Chapter Thirty-Nine: A Night of Dancing Fish and Dragons (Part Five)

A thousand trees bloom in the night wind.

On the second floor of the Old Rain Pavilion, Li Pin's clear voice carried through the hall. Beside him, at the writing desk, Ning Yi’s brush raced swiftly across the page. With just that first line spoken, many faces in the room subtly changed; some grew solemn and attentive, waiting for the next verse, while others frowned, a premonition of unease stirring within them.

Among those present, Su Chonghua was one who leaned toward the opinion that Ning Yi possessed only minor talent. The claim that the Water Melody was composed by a Daoist priest—he didn’t believe it for a moment. Yet, since Su Chonghua resided at Yu Mountain Academy, he was well acquainted with Ning Yi’s methods: his teaching style was so plain as to be almost frivolous. Perhaps he had read the classics, but to call him truly learned was, in Su’s eyes, hard to accept. Even though Song Mao had himself praised Ning Yi’s teaching methods, Su Chonghua considered them mere clever tricks—useful for a time, but ultimately lacking in substance.

Truth be told, Su Chonghua had no real objections to however Ning Yi chose to pass his days. The intentions of Old Master Su were clear to him from the outset. Having once served as an official, he was well accustomed to all manner of schemes. Purchasing a poem to gain fame as a scholar? Had he been able to do so in his youth, he would not have hesitated. Thus, he never commented on Ning Yi’s teaching. But when Song Mao began to praise Ning Yi, and when Old Master Su sought him out on New Year’s Day to discuss teaching, Su Chonghua felt a growing sense of threat.

Ning Yi had always acted with caution, kept few acquaintances, and left no weaknesses to exploit. As a member of the Su family, once the old patriarch had spoken, it was nearly impossible to undermine Ning Yi at home. Yet tonight presented a rare opportunity: Su Chonghua had wandered over by chance and could not easily extricate himself. He quickly made up his mind and had Puyang Yi call Ning Yi upstairs. As an elder, if he requested a poem, Ning Yi could hardly refuse, especially with Xue Jin egging things on and so many scholars gathered around. As the saying goes, “Scholars are prone to rivalry”—if you shine once at Mid-Autumn, then fade into silence, who would truly accept you?

His strategy was much like that of Su Wenxing and the others when Song Mao first visited the Su household: let someone else expose Ning Yi’s true colors. Su Chonghua was fully prepared to see Ning Yi’s reputation ruined tonight. Everything unfolded as he had anticipated: the whispers, the refusal to let Ning Yi leave, Xue Jin’s exaggerated performance, and, finally, his own well-timed words—like the last straw that breaks the camel’s back.

Yet, Ning Yi’s unexpected look unsettled him. When Ning Yi began to write without hesitation, Su Chonghua’s heart skipped a beat; he realized his calculations had gone awry. The emergence of the poem’s first line made it clear: at the height of his own machinations, he was being outmaneuvered.

It was all too decisive.

Though his perspective may have differed, both he and Xue Jin recognized it: Ning Yi’s composed demeanor left no room for doubt. The appearance of that first line gave little time for reflection; a single line may be flawless, but cannot yet be judged as good or bad. But when Li Pin recited, “Once more, the wind blows and stars fall like rain,” the poem’s grand and resplendent vision began to unfold before everyone’s eyes.

Stroke by stroke—

“Jade carriages and fine horses fill the perfumed roads...”

“The sound of phoenix flutes stirs...”

“The light of the jade pot turns...”

“All night long—fish and dragons dance—”

With the upper stanza complete, Su Chonghua sat back, sighed softly, raised his wine cup and drank, closing his eyes. He knew all his plans for the night had come to nothing. The feeling was akin to a failed scheme in the bureaucracy—a total miscalculation, most unpleasant. He now found Ning Yi ever more inscrutable. On the other side, Xue Jin’s mouth hung open in astonishment, blinking in speechlessness. The entire hall fell into silence, some repeating the poem under their breath, while the festive clamor from outside drifted in.

If the Water Melody written at Mid-Autumn had been a gradual ascent—beginning with simplicity and, through masterful yet seamless technique, blossoming into a scene of ethereal grandeur—then this present poem was a bold and unrestrained sweep from the very first line. Like an ink-splashed landscape or wild calligraphy, it unfurled its splendor without reservation: “A thousand trees bloom in the night wind. Once more, the wind blows and stars fall like rain. Jade carriages and fine horses fill the perfumed roads. The sound of phoenix flutes stirs, the light of the jade pot turns, all night long fish and dragons dance.” With just this upper stanza, the relentless metaphors painted the Lantern Festival night in vivid detail, as if the revelry had been condensed a hundredfold and replayed before their eyes.

The atmosphere in the hall grew solemn. Ning Yi paused, glancing back—not so much to gauge reactions, but rather to keep watch on a serving girl in blue. Even as he wrote, he kept an eye on her movements. She had only glanced over in puzzlement before returning to her duties, pouring wine and so on. Now she stood beside a pillar, gazing out toward the corridor. In this entire hall, perhaps only Ning Yi noticed her.

He turned back, twirling his brush in the inkstone and murmured, “Moth brows, snowy willows, golden threads...” Li Pin didn’t catch it. “Hmm?” Only when Ning Yi’s brush fell again did he understand.

“Moth brows, snowy willows, golden threads...”

Ning Yi continued writing, his gaze flicking aside. The blue-clad serving girl again turned to pour wine for someone, her eyes masking any emotion as she glanced elsewhere. Out in the corridor, two men in blue had also turned, peering inside. Puyang Yi seemed to notice; a figure of some standing inquired quietly at the door, but with everyone’s attention on the poem, none paid heed.

