Chapter 6#

Fengbing returned to his room, drank the medicine Chunshi had decocted, and once his breathing steadied somewhat, he told Chunshi about Xiang Chong’s misfortune.#

Upon hearing this, Chunshi was frightened yet also sighed with sympathy, and grabbing Fengbing’s arm, he asked urgently: “Lord Pei has come to investigate in person — isn’t it a serious matter?”

“Mm.” Fengbing’s eyelids lowered slightly as he gazed at the empty medicine bowl. A bitter taste. After a moment, he spoke again: “Chang’an is not like the provinces. Everything here follows strict protocol. You must no longer address him as ‘Lord’ — you should address him as Chancellor Pei.”

Chunshi was stunned. He did not argue, only lowered his head and said gloomily: “Then… I hope Chancellor Pei can restore justice for Prefect Xiang. He once shared his fish with us to eat.”

The corners of Fengbing’s lips curled ever so faintly.

Chunshi had no idea that his own master was the one with the greatest suspicion of murder.

After busying himself for a while, Chunshi suddenly noticed that several of the medicinal ingredients had run out and needed replenishing. When he mentioned this to Fengbing, Fengbing had also been wanting to step out for some air, so master and servant each put on their cloaks and donned their hoods, and set off together toward the Eastern Market.

“I heard that this Doctor Huang is a master physician of the divine art — even more skilled than the imperial physicians from both palaces!” Chunshi laughed.

When they arrived at the door of the Huang family clinic, they found it thronged with visitors. Even though it was snowing, there was still no shortage of commoners lined up waiting for consultations, and now and then the finely dressed servants of noble households came and went. Fengbing had brought his own prescription — in the past in Chang’an, it had been drafted by the Imperial Medical Bureau; after transferring to Laozhou, local physicians had made successive revisions. Fengbing told Chunshi to take the prescription inside; he only needed the herbs filled, and perhaps need not queue. He stood alone by the roadside arcade, and with nothing to do, wandered over to a nearby bookstore to browse through some books.

The bestsellers in the bookstore were always the compilations of past civil service examination papers, displayed in the most prominent positions, their pages curling from being leafed through by passersby. Fengbing spotted the small booklet for Yongzhi Year 25 at a glance, and as though drawn by some unseen force, reached out and took it down.

On the title page were inscribed the names of that year’s top examination candidates. The very first was Pei Dan, courtesy name Yunwang, who had placed in the Presented Scholar examination.

That year, Pei Dan was only seventeen. Though born to a distinguished family of Hedong, his father had died early in a campaign against Goguryeo when Pei Dan was five, and his mother had passed away shortly thereafter. The imperial court bestowed upon them a plaque reading “Loyal and Good Throughout the Family,” and it was under that plaque that he had grown up studying. But all of this Fengbing only learned later. In Yongzhi Year 25, when Fengbing first met Pei Dan, he merely marveled at how such a dazzling youth could exist in this world — as though born a peerless pearl, having never endured a single frost of human hardship.

Fengbing lifted off his hood and, extending fingers reddened by the cold from beneath his cloak, gently turned a page.

The Presented Scholar examination court-test topic had read: “Shun did not kill Xiang — discuss this.”

Xiang was Shun’s younger half-brother, who repeatedly attempted to harm Shun in secret, yet Shun never held past grievances against him. The late emperor had ordered the scholars to write on the topic.

The Presented Scholar examination was the most difficult regular examination in the current dynasty, with the saying “At fifty, one is a young Presented Scholar.” But Pei Dan had passed nonetheless. In fine clothes and on a spirited horse, he rode down Zhuque Avenue — like the Pan An of an earlier dynasty, so pulled by the adoring gazes of scholars, ladies, and commoners alike that he could hardly keep to the road, the space before his horse and inside his carriage strewn with flowers and fine fruits. His name was forever engraved on the Great Wild Goose Pagoda in Chang’an, and on fair breezy days, it swept across the triumphant face beside Qubang Pool.

Fengbing knew that Pei Dan had always harbored resentment toward him.

An imperial marriage edict had come abruptly, forcing Pei Dan to take him as a wife; thereafter, Pei Dan was assigned to the Palace Library as a Fifth-Rank-Subordinate Deputy Director, keeping company with volumes of books day in and day out. He had broken the wings of Pei Dan, who had been about to soar, and turned all the brocade-trimmed splendor of Pei Dan’s examination day into a laughingstock.

“Ah — Chancellor Pei! It’s Chancellor Pei!” The bookstore owner’s startled cry cut through Fengbing’s thoughts. He jumped, the book falling from his hands, and the person before him picked it up and lightly brushed off the snow dust on its cover.

