Joy of Life

Danzhou had recovered from the revelation and was settling back into its peaceful ways. Nobody seemed to be that bothered about the relationship between Old Ha the vegetable seller and the other man who had died in the fire. The authorities had no explanation for how the fire had started, and people didn’t seem too bothered about that either.

Order had always been kept in Danzhou. Thanks to the observant eyes of the local neighborhood watch, the criminals and adventurers who could be found all across the north had no chance of applying their trade in the city. Because the center of trade had shifted southward, His Majesty had exempted the seven counties neighboring Danzhou from taxation. Although this hadn’t greatly enriched the lives of the locals immediately, it at least made sure that everyone had grain to spare; there would be no revolts over crop failures like there had been 30 years before.

And although Danzhou was next to the sea, the natural disposition of its people wasn’t affected by the unpredictable weather borne from the sea. Within the city, the people kept their cool and were always respectful toward the city’s noble families, showing the appropriate reverence and care toward the estate of Count Sinan. Although they were all well aware that Fan Xian was an illegitimate child, they still called him ‘Young Master Fan’, and made sure never to show any of the contempt they might have felt.

This was what troubled Fan Xian.

Apart from the unfortunate business with Zhou the housekeeper, where he had acted with the full entitlement of a scion of a rich family, he had not had any opportunity to play such a part. Strolling along the streets of Danzhou, the people treated him amiably and respectfully; no one ever tried to provoke him.

The zhenqi within him slowly accumulated, refining and strengthening his meridians. Most of the energy that drained off to the xueshan point located on his lower back wasn’t causing any issues, but wasn’t sure what purpose it served staying there.

Fan Xian had always played the part of an earnest, tactful young gentleman. But as the days went by, he felt stifled. And now that he knew he was strong enough to kill a would-be murderer, he looked forward to the day when he could play the hero, delivering justice and rescuing beautiful women.

But Danzhou was peaceful. Too peaceful.

...

...

Soothing incense burned in the study, its faint aroma comforting the soul. Fan Xian held a delicate writing-brush in his hand, writing earnestly on a sheet of fine writing paper that was about the width of four palms. Because literature was divided into modern and classical styles, one wrote with either a goose quill or a brush. The goose quill was easier to use and was used throughout the offices of state in the Jingdu; when Fei Jie came to Jingdu to teach him, he had also used a goose quill.

But the fine craftsmanship that went into the goose quill’s sharpened tip required a true master’s touch. If used for a long time, the tip could easily be deformed, and so it was not widely-used.

Fan Xian preferred the writing brush. He thought it was a great stroke of luck that this world used Chinese characters and that using a writing-brush made for much more beautiful penmanship. He decided to practice his calligraphy diligently to avoid embarrassment.

On the other hand, he also felt that only the calligraphic beauty of the writing brush could honor the story that he was “writing”.

Sisi, his personal servant girl, held the ink sticks with her slender fingers, slowly and softly grinding them clockwise on the ink stone. Her gaze fell onto the paper the young master was writing on:

“...When Qin Zhong saw Zhineng alone in the room washing the tea bowls, he ran up to her and kissed her. Zhineng was taken aback and stomped her foot. ‘What are you doing! Do it again and I scream for help!’‘My lady, I beg of you, I am overcome with emotion,’ said Qin Zhong. ‘If you will not do as I ask today, I shall die here on the spot.”What do you want from me?’ asked Zhineng. ‘I will only do what you ask if you help me get away from this prison and leave these people.”It can be done,’ said Qin Zhong. ‘But distant waters cannot quench the immediate thirst...’”

Sisi glanced at the page and blushed. “How can Zhineng be so shameless?”

Fan Xian lifted his head curiously at the servant girl’s complaint. “How is Zhineng shameless?” he asked, beaming. When he was in the study, or in some other place people were unaware of, he would always call for the servant girls. This habit had started with Dong’er. The servant girls couldn’t say no, and the old lady of the house didn’t care, so they could only do as he asked. They had long been used to his behavior; there was nothing strange about it.

Sisi’s cheeks were as beautifully red as the sunrise. “That nun,” she stammered, “she speaks and acts so carelessly... but Young Master, what is a ‘nun’? And what sort of place is this ‘Mantou Nunnery’?”

Fan Xian giggled. “Wait until I get to the part about Qin Zhong and Zhineng’s illicit relations,” he thought. “Then you’ll see what carelessness means!” But Sisi’s question made him realize: if there were no Buddhism in this world, then there were no monks, and indeed no nuns.

He scratched his head with his empty hand. He wasn’t sure how to explain it. “Nuns are like ascetics,” he finally responded. “And Mantou Nunnery is a bit like a temple.”

Sisi was shocked. “Young Master, don’t write such things! The temple lies in the mists of the heavens, and takes pity on the common people. It doesn’t get involved in earthly affairs. How can it be such a filthy place?”

Fan Xian cut his explanation short. “I understand,” he said, smiling. “I will be more careful with my writing.”

He wrote a little more, and then a thought struck him. He asked Sisi to leave so that she wouldn’t lay eyes on some of his raunchier work and report it to the old lady. When he was young, he would tell Dong’er stories to scare her. Dong’er thought that he had been taught the stories by his teacher Xixi, and she had gone to tell the old lady. It led to Fan Xian being made to write lines from memory as punishment for days.

Sisi warned him to be careful again, set down the ink stick in her hand, and left. As he watched her walk away gracefully, Fan Xian felt his heart pounding.

Grasping his pen, Fan Xian pondered. Copying out Dream of the Red Chamber was a lot more complicated than just copying a few poems from the old masters. He had started writing the year before, and he had probably copied it out from memory 15 times. Luckily, his memory was strangely clear, and he could recall his previous life without even the slightest gap. Indeed, it was lucky that it was so clear, because he could finally remember by heart the beautiful and hard-to-recall prose that Cao Xueqin had written.

The only thing was that the characters and the setting were completely different to this new world. He wasn’t sure if the people who read it would understand it, so there were some important parts that still needed to be slowly altered. But he still had total faith in his version of Dream of the Red Chamber. A cow is a cow no matter where you take it – and the same could be said for Dream of the Red Chamber.