Mountains and Rivers Bear Witness, Memories Amidst the Smoke and Fire Chapter Seventeen: That Mountain, That Scenery, That Person (Part Two)

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Entering the courtyard, the young maid had already been busy for half the day. The two quickly took the heavy items from her hands, and she let out a sigh of relief, for they were truly too heavy. Both Chen Zhiming and Gu Wen were skilled cooks; each took charge of a task—one washing, the other stir-frying—while the little maid busied herself in between, passing things as needed. In no time, fragrant dishes were set upon the table. The two had put genuine effort into this meal. After all, they had always been responsible for cooking at home, and ever since tasting that memorable meal at the old woman’s house, they had returned and devoted themselves to refining and innovating their skills. Their craftsmanship was now much improved. Together, they lifted Chen’s mother into the courtyard to bask in the sun, and the dining chairs were also arranged outside. This was the first time Chen’s mother had been in the courtyard since her grave illness. Before, Chen Zhiming alone could never have managed it, but this time, with Gu Wen’s help, it was finally possible. Laughter and lively voices, absent from the yard for so long, now filled the air. Even Chen’s mother laughed softly; Chen Zhiming glanced at her and smiled faintly. How many years had it been since he saw his mother’s smile? The sight only strengthened his resolve to visit Pingzhong Mountain. He wished to paint its landscapes and people, to bring the pictures back for his mother to see, fulfilling one of her wishes in another way.

After the meal, Gu Wen and the young maid cleared the table, while Chen Zhiming set up a canopy for his mother. He had long wanted her to enjoy some sunshine and to be able to look around outside, but he could never manage it alone. Even this time, it was only with Gu Wen’s help that she could be brought to the courtyard. He made a silent vow to find a way to let his mother move about as freely as others one day.

When all was done, he gathered his painting tools and headed to the street. It was already much later than usual. By the time he arrived, the streets were packed—on this day each year, crowds of outsiders would flock to Lingwu. Not only Lingwu, but even Tianyu Prefecture and its other two counties must be full of visitors. These people traveled great distances, all for the sake of Pingzhong Mountain. The Zhongshan Temple atop the mountain opened only once a year, for merely three or four days, after which it would close until the next year. Many came for this reason alone.

Reaching his usual market spot, he saw a scruffy man sitting there. Chen Zhiming was surprised, but he walked over calmly. The man tossed him a jug of wine, which he caught steadily.

“Too crowded at the inn today, so I’m staying here beneath your stall. You don’t mind, do you?” With that, the scruffy man lay down and promptly went to sleep.

Chen Zhiming was not surprised; he knew the man’s habits—drinking or sleeping were his constant occupations.

Ignoring the man, Chen Zhiming sat down and set out his tools.

“Today there are many travelers. Years ago, my mother composed a piece called ‘Returning Home’. I shall play it for you all.”

Truthfully, it was his first time performing this piece in public, but as soon as the melody began, countless travelers gathered around, quietly listening.

Even the scruffy man nearby could not help but open his eyes in surprise, though he soon closed them again and drifted back to sleep, his mind, however, stirring with memories evoked by the music.

...

“Tianqi, how long will you be gone this time?”

A man stood beneath a flowering tree by an inn outside the capital. This inn, just beyond the city, welcomed returning friends and departing guests, and was named “Returning Guest”—a haven for those who had wandered far and were now coming home. Many farewells had played out beneath that flowering tree.

Tianqi approached, gently broke off a blossom, and inhaled its fragrance. With a smile, he asked, “Brother, which do you think is lovelier—this blossom or the Silver Tree?”

The other man paused and replied, “The Silver Tree of Tianyuan? That was forged by a foolish tyrant, at the expense of countless lives and fortunes. They claim it is a celestial tree, but to me, no tree of immortals could match even an ordinary tree from our Jinwu territory.”

Tianqi smiled, handing the blossom to his companion. “A celestial tree? I’ve done everything in this life but one—fight a legendary immortal. If it truly is an immortal’s tree, there must be immortals about. Brother, just wait. I’ll go and capture one for you, have him plant and water trees here. I’ve decided—after I destroy that tree, I’ll change my name to ‘Immortal-Slayer.’ What do you think?”

“No,” his brother replied flatly. “Tianyuan is filled with experts; you may be unmatched in Jinwu, but there are always greater heights. Tianyuan is the foremost nation, and even our own emperor does not dare provoke them.”

