Two Fruitless Runs to the Inlet
After the commotion at Pianbu, Old Daoist Xuan still dragged Fang Yingjie down in front of a roadside pancake stall and made him swallow half a bowl of hot broth before stuffing a flatbread fresh off the griddle into his hands. Only then did he deign to lift his wine gourd and head back into the street.
Fang Yingjie ate the bread, but he had no heart to savor the wine. Neither did he spare more than a glance for the gambling tables. The scare had not truly frightened him, but it had at least beaten some of that drifting carelessness out of him—the habit of stopping whenever he saw wine, lingering whenever he saw a wager.
Once they were out of Pianbu, Old Daoist Xuan gave him a slow inspection from head to toe. Aside from the lingering pallor in his face and the faint tightness still sitting in his chest, there seemed to be no new injuries. Only then did the old Daoist knit his brows and ask,
"Can you still walk?"
Fang Yingjie nodded. "I can."
At once Old Daoist Xuan rolled his eyes.
"You little block of wood. Other than saying I can, what else do you know how to say?"
For all that, his hand still came over and gave Fang Yingjie a measured pat on the outside of his right shoulder.
"If you can walk, then stay close."
"Let yourself get snatched away again, and this poor Daoist really will tie you to his belt."
With that, he hooked up the wine gourd and strode back toward the main street.
This time he still cast extra glances toward griddle stalls and wine jars, and every so often his nose twitched as usual. He still muttered judgments under his breath—"That fire's all wrong," "That wine's lost half a shade of body"—but he no longer stopped to wrangle with strangers for the sheer pleasure of it. Instead, he began asking his way onward, piecing together the scraps of news they had gathered before.
Only he asked in Old Daoist Xuan's own fashion.
At a stall selling fishing gear, he first squatted down to finger a freshly mended net, clicked his tongue at the coarse knots, and only then tossed out the question casually:
"Anyone from out of town come asking about Eaglebeak Ridge up by the northern inlet today?"
At a shack selling hot rice porridge, he lifted a bowl, sniffed it, frowned, and announced that the rice was old before turning his head and asking,
"Seen a young man in blue these past two days? Good-looking, quiet, cold-faced. Doesn't look like one of your local boatmen or dock runners."
Farther ahead, a man by the roadside was crouched over an oar, repairing it. Old Daoist Xuan first examined whether the blade had been trimmed evenly, grunted that it was passable, and only then added, slow as ever,
"In the last two days, have there been several parties following the road and looking for a boy who fell from a cliff and vanished?"
This way, no one took him for a man deliberately gathering intelligence. They saw only a ragged old Daoist with a sharp tongue and too many opinions. Those who knew something answered a few words in passing. Those who did not merely cursed him for talking too much.
Fang Yingjie followed behind him, listening, remembering.
But the more he remembered, the heavier his heart became.
Because the answers were almost all the same.
—"Seen them? Yes, I think they were still up north yesterday."
—"Someone asked this morning, but they left early. Headed toward the wharf, I think."
—"There was one in blue, one younger fellow with a loose mouth, and another steadier one. Looked like they were traveling together."
—"They were searching hard. Didn't look like ordinary passersby."
Each reply, taken on its own, sounded believable enough. Yet once fitted together, they made the ground only harder to find. It was like looking through a layer of mist: you could already make out the shape of a figure ahead, but the moment you stepped forward, that figure slid another half-step away.
At first Old Daoist Xuan had still affected indifference, asking here and there as though it were no more than an idle matter. But after hearing they were here last night, they left at dawn, they seemed to have gone north over and over again, even that feigned laziness began to slip from his face.
He stopped beside a stall selling dried fish. After the vendor finished saying, "Before daybreak this morning, a few men took the north road toward the inlet," the old Daoist clicked his tongue, lifted the wine gourd, and took a pull.
"Half a step too late again."
Fang Yingjie's fingers tightened slightly around the wooden staff. In a low voice he said, "Senior, should we go to the wharf now?"
Old Daoist Xuan shot him a sidelong look.
"Go? Of course we go."
"We've asked this much already. What, you want to stay here and buy salted fish instead?"
That was what he said, but his feet did not move at once. He stood where he was, sweeping a long look around him before finally, rather unwillingly, starting forward.
"But let me make one thing clear."
"If we come up empty at the wharf too, this poor Daoist is not going to spend the whole day wandering all over Taihu with you until dark."
Fang Yingjie pressed his lips together and did not answer. He simply planted his staff and followed.
To get from Pingsha Market to the wharf, they had to pass through half a stretch of low-lying street and then skirt a strip of wasteland by the water. The clamor of the main street slowly dropped away behind them, and ahead rose the smells and sounds that belonged only to waterside places.