Fengbing could not endure it. He turned to leave, only to hear the other man chuckle softly.

He must have seen what was in the book.

The bookstore owner bustled forward, proffering a brush, his face full of smiles: “Chancellor Pei, might you inscribe a few words for this booklet? It is rare for this humble one to see Chancellor Pei even once — I have your essays memorized backward and forward!”

Pei Dan did not answer. Holding the umbrella in one hand, he used the book in the other to tap Fengbing on the shoulder. Fengbing had no choice but to turn back, and saw him smiling with crystalline clarity.

“If this gentleman is fond of it, shall I inscribe something for him?”

What shamelessness.

Fortunately, no one around recognized Fengbing. He pressed his lips together and said flatly, “No need,” then walked in the direction of the clinic. But there were too many people in front of the clinic, jostling and shoving, and someone kept stepping on his feet. He knew Pei Dan was following behind him, which somehow made him even more flustered. Pei Dan had no choice but to reach out and shield him from the tide of people.

Pei Dan’s warm breath nearly grazed the tip of his nose.

He had never done anything wrong — why should he feel so frantic, fleeing without direction?

Fengbing squeezed into an alley, but a voice trailed after him, unhurried: “This gentleman was coughing badly today — could it be that the medicine at your lodging is insufficient?”

Fengbing stopped.

Before him stood the high wall of the alley. The clamor of voices from the bustling market floated and swirled amid the wind and snow, but was blocked out by an umbrella. The space beneath the umbrella was cramped and hushed; even the fog of his own breath hung in the air, blocking his own path forward.

It was very cold. Fengbing could not help but lower his head and blow on his hands. “I am only missing one ingredient: duhuo (Angelica pubescens).” he said.

Pei Dan’s voice suddenly went hoarse.

Pei Dan was sharp-witted, and he could certainly understand. Years ago, in that small house, when they quarreled, Fengbing rarely won against this top scholar.

The umbrella was the pale green of bamboo. Light snow fell softly on its paper surface, casting shifting patterns of light and shadow across Fengbing’s face. Pei Dan spoke, but with no intention of quarreling — which surprised him.

“Before I came to the lodging,” Pei Dan seemed to be searching his words slowly, “I stopped by the Imperial Pharmacy and selected several fine medicinal ingredients — all the ones you… used to take. Folk medicines cannot compare to the imperial ones. Try them — you will certainly know they are good.”

“Thank you for your kindness, Chancellor Pei.” Fengbing said. “This commoner has been in Laozhou for five years. What I used to take in the past — I fear I can no longer partake.”

Pei Dan said: “You needn’t be so hard on your own body.”

Fengbing was exhausted.

He had already had to manage Pei Dan once in an official capacity, and he had not expected to have to do so again in private. Pei Dan’s sharp edges frequently stabbed him, making him ache. Even though he no longer cared now, he did not wish to invite suffering upon himself.

He did not need this concern. They had divorced long ago. Now one was in the heavens and the other in the dust — there was no need for any intersection at all.

He steeled himself, turned around, and tried to slip past Pei Dan. His frame was thin; when Pei Dan reached out to grab his shoulder, it was like grabbing a handful of bones. Pei Dan froze for an instant, and Fengbing had already slipped out of the alley.

In that single instant of contact, Pei Dan’s five fingers seemed to have branded a searing mark on Fengbing’s shoulder. Fengbing left without a word, not even pausing to put on his hood, taking a headful of snow.

From beginning to end, he had not once given Pei Dan a proper look.

This chapter’s title is drawn from an allusion in Fan Tai’s “Preface to the Luan Bird Poem”: “In ancient times, the King of Jibin set snares on the steep peaks of the Qi Mountains and caught a luan bird. The king loved it dearly and wished it to sing, but could not make it do so. So he adorned it with a golden cage and fed it rare delicacies; the more he faced it with tenderness, the more sorrowful it grew, and for three years it did not sing. His consort said: ‘I have heard that birds sing only after seeing their own kind. Why not hang a mirror before it to reflect its image?’ The king followed her advice. The luan saw its reflection and, moved by the resonance, sang out in grief — its mournful cry pierced the heavens, and with one dart, it perished. Alas, this bird — how deep its feeling!” It is later often used as a metaphor for a husband and wife deeply in love but separated by death or fate. However, I believe that “a bird sings only after seeing its own kind” need not necessarily concern romantic love — taking the reflection in a mirror as one’s own kind is itself a lonely metaphor.