poured.
Evidently they have decided to make it a point of honour to get dead drunk. To my relief, the conversation moves away from us. Eldest Son and I are ignored. They talk excitedly about the march to the capital, how one good battle should settle the matter. More moths gather on the lanterns, their wings slowly opening and closing.
Wudi appears in the doorway like a ghost. I meet his eye and excuse myself.
Outside, we find a dark corner beneath the eaves.
‘I have news,’ he says, quietly.
‘Be discreet,’ I warn.
‘The cavalrymen got your message.’
We glance involuntarily at the hillside above Three-Step-House. Clouds are passing, driven across the night sky. It will be windy tomorrow.
‘Did your son speak to the commander?’
‘No, I went myself.’
‘What impression did you gain of him?’
Wudi laughs softly.
‘He’s desperate enough. He said he wants to speak to you.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes, Lord. He said to tell you.’
I try to understand, but cannot. My only hope is that it somehow stems from P’ei Ti.
‘So the Imperial cavalry are well hidden?’
‘I showed them to the caves behind the waterfall. The rest is up to them. I didn’t want to hang around.’
‘You are brave, Wudi,’ I say.
‘Or stupid,’ he says.
‘Go to bed now, old friend. Sleep here. It is not safe for you to go down to the village tonight. The soldiers might wonder why you’re awake so late.’
He hesitates.
‘I’m afraid,’ he says. ‘If any of this comes out. . .’
I need no reminding. After all, Wei Village has burned once before. Because of my actions, it might burn again.
‘Tomorrow will decide that,’ I say. ‘Rest now.’
I relieve myself against a plum tree and take my place once more in the Middle House. The eldest of the officers, Lieutenant Lo, watches me closely. Does he suspect something?
‘Lord Yun Cai,’ he says, quietly. ‘My wife has a scroll of your poems which her mother gave her. She likes to read them to me when I return home on leave.’
I cannot help flushing. It is a long time since I heard confirmation that my fame still lives.
‘I am honoured,’ I say. ‘Your wife is an unusual woman to read so well.’
‘She is of good family,’ he says, proudly.
I sense a story behind his words, probably a sad one, given his current circumstances. I glance at Youngest Son, who is guffawing at the sly-faced officer’s stories.
‘Do you have a favourite poem of mine?’ I ask.
Lieutenant Lo tugs at his lips. Despite the awkwardness of our mutual positions, I’m warming to him.
‘No, all are very fine, as far as I can tell. There’s one I like. . . how does it go? No, I have forgotten. I’ll ask my wife when we next meet.’
His tone suggests the event seems distant.
‘Send word to me,’ I say. ‘And I’ll write it out for you.
Then you can give it to her.’
He smiles sadly.
‘I regret that is not likely. . . I remember now! The poem is about waiting by a lake. That’s it.’
‘Ah,’ I say.
Then I close my eyes and slowly recite, characters forming neat columns across my inner vision: The lake ripples as four winds will.
Fish rise, mouths gape like coins.
West Lake might as well be an ocean.
Heart’s desire waits for shores to kiss, No balance until they touch.
He looks hard at me, unexpectedly blinks back a tear.
‘She’s a soft-hearted wench,’ he says, softly.
I realise the room is silent. When I look up, I’m met by their eyes, baffled or amused. In Youngest Son’s case, confused. I sense the reproach his father’s poem provokes. A reminder that, however great his hope, he ended up a mere soldier.
Eldest Son coughs. ‘I like that one, Father,’ he says.
I have no doubt he is thinking of Daughter-in-law.
That’s how it is with poems. Every man finds his own meaning, sometimes no meaning at all. They know nothing of the woman to whom it was addressed, her beauty, my restless longing when I was young.
A sergeant wearing full armour
Evidently they have decided to make it a point of honour to get dead drunk. To my relief, the conversation moves away from us. Eldest Son and I are ignored. They talk excitedly about the march to the capital, how one good battle should settle the matter. More moths gather on the lanterns, their wings slowly opening and closing.
Wudi appears in the doorway like a ghost. I meet his eye and excuse myself.
Outside, we find a dark corner beneath the eaves.
‘I have news,’ he says, quietly.
‘Be discreet,’ I warn.
‘The cavalrymen got your message.’
We glance involuntarily at the hillside above Three-Step-House. Clouds are passing, driven across the night sky. It will be windy tomorrow.
‘Did your son speak to the commander?’
‘No, I went myself.’
‘What impression did you gain of him?’
Wudi laughs softly.
‘He’s desperate enough. He said he wants to speak to you.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes, Lord. He said to tell you.’
I try to understand, but cannot. My only hope is that it somehow stems from P’ei Ti.
‘So the Imperial cavalry are well hidden?’
‘I showed them to the caves behind the waterfall. The rest is up to them. I didn’t want to hang around.’
‘You are brave, Wudi,’ I say.
‘Or stupid,’ he says.
‘Go to bed now, old friend. Sleep here. It is not safe for you to go down to the village tonight. The soldiers might wonder why you’re awake so late.’
He hesitates.
‘I’m afraid,’ he says. ‘If any of this comes out. . .’
I need no reminding. After all, Wei Village has burned once before. Because of my actions, it might burn again.
‘Tomorrow will decide that,’ I say. ‘Rest now.’
I relieve myself against a plum tree and take my place once more in the Middle House. The eldest of the officers, Lieutenant Lo, watches me closely. Does he suspect something?
‘Lord Yun Cai,’ he says, quietly. ‘My wife has a scroll of your poems which her mother gave her. She likes to read them to me when I return home on leave.’
I cannot help flushing. It is a long time since I heard confirmation that my fame still lives.
‘I am honoured,’ I say. ‘Your wife is an unusual woman to read so well.’
‘She is of good family,’ he says, proudly.
I sense a story behind his words, probably a sad one, given his current circumstances. I glance at Youngest Son, who is guffawing at the sly-faced officer’s stories.
‘Do you have a favourite poem of mine?’ I ask.
Lieutenant Lo tugs at his lips. Despite the awkwardness of our mutual positions, I’m warming to him.
‘No, all are very fine, as far as I can tell. There’s one I like. . . how does it go? No, I have forgotten. I’ll ask my wife when we next meet.’
His tone suggests the event seems distant.
‘Send word to me,’ I say. ‘And I’ll write it out for you.
Then you can give it to her.’
He smiles sadly.
‘I regret that is not likely. . . I remember now! The poem is about waiting by a lake. That’s it.’
‘Ah,’ I say.
Then I close my eyes and slowly recite, characters forming neat columns across my inner vision: The lake ripples as four winds will.
Fish rise, mouths gape like coins.
West Lake might as well be an ocean.
Heart’s desire waits for shores to kiss, No balance until they touch.
He looks hard at me, unexpectedly blinks back a tear.
‘She’s a soft-hearted wench,’ he says, softly.
I realise the room is silent. When I look up, I’m met by their eyes, baffled or amused. In Youngest Son’s case, confused. I sense the reproach his father’s poem provokes. A reminder that, however great his hope, he ended up a mere soldier.
Eldest Son coughs. ‘I like that one, Father,’ he says.
I have no doubt he is thinking of Daughter-in-law.
That’s how it is with poems. Every man finds his own meaning, sometimes no meaning at all. They know nothing of the woman to whom it was addressed, her beauty, my restless longing when I was young.
A sergeant wearing full armour
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