Chapter Five: The Hen That Threw Herself Into the River

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On an autumn morning, the first faint light crept into the eastern sky. Milky-white mist drifted among the ancient city streets, and painted pleasure boats glided slowly along the Qinhuai River, half-concealed in swathes of dense fog, resembling ethereal palaces floating at the edge of heaven.

Within this deep autumn haze, Ning Yi jogged along the riverside path, humming a tune. This daily exercise had become routine for him—after all, he had ample time at his disposal. As he continued onward, the rustic brick-and-wood buildings appeared intermittently along the route, flanked by various kinds of trees. On the river, pleasure boats drifted by; occasionally, he glimpsed a boatman or a weary courtesan at the prow.

This was perhaps the most fascinating hour of Jiangning’s daily cycle—when the chaos and revelry of the night faded, making way for new vitality. The city gates had already opened; farmers and peddlers entered in a steady trickle, heading to the markets. Few people were about, but everything exuded a sense of freshness and vigor. Now and then, a tired, disheveled figure hurried along the roadside—no doubt someone who’d spent the night in a brothel and was rushing off to daytime affairs. Shops were half-open, while the beggars had yet to rise.

Happiness, he mused, often springs from the absence of it; splendor, too, is revealed by contrast. To Ning Yi, who had seen modern metropolises, even Jiangning at its most prosperous was nothing extraordinary. Yet such details were not worth quibbling over. The city’s unadorned, natural charm was real, and those who lived here were easily content. As long as they had enough to eat, their faces would light up with joy.

Ning Yi would sometimes discuss these things with Old Qin. By many measures, Jiangning was an excellent city, yet beggars roamed everywhere, and the selling of children was not uncommon. Of course, there were also many wealthy households; if a child could be sold into a good family as a servant or maid, at least they wouldn’t want for food—a stroke of ancestral good fortune. Thanks to the thriving pleasure districts along the Qinhuai, many pretty, impoverished girls found another path. If they could learn poetry, music, and song, a shrewd madam might train them as courtesans who sold only their art, not their bodies, and with luck, they might even marry into wealth as concubines. Most, however, were not so fortunate—destined to sell themselves for a lifetime. When age and faded beauty rendered them useless, a kind-hearted madam might set them free. There were enough such places that this became custom: if one kept to the rules, life could be endured, neither too good nor too bad—though here, “good” and “bad” were relative. A penniless, aging prostitute might be allowed to stay on as a cleaner or helper rather than be cast out outright. After long association, some small measure of conscience and welfare remained. In other places, without the prosperity of Jiangning and Yangzhou, even that could not be counted on.

There were also those who raised “thin horses”—a notorious practice in later centuries, but already present in embryonic form. Though not yet widespread, it was an investment that grew alongside the pleasure quarters. Girls raised as “thin horses” fared better than those sold directly to brothels; they had hope, for at least they could learn music, chess, calligraphy, poetry, and song, and were thus likelier to rise to fame.

Every flood season brought an influx of refugees. In good years, they were fewer, but there were always some. In bad years—when, say, the Yellow River flooded or disaster struck—the city would tense, soldiers would guard the gates, and no refugees would be allowed in. The magistrate would summon wealthy merchants to consult, which was really a call for donations. They scraped together funds to provide gruel and rice. Still, people froze to death in winter, the numbers rising or falling with the harvest. If snow fell, it was common to find beggars frozen together the next day.

Such sights became routine, though Old Qin would sometimes say, “These are not good years.” There had been good years, especially at the dawn of the Wu dynasty, when song and dance flourished and the emperors were said to be wise and capable. Ning Yi found such stories dizzying, but every era had its moments of peace and prosperity. The present Wu dynasty closely resembled the late Northern Song—beyond the relatively wealthy south, several peasant factions were in revolt, bandits and strongmen abounded, and the northern state of Great Liao, ruled by the Wanyan clan, repeatedly invaded. Each incursion led to another peace negotiation, but the skirmishes never ceased. A treaty had been signed a few years prior, and the two countries styled themselves as brothers—though “Liao elder, Wu younger”—but fighting continued.

