Chapter Eighteen: Sculpture and Rubbings

“Sir, your culinary skills are truly extraordinary. The most unremarkable ingredients in your hands become rare delicacies!”
Zhen Qian accepted Xiao Zhu’s praise with pleasure. The cuisine of the Tang Dynasty simply could not compare with the evolved culinary arts of later generations. The difference was clear from the methods of preparation alone: Tang cuisine relied mainly on steaming, roasting, and boiling, while he knew of dozens of techniques from later eras—stir-frying, flash-frying, sautéing, deep-frying, braising, pan-searing, glazing, stuffing, stewing, baking, grilling, salt-baking, smoking, clay-roasting, blanching, simmering, boiling, steaming, caramelizing, honey-glazing, candied, poaching, hotpot, and many more. Just thinking about it made one’s mouth water.

“Sir, did you really learn these skills in a dream?” Xiao Mei rested her chin in her hand, gazing at him with infatuation.

He chuckled. “Didn’t I tell you? A scholar need not leave home to know the world. The mysteries within dreams are wondrous; only those with fate may enter. I only gained some understanding by coincidence. Heaven’s secrets cannot be revealed, lest one incur divine punishment!”

“We won’t ask, then. You mustn’t tell us, either,” Xiao Mei exclaimed, startled at the mention of heavenly punishment. Fearful, she gave up her urge to dig deeper. Zhen Qian had said it was a matter of fate, and she reckoned she was not so fortunate. Still, to be at his side was blessing enough.

Seeing that he had frightened Xiao Zhu and Xiao Mei, Zhen Qian felt secretly pleased. Lies, if told too often, would eventually unravel. If repeated constantly, contradictions would arise and the observant would spot the flaws. It was best to say less.

“Come, drink with me!”

With two young girls by his side, Zhen Qian felt no loneliness. He teased them from time to time, finding that the hours seemed to pass faster.

He kissed each of their pretty faces, laughing heartily. Life was comfortable, and he was nearly lost in joy.

The girls were willing to let him take liberties, torn between shyness and longing. His teasing made them feel as restless as ants, yet they still tried to maintain their demure manners, nestling bashfully into his arms, faces flushed and breath quickening.

Fine food and beautiful company, raising his cup in good cheer, Zhen Qian felt much at ease. Since he was here, he might as well enjoy it. This life was not bad at all—free from the clamor and restlessness of later times, his heart was steady. He imagined himself one day as a carefree gentleman, with a hundred acres of good land, lovely wives, and children playing around him. That would be enough for a lifetime.

At this thought, his heart grew light. He held Xiao Zhu in one arm and Xiao Mei in the other, eating and drinking, intoxicated more by pleasure than by wine.

The next day, Zhen Qian took Wang You and drove out of the city. From a distance, he saw Old Song in the courtyard, carving a piece of wood as thick as a finger. Approaching, he saw several similar pieces nearby, each with a few characters carved into it. He was first surprised, then amused.

Song Yi was engrossed in his carving, but sensed someone nearby. Looking up to see Zhen Qian, he hurriedly stood and bowed.

“Old Song, no need for such formality. Just call me Master Zhen,” Zhen Qian said, helping Song Yi up.

Song Yi replied anxiously, “How can I? Etiquette must not be neglected!” With that, he insisted on kneeling to Zhen Qian before standing aside.

Etiquette, so deadly!

Zhen Qian said no more. Opposing such customs openly might cause trouble if word spread—best to let it pass.

“Old Song, what are you working on?”

Song Yi bowed. “Master, didn’t you instruct us last time to carve some characters into wood? Please have a look at our work.”

Zhen Qian took a piece and examined it. The carving was decent, much like the inscriptions he’d seen on stone tablets. But Song Yi had misunderstood his instructions, perhaps because Zhen Qian hadn’t explained them clearly.

“These are well done! Did you carve all these yourself?”

Just then, Song’s family came out and bowed to Zhen Qian. He did not stop them this time. “How have you been these days?”

“Thank you, Master. We have been well,” Song Yi’s son replied, his honest face showing genuine gratitude.