The damp beneath the wooden frames where nets hung drying had not yet lifted; wet hemp rope and fish-stink came in gusts on the wind. A few small boats moored in the shallows were being bailed out with wooden dippers, the water slapping down with one hollow splash after another. Farther off, near the reeds, there came now and then the muffled thunk of someone dragging an oar.
This place was not necessarily more chaotic than Pingsha Market, but it was looser, lonelier, and much harder to read.
Unlike a proper large quay, with its neat rows of sheds and broad unloading platforms, the so-called wharf was nothing more than a cluster of shallow landings where small boats could come in—old posts, new posts, rotting planks, and half-sunken stones thrown together in disorder. Which family's boat moored where, whose goods were unloaded at which patch of shore, all of it depended on nothing more than luck, timing, and a willingness to shove. A few makeshift reed shelters stood along the bank. Some sold fish and rice, some sold spirits, some patched oars and nets while taking on a little ferry work besides. When the wind rose, the tide slapped against the old posts with a steady tok-tok, as though something below the surface were knocking against them, slow and patient.
They had barely reached the landing when they saw several laborers who had just docked, carrying baskets of fish ashore. Old Daoist Xuan went straight over to question them—one man, then the next.
The result, however, was the same again.
Yes, people matching that description had indeed come through.
Yes, word had been left behind.
One man even remembered more clearly than the others. He said that at dawn several people had been asking after a light, fast boat that had gone into the northern branch. They had apparently heard that the boat had seen suspicious traces last night near Guosha Bay, and so they had turned and gone after it toward the mouth of the North Branch.
The North Branch again.
Just left again.
By this point, what Old Daoist Xuan felt was no longer simple weariness. Real impatience had begun to gnaw at him. They had made a full circle through Pingsha Market and found nothing. Now they had followed the trail to the wharf, only to hear the same thing again: just left, headed for the North Branch. The whole lake was cut with branching waterways; every landing had ten tongues wagging from a different direction. If they truly threw themselves after such scattered scraps of rumor, then in his eyes it would amount to little more than dragging along a half-crippled block of wood and trying to measure all of Taihu with the soles of their feet.
Standing beside a heap of wet nets and empty fish baskets, Fang Yingjie felt the breath in his chest begin to rise of its own accord.
Had he not learned that method of sinking his breath and gathering himself, the rush of urgency would probably have tightened his throat again already. Even so, the agitation inside him still came back in waves. He gripped the staff harder and asked quietly,
"Can we still go on to the North Branch?"
Old Daoist Xuan heard that, and half his face darkened at once.
"Like hell we can."
He flung up a hand and swept it across the tangle of water and boats before them.
"Look at this place with your own eyes. One channel loops into another. A boat passes here, and the next boat can slip out by some fork over there. If those acquaintances of yours really are chasing rumors like this, then today they're in the North Branch, tomorrow they can turn into the south bay, and the day after that they're back at the landing again. The whole lake is nothing but inlets and mouths. Where are you planning to find enough feet to chase every last one of them?"
The more he spoke, the more irritable he grew. He shoved the wine gourd back at his waist, his brows knotting tight.
"With an injured man in tow, you chase from Pingsha Market to the wharf, then from the wharf to this North Branch or that South Branch, and after all that running you'll most likely end up with nothing again."
"What do you take this poor Daoist for—a boat-rat born on the water? Or do you think those friends of yours are going to stand still in one place waiting for you to come identify them?"
By the time he finished, the last bit of patience he had had for one more try was almost worn away. The first time they had come up empty, he had told himself they were only half a step too slow. But now, after following the trail to the water and hearing the same drifting rumors all over again, it was plain to him that this was no problem to be solved by simply chasing one stage farther. It was a full-blooded nuisance with no end to it.
He did not speak gently.
Listening to him, Fang Yingjie's face turned a shade paler, but he could not find a word to answer back.
Because everything Old Daoist Xuan said was true.
People moved.
Roads forked.
And a water route was nothing like a stone stairway before a mountain gate, something you could see from end to end at a glance. If they really kept chasing on the strength of they just left and someone saw them ahead, then not only today—three or five days of such pursuit might still fail to bring them together.
Seeing him fall silent, Old Daoist Xuan gave another snort through his nose.
"That's enough."
"Don't stand here and suffocate yourself."
As he spoke, he turned his head and looked Fang Yingjie over again. The boy's face had gone paler than before, and the rise and fall of his chest had turned visibly sharper. The old Daoist knew at once that the breath Fang Yingjie had only barely steadied the night before had likely begun to float upward again under the strain of a whole morning's rushing and two fruitless pursuits.
