Chapter 31: Shuilongyin

“Cough, cough, cough”

Lu Beigu choked on a green rice ball, the glutinous mass lodging in his throat and sending him into a fit of coughing.

Each “hei-zuo” cry now seemed steeped in pounds of blood and sweat.

The one-eyed old boatman squinted, his bark-like fingers pointing at the distant salt barge.

“See that? Once we pass Huxindao, the haulers on the other side switch to ‘Ping Shui Tune’—but if you ever hear ‘Shou Xian Tune,’ that means someone’s about to stay forever at the bottom of the river…”

The river wind surged abruptly, scattering the final sigh into the damp air.

Along this stretch of the Yangtze near Luzhou, most vessels were salt transport ships like the one Lu Beigu had just seen.

Chuannan had long been a major salt-producing region; during the previous Tang dynasty, the circuits of Zi, Sui, Mian, He, Chang, Yu, and Luzhou together boasted 460 salt wells, among which the Yujing Supervisory Office in Luzhou was especially renowned, its wells plunging over seven hundred feet deep.

In today’s Great Song, salt wells in the Luzhou region operated day and night; white salt blocks were packed into bamboo baskets, carried out from the mountains by laborers, and loaded onto wooden barges to drift downstream along the Yangtze.

Occasionally, haulers resting at ferry landings would pull out copper coins to buy “Jiangshui Douhua” from roadside tea stalls.

—Soft white douhua served in coarse clay bowls, drenched with red oil boiled from cornelian cherries, sprinkled with chopped chive flowers, swallowed whole with coarse rice, leaving the eaters drenched in sweat.

On the large ferry carrying horse-drawn carts, the group ate the same.

Hmm, it didn’t leave you hungry, but eating that green rice ball had made him hungry again.

But Li Pan devoured his bowl of “Jiangshui Douhua” in a flash.

Lu Beigu reluctantly set down his spoon, realizing that once the County Magistrate finished, everyone else—whether finished or not—pretended to have finished too; he couldn’t bear to keep eating and stand out.

“What are your thoughts?” Li Pan asked, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief.

“To witness the suffering of the common folk leaves a bitter taste in the heart.”

Lu Beigu placed his hands on his knees and said earnestly: “Yet I don’t know what I can do—or what I should do.”

“People often say, ‘When prosperous, help all under heaven; when poor, cultivate oneself.’ But do you know the original wording in Mencius?”

Before Lu Beigu could answer, Li Pan continued: “Mencius said: ‘When poor, cultivate oneself; when prosperous, help all under heaven.’”

“The sages’ meaning must not be reversed—how can one sweep the world if one cannot even sweep one’s own house? First attend to yourself, then to those around you, before turning to the world.”

“As for how you proceed step by step? Studying the sages’ teachings honors yourself, distinguishing you from the ignorant and revealing the principles of heaven and earth; taking the imperial exams and becoming a juren honors your family and friends, lifting them from hardship; becoming a jinshi and entering office, doing deeds worthy of your conscience and beneficial to the people—no matter how small—honors all under heaven.”

“I’ve read the sages’ texts for years, observed people and events for years—my belly holds a basketful of truths. I could speak for hours, but what good is that? A gentleman acts, he does not merely speak. These few words I’ve said today are the lessons I give you. Remember them.”

It was clear Li Pan spoke from the heart; his words were less instruction to Lu Beigu than self-consolation, inspired by the scene before them.

“Yes, your student will remember.”

“But to attend to yourself and your family doesn’t mean becoming selfish, neglecting the suffering of the common folk—do you understand?”

Fearing Lu Beigu might swing to an extreme, Li Pan added this warning, truly going to great lengths.

After all, many idealistic youths fall into extreme selfishness only after years of accumulated hardship, triggered by a single event—or even a single remark.

He knew Lu Beigu’s family was poor, which was why he spoke this way.

Then Li Pan suddenly asked: “How are your poetry and prose exercises coming along?”

“I’ve learned the meters and tonal patterns, yet I can’t produce anything fine.”

