Chapter 210: Ten Thousand Methods of Stele Interpretation (Part 1)
After saying this, the middle-aged man left. Chen Changsheng stood on the mountain path, utterly baffled and naturally somewhat annoyed. After a moment, he recalled that the man had mentioned someone was looking for him at the front of the mausoleum. Arriving at the mausoleum, he saw the stone door still tightly shut. Recalling the image of Xun Mei walking out from here the previous night, he was just beginning to feel a pang of sorrow when he heard someone calling his name.
Following the sound, he walked to the side of the stone door and saw a small window in the wall. Deacon Xin was waving at him from there. Somewhat startled, he bowed toward the small window and asked, "Why have you come?"
Deacon Xin handed some things through the stone window and said, "His Holiness the Bishop sent me to check on you."
Chen Changsheng took the items and asked, "Our luggage was on the cart; they didn't let us bring it in yesterday."
Deacon Xin replied, "That's the rule of the Mausoleum of Books. They'll deliver it to you after inspection, likely no later than today."
Chen Changsheng recalled the sour, foul-smelling bedding in the thatched cottage and tentatively asked, "Could you trouble yourself to bring us a few more sets of clean bedding?"
Deacon Xin paused for a moment, then said, "That shouldn't be difficult."
"Since our luggage will be returned, there's nothing else I need."
Chen Changsheng rummaged through the items Deacon Xin had brought and found a bag of boiled eggs. Unable to contain his curiosity, he asked, "Do we have to handle all three meals ourselves here at the Mausoleum of Books?"
Deacon Xin explained, "Each academy and sect has its own preparations and sends supplies in daily. As for common scholars, the imperial court provides living necessities, though the quality is poorer. The National Academy is now rebuilding from scratch, so you and Tang Thirty-Six certainly haven't made any arrangements. His Holiness the Bishop has already taken care of it—no need to worry."
Speaking through the small stone window felt strange to Chen Changsheng, as if he were visiting someone in prison.
Seeing the expression on his face, Deacon Xin guessed what he was thinking and said, "The Mausoleum of Books is a sacred ground, but also a great prison."
Chen Changsheng was momentarily taken aback, recalling Xun Mei's fate, and said, "That makes a lot of sense. Thank you for the reminder."
Deacon Xin said, "Such a profound statement—how could it come from me? It was said by a former Pontiff. His Holiness the Bishop instructed me to pass it on to you."
Chen Changsheng said, "Understood."
Deacon Xin looked into his eyes through the stone window and said, "In any case, you must remember: one month from now, the Garden of Zhou will open. You must get out before then."
Chen Changsheng did not respond to this. Instead, he recounted his encounter on the mountain path with that arrogant stele attendant.
"How is that possible?"
Deacon Xin frowned and said, "Those academies and sects, to make things easier for their disciples observing the steles here at the Mausoleum of Books, might try to curry favor with these stele attendants. Combined with their special status, they can indeed be aloof and proud. But they are all supported by the State Church—how would they dare to offend you?"
Chen Changsheng didn't grasp the logic in this and asked, puzzled, "Dare to offend me?"
Seeing his bewildered look, Deacon Xin smiled and said, "Now, across the entire continent, everyone knows you are favored by His Holiness the Pontiff and the Bishop. Offending you means offending the State Church."
When that stele attendant had lectured him, he had said that no matter how great his background, he must hold reverence in a sacred place like the Mausoleum of Books. After hearing Deacon Xin's words, Chen Changsheng reconsidered that statement and gained a new understanding. He secretly wondered if it was precisely because of his connection to the State Church that these stele attendants of the Mausoleum of Books harbored an innate aversion to him.
Thinking about these matters, he walked back to the thatched cottage. The room was empty; the youths had likely already gone to observe the steles at the Mausoleum of Books. The large pot of plain congee boiled before dawn had been completely eaten, the pots and bowls had been washed and neatly arranged, and even the water in the vat had been refilled. Though he hadn't seen who did it, for some reason, he was certain it was Gou Hanyi's arrangement.
Although new bedding would arrive, Chen Changsheng still folded up the three sets left by Xun Mei, washed them carefully several times until he was sure the thirty-seven years' worth of sweat and sour smell was completely gone, then hung them on the line in the courtyard. Afterward, he crossed the orange grove and arrived at the vegetable patch in the distance. It was early spring, the time when the old harvest was exhausted and the new not yet ripe. There were no fresh vegetables in the patch; the only green to be seen were scallions, garlic, and chives. He picked a few fingers of scallions, dug up some sweet potatoes from the ground, and returned to the yard to prepare lunch.
He boiled water in the large iron pot, cut a piece of cured meat that Deacon Xin had brought in half, and threw it in. Then he began steaming rice on top. He mixed the rice with sweet potato cubes cut to the size of fingernails, washed and chopped the scallions, set them on the edge of the stove, and took out the boiled eggs, ready to place them beside the steamer. After finishing all this, he nodded in satisfaction and went to wash his hands.
Salted fish and cured meat were certainly delicious and went well with rice, but they weren't very healthy; eating too much was bad for the body. Deacon Xin had said the Bishop had made arrangements, and the Li Mountain Sword Sect should also find ways to send things in. He wondered if a daily supply of fresh meat and vegetables could be guaranteed. Sitting on the doorstep, he pondered these matters. Yesterday he had been a tourist all day—was he going to be a cook today? Here at the Mausoleum of Books, not observing the steles or pondering deeply, but thinking about such things—if anyone saw him sitting blankly on the doorstep, what would they think?