So he truly did turn aside and walk toward a grass-roofed shed by the water. Inside, a small pot was set over the fire, simmering fish-bone broth with tofu, and beside it someone was warming half a jar of rough wine. The moment Old Daoist Xuan caught the smell, his expression did not improve, but his feet changed course anyway.
"Get something hot into you first."
"Keep this up, and before we find anybody, you'll pitch headfirst into the mud."
Fang Yingjie had wanted to say something, but when the words reached his lips, he swallowed them.
It was not that he was not anxious.
Only that he knew perfectly well how he must look at that moment. The breath he had only just forced back down had begun floating again under the press of urgency. After walking this far, even his right foot had started to swell and throb with heat. If he kept forcing himself ahead blindly, then far from helping search for anyone, he would only be the first to lose his bearings.
This run from Pingsha Market to the wharf had pressed down more than the breath in Fang Yingjie's chest. It had worn away almost all of Old Daoist Xuan's remaining interest in just following the trail a little farther. The clues had not broken. They had only grown thinner and more scattered. The people they sought seemed always to be somewhere just ahead, yet always separated from them by half a step.
That second empty chase settled into the heart like a stone.
The trail had not snapped, and yet every time they reached out to seize it, their hands closed on nothing.
The Scent of Wine by the Lake Channels
After the bowl of hot soup in the thatched shelter, the two of them still could not quite give up. They spent another half hour nosing around the northern channel, sounding people out wherever they could. They asked after boats, after travelers, after the guests who had come ashore the night before, after the small fast craft that had borrowed oars and put out that morning. Old Daoist Xuan even stopped to question a one-eyed old cobbler crouched inside a rotting awning boat, resoling shoes.
But the more they asked, the more scattered the stories became.
One person said the groups searching for someone had long since gone past Shawan. Another swore he had still seen them at the northern crossing at daybreak. A fishwife, full of certainty, claimed she had seen a young man in blue speaking at the wharf with a chattering youth—but a large passing vessel blocked her view, and when she looked again, both men had vanished.
Every person had a different version. Every version sounded plausible. Yet none of them could be pieced into a single clear trail.
By the time the sun had begun to slant westward and the brightness on the water was slowly tilting with it, Old Daoist Xuan had finally had enough.
Standing beside a half-rotted post, he took a pull from his wineskin, wiped his mouth, and said irritably, "That's enough."
"If we keep chasing shadows, we'll end up sleeping on a torn fishing net by this rotten wharf tonight."
Fang Yingjie was silent for a moment, then said in a low voice, "Then… shall we come back tomorrow?"
Old Daoist Xuan almost laughed from sheer exasperation.
"Tomorrow?"
"There's no telling whether they'll still be here tomorrow at all. Do you think every boat on this lake is tied to the same rope—here today and still here tomorrow?"
As he spoke, he pointed toward the crisscrossing channels ahead.
"And look at the hour. The ferrymen are putting away their oars, the boatmen are heading back to moor, and once it gets dark in these narrow waterways, you can't see a damned thing. If you insist on pressing on, you'll fall into the water halfway there, and this poor Daoist will have to haul you back out."
"I told you from the start: dragging a sickly little wretch like you all over these water mouths in search of men is the worst bargain under heaven."
The words were as sharp as ever, but the irritation on his face was not entirely an act.
He truly was annoyed.
Not with Fang Yingjie himself, but with the business as a whole. The clues came in broken scraps, one pointing east, another west; land routes and water routes were tangled together in utter confusion. The more they chased, the more it felt as though someone were leading them in circles by the nose. And the boy beside him was still injured. If anything else went wrong, the trouble would fall back on him in the end.
After thinking it over, he said, "We cross this stretch of water first and find somewhere to rest for the night."
"We'll talk again tomorrow."
At the words we'll talk again tomorrow, the urgency in Fang Yingjie's chest sank a little. But when he looked up at the sky, then down at the muddy landing, already trampled into such a mess that before long even the path would be hard to make out, he did not insist any further. He only answered softly, "Mm."
Yet when it came time to cross, things went badly again.
The proper ferry boats had either already put up their oars or taken on other passengers. They asked at two or three places along the shore, but everywhere they were told to wait, or else waved off outright—too late in the day, no more crossings. Old Daoist Xuan had already had his patience ground thin by a full day of running to nothing, and now he began cursing under his breath without restraint.
"These water rats jack up their prices every blessed day…"
"Pingsha's such a wretched place it hasn't even got a single man who knows how to do business…"
And it was at just that moment that a fragrance of wine drifted over on the evening wind.
It was not the sour harsh reek of watered-down tavern swill, nor the fierce spirit-fumes that shot straight up the nose when a fresh jar was first opened. This was mellow—carrying a faint sweetness of rice, touched too with a cool hint of lake water. At first it was only the merest trace, turning once upon the breeze, but Old Daoist Xuan stopped short at once.
