomes much easier; thanks to your idea, I plan to publish medical classics like ‘Collected Notes on Materia Medica’ by Master Tao, so they may never be lost again!”

“Sima Master, you are truly wise!”

Seeing the youthful joy on Du Shiyi’s face, Sima Chengzhen smiled and continued, “As you said, this benefits poor scholars. For Lu Haoran of Xuanyan Peak, your method should be invaluable for his disciples.”

This was the second time that day Du Shiyi heard of Xuanyan Peak. Compared to the woodcutter’s mention of Lu Gong, Sima Chengzhen’s words were more insightful. While he hesitated, Sima suddenly rose, and Du Shiyi followed, surprised when the elderly Daoist went straight to the desk and took over the bamboo chair.

“Sitting with legs down is indeed comfortable, but promoting this is harder than thread-bound books.” Sima Chengzhen then abruptly changed topic. “Young Lord Du, may I have this chair?”

Hearing such a request, Du Shisan-niang could not help but laugh, then quickly blushed and busied herself with the pottery, quietly leaving. Du Shiyi also smiled, “I had Tian Mo hastily assemble it for my own need. If you like it, I’ll have him craft a proper one. This crude thing isn’t fit for gifting.”

“No need for another—this one will do!” Sima Chengzhen saw Du Shiyi’s helpless agreement and signaled Sima Heyun, who handed a bamboo tube to Du Shiyi. “Inside is a letter for Lu Haoran of Xuanyan Peak. He is a renowned scholar and recluse, skilled in poetry and calligraphy. I’ve met him several times, and we often correspond. Du Shiyi, the so-called ‘exhausted talent’ of Jiang Yan was merely a ruse for self-preservation; I never believed that talent could vanish overnight. Lu Haoran is upright and modest, with dozens of disciples taught in the old ways. If you study under him, you will surely gain much.”

Du Shiyi’s heart stirred, but seeing Du Shisan-niang’s happy face, he asked, “Sima Master, if I study under Lu Gong, may Thirteen-niang accompany me?”

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Sima Chengzhen hesitated, and Du Shisan-niang hurriedly spoke, “Brother, don’t worry about me—I can take care of myself!”

Seeing Du Shiyi deep in thought, Sima Chengzhen sighed, “Men and women are different. There are many disciples at Xuanyan Peak, but none are women. In any case, Young Lord Du, consider carefully.”

He accompanied the pair to the main road at the foot of the mountain, watching as the bamboo chair was tied to the wagon, and Sima Chengzhen boarded. As Du Shiyi was about to speak to Sima Heyun, the broad-browed man stepped forward and said in a low voice, “Young Lord Du, Lu Hong—Lu Gong—is a true recluse, with extraordinary talent and noble character. Many seek him, but most fail. With my master’s letter, you have a rare chance!”

“Thank you, Sima, for your kindness. I will consider carefully.”

Du Shiyi thanked him solemnly. Once he watched the pair disappear, he slowly returned. In front of the hut, Du Shisan-niang waited anxiously, and he smiled, “Since Sima Master extolled Lu Gong so highly, I’ll take you to Xuanyan Peak one day…”

“Brother!” Du Shisan-niang interrupted, resolute. “Such a rare opportunity—go pursue your studies. Don’t worry about me!”

With that, she stormed back into the hut, leaving Du Shiyi to sigh. Standing at the doorway, he absentmindedly watched Tian Mo sweating in the fields, until he noticed Zhuying approaching with an empty basket.

“Master.”

“You look pale—did something happen?”

Removing the empty basket, Zhuying steadied herself and reported, “Mistress sent me to buy rice and flour at the market. Today, I found prices had risen thirty percent; they say locusts are worse than last year, and the disaster is heavier! Everyone expects prices to keep rising. In Dengfeng County, all the rice shops sold out after a dozen stones; I couldn’t buy any!”

Du Shiyi’s gaze sharpened. He had once witnessed locusts darken the skies on the Xinjiang steppe—an unforgettable horror. If left unchecked now, the autumn harvest could fail, and famine would sweep the land.