Lu Beigu remained sincere, speaking frankly: “I feel as if a wall has been built inside my mind, constraining me.”

“Then let this moment inspire a ci! In the future, when you’ve achieved fame and success, look back at what you wrote here—remind yourself never to forget the suffering you’ve seen today!”

Li Pan clapped him on the shoulder: “Speak from the heart. Minor flaws in meter or rhyme aren’t a flaw—poetry and ci thrive on natural spontaneity.”

Lu Beigu nodded; Li Pan’s view echoed something like the “Xingling Theory.”

Reciting ci publicly, however, usually carried a certain shame—almost social death.

But in this moment, if he didn’t compose a ci to commemorate it, the feeling would vanish before long.

After a moment’s thought, Lu Beigu rose and recited aloud the easiest ci to improvise: “Shuilongyin.”

Unlike other ci tunes with few variants, “Shuilongyin” had over twenty-five variants, and this was not yet the era where Su Shi’s version was considered the standard—so room for free expression was vast.

“Thunder cracks stone, pierces the sky; hemp ropes chew through dragon flesh.”

“Salt mountains crush the oars, swirling clouds shatter sails, starlight splashes the cables.”

“Half a ‘Yangguan’ tune, one cry from the earth’s lungs, rending the heavenly chasm.”

“See the spit hardened to blood, river wind slicing bones, a thousand sails passing—all caught in the net.”

The mountains on both banks of the Yangtze rose steeply; the great river surged endlessly eastward.

Lu Beigu leaned on the railing, tapping rhythm with his hand; the river wind whipped fiercely, his blue robe flaring—unconsciously, he gained a sharp, formidable aura.

“Suddenly I feel this body like a cocoon, wrapped in cold moonlight, muffled within its box.”

“In the scholar’s sleeve, how could one ever contain the cries of the starving, the broken scrolls?”

“When sudden rain comes, fine trails become brush, waves become inkstone.”

“Call forth ten thousand acres of silver waves, grind my lungs and entrails into the arrowhead of the midstream!”

After reciting “Shuilongyin,” Lu Beigu felt a flush of shame—he’d never studied poetic meter before his transmigration, and the knowledge inherited from his former body was unreliable.

According to Song ci tonal and rhyme rules, his improvised piece was wildly unqualified.

But on one hand, Li Pan had already said “don’t be bound by meter,” urging him to speak from the heart; on the other, Lu Beigu believed he could learn and improve in poetry and ci—quickly advancing from his current violations to proper form.

Li Pan clapped his hands and laughed heartily: “Though the meter is loose, this remains a bold, aspiring ci!”

“Ordinary literati singing of haulers use only clichés like ‘sweat like rain’ or ‘strength to move mountains.’ You alone chose the cold gleam of ‘starlight splashing cables,’ the rending sound of ‘rending the heavenly chasm,’ and ended the first half with ‘a thousand sails passing—all caught in the net.’ Such power breaks the mold; only someone who’s been there could write this.”

“As for the second half—like Zu Ti striking the oar midstream—it is the very resolve of a true gentleman!”

Hearing Li Pan’s approval, Lu Beigu, still troubled by the meter, finally relaxed—meter could be learned later, but this moment’s feeling could never be recaptured by clinging to old forms.

He felt all his inner knots and resentment nearly vanish as he finished reciting “Shuilongyin.”

Almost instantly, as if guided by sudden insight, he let out a long, piercing howl into the vast river wind.

When the howl ended, Lu Beigu’s heart felt as if a lock had snapped—his thoughts grew firmer, clearer.

Before him, at the confluence of two rivers beneath Luzhou city on the northern bank of the Yangtze.

The Tuo River was muddy; the Yangtze was crystal clear.

——————

① From the “Book of Jin: Biography of Zu Ti”: “Zu Ti struck the oar midstream and swore: ‘If I, Zu Ti, fail to cleanse the Central Plains and return, may I be swallowed by this great river!’ His words and demeanor were fierce and stirring; all who heard sighed in awe.” Ancient people often used this to symbolize determined resolve.

(End of Chapter)