Ning Yi was unconcerned. The shame of Jingkang was still in the future. Though this emperor was not the same as in history, even if disaster struck it would play out differently. The capital had not yet moved to Jiangning; the state remained strong enough. Should war come, it could be endured. Even if the capital did move, and the Wu dynasty entered its Southern Song phase, the Southern Song had survived for quite some time—by the time the Jin invaded again, he would have lived out his life. Four hundred eighty temples in the southern court, and countless pavilions shrouded in mist—life in the Southern Song was not so bad.

He felt no urge to save the Chinese nation or to establish some everlasting legacy in this ancient world. He was tired—his youthful fervor long since shed. Injustice and darkness were nothing new; modern society was hardly brighter. The suffering of the masses could no longer stir his compassion—not that he had none, but it was simply not enough. As for founding dynasties or ruling as emperor, it was childish for one who would live only sixty years to worry over matters of a century or more. Still, in idle moments—like now, after a run, sweating and resting by a secluded bend of the Qinhuai—he might allow himself a few irresponsible, slightly more optimistic thoughts.

If he were to do something, his status as a live-in son-in-law was an obstacle, but not a major one. Opportunities for business abounded. There was no monosodium glutamate yet—he knew something of its production, though it was more complicated than it sounded; with a year’s effort, he could perhaps mass-produce it. Combine that with new dishes and modern culinary concepts, open a food court—he could certainly turn a profit.

There was no music to speak of in this era. Anyone who had lived in a world where music was available for unlimited download and daily listening would know how dull it felt here. The brothel performances were not necessarily good, and the famous courtesans not always talented singers, but if you never heard any music, even a passable song would sound heavenly. Opening an entertainment venue had potential: songs, dance, all kinds of amusements. The lyrics of modern songs might not be suitable, but the melodies could be adapted, and a subtler, period-appropriate style of dance could be devised. He could even borrow some poetry for the performers.

Such thoughts only occupied him because he was often bored, and so his mind wandered to food, drink, and entertainment.

As for abandoning such pleasures and dedicating decades to guns and cannons, laying the groundwork for an industrial revolution to make future generations fly in airplanes—none of that would benefit him. Compared to opening a restaurant or an entertainment hall, such grand plans seemed foolish.

The morning breeze was cool. He stood by the stone embankment, tossing pebbles into the water, turning these ideas over in his mind.

For now, of course, none of this was possible.

As a son-in-law of the Su family, opening a brothel was out of the question—it would have to wait. The Su family ran a cloth business; opening a tavern would also be tricky. Perhaps he could first suggest a few ideas to improve the cloth business, prove his worth, and then—oh, and then he would be assigned as a manager, just as he’d been in his previous life. Prove himself a bit more, and he’d be right back in his old profession. Then, with some capital, he might open a tavern, and, under their puzzled gazes, explain that it would be profitable. After that, he’d need to find people, invent equipment, experiment and build an assembly line—all because he missed less than a gram of MSG in each meal. Wasn’t that just asking for trouble?

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Humming the melody of “Blue Caribbean” under his breath, Ning Yi couldn’t help laughing at his own ideas. Perhaps it wouldn’t be as complicated as he imagined—but it was entertaining to think about. Why not just buy a few hundred pounds of kelp, boil it down and crystallize it? Kelp was easy to buy, though if he began such experiments, some would call it wasteful, and others might say a gentleman keeps his distance from the kitchen…

He forgot the latter part of “Blue Caribbean,” so his humming drifted into “Two Tigers.” On the second round of “Two tigers, running fast,” the sound of chickens crowing came from the road ahead.

“Brother, brother, brother…”
“Cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck…”

One was a woman’s voice, the other a hen’s. He turned to look. Through the shifting mist, a hen was dashing madly among the trees and along the road. Soon after, a young woman in a gray-white cotton dress appeared, cleaver in hand, relentlessly chasing the hen. Man and fowl whirled in circles, figures flickering in and out of the fog.

