Chapter 80: The Ink Kiln's Craft

March was the very height of spring, when even the woodcutters who rarely ventured up the mountain during the harshest days of winter were now rising early. By the time the sun had climbed high, there were already quite a few people on Junji Peak, each carrying heavy bundles of wood down from the slopes. Among them, an old man accompanied by two robust young men made his way with practiced ease to the cottage at the foot of the peak. Stopping before the fence, he raised his voice and called out loudly.

“Hey, the pinewood has arrived!”

At his shout, a middle-aged man promptly opened the door of the cottage and stepped out, slippers shuffling as he went to open the gate. He surveyed the hefty bundles of wood carried by the old man and his two young companions and smiled. “You’re diligent as always, old sir. Today you’ve brought even more than yesterday. Set it down, then… Well, for the lot you three brought, shall we say sixty coins?”

Du Shiyi had told him it was fine to be a bit more generous with these woodcutters, and since the money wasn’t coming from his own pocket, Zhang Du, the middle-aged ink craftsman, was happy to play the good man. The old woodcutter beamed and nodded at once, calling for his sons to lower their loads and even lending a hand himself to stack the pinewood neatly under the shed. Only then, pausing to wipe the sweat from his brow, did he ask, “Is Master Du doing well at the Lushi Cottage? He rarely comes back these days, so I seldom see him. He’s always looked after me, time and again. But now that Mistress Du no longer lives here, I can’t even find anyone to thank.”

“If you want to see Master Du, why not wait with your sons? He’ll definitely be back today. Didn’t he have your boys help with the bricklaying not long ago? Now that the ink kiln is finally finished, it’s time to start making ink. Truth is, just the two of us aren’t enough. If your boys are willing, they can stay and help. Master Du is a generous man—he’ll never treat them unfairly.”

“That’s wonderful!” The old man was delighted, and turning to his sons without hesitation, he said, “You spend all your days on the mountain, and if you keep at it, you’ll end up like your old father, getting nowhere. Lend a hand here. Master Du is a good man, and he’s truly capable!”

“If you’re going to praise me behind my back, old sir, I can’t hear it! If you want to thank me, bring me some cured meat at the end of the year and I’ll gladly accept it!”

At the sound of the voice behind him, the old woodcutter turned quickly and, recognizing the young man in linen robes as Du Shiyi, hurried over with a wide smile.

He had first met Du Shiyi years ago, when the youth would force himself up the mountain at dawn, breathless and frail. Pitying him, the old man had helped him several times and dispensed many a word of advice. Later, Du Shiyi taught him poem after poem, so that his woodcutter’s songs became renowned on Junji Peak, unmatched by any other. In the old man’s mind, it was even at his suggestion that Du Shiyi had gone to the Lushi Cottage on Xuanlian Peak, apprenticing himself to the illustrious Master Lu, and he took pride in that.

In time, Du Shiyi’s guidance had made the old man’s skills in curing meats profitable, so that even his youngest grandson could afford to eat meat and learn to read—the books themselves gifts from Du Shiyi.

“Master Du, I don’t only praise you behind your back—I’ll say it to your face! I’ll leave my boys here to help, and I hope you won’t mind if they’re a bit clumsy!”

“Mind? Not at all. I’m short-handed, and they’re just what I need. The work is simple for now—whole pine logs are hard to burn, so I’ll have them do what they do best: split the pine into thin pieces.”

As Du Shiyi spoke, he glanced at the ink kiln built along the slope, knowing that the next step was the most crucial. He had designed this kiln based on his own copies of Chao Ji’s “Ink Manual” and on memories of a modern handmade pine soot ink workshop. When speaking with the two ink craftsmen earlier, he had learned that most current pine soot kilns were vertical—easier to build, but with low yield and uneven soot granules, making ink production laborious. Despite the greater difficulty, he had insisted on a horizontal kiln, accepting the risks. After a month of study and effort, the brick kiln was finally complete, thanks not only to the two seasoned craftsmen but also to the efforts of the woodcutter’s sons.

Now, with Zhang Du and his brother Zhang Shen, he carefully checked every part of the kiln, from the hearth to the flue and the eight smoke chambers, cross-referencing with his plans. Finding no errors, he straightened up as he emerged from the last chamber and announced, “Everything is ready. Let’s begin at once. Don’t be hasty with the pine—burn just two or three pieces at a time, and keep the fire low and slow. You two know the heat better than I.”