“They are themselves, and I am myself,” Tianqi declared with confidence. “Brother, don’t worry. No matter how mighty the world’s greatest nation, if push comes to shove, I’ll wipe out their experts, and you can lead our troops to their capital. Together, we’ll see if we can’t bring them down.”

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“You rascal,” his brother sighed, knowing nothing could change his mind. “Ah, I know you can’t let go of the past. Go then, and be at ease. If anyone gossips about you at court, I’ll silence them forever.”

“Hahaha! Wait for my return!” Tianqi laughed, striding away without a backward glance.

His brother watched him go, murmuring softly, “Take care, brother.”

Months later, the so-called Celestial Tree in Tianyuan’s capital, built at such a terrible cost, was cleaved in two with a single sword stroke. Several pavilions were destroyed. Tianyuan’s experts did their utmost, only managing to wound the perpetrator, who still slipped away before their very eyes.

As these memories faded, the piece ended. The scruffy man stretched, yawned, and went back to sleep.

Chen Zhiming, meanwhile, was rewarded with thunderous applause, and managed to sell all his paintings for the day.

By dusk, the crowds had thinned. The scruffy man finally sat up. Chen Zhiming, noticing, returned the wine jug he had been given that morning. The man gave him a glance and accepted it.

“Elder, may I ask a favor?” Chen Zhiming produced another jug, bought just now at the cost of nearly all his earnings.

The scruffy man sniffed it, then eyed him. “What are you up to, spending good money on such fine wine for me? Speak your mind first.”

Chen Zhiming, caught out, smiled. “I’ll be going to Pingzhong Mountain tomorrow, and may not return for a day or two, so...”

Before he could finish, the scruffy man shook his head. “You want to run off again, and hope a jug of wine buys you a bodyguard? Dream on. Not interested.”

Chen Zhiming hastily explained, “Not for me, but for my mother.”

“For your mother?” the man looked puzzled.

He continued, “I’m taking my sister along, so I’ve asked the neighbors to look after my mother. But every year at this time, Lingwu is swarmed by outsiders. I’m usually here, but this time I’ll be away. The neighbors will help, but I worry. So I hoped you could keep an eye out—not to stand guard, just as usual, but if any real danger arises, I beg you to help. When I return, I’ll buy you more good wine.”

The man considered, then took the jug. “Alright, I agree. But aren’t you worried something might happen to you?”

“There may be risks, but it’s not fair for me to face every danger alone. Besides, it’s just a trip to the mountain—I doubt anything will go wrong,” Chen Zhiming replied confidently.

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The scruffy man muttered, “You never know,” then turned to Chen Zhiming. “If I take this job, you owe me a few more jugs of wine. If anything happens to you out there, who’ll pay me back?”

Chen Zhiming said nothing. Why did this man always imagine the worst for him?

“Don’t worry, elder. I won’t let anything happen to me until I’ve repaid my debts.”

“And I hear the trees up there are beautiful. If I’m lucky and find some saplings, I’ll drag a monk from the temple to plant and water them here. Then you won’t have to go anywhere to enjoy the scenery,” Chen Zhiming joked. But the scruffy man fell silent, lost in thought. Chen Zhiming called to him a few times, and when he got no reply, simply said, “See you soon,” and left.

“Drag a monk... to water trees...” the scruffy man mused, uncorking the jug and taking a deep swig. He waved and laughed. “Interesting, interesting!”

Suddenly, a flurry of leaves filled the air.

On the seventh day of the seventh month in Jinwu, a rare spectacle appeared in Lingwu: thousands upon thousands of leaves whirled through the sky, as recorded by travelers and named the “Lingwu Dance of the Leaves.”

...

As Chen Zhiming approached his courtyard gate, he saw leaves inexplicably swirling up and flying toward the main street. Inside, Gu Wen and the young maid hurried out to watch this wonder.

Chen’s mother also witnessed the scene. She was suddenly reminded of ten years ago, when a brilliant light illuminated all of Lingwu—though it flashed and vanished, it had left an indelible mark on her heart. She looked out at Chen Zhiming, her gaze deep and unreadable.

“What is that?” Gu Wen and the young maid asked in unison.

“I don’t know—perhaps it’s the work of immortals,” Chen Zhiming murmured, stunned by the sight, so much so that he nearly forgot the storm he had once witnessed in Wubang County.

He whispered to himself, “How beautiful, how wonderful... Tianyu is wonderful, Lingwu is wonderful, and Lingwu is the most beautiful of all.”