His nose twitched once.
Then again.
The brows that had been knotted together all day loosened of their own accord.
"Wait."
Fang Yingjie started.
Old Daoist Xuan had already turned his head to follow the wind.
Not far away, beside a shallow landing a little off to one side, lay moored a small fishing boat, old but well kept. The cabin was not large, yet the planks had been scrubbed clean. Damp nets, only just hauled in, hung drying along the side, water still dripping from their corners. At the bow stood two fish baskets. One held live fish fresh from the lake; the other held several clay-sealed jars of wine. The jars were not large, but their mouths had been carefully sealed, and beside them sat a coarse porcelain bowl. A shallow film of wine still lay at the bottom, and in the slanting light it glimmered pale gold.
There were two people by the boat.
One was a man in his forties, not especially tall, but broad-backed and sturdy. His skin had been darkened by lake wind and sun, and his trouser legs were rolled high, showing strong, sinewed calves. A few shallow weather-cracks lined his face, and when he smiled the corners of his eyes crinkled with them. He looked exactly like the sort of man who had spent his whole life scratching out a living by the lake—one who had known hardship, but had no taste for wearing it on his face.
The other was much younger, perhaps around twenty. He was gathering rope and sorting the nets nearby. Solidly built, sparing with words, steady-handed in all he did. Now and then he would glance up, and there was nothing dull in his eyes. He looked instead like the sort of young man who did not say much in ordinary times, yet would step forward when something truly needed doing.
The middle-aged man was holding a bowl of wine, apparently taking a breath after hauling in the nets. Seeing Old Daoist Xuan staring fixedly at the wine in his hand, he could not help laughing.
"Daoist Master, admiring the wine?"
Old Daoist Xuan went over at once, his eyes still not leaving the bowl.
"Admiring it—and smelling it."
Without the least ceremony, he squatted beside the wine jars, examined the clay seal, studied the rim, then bent close and drew in two solemn sniffs. The impatience that had had him cursing heaven and earth a moment ago was suddenly more than half subdued.
"The rice is good."
"The water's clean, too."
"And the fire…" He narrowed his eyes. "The fire was handled well enough."
The middle-aged man's eyes lit up at once.
"Daoist Master knows wine?"
Old Daoist Xuan clicked his tongue, as if mildly offended by the shallowness of the question, then waved a hand with feigned restraint.
"A little. A little."
"If you're truly selling this, it wouldn't disgrace you."
The man laughed harder and held the bowl out at once.
"Then since you're a Daoist Master who truly knows wine, care to taste a mouthful?"
Old Daoist Xuan's eyes were practically shining now, though his mouth still played at modesty.
"How could I impose?"
But before the words had even finished leaving his lips, he had already taken the bowl and tipped back a small swallow.
After drinking, he did not speak at once. He merely closed his eyes and slowly pressed the wine against his tongue, as though carefully testing the fragrance of rice and the lingering finish. Only after a moment did he open his eyes again and give a grave little nod.
"Well now."
"This one has something to it."
The smile on the middle-aged man's face widened.
"I said as much. It's not some slapdash brew."
As he spoke, he reached over and clapped the young man beside him on the shoulder.
"Shun, did you hear that? At last we've met someone who really understands wine. It's not just me boasting about my own stuff."
The young man lifted his head and glanced over. The corner of his mouth twitched slightly, though he said nothing. He merely gave Old Daoist Xuan a nod.
So this was Wang Shun.
Old Daoist Xuan took another half-swallow and became even less willing to let go of the bowl.
"You brewed this yourselves?"
The middle-aged man nodded.
"We did."
"Fishing and selling fish is the proper trade, but when the winter runs go slack, fish alone won't carry a household. So we brew a little rice wine on the side. Some for our own table, some to sell loose. Helps make up the difference."
By now, seeing how Old Daoist Xuan both truly drank and truly appreciated what he drank, the man had clearly grown more enthusiastic. He broke the clay seal on another jar and held it out for him to smell.
"This jar was made from last autumn's rice. Less water, more grain. It fermented thick."
"The one just now is newer—cleaner on the tongue. This one had a lighter starter, otherwise the sweetness of the rice would have floated too high. And the earlier jar sat over the fire half a moment longer, so the wine-breath came out fuller."
The moment Old Daoist Xuan heard the words autumn rice and fermented thick, even his eyelids seemed to lift. He leaned in at once to smell it, and after smelling, that still was not enough—he had to taste each jar as well. He sipped, smacked his lips, and swayed his head in satisfaction, as though the frustration of an entire wasted day had been rinsed clean by those two jars alone.
