Chapter 47: One Step, One Mountain

“My ancestors have long resided in Gulin.”

Lu Beigu replied, but he could not answer the follow-up question.

“My parents passed away early; whether I entered officialdom, I do not recall clearly. I vaguely remember living in Kaifeng as a child, but somehow we later moved back.”

Zhao Bian found this answer intriguing and pressed further.

“Oh? Do you recall exactly where in Kaifeng you lived?”

Lu Beigu racked his brain, but his memories offered only faint, fragmented images.

“I think we lived near a river.”

This was as good as saying nothing, for since Emperor Yang of Sui dredged the Grand Canal, the Bian River—linking the Yellow and Huai Rivers—had become the central artery for north-south transport, sparking Kaifeng’s rise and filling the city with intricate waterways.

Lu Beigu thought again and said, “I seem to recall a towering pagoda rising into the clouds nearby?”

“A towering pagoda rising into the clouds.”

Zhao Bian pondered. Kaifeng had many temples, several famous ones, but very few with exceptionally tall pagodas.

Moreover, though the child was short, if even looking up made the structure seem to pierce the clouds, its height must have been extraordinary.

Only the Fan Pagoda at 240 chi and the Iron Pagoda at 180 chi met this criterion.

“Do you remember what it looked like? Under sunlight, was it dark or bright?”

Though unsure why Zhao Bian was so curious, Lu Beigu, since it was idle chatter, thought a moment and answered.

“Dark.”

“The Iron Pagoda was built in the first year of Huangyou; it is an eight-sided, thirteen-tiered glazed-brick pagoda. Even without light, its color resembles iron, but under sunlight, the glazed bricks would gleam blindingly. Besides, the Iron Pagoda is much shorter than the Fan Pagoda. Thus, your ancestors likely lived near the Fan Pagoda.”

“Fan Pagoda?”

Lu Beigu had never visited Kaifeng in his modern life, and his predecessor had almost no memory of it, so he naturally did not know what Zhao Bian meant.

“Yes,” Zhao Bian nodded. “The Fan Pagoda stands within Tianqing Temple. Tianqing Temple, along with Xiangguo Temple, Kai Bao Temple, and Tai Ping Xing Guo Temple, is known as one of the ‘Four Great Temples of the Capital.’ The Fan Pagoda is adorned with over seven thousand Buddha bricks—each brick bearing one Buddha—earning it the name ‘Ten Thousand Buddha Pagoda.’ It is famous, and the tallest pagoda in the capital.”

“I see.” Lu Beigu gained yet another useless piece of knowledge.

“Yet if you lived near the Fan Pagoda, your family was certainly not wealthy or noble.”

Kaifeng had three concentric walls: the Imperial City, the Inner City, and the Outer City.

Tianqing Temple lay in the southeast corner of the Outer City; the surroundings were decent, but residents were mostly commoners or merchants. Even officials there would not have been high-ranking.

The Song court treated scholar-officials exceptionally well; high-ranking officials were typically granted mansions by the Emperor, mostly near the Inner City or Imperial City—like the famed “outside Donghuamen.”

Mid- and lower-ranking officials lived scattered across wards in the Outer City, though some certainly resided near temples as well.

“That must be it.”

Lu Beigu wanted to scoff—had his family been truly wealthy and noble, could he have started out in such a state?

Clearly, they had fallen on hard times and could no longer afford to stay in Kaifeng!

As for why they left, he had no idea.

At that moment, Zhao Bian suddenly seemed to recall something and gave Lu Beigu a suspicious glance.

Then, inexplicably, he shook his head.

“What’s the matter, Master?”

Zhao Bian gazed at Chengdu’s hazy sky and changed the subject: “Nothing. I merely think Kaifeng is wonderful—no place in the world compares.”

Lu Beigu asked curiously: “They say ‘youth should not enter Sichuan.’ Is Kaifeng even more livable than Chengdu?”

“Of course,” Zhao Bian smiled. “When I served as Palace Censor in Kaifeng, I loved climbing high on my days off.”

Zhao Bian stroked his beard and sighed, his eyes filled with nostalgia.

“From above, half of Kaifeng lay before me: the Bian River teeming with grain barges, shops lining both sides of Hongqiao, cries of vendors audible even across the street.”

Lu Beigu could not picture it, but imagined it resembled the scene in the “Along the River During the Qingming Festival.”

One year during the Lantern Festival, I remember the Ao Mountain lantern structure on Zhūquē Street rising over ten zhang tall, with fireworks blazing endlessly; the whole city poured out to admire the lights, and the Emperor ordered gold coins to be tossed from Xuande Tower. As Ouyang Yongshu wrote: “Lanterns glow bright as if night were never night; music and song fill the land with eternal spring.”