Ning Yi leaned against a tree by the river, watching the scene with his chin in hand. The theory was that calling like a chicken reassured the bird and lured it over, but when the hen was already so frightened, what use was it? Even calling “sister” wouldn’t help.

He watched this battle for a while, noting that the woman’s figure was quite pleasing, when suddenly the hen changed course and bolted straight toward him—rushed past, and, without hesitation, dove into the river.

The woman, flushed with anxiety, hurried after it. The morning mist was thick; Ning Yi, standing under a tree, was nearly invisible. The woman, unaware of him, saw the riverbank ahead and swung her cleaver down hard, letting out a grunt of effort. She missed—her cleaver flew from her hand and splashed into the water.

Ning Yi was startled by the decisiveness of the blow. Only then did he realize the woman had overbalanced—arms flailing, she was about to fall into the river. Instinctively, he shouted, “Hey!” and grabbed her hand. She turned, her other hand clutching at him. Ning Yi braced himself to pull her back, but the stone beneath his foot shifted…

A short, startled cry.
A splash.

Then came frantic splashing, the river surface churning beneath the fog.

In his previous life, Ning Yi had been a decent swimmer. Unfortunately, swimming skill did not carry over. This body was that of a frail scholar, not strong in the water, and though he had spent months recuperating and exercising, progress was limited. The woman didn’t seem much better. The two of them floundered desperately in the not-too-deep water, and whenever Ning Yi tried to calm down and speak, he was dragged under again.

“You—glug…”
“Hey—glug glug…”
“Don’t—glug glug glug…”

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It is said that many good swimmers, in their efforts to save others, are dragged down by panicked drowning victims.

Who knows how long it was before Ning Yi finally managed to drag the woman up a set of stone steps on the riverbank, some dozens of meters downstream. Soaked to the skin and utterly bedraggled, he collapsed at the edge, coughing out several mouthfuls of water before he caught his breath. Then he looked at the woman he’d rescued—she had swallowed so much water that she’d passed out.

“Hey!” Ning Yi slapped her face several times. Her long hair, sodden and tangled like water weeds, gave her a pitiful, ghostly look. She did not respond.

“Three lotus roots float in the emerald pond… Living by the Qinhuai and you can’t swim?” Ning Yi sighed helplessly, flattened her out, and began to perform first aid as he remembered it.

Even though the other party was a woman, there was nothing glamorous about rescue—she was not some swimsuit beauty. Her clothes were all in disarray, and her hair a wild mess, like the drowned ghosts of legend—wretched in the extreme. Ning Yi, anxious, performed several rounds of chest compressions, coaxing water from her lungs, then slapped her face again. Still no response. Reluctantly, he pinched her cheeks and began mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

After a while, the woman slowly came to, just as Ning Yi leaned in again. A crisp slap resounded in the morning air.

Her voice was hoarse and tearful, “Lecher! You… cough… what are you doing…” Clutching her chest, she scrambled away, her drenched clothing clinging to her slender frame, long legs scrabbling on the ground—pitiful and appealing in her distress.

Had a passerby come upon the scene, Ning Yi might well have been beaten for it.

“I knew it would end this way…” He shook his head, slumped his shoulders, and let out a long sigh before sitting down on the roadside. The two of them stared at each other for some time. Ning Yi raised his hand, “You’re all right now?”

The woman glared at him wordlessly.

“As long as you’re fine.” He answered himself, got up with an effort, shrugged, and turned to walk away, the chill wind biting to the bone.

Behind him, the woman hunched miserably, watching his silhouette disappear down the road…

That poor woman—lost her hen and her cleaver. As he trudged home, wet and shivering, Ning Yi consoled himself with her greater misfortune. In such situations, cold wind was agony, but thinking of someone worse off eased his suffering a little.

For small troubles, he always had his own philosophical coping methods. Since some things could not be changed, he could only find such ways to cheer himself up, at least for a while.