Fang Yingjie stood at the side. The weight on his mind had not eased, yet seeing Old Daoist Xuan in such a state, he did not know what he ought to say. He could only remain quietly where he was. By then Wang Shun had already coiled up the last length of net rope. Without a word, he pulled over an empty fish basket for Fang Yingjie to sit on.
"Standing's tiring," he said simply.
"Sit."
Fang Yingjie paused, murmured his thanks, and sat down slowly.
The middle-aged man looked at the wooden staff in his hand, then at the weariness in Old Daoist Xuan's face, the sort that came from spending half a day running from landing to landing, and asked, "Daoist Master, are you and this young brother trying to cross these channels?"
Still drinking, Old Daoist Xuan gave a grunt of assent.
"We meant to find a ferry. Asked all around. Every last one of them pushed us off with one excuse or another."
The man laughed aloud.
"At this hour, the proper ferry men all find it troublesome."
"But it's no matter. We were just about to take the boat back ourselves. If Daoist Master doesn't mind, we can give you a ride across."
At the words give you a ride, Old Daoist Xuan did not thank him first. He asked, "Far?"
"Only about half an hour by water," the man said. "We were already heading back to the village landing on the other side. From here, once we follow this channel through, that's our own wharf. Bringing the two of you along would be no trouble at all."
"The wind's with us today too. We'll get there even faster."
Then, as though suddenly remembering something, he looked at Fang Yingjie and added, "This young brother's leg doesn't seem too steady, and it'll be dark soon. If you go looking for somewhere else to stop now, I'm afraid it may not be safe."
"If you don't mind humble quarters, you can stay at my place tonight. Make your plans tomorrow. Better that than standing here taking the wind off the wharf."
The instant Old Daoist Xuan heard stay at my place tonight, the light in his eyes—which until then had been circling the wine alone—brightened again.
"Your house—"
He did not even finish the question before his nose twitched once more. He had caught the scent of something else.
Not far beyond the boat, the evening wind was carrying over the aroma of fish soup and flatbread baking over charcoal.
The middle-aged man saw the look on his face and laughed.
"There happens to be fish stewing at home."
"And a few little dishes to go with the wine."
That did it. Old Daoist Xuan gave up all pretense of refusal at once and slapped his knee.
"Go? Of course we'll go!"
"When one is traveling abroad, the rarest thing is to meet a household that truly understands wine—and truly knows how to live. Even if you hadn't offered, this poor Daoist might have had the cheek to impose for a night."
Only after saying that did he seem to remember he ought to show at least a little modesty, and he added, "That is… if it won't trouble you too much."
The middle-aged man laughed all the harder.
"No trouble, no trouble."
"We're lake folk. Giving travelers a ride and a bed for the night is nothing unusual."
As he answered, Wang Shun was already bending to collect the last two wine jars. His movements were steady and clean, without the least waste. When he set them inside the cabin, he even pulled an old scrap of cloth beneath them, as though afraid damp might rise from the planks and spoil the clay seals.
Old Daoist Xuan tipped back the last remnant of wine in the bowl in a single swallow. Only then did he finally remember to ask their names.
"By the way, I still haven't had the honor—"
The man lifted a hand to wipe the wine from his mouth, smiling with easy openness.
"My surname is Wang. My name is A'fu."
"This lad is my son—Wang Shun."
The Fisherfolk Keep Their Guests
The stretch by water proved short after all.
The last of the light had not yet fully sunk from the sky when the Wang family's little boat slipped quietly out along a branching channel. The scull dipped and rose in an easy rhythm. Wet nets and wine jars lay stacked neatly along the side of the boat. Evening wind came skimming over the lake, cool with water-breath, threaded through with the faint flutter of live fish in the baskets.
The moment Old Daoist Xuan stepped aboard, he took hold of Wang Afu's wine bowl and showed no wish to let it go. At the landing he had only managed two quick mouthfuls; now that the boat was moving smoothly and he had settled himself, his questions grew far more detailed. Was the starter homemade or bought? Did the jars take on damp when they were brought in from the creekside? He wanted an answer to everything. The two men traded questions and replies until, before long, they were talking like old companions.
Fang Yingjie sat in one corner beneath the awning, leaning on his wooden crutch, saying little.
The heaviness inside him—the dull weight left by another fruitless search—had not yet dispersed. Yet sitting in this small boat, listening to the scull beat softly against the water, watching Wang Shun bend over the fish baskets, hearing Wang Afu and Old Daoist Xuan talk wine back and forth, he found the taut string that had been wound tight inside him all day loosening a little despite himself.
This was not the noisy, jumbled bustle of Pingsha Market.