The three generations of Song family handed Zhen Qian their carvings. Song Yi’s son, Song Xing, was quite skilled, nearly as good as his father. But Song Yi’s grandson, Song Xu, was less adept, only able to carve at a basic level.

“All are quite good. I hadn’t expected the Song family to be so skilled at carving,” Zhen Qian said, though not entirely sincerely.

The Song family, unaware of his true thoughts, were humble about their skills and quickly replied, “Thank you for your praise, Master! Our family is best known for imitation. Given a model, we can copy it almost perfectly. Sadly, good models are rare; otherwise, our carvings would be much finer.”

“Ah! I hadn’t expected such a talent from your family. That’s wonderful!”

Zhen Qian was thrilled. He hadn’t expected much from a craftsman’s household—calligraphy wouldn’t be high—but imitation changed everything. Though they couldn’t perfectly capture the style of master calligraphers, it was enough for his purposes.

He continued, “Tomorrow, I’ll send a few books. Carve the characters from those onto hardwood boards instead of sticks. Each board should be eight inches high, five inches wide, and half an inch thick. If one board isn’t enough, use another of the same size, continuing until the entire book is carved.”

Song Yi didn’t understand Zhen Qian’s intentions, but would follow his instructions. He didn’t realize the specified size matched that of modern books. Still, he asked, “Master, what if we make a mistake carving a board?”

“Just discard it and use a new one.”

“Ah! Isn’t that wasteful?” Though the expense wasn’t his, Song Yi felt it was uneconomical and voiced his concern.

Zhen Qian shook his head. “It’s nothing. Everything comes at a cost. Practice makes perfect. The first time, mistakes are inevitable; once skilled, they’ll become rare. And even ruined boards aren’t wasted—they add to your experience.”

“Very well! We’ll follow your instructions, Master.”

He did not tell Song Yi his true purpose. A measure of mystery bolstered his authority—if the Song family understood his plans, they might lose their sense of reverence.

“Old Song, do you know how to make rubbings?”

Song Yi looked at Zhen Qian in confusion, the abrupt question catching him off guard. “Yes! Almost every stone engraver knows how. When we carve epitaphs, we always keep a copy of the inscription. It’s part of our livelihood.”

“Excellent! That’s wonderful!” Zhen Qian was pleased. The Song family’s versatility was a boon; perhaps skill in many arts was indeed a blessing. He patted Song Yi’s shoulder. “Settle in here for now. I’ll buy you a house when I can. As long as your whole family serves me well, I’ll make sure your children become respectable people.”

At these words, Song Yi fell to his knees, pulling his family down with him. “Thank you, Master! Whatever you need, I will do, only spare my children hardship!”

“Rise,” Zhen Qian said, disliking the constant kneeling. “Old Song, I want to take your grandson and granddaughter to my manor. I will teach them some things—they will be useful to me. Do you agree?”

Song Yi was reluctant, but Zhen Qian need not ask, so this was a courtesy. Upon reflection, he realized it was an opportunity for his grandchildren. Staying by Zhen Qian’s side would give them a future, better than sticking with him. He agreed.

Zhen Qian wanted the Song grandchildren close, not only to teach them but also as a precaution. One must guard against betrayal—once was enough.

“In a while, I’ll return to see your progress. I hope you can carve boards that satisfy me.”

As he prepared to leave, Song Yi suddenly knelt again. “Old Song, what are you doing?”

This time, Song Yi remained on the ground, his eyes full of pleading. Zhen Qian was startled, unsure what Song Yi wanted. “Speak your mind standing up.”

“Master, I have a favor to ask. Yesterday, while shopping in town, I remembered a distant relative of the Song family in the city and went to visit. I heard terrible news: he’s been caught up in a legal matter and is held at the county office. They say he will be executed after the autumn trial. Please, Master, could you help me see him once? I would be eternally grateful.”

So that was it!

Seeing Song Yi’s request was not unreasonable, Zhen Qian’s expression softened. He asked about the relative, listened, and said, “I’ll go back and inquire. If there’s any news, I’ll send word. Wait at home for updates.”

Leaving Song Yi’s home, Zhen Qian instructed Wang You to find out about Song Yi’s relative at the county office. He didn’t give it much thought—it was a simple favor, and he was not unfeeling.