Chapter Sixty-Seven: When the Stars Shine (Part Two)

Zhang Qian was twenty-two years old this year, which, by the reckoning of the Tang Dynasty, made him twenty-three. Yet, owing to his passion for physical exercise and his previous life of seclusion in the school, where he seldom ventured outside, he appeared even younger than his actual age. In contrast, Wang Zhihuan, though only just come of age at twenty, looked somewhat older than his years, thanks to his fondness for sword and horse, living the life of a wandering knight, braving the elements and the open road. Thus, as the two walked shoulder to shoulder, they resembled a pair of dashing, elegant twins, drawing the attention of countless guests who turned to gaze upon them.

“This banquet today is jointly arranged by Doctor He and Uncle Zhang. The main theme is to drink wine and admire the chrysanthemums, so the guests are all seated in the garden,” Wang Zhihuan explained as they entered, taking the initiative. “Everything was prepared in haste, so there was no time for refinement. We had to follow the example of the Hu people, adapting to whatever we had—just a dozen long tables and several sets of Hu stools for everyone to sit as they please. If anything proves inconvenient, I must beg your pardon, Brother Zhao.”

“You overstate it, Brother Ji Ling. Zhang, my elder, is my neighbor; there’s no need for such formality with me!” Zhang Qian, feeling a kinship with Wang Zhihuan for their similar fates, found himself much less nervous. He smiled and shook his head gently. “Go and attend to the other guests first, lest Elder Zhang be left to manage alone and our distinguished friends feel neglected.”

“You’re right. Since I saw Uncle Zhang yesterday, he’s mentioned your name no less than twenty times.” Wang Zhihuan, an open-hearted fellow, didn’t stand on further ceremony with Zhang Qian but simply nodded with a laugh. “There’s a pavilion over there, with several clusters of intoxicating chrysanthemums nearby—the flowers are as large as bowls, their color a rare golden red. If you don’t mind the breeze, it would be a pleasant spot to sit.”

“Let’s go to the pavilion, then!” Zhang Qian looked around and indeed spotted a wooden pavilion not far off, beneath which stood a stone table with four or five round stone stools. Nearby, over a dozen clusters of chrysanthemums were in full bloom. He agreed and started walking over.

But before he’d taken more than ten paces, a stout man suddenly rushed in from the side, grabbed Wang Zhihuan’s arm, and shouted, “Wang Jiling, so this is where you’ve been hiding after leaving me behind! Everyone says Uncle Zhang has prepared some exquisite wine, so why haven’t you had the servants bring it out yet?”

“Good wine is rare; if you drink this now, nothing else will satisfy you later!” Wang Zhihuan slapped the man’s hand, making him grimace in pain. “Don’t make a scene. Let me introduce you to a new friend—Zhang Yongzhao, with the courtesy name Qian. Both Doctor He and Uncle Zhang hold his abilities in high regard!”

He then swiftly introduced the newcomer to Zhang Qian: “Brother Yongzhao, this is Wei Daozi, courtesy name Gangjing, a direct descendant of the Wei family from Shandong. His father, like mine, is an old friend of Uncle Zhang.”

“Zhang Yongzhao from Hejian, at your service, Brother Gangjing!” Finally encountering someone less renowned, Zhang Qian’s heart, which had been lodged in his throat, quietly settled in his chest, and he greeted Wei Daozi with composure.

“So you’re the immortal master whose elixir brought the dead back to life?” Wei Daozi, however, was far from composed. He quickly retreated half a step, sized Zhang Qian up and down, and returned the greeting with a bow. “Your reputation precedes you. Now I see you are indeed no ordinary man.”

“You flatter me, Brother Gangjing!” Zhang Qian felt awkward under Wei Daozi's praise and hurriedly laughed it off. “Rumors are rarely true. I simply happened to have two medicines from my master, and they were used for a friend’s father. The medicine is no elixir, and I’ve practiced no strange arts.”

“So that’s how it is! I thought as much—how could there be so many immortals and phantoms in broad daylight?” Wei Daozi, a naturally sociable sort, laughed and shook his head. “You’ve come at just the right time. I was just debating with Bokao and Zishou about whether immortals truly exist. Now you can serve as my witness!”

He moved to grab Zhang Qian’s arm, but Zhang Qian quickly stepped away, smiling and waving his hand. “Spare me, Brother Gangjing. I’m new here and don’t know the gentlemen you mentioned. It would be improper for me to join in the argument before I’ve even taken my seat.”

“That’s true!” Wei Daozi, missing his mark, at once realized his own rashness. He scratched his head sheepishly and, with a laugh, invited, “Then let’s leave them be for the moment. Jiling, have the servants bring out the good wine! I want to see what sort of nectar this is, praised so highly by Doctor He!”