It was another kind of human warmth altogether.
Less loud. Less crowded. But steadier.
By the time the boat touched shore, dusk had deepened into nightfall.
The Wangs lived by a fishing village along the water. It was not a large village, and its houses were low, most of them built of timber and bamboo daubed with mud walls. In front of nearly every house were piled fish baskets, wooden oars, torn nets, and bamboo racks for drying fish. Once darkness fell, lamps began to glow one by one behind doors and paper windows, spilling a muted yellow warmth into the night. From every direction came the drifting smell of suppers just being taken off the fire.
Wang Afu's home stood a little deeper in the village, though not in any isolated corner.
The yard was small, but everything in it had been put in good order. A pole for hanging nets stood by the door. Two wine crocks sat neatly against the wall, their mouths sealed tight, and beside them several smaller jars had been washed clean and set out to dry. Under the eaves hung dried fish and strings of red peppers. One side of the doorway held a stack of split firewood; the other leaned a broad wooden sieve, old but still sound. It was not a wealthy household, but it was plainly one that knew how to live and keep a home.
They had scarcely stepped through the gate when a woman came out to meet them.
She looked to be about Wang Afu's age. Her clothes had been washed so many times they had faded pale, yet they were spotless, and her hair was pinned up with brisk, tidy hands. There were the usual marks of lake wind and sun upon her face, but her features were gentle. When she saw her husband bringing home two unexpected guests, she paused in surprise for only a moment before smiling.
"What kept you so late?"
"And where are the fish? The nets?—Who are these two?"
Wang Afu took one of the baskets as he answered, "Ran into them on the way back. This Daoist Master knows wine—he could taste what our brew was about. And this young fellow's hurt. It's late, and there's no sense making him wear himself out any further, so I brought them home to rest for the night."
Then he tipped his chin toward the woman and said with a grin, "My wife."
The woman's eyes rested first on Fang Yingjie's crutch and then on the color of his face. She asked nothing more, only said warmly, "Then all the more reason."
"Come inside quickly. The damp off the water is heavy tonight. If you stand out here too long, the injury will only feel worse."
As she spoke, she moved aside to usher them in, then turned her head toward the house and called, "Yanzi, set out two more pairs of chopsticks."
"Shunzi, put the fish basket down first, then put the fish soup back on the fire."
Wang Shun, who had followed them in, answered at once. He set the basket from his shoulder carefully by the wall, gathered in the wet net ropes and wooden oars from beside the door, and then ducked into the kitchen. A moment later, fresh fire had been added beneath the stove, and the fish soup in the pot had begun to simmer again.
This was Qian-shi.
Everything she had said had come as naturally as breathing. There had been no fussing, no show of courtesy, no awkwardness before strangers. Rather, she seemed like the sort of woman whose household had taken in passing travelers more than once over the years. Something in Fang Yingjie stirred. He murmured a soft, "Forgive the trouble," and followed Old Daoist Xuan inside.
A lamp had already been lit in the room.
The table was small but scrubbed spotless. The bench beside it was old, though it sat steady under a person's weight. Steam rose from the kitchen, carrying the fresh fragrance of fish soup mixed with the smell of flatbread just off the griddle. One breath was enough to tell anyone that this was a family who truly knew how to make a life.
Before long, a girl of fourteen or fifteen poked her head out from the kitchen.
She was not the sort of beauty who struck the eye at once, only clear-featured and fresh in the way of many girls raised by the water. Her face was small and cleanly shaped, but her most arresting feature was her eyes—round and bright, black and white sharply distinct, so direct that they seemed incapable of hiding a thought. Her hair had been pinned briskly back. Her sleeves were rolled high, and a dusting of flour still clung to her hands. Plainly, she had just been helping roll out the cakes. She looked first at Wang Afu, then at Old Daoist Xuan, and finally her gaze landed on Fang Yingjie. Seeing the crutch in his hand, she blinked and spoke without thinking.
"Father, have you brought home strays again?"
Wang Afu pointed toward the kitchen and laughed as he scolded, "That's my girl, Yanzi. Her tongue's quicker than her head."
Then he shot her a glare.
"What do you mean, strays?"
"Can't you speak properly?"
But the girl was not afraid in the slightest. She slapped the flour from her hands against her apron and lifted one corner of her mouth.
"If not strays, then what—wine?"
"This old Daoist Master looks very much as though he followed the smell of our jars home."
Old Daoist Xuan's beard nearly stood on end.
"Sharp tongue on this girl."
With a grin, she gave him a quick little salute.
"Sharp or not, I'm still no match for your nose, old sir."
"I could tell from halfway across the kitchen. Before you even came through the gate, you'd already looked at the wine crocks three times."