Wang Wei, who had recommended these two craftsmen, knew exactly what Du Shiyi needed. Both men had spent years making ink in Henan Prefecture but had never achieved much fame, lacking both secret formulas and renown. Living in seclusion here on Songshan was no hardship for them, having spent many long seasons making ink on Mount Wangwu.

Now, as the brothers took turns tending the fire and watching the smoke at the hearth, two full hours slipped by. Du Shiyi stayed close, never once resting in the cottage, so the craftsmen kept their spirits up, while the old woodcutter, watching his sons help, occasionally chimed in with advice, making the time pass quickly.

It wasn’t until a loud growl sounded that they all exchanged glances and realized it was the woodcutter’s eldest son’s stomach. Only then did they notice they’d forgotten to eat.

“We’ll finish these few batches and have lunch. As the saying goes, to do good work, one must first sharpen his tools. So it is with labor.”

With Du Shiyi’s assent, the Zhang brothers had no objection, and the woodcutter and his sons readily agreed. Back at the cottage, the Zhangs sheepishly produced their leftover noodle soup from breakfast, but seeing Du Shiyi and the others eat with gusto, they relaxed.

After the meal, when the Zhang brothers wanted to resume burning pine, Du Shiyi stopped them, saying thoughtfully, “Let’s test these first and check the smoke chambers. Though it’s only been two hours, we should be able to see some results.”

The kiln, built along the mountain slope, had its hearth at the lowest point, with a square flue two feet wide and fifty feet long. Above were eight chambers: the small ones eight feet square, the largest forty feet square, each separated by wooden partitions with square holes for smoke to flow through. As the smoke rose, the pine soot settled in gradated layers, separating by size. Carefully, Du Shiyi entered the smallest rearmost chamber with the Zhang brothers, examined the faint traces on the bricks, and with his fingernail scraped off a tiny bit of soot to feel between his fingers. Instantly, a smile broke across his face.

The brothers grinned even wider. The younger, Zhang Shen, couldn’t help but exclaim, “Such fine pine soot! No wonder Master Du wouldn’t go to Wangwu Mountain, where the pines are even better but there are too many craftsmen. This method would be copied in no time!”

The old woodcutter, poking his head in with his sons, turned at once to scold them, “Remember, not a word of this, not even to your wives! Don’t bring trouble on Master Du.”

Seeing the Zhang brothers and the woodcutter’s honest sons nodding earnestly, Du Shiyi laughed. “The kiln is important, but the method of mixing the glue is just as vital—and I’ll be adding other ingredients besides. Just knowing how to build the kiln is useless. Besides, the art of ink-making lies in reputation—if imitators could always surpass the original, the world would be overflowing with famous ink by now.”

The Zhang brothers, who understood this deeply, nodded in agreement. For the rest of the day, they taught the woodcutter’s sons the process. Once Du Shiyi and the others had left, the brothers returned to the smoke chambers to carefully collect the soot.

Another month passed in this way. Du Shiyi visited every few days, experimenting with different mixtures of soot and glue according to secret formulas he had gleaned from ancient books. He and the Zhangs had long since lost count of their failures, but the quality of the ink steadily improved. Even the Zhang brothers, with a lifetime of experience, grew increasingly excited as they saw the results.

One day, Du Shiyi arrived at the cottage once more. This time, the Zhang brothers had already prepared the deer glue. Inside, the three of them mixed the soot and glue according to the latest formula—slightly more water and less glue for the season. When it was time to knead and pound the mixture, Du Shiyi produced a small porcelain bottle from his robe and poured its contents in, adding no other ingredients. At last, he turned to the craftsmen and instructed them.

“You two are more skilled than I at kneading, pounding, and pressing the ink, but hold off on pressing for a day. I’ve had new molds made in Dengfeng—they should arrive soon. We’ll use the new ones then.”

“As you say, Master Du,” Zhang Du replied, breathing in the fragrant aroma and wondering at its source. He suspected it was one of those special scents favored by the nobility, but, curious as he was, he didn’t dare ask.

A few more days passed, and when Du Shiyi returned to the cottage beneath Junji Peak, Zhang Du greeted him with a beaming smile, holding out a gold-embellished inkstick. “Master Du, this is the finest ink yet, made from the best pine soot—so lustrous you can see your reflection! In all our years, my brother and I have never made better. If only we hadn’t wasted so much, there’d be more than just this one stick. There are a few of lesser grades as well, but we’ve yet to test them.”

“That’s easily done,” Du Shiyi replied, taking the inkstick in hand and smiling. “Master Lu is a skilled painter and calligrapher—if we have him try it, won’t the results be clear at once?”