“But what I miss most is the steamed buns from Zhouqiao Night Market—freshly baked, stuffed with roasted pork, drizzled with apricot cream. I haven’t tasted that flavor in Chengdu for ages.”

At that moment, drumbeats echoed from afar; Zhao Bian snapped back to reality: “Why dwell on old memories? Aren’t you returning to Luzhou tomorrow? Wander freely around Chengdu today.”

“Yes, thank you, Master, for your teachings these past days!”

Lu Beigu bowed deeply, sincerely.

Though he had stayed only a few days, his gains in Chengdu were immense—especially Zhao Bian’s instruction in poetry and prose, which greatly aided his preparation for the county examination.

In mere days, his poetry and prose skills had skyrocketed!

And he could not help but feel gratitude and reluctance toward Zhao Bian, who had so diligently taught him.

Zhao Bian touched the bare, leafless plum tree beside him, gazing at the young Lu Beigu, his eyes shimmering with the reflection of his own youth.

Then he suddenly asked: “Do you know why I have been especially strict with you?”

“I do not.”

“You possess genuine talent for governance, but in the Song imperial examinations, failure in poetry and prose renders even the finest policy essays useless. I cannot bear to see such a promising talent ruined by this weakness.”

“Master—”

Seeing Lu Beigu’s emotional response, Zhao Bian, too, felt reluctant after these days together with this gifted and insightful student. He paused, then said:

“I have never accumulated wealth or treasures. At parting, I have nothing tangible to give you—so I shall give you a poem.”

Then Zhao Bian picked up his brush and wrote a poem on blank paper.

“To the Student Lu Beigu”

A strict teacher sharpens the blade’s edge, awaiting your leap through the dragon’s gate.

Once I was young with dark hair; now you are old with scrolls in dim light.

Cold plum, tempered by snow, its strong bones defy frost.

Do not lament the distant spring examination—diligent toil repays your debt.

Lu Beigu took the paper. A master of poetry, indeed—Zhao Bian had written it without hesitation, effortlessly achieving near-perfect regulated verse.

In terms of tonal patterns, rhyme, and structure:

The four rhyme endings—“gate,” “dim,” “endure,” “repay”—all belonged to the same rhyme group, fully conforming to the regulated verse rule of single-rhyme throughout.

The opening line, “A strict teacher sharpens the blade’s edge,” did not rhyme intentionally, as the Ze -starting pentasyllabic regulated verse traditionally omits rhyme in the first line.

The couplet “Once I was young” paired with “now you are old,” and “cold plum” with “strong bones,” formed flawless parallelism, satisfying the regulated verse requirement for parallelism in the middle couplets.

Moreover, the poem wove contrasts of time and space, color, nature and humanity, while the closing couplet echoed the opening, leaving no structural flaw.

Yet these technicalities mattered little—what truly counted was Zhao Bian’s recognition and hope for Lu Beigu.

“I shall treasure this, hang it daily before my desk, to spur my diligence!”

Hearing this, Zhao Bian exhaled and said:

“The path of the imperial examination: one step, one mountain.”

“All the empire’s talents who choose this path must climb one mountain after another. Each summit reached brings a new realm; looking back, all seems flat.”

“Your poetry and prose are now sufficient for the county examination. Study and reflect deeply on the manuscript I gave you. With diligent practice, you may well pass the departmental examination this year.”

Lu Beigu asked quickly: “If I pass the departmental examination, may I return to Chengdu to seek you out?”

“By then, you likely won’t find me.”

Zhao Bian looked at him. “After completing this year’s autumn grain collection, I shall be reassigned to the Censorate as a Remonstrating Official.”

The Song civil service system worked this way: to prevent officials from becoming entrenched local powers, nearly all appointments rotated every few years.

Thus, one often saw prefects shuffled between prefectures like dogs on leashes.

Seeing Lu Beigu’s melancholy, Zhao Bian patted his shoulder and encouraged: “The white crane must aspire to soar; the young phoenix’s call outshines the old. Young man, do not hesitate! With your talent and insight, I believe you will continually transcend each challenge.”

Lu Beigu nodded firmly.

Tomorrow’s me is not today’s me.

Though he still had flaws, Lu Beigu believed that with the right methods and diligent practice, he was not merely confident of passing the county examination—now eight-tenths certain—but also had some hope for the departmental examination.

And as time passed, his strength would only grow stronger.

Seeing Lu Beigu’s resolve, Zhao Bian said no more.

“Go.”

Zhao Bian waved his hand: “—I hope to hear your name next year outside Donghuamen.”

(End of Chapter)