Even Wang Shun turned his head slightly aside, as though suppressing a smile.
Fang Yingjie sat on the bench and watched the roomful of them answer one another, line for line. The oppressive heaviness that had sat in his chest all day eased a little at last.
So this was Wang Yan.
She was not the quiet, delicate sort of young girl one might expect in a small household. She was more like a little fish that had leapt out of the water only to flash back in again—quick, bright, speech tumbling after speech, and yet somehow never to the point of annoyance. When she smiled, she was especially lovely. It was as if there were always two sparks of life lit behind her eyes.
Qian-shi said from the side, "Enough chatter. Serve the soup first."
"He's injured."
Yanzi answered, "All right," and truly said no more. She turned to carry out the fish soup, but halfway there she seemed to remember something. Looking back at Fang Yingjie, she said, "Sit properly. Don't go trying to act tough."
"Our stools are old and wobble badly. They won't stand you taking a second fall with bones in the state yours are in."
The words sounded teasing at first, but there was no malice in them—only the easy familiarity of someone speaking as she pleased.
Soon the hot soup, fresh flatbread, and two little side dishes were all laid out on the table.
The fish soup was genuinely fresh; the bread genuinely hot. With a little salted pickle and a small dish of tiny fish fried to a crisp brown, it was not a lavish meal, but it was deeply satisfying. The moment Old Daoist Xuan sat down, he forgot everything else. He ate one mouthful of soup, then one of bread, pausing only to snatch up a few bites of vegetables in between. Once he was thoroughly enjoying himself, he even called Wang Afu over to the wine crocks and insisted on seeing what state the starter jars and lees were in.
Wang Afu did not take offense in the least. He continued eating as he explained, "Wine isn't better just because it ferments hard and fast."
"If it goes too quickly, the fragrance won't hold, and the strength that follows sits too high and thin. A small brew by the water like ours isn't meant to hit the head in one rush. What matters is warmth when it goes down, and a taste that lingers after."
Old Daoist Xuan nodded again and again as he listened. At the end he said quite seriously, "That's talk from someone who knows the trade."
"Not the kind who only boasts."
The praise lit Wang Afu's face, though his smile remained simple and honest.
"I wouldn't dare claim that. There were a few old methods handed down in the family, and I've never had the heart to let the starter or the process break off. These years I've only been following what was passed down, learning the heat and timing little by little for myself. I can't say I'm especially skilled. I only hope I won't spoil what my forebears left behind."
He paused, then smiled again, almost sheepishly.
"To tell the truth, I've always kept a thought in my heart. One day, if I could take a little shop by Pingma Pier—not anything grand, just a place to sell our own wine, fish soup, hot bread, and a few small dishes—then the family might suffer a little less from wind and waves."
"For now it's only a thought. First I ought to learn to brew the wine properly."
At that, Old Daoist Xuan clicked his tongue, scooped up another half spoonful of soup, and sent it into his mouth.
"That's no empty fancy."
"Your wine has a family foundation, and your fish soup and bread are both good enough. If you truly set up a shop, there's no saying it wouldn't prosper."
Then he shook his head and added, sounding almost regretful on the man's behalf, "The only thing to fear is this: an honest man like you may learn to brew wine well enough, only to let someone else muddle the accounts for you."
When the talk returned to the fruitless search from earlier in the day, Wang Afu said, "The northern channels have truly been disorderly these last few days."
"There are people searching for someone, yes, but there are also cargo boats running in haste, and strange new faces coming and going about who-knows-what business. They don't look like peaceful folk, any of them."
At that, Fang Yingjie's hand paused slightly around his soup bowl. In a low voice he asked, "Uncle Afu, even around Pingma Pier?"
Wang Afu nodded.
"Pingma Pier, Little Pingma Pier, the northern crossing—they haven't been particularly peaceful of late."
"If you still mean to ask around tomorrow, there's no need to go crashing blindly from one place to the next. Rest a night first. Once it's light, then decide."
Wang Shun, who had kept his head down over his meal until now, added only one sentence.
"The roads are bad at night."
"The waterside's worse."
He was not a talkative boy, but every word he spoke landed squarely where it should.
Qian-shi saw Fang Yingjie listening so intently that even the soup in his bowl had gone untouched. She nudged the bread toward his hand and said only, "Eat first."
"When someone's hurt, the worst thing is to keep going on an empty stomach."
As she handed another bowl to Qian-shi, Yanzi glanced at Fang Yingjie again, smiling. "Didn't you eat properly today?"
"You look as if one gust of wind would blow you right over backward."
The tips of Fang Yingjie's ears warmed. He lowered his head and said, "I did eat."