“Be patient, Brother Gangjing. First let me introduce Yongzhao to Bokao, Zishou, and the others!” Wang Zhihuan had no intention of indulging Wei Daozi’s antics. He broke free and led Zhang Qian deeper into the garden, using the introduction as an excuse. “Yongzhao, come with me. Brother Zishou was a successful candidate in the second year of Chang’an (702) and has since served as an official. This year, his term ended, and he’s returned to Chang’an for assessment by the Ministry of Personnel. His talent far surpasses my own. The elder Zhang, a literary giant, once praised his writing as light as flowing silk!”

“You mean Zhang Jiuling, who wrote ‘The bright moon rises above the sea, from far away we share this moment’?” Zhang Qian blurted out in shock.

‘Stay calm, stay calm!’ he told himself, forcing his breath to steady. ‘With He Zhizhang and Zhang Ruoxu as the hosts, how could the guests be anything but illustrious? I’ve barely met Wang Zhihuan and now hear of Zhang Jiuling, and already I’m stunned. Who knows which other luminaries I’ll encounter? If I’m amazed at every name, I’ll be in a state of shock all day!’

He busied himself masking his astonishment, fearful of being mocked. Yet Wang Zhihuan, all too used to people losing their composure at the mention of Zhang Jiuling, found nothing unusual in Zhang Qian’s reaction. He smiled and quietly replied, “Indeed. So you’ve heard of Brother Zishou’s ‘Moonlit Reminiscence.’ I thought you, living in seclusion, cared little for the outside world.”

‘I not only know that poem, I can recite your “Ascending the Stork Tower” by heart!’ Zhang Qian grumbled inwardly, but outwardly he forced a natural smile and explained, “I hadn’t read it in my early years in the mountains, but after coming down, I happened upon a hand-copied poetry collection in Renjia Village. One reading, and I was struck with awe.”

“You have such a prodigious memory, Brother Yongzhao! My admiration knows no bounds!” Wang Zhihuan, unaware that Zhang Qian had grown up reciting Tang and Song poetry, marveled at his memory and gave a thumbs-up.

Zhang Qian’s face grew hot with the praise, and he hurriedly tried to change the subject. Suddenly, a cascade of “ding-ding-dong-dong” notes rang in his ear, clear as pearls falling onto a jade plate, instantly drowning out all surrounding clamor.

Instinctively, he turned toward the sound and saw a young woman dressed all in red, her whole appearance ablaze like a coal, seated by a cluster of golden chrysanthemums, playing the qin with casual grace. The slow autumn wind drifted with her music, catching her sleeves and hair and setting them fluttering—a living painting.

“Where you step, red lotuses bloom. You stand in the wind, your skirt swirling, your hair dancing.” Without warning, lines from a well-known modern poem surged into Zhang Qian’s mind.

He was about to clap in admiration and ask the identity of the musician when Wei Daozi’s unmistakable hoarse voice rang out, “I don’t know which lucky fellow recited such a fine poem just now, but it inspired the great qin master herself to play as accompaniment. Alas, if only I excelled in such arts...”

His envy and jealousy were plain for all to hear.

As soon as he finished, the music was abruptly cut off by the wind. In the lingering resonance, the lady in red picked up a sword from beside her, and without any metallic implement for a mallet, she drew the blade from its scabbard and stabbed it into the earth at her side. With all ten fingers—still in their qin covers—she plucked the strings and struck the sword, producing a “ding-ding-dang-dang,” sharp as driving rain.

The autumn wind, scented with chrysanthemums, turned suddenly chill, cutting through to the bone.

With her left hand playing the sword and her right hand on the qin, she combined both arts—intertwining the sound of pearls and the rush of rain. In that instant, it was as if a silver vase had shattered, water splashing forth, and iron cavalry burst from the ranks, swords and spears ringing in the air.

Zhang Qian’s hands froze midair. In the next moment, every hair on his body stood on end.

At that moment, two hurried servants raised a wooden board together. A young scholar in blue, tossing his wine cup aside, strode forward, seized a brush, and, timing his strokes to the music, wrote in wild, dragon-like calligraphy across the board.

Each character was as large as a colander.

Each character soared like a startled swan, twisted like a dragon in flight!

In a short while, both qin and brush fell silent, and even the autumn wind ceased. Only the faint scent of chrysanthemums lingered in the air, refusing to dissipate.

“Well done!” Someone at last broke the silence with a cheer.

In an instant, half the garden came alive again—cheers and applause thundered like a storm.

“Brother Bokao, what talent and what fortune you possess!” Wang Zhihuan’s eyes shone, his envy undisguised.

“So it was you—Zhang Xu, Bokao himself, moved to inspiration! No wonder the master of the qin played both instruments to accompany your writing!” As for Wei Daozi, he was too overcome even to envy. He sullenly shook his head, then made his way to the nearest table, grabbed a wine jug, and drank deeply in great gulps.

That year, Zhang Jiuling was just thirty.

Zhang Qian was twenty-three; Zhang Xu and the qin master were his contemporaries, and Wang Zhihuan had just celebrated his twentieth birthday.

That year, in the autumn wind, there were flowers, wine, and the music of the qin.