Chapter Thirty: Mutual Affection Between Lovers

After rounding a mountain bend, the scenery changed. The path grew much smoother, the slopes less steep, and wildflowers began to appear, dotting the lush green grass as far as the eye could see. Butterflies in brilliant hues fluttered among the blossoms, and the cheerful songs of birds echoed from deep within the mountains. Breathing in deeply, the cool air seemed to cleanse the heart and lungs, making one forget the troubles and sorrows of the mundane world.

“This place is beautiful!”

“Shall we rest here for a while?”

“But the caravan ahead is already far from us,” Xiaozhu said anxiously, reluctant to leave this picturesque spot. It was a rare occasion to be out in such company, especially alone with Zhen Qian. “We shouldn’t worry Uncle Wang and the others…”

“There’s no rush,” Zhen Qian said, settling himself on a rock. “There’s only one road here; we can’t possibly lose our way. Let me see your feet—you must have blisters by now.”

The two girls hesitated, embarrassed. Though their relationship with Zhen Qian was as close as could be, this was the first time they’d faced such a mortifying situation in broad daylight. “It’s fine, we can manage,” Xiaomei protested, though her words belied her discomfort.

“What’s this? Are you going to ignore your lord’s command now?”

Zhen Qian had no inkling of the girls’ embarrassment. In ancient times, a woman’s feet were as private a matter as a woman’s chest in later ages—taboo, sensitive, and strictly personal.

Blushing, the two girls gingerly placed their dainty feet before him. Zhen Qian, with no ulterior motive, simply removed their shoes and then their socks (known as “wà” or “foot bags” in ancient times). On the soles of their feet were several bloodied blisters. “Does it hurt?”

“It does,” they both replied. Though not noble ladies, they seldom traveled far. After several miles on mountain roads, they were exhausted and worn out. Were it not for Zhen Qian, they would have long since faltered.

“It’s all right! I’ll lance these blisters, then we’ll rest a bit before moving on.”

He gently cradled their delicate feet, soft and smooth as warm jade, each toe like a tiny silkworm cocoon—altogether adorable in his hands. The girls’ faces burned with embarrassment, but Zhen Qian’s mind remained pure, undisturbed by impure thoughts.

“This may sting a little. Bear with it,” he said, carefully pricking the blisters one by one. His intentions were simple and innocent—was all this necessary, though?

Just then, the grass in the distance rustled. Zhen Qian, absorbed in tending to the girls’ feet, failed to notice that danger was quietly drawing near.

“All done. Put your shoes on, and let’s hurry,” he urged. The caravan was already rounding another bend, now some distance ahead; he didn’t wish to make Wang Qun worry.

“It hurts,” Xiaozhu winced.

“Bear with it a little longer. I’ll help you walk,” Zhen Qian said, supporting the girls by draping their arms over his shoulders and encircling their slender waists as they moved forward together.

Suddenly—a sharp sound cut through the air. Zhen Qian’s vision blurred, and an arrow thudded into the ground before them, its feathers quivering ominously.

Before Zhen Qian could even cry out, “Who’s there?” a figure leapt from the direction whence the arrow had flown. In a few bounding strides, he stood before them, brandishing a steel blade in one hand and a bloodied pheasant in the other. He demanded in a loud voice, “Who are you, and why are you here?”

Now Zhen Qian saw him clearly—a young boy of about fifteen or sixteen, with a fresh, youthful face and clothing stitched from animal hide. His eyes glinted with an untamed wildness, giving the impression he would use his blade at the slightest provocation.

The two girls, terrified, clung to Zhen Qian, wishing they could disappear into his very being.

“Bandit!” Zhen Qian thought. Yet the youth seemed too young, and alone—hardly the image of a highway robber. Had desperation driven him to this?

“Who are you to waylay travelers on the road?” Zhen Qian asked.

The young man sneered, unsatisfied. “Am I the one asking, or are you?”

Zhen Qian had no wish to stir up trouble. He released his hold on the girls and smiled at the youth, replying, “We’re on our way to White Horse Village. Are you from there, by any chance?”

The youth eyed them suspiciously, then abruptly set his blade at Zhen Qian’s throat. “You’re lying! You have ulterior motives! Speak honestly, or I’ll kill you!”

So, this was the kind of unreasonable person they’d encountered. “We’re traveling with the caravan ahead,” Zhen Qian replied, pointing behind the young man. As the youth instinctively glanced back—sensing too late that it was a trick—Zhen Qian sprang into action, seizing the boy’s wrist and pinning him with a grip on his throat, swiftly disarming him.

“We mean no harm. Will you take us to White Horse Village?” Zhen Qian asked.