Yanzi gave a soft, drawn-out "Oh," but the disbelief in her eyes was plain. She pushed the nearest hot flatbread toward the edge of his bowl.
"Then eat another one."
"Our fish soup puts strength back into people. With the state you're in, a little nursing might even make you presentable."
There was nothing deliberate or formal in the way they spoke around that table, and yet it was precisely for that reason that it put a person at ease.
Wang Afu was simple and hospitable, but never rash or overfamiliar. Qian-shi was warm and attentive, yet never pried. Wang Shun was steady and useful, a boy of few words and quick hands. And Wang Yan was all brightness and life, quick of tongue but not bad of heart. Fang Yingjie had been carrying the unresolved weight of the missing person search inside him all along, but after sitting through one bowl after another of hot soup and fresh bread, even that cold, clenched urgency began to settle a little.
After the meal, Old Daoist Xuan did exactly as Wang Afu had predicted: he went straight to squat beside the wine crocks.
The two crocks had been standing beneath the eaves, the sealing clay at their mouths not yet fully broken away. Old Daoist Xuan circled them first, then reached out to rap gently against the sides. At last he rolled up his sleeves outright and insisted on seeing the starter lees and the method of sealing for himself. Wang Afu did not mind in the least and actually let him inspect everything one by one. The two men squatted side by side by the crocks, one asking about water, the other talking about rice; one complained the starter heat had not carried through deeply enough, the other countered that the damp by the lake was too heavy, and if it were dried too thoroughly instead, that would be no good either. The more they talked, the more animated they became.
From the doorway, Fang Yingjie watched them and had at first meant to say something to Old Daoist Xuan—that they still needed to look for people tomorrow, and ought to set out the moment the sky brightened. But looking at the scene before him, he could tell Old Daoist Xuan had already had his soul hooked completely by the Wang family's crocks of wine. Fang Yingjie moved his lips, but in the end the words did not come out. The Wang family had just fed them hot soup and hot bread, and now these wine jars and starter crocks stood before them besides. If he urged them to leave at a moment like this, even he himself felt it would be ungracious.
Sure enough, once Wang Afu lifted the lid of the oldest starter crock at the very back by half an inch and let him catch the fragrance within, Old Daoist Xuan's eyes lit at once.
"This starter has been kept well!"
"You actually still keep an old strain alive in this house?"
Wang Afu smiled. "It was handed down from the older generation. I wouldn't dare say it's exceptional."
"I simply couldn't bear to let it die out."
Old Daoist Xuan slapped his knee and settled himself even more firmly into his squat.
"Couldn't bear to let it die out—good!"
"With wine, the worst thing of all is to lose the root."
Then he turned his head and shouted toward the house, "Little Woodenhead, you go on to sleep first!"
Fang Yingjie stared.
Old Daoist Xuan did not even look back. He kept his eyes fixed on the half-open starter crock and muttered on, "Tomorrow's matters can wait for tomorrow."
"If I don't get to the bottom of this starter first, I won't sleep soundly tonight anyway."
Wang Yan happened to be coming out of the house carrying an empty basin. Hearing that, she burst into laughter.
"Father, what did I tell you?"
"This old Daoist Master either followed the smell of our wine home, or came straight for our wine crocks."
From behind her, Qian-shi murmured, "Enough now," though there was laughter in her face as well.
Wang Shun had already put away the scull and the nets by the gate. Now he was silently carrying a stool beneath the eaves, making ready for this old Daoist who could not move once wine was set before him to go on sitting and talking.
The night deepened by slow degrees, and the damp from the lake rose with it, layer upon layer. The light in the yard was not bright, but it was steady. It shone on the wine crocks, the net rack, the firewood stack—and on the two men squatting by the jars, talking with greater and greater relish.
Fang Yingjie stood in the doorway, his crutch resting lightly beside his foot, watching the scene. For a moment he did not know whether to feel impatient or amused.
He had been thinking all along that once dawn came, they must resume the search at once.
But from the look of things now, Old Daoist Xuan had been thoroughly detained by both the Wang family's wine and their kindness.
Tonight, the lamplight in this small yard, one table of hot fish soup and fresh bread, and a few crocks of homemade starter had together done what nothing else could: they had kept the old Daoist there fast inside the gate.
Poetic Coda
Too late again they traced the northern shore;
The lake wind caught the dusk in fishers' nets.
Twice they sought in vain; the one they searched for stayed unseen,
Yet over one bowl of fragrant brew their spirits slowly eased.
Afu, who knew good wine, lit lamps to welcome guests;
Qian-shi's warming soup gave warmth to strangers' hearts.
Best of all were the starter jars beneath the eaves—
They held the old Daoist fast, and turned his thoughts from leaving.
(End of Chapter Twenty-Two)