Chen Changsheng sat on the doorstep, gazing at the courtyard outside the thatched cottage, at the half-collapsed fence, at the not-so-pretty green trees in the nearby orange grove. He was very quiet, not changing his posture for a long time. Matters of food and drink naturally didn't require this much thought, and matters of men and women had never concerned him. So what was he thinking about?
Staring at the collapsed fence and the mist in the grove gradually being dispelled by the sunlight, his expression was so focused that he didn't even notice the luggage that had been left outside the Mausoleum of Books yesterday being delivered to the courtyard.
A few chirps from birds roused him from his contemplation. He then noticed the pile of luggage stacked like a small hill to the side. He walked over, found his own bundle, took out his brush, ink, and paper, and sat back down on the doorstep, continuing to gaze at the collapsed fence and the green grove. Only now, he held a brush in his hand, and the ink in the inkstone beside him had already been ground.
As time passed, the sun rose higher, and the angle of the light falling on the courtyard changed accordingly.
The fence was sparse and rickety, but among it were a few thicker wooden posts.
As the light shifted, the shadows of those posts on the ground changed, as did the branches at the tips of the green trees in the orange grove. The posts began to shorten, while the thin bamboo strips beside them widened. Some fine branches at the treetops were about to disappear into the increasingly bright sunlight, while others became clearer due to the contrast of light and shadow.
Chen Changsheng quietly watched this scene, observing these changes. His mind returned to the stele pavilion early that morning. At that time, the morning sun had just risen, and the lines on the surface of the stele, illuminated by the warm red glow of dawn, had seemed to come alive. The edges of the deep lines were lit, making them appear thinner, while the shallow lines, conversely, seemed wider.
Those intricate, inexplicable lines on the stele were the inscriptions. Having weathered countless storms over countless years, they had never changed—but weren't they changing all the time? If the information hidden in those inscriptions was fixed, why would different interpreters derive completely different meanings? Yes, it was all because of these changes.
Chen Changsheng dipped his brush into the inkstone, opened his notebook, and began to write and draw. He didn't record his thoughts in words but, strictly following what he saw and his rough deductions, began to sketch the lines of the Zhaoging Stele. The brush moved heavily across the paper.
After an unknown amount of time, he stopped. He had redrawn the lower right corner of the Zhaoging Stele in his notebook. Then he took out the stele rubbing he had bought at the inn that day, found the page for the Zhaoging Stele, and compared it with his new drawing. He found significant differences between the two. Compared to the inscriptions on the actual Zhaoging Stele, the patterns he had drawn in his notebook were noticeably more vivid. If his brushwork were better, one might describe them as—the patterns seemed ready to leap off the page, coming to life.
The mist in the grove had completely dissipated. The bamboo strips on the fence had become drier. The light in the courtyard was exceedingly bright. Unbeknownst to him, it was already noon.
Chen Changsheng rubbed his sore eyes, closed them to rest for a while, then got up to prepare lunch. Only then did he realize that no one had returned. The area around the thatched cottage was utterly silent. With the rising temperature, even the birds in the grove were too lazy to chirp. Standing alone on the doorstep, he felt a profound loneliness.
The rice had long been steamed and set aside to cool. The fragrance of sweet potato cubes mixed with the oily aroma of cured meat created a strange but very enticing smell. He fished out half a strip of cured meat from the pot, thought for a moment, then cut off only a small piece, diced it finely, and poured it into a bowl of rice. He also peeled a boiled egg and, with a bowl of weak tea, hastily finished his lunch.
After eating, he took a casual stroll around the courtyard, went back to the room to rest with his eyes closed for a while, then sat back down on the doorstep, notebook in his left hand, brush in his right, continuing to stare blankly at the scenery around the courtyard. The light was constantly changing with time, so he had to observe constantly.
As the sun gradually sank westward, the color of the light falling on the courtyard deepened. The wooden posts and bamboo strips in the fence, the fine branches on different sides of the treetops, all changed accordingly. After watching quietly for a long time, Chen Changsheng finally began to write again, committing the changes he had observed throughout the entire afternoon to the brush tip, turning them into lines on paper that were not precise but represented a certain trend.
By evening, most of the inscriptions on the Zhaoging Stele had been redrawn on his paper.
He knew he was not far from understanding these inscriptions.
At this time, the people lodging in the thatched cottage began to return to the courtyard one after another.
The first to return was Liang Banhu. Chen Changsheng nodded to him in greeting. But Liang Banhu acted as if he hadn't seen him at all, went straight into the kitchen, drank a large ladle of clear water, then walked back to the courtyard. Stepping on the section of fence that Tang Thirty-Six had pushed over the previous evening, he gazed at the sun about to set in the west, his expression a mix of sorrow and joy.
Qi Jian returned to the courtyard next. The youth looked dazed and disoriented. Though he didn't forget to bow to Chen Changsheng in greeting, he nearly bumped his head on the door when entering the house. After a moment, he came back out. For some reason, he began to pace around the courtyard with his head down, muttering to himself, his words unintelligible.
(The next chapter will be out before eleven o'clock.)