The youth struggled, but Zhen Qian soon handed the blade back to him, which only deepened the boy’s confusion. “What are you doing?”

“As I said, we’re going to White Horse Village. I know you’re from there, so I won’t make things difficult for you.”

The youth took his blade, still wary. “What’s your name?”

“My name is Zhen Qian. Perhaps you’ve heard of the Zhen family—I’m the eldest son,” he said casually. “And you?”

They were not far from White Horse Village now, and Zhen Qian had already suspected the youth belonged to the Qin family, judging by his attire and bearing. The boy’s unruly nature had made it necessary to take control at first.

“You’re the eldest son of the Zhen family?” the boy exclaimed, evidently recognizing the name. “My name is Qin Meng. Come with me.”

So, Zhen Qian had guessed right—it was indeed a member of the Qin family. He asked, “Why are you alone here? Are you keeping watch?”

Qin Meng, walking ahead, shook his head. “I’d just come back from hunting in the mountains when I saw you three by the roadside. I thought you were villains up to no good at the expense of my family…”

Zhen Qian was speechless. Did he really look like a miscreant, wandering with two delicate women? He wondered what thoughts filled Qin Meng’s head.

“Can you hurry up?” Qin Meng called impatiently from ahead.

“My two maids are having trouble walking. If you’re in such a hurry, you go on ahead,” Zhen Qian replied.

Qin Meng rubbed his hands, wanting to help but unsure what to do, seeing the two women leaning on Zhen Qian’s shoulders. “What a bother,” he muttered.

So the four of them proceeded, stopping and starting along the way. Zhen Qian was unbothered; after all, there was no need to hurry. Watching Qin Meng’s anxious pacing made him want to laugh. At last, they crested the next hill and encountered a group coming toward them—it was Wang Qun, who had come back searching for them.

“What happened? Are your feet hurt?” Wang Qun asked. Zhen Qian explained, and Wang Qun slapped his forehead, “How careless of me! It’s all my fault that Xiaozhu and Xiaomei have suffered.”

Wang Qun had not considered the two girls at all, never imagining they’d struggle with mountain roads. “Hold on just a bit longer, we’re almost there.” Though the Tang dynasty was not as strict as later eras regarding contact between men and women, physical intimacy was still sensitive, especially as these women were Zhen Qian’s maids.

Zhen Qian knew there was nothing to be done—it was nobody’s fault but his own as well.

At last, they reached White Horse Village. Zhen Qian breathed a sigh of relief; he was quite worn out, and the two girls seemed apologetic, as if they’d done something wrong.

“Eldest son, let me introduce you. This is the patriarch of the Qin family, Qin Hao.”

Zhen Qian immediately bowed to the elder, whose hair was as white as snow. “Uncle Qin, forgive us for the intrusion.”

Qin Hao’s face was all smiles, the picture of a kindly old neighbor. “So you’re the eldest Zhen son! Please, come in. Wang Qun has told me of your business. I never expected you’d actually come to this remote, impoverished place. Please forgive any lack in our hospitality.”

After a few polite exchanges, the group entered White Horse Village. Looking around, Zhen Qian saw that it was hardly a true village—named after the nearby White Horse Pass, the place was devoid of grand buildings, let alone luxury. It was the very image of poverty, with houses cobbled together from bamboo and yellow clay, their walls battered and crumbling from wind and rain.

Inside, the furnishings were as sparse as could be: a bed, a chair, a table—nothing more. Any thief would surely leave here in tears.

Wang Qun had joked about the life of a hermit, but the Qin family lived more like ascetics. Zhen Qian had thought Wang Qun was exaggerating, but now he was astonished to see it for himself.

A hermit’s life, though simple, still passed for normal. Here, however, felt more like the home of a primitive tribesman—no wonder Zhen Qian was shocked.

Surveying the room, he realized there wasn’t even a place to sit. Wang Qun, evidently accustomed to this, fetched a few wooden blocks and placed them by the hearth in the center of the room. Zhen Qian followed suit, sitting down and staring at the fire, at a loss for words.

Qin Hao crouched by the hearth, warming his hands, unconcerned by Zhen Qian’s discomfort. “So, Master Zhen wishes to open a distillery here. What would you have us do?”

So the real business began. Zhen Qian, having heard from Wang Qun that Qin Hao was a straightforward man, found the patriarch wasted no time on pleasantries. “I intend to set up a small distillery here—two or three rooms will suffice. I only ask for secrecy and tranquility, so that we are not disturbed by outsiders. Other than that, I have no special requirements. But does Uncle Qin have any conditions for us?”