Ning Yi wrote the next line: “Laughter and fragrance vanish amid the throng.”

The two blue-coated guards dared not disrupt a gathering of so many scholars. Their voices lowered, and eventually, they departed down the corridor, casting a last glance through the window. Ning Yi paused as they disappeared from view. The serving girl, carrying her wine jug, also made her way to the door, stopping to pour more wine at a nearby table, waiting a moment—perhaps calculating when the two men would reach the third floor.

“In the crowd, I searched for her a thousand times...”

As Li Pin recited, Ning Yi watched the serving girl from the corner of his eye. At last, she slipped quietly out the door, glancing down the corridor—perhaps now reassured the blue-clad men were gone. Just as the next line, “Suddenly, I turn my head—” sounded, she seemed to sense something, pausing with a faint frown as her gaze swept back. In a fleeting exchange of glances, Ning Yi calmly turned his attention back to the poem, writing its final line.

As the last character was written, Li Pin let out a breath, surveying the room. “Suddenly, I turn my head—there she is, where the lanterns are dimmest.”

At these words, a sigh rose from the silence. “Exquisite...” In the distant corner, Lady Qilan’s eyes sparkled as she listened. Upon hearing, “In the crowd, I searched for her a thousand times; suddenly, I turn my head—there she is, where the lanterns are dimmest,” she involuntarily stood, wanting to speak or approach, only then realizing it was improper, biting her lip and nervously twisting her handkerchief, glancing aside.

Most were still savoring the meaning of the lower stanza. Ning Yi set down his brush. Li Pin carefully lifted the page, inspected it, then passed it to Puyang Yi, casting Ning Yi a look of inexpressible admiration before stepping back and bowing.

The upper stanza had depicted the festival’s splendor with such skill that even half a poem astonished all present. But the lower stanza extracted a deeper meaning from the height of revelry. The first half was worldly, the second transcendent; the contrast was overwhelming, defying description. Some were still pondering, others understood and only sighed, their expressions complex. The poem’s intent, after all, was not without its target.

A few, however, watched those around them, like Xue Jin, who noticed Lady Qilan rise. Having just challenged Ning Yi, he’d been made a laughingstock by a single poem; though few cared to pay him heed now, he couldn’t suppress his indignation. At last, he blurted out, “Then... why did you tell your elders that the Water Melody was written by a Daoist?”

Ning Yi set down his brush, mind on the serving girl now vanished from the window. He had no particular feelings toward men like Xue Jin. Hearing the question, he smiled. “Brother Xue, from whom did you hear this?”

Xue Jin hesitated. “It’s only hearsay, but the tale is vivid. Did you say it or not?”

Ning Yi regarded him for a few moments, then smiled, blinking. “I did say it. But rumors end with the wise—perhaps you missed the second half.”

Their exchange drew attention—Xue Jin’s voice was slightly raised, but Ning Yi was calm, his words not carrying as far as Li Pin’s. Still, Su Chonghua stared, surprised by Ning Yi’s answer. Xue Jin was dumbfounded, unable to speak. Ning Yi cupped his hands to those around him. “I truly have urgent business and mean no disrespect. I must take my leave now.”

No one dared block his way. A few returned the gesture, saying, “If you have business, Brother Ning, by all means go,” or “No need to stay.”

Xue Jin glared, starting, “You—” but Ning Yi clapped him on the shoulder, as if about to say more. Around them, Li Pin, Wu Qihao, Puyang Yi, and others focused intently, awaiting his words. Two seconds later, Ning Yi said, “That Daoist... recited two poems that day.”

He hadn’t lowered his voice. With perfect seriousness, he nodded, turned, and departed. Xue Jin’s face turned crimson; he was left speechless. Xiao Chan, who had been memorizing the poem from behind, quickly followed, smiling, and the two slipped away down the corridor.

For a moment, the hall was quiet, no one able to find a new subject. Li Pin looked at the poem and smiled. “With this, writing another Lantern Festival lyric will be no easy task.”

Puyang Yi nodded, flicking the paper and sighing. “A superb poem...” and passed it along. Lady Qilan turned to watch Ning Yi and Xiao Chan disappear through the window, then sat down, a trace of longing in her eyes. Moments later, she smiled again, chatting as before, lifting the mood in the room—she awaited her turn to perform the poem.

Within half an hour, this “Jade Green Table” lyric had spread throughout Jiangning...

***************

On a lighter note: when it comes to preserved eggs, I’ve eaten them plain since childhood—dipping them in vinegar, soy sauce, or mixing up various concoctions never appealed to me; I just can’t stomach it. Everyone I knew ate them plain, too—only poorly cured eggs have that harsh, alkaline taste. Still, I understand there are many ways to enjoy them. What I can’t quite grasp is those who insist eating them plain is impossible, or even deadly… Life has all sorts of ways of living, all sorts of different people and happiness. As a child, sometimes just having a preserved egg was happiness enough.

The same goes for MSG. Some people can do without, others enjoy it—nothing strange about that. Many restaurants still rely on it for flavor. When I visited the countryside during Qingming, I found the food there quite “gamey,” but the locals loved it—it’s what they’re used to. Ancient seasonings were far fewer than today—what must things have tasted like? Some readers have mentioned that in ancient times, someone even made it to the imperial kitchens using sea cucumber, which is essentially ninety percent MSG. But that’s a topic for another day.

A new week begins—please vote for recommendations ^_^

There should be another update at midnight—though it may be morning by the time it’s up, since this chapter was written too late. I wouldn’t recommend waiting up.