Chapter Fourteen: Pancakes

Zhang Yue chased after his brother, watching as his silhouette faded into the distance and finally disappeared by the stream.

“Hard to leave home, isn’t it?” The old teacher chuckled behind Zhang Yue.

To such a teacher, Zhang Yue felt little genuine respect, merely nodding in response.

Guo the Scholar wasn’t offended, muttering to himself, “When Yao ruled the world, the thatch on his roof was untrimmed, and the beams unhewn.”

With the knowledge of a modern high school graduate, Zhang Yue couldn’t quite grasp Guo’s meaning; he could only guess that it referred to Yao, the ancient emperor, living in simple dwellings, mere thatched huts.

Guo called out into the yard, “Lame Boy!”

A servant entered, limping with one leg longer than the other, saying nothing, standing with his head bowed.

Guo instructed, “Take him to the right room, tidy it up; he’ll be living there from now on.”

The servant stood before Zhang Yue, whose uneasy gaze fell upon the man’s unwashed face, clearly untouched for months.

How could a scholar, too poor to feed himself, afford a servant? The world never ceases to surprise.

Zhang Yue followed the servant to the rightmost hut, where a young man was bent over his desk, reading. At his arrival, the youth stood and greeted him.

Zhang Yue glanced at him; his features bore a resemblance to Guo the Scholar. Remembering the woman’s call of “Lin’er,” Zhang Yue wondered if this was Guo’s son.

“You’re Zhang Yue, right?” Guo Lin greeted him. “From now on, we’ll study together as classmates.”

“Alright,” Zhang Yue replied.

The hut was exceedingly sparse—barely any proper bedding, just two bamboo beds and two tables made of pine, leaving little space.

Untrimmed thatch, unhewn beams—indeed.

Zhang Yue felt like he was living the plight described in Du Fu’s “Song of the Thatched Cottage Ruined by Autumn Winds.”

The mountain wind tugged at the torn paper pasted to the window lattice, rustling softly. Zhang Yue could only stare speechlessly at the humble conditions.

He dropped his bag onto the bamboo bed, which creaked loudly. Evidently, the bed, like the lame servant, was missing a leg.

Guo Lin noticed and quickly grabbed a tool to prop up the bed.

“Why isn’t this bed against the wall? Why not move it to the side? Why does it stand crookedly in the middle?” Zhang Yue couldn’t help but ask.

Guo Lin could only smile awkwardly.

After the chores, Guo Lin smiled at Zhang Yue, “It’s not as comfortable as home at first, but you’ll get used to it in a few days. Father usually teaches me alone, but now I have a study companion, and we can learn from each other. You’re from the city, so your learning must be excellent; I’ll need your guidance.”

“Not at all,” Zhang Yue replied gloomily.

Thunder rolled in as evening approached, and a sudden rain swept the mountains. The downpour, mingled with the earthy scent, wafted into the hut.

“Not a dry spot by the leaking roof, rain pours like threads never ceasing”—the thatched hut was indeed leaky. Guo Lin nimbly placed several clay basins around Zhang Yue’s bed to catch the water.

Watching the rain fall precisely into the basins, avoiding the bed, Zhang Yue finally understood why his bamboo bed was placed crookedly in the center. He could only stare in silence.

Guo Lin noticed Zhang Yue’s gaze and reminded him, “Go to the water jar in the hall and use the gourd ladle to drink; don’t drink from the basins.”

Did he think I was eyeing the basins because I’m thirsty? Damn it!

Zhang Yue replied weakly, “Thank you, brother.”

He formed a preliminary impression of his senior: honest, earnest, probably dull.

Soon, Guo’s wife brought two steaming bowls of rice porridge, handing one to Zhang Yue and one to Guo Lin. The watery porridge needed no explanation—it was what Zhang Yue had brought that day.

“What’s for dinner?” Zhang Yue asked offhandedly.

“Dinner?” Guo Lin, sipping his porridge in small mouthfuls, looked up in surprise.

Covering his face, Zhang Yue realized: only two meals a day. His austere days as a student had truly begun.

Guo did not skimp; Guo Lin ate and lived as he did, both with the same watery porridge. As for the lame servant, Zhang Yue saw him huddled by the wall, drinking porridge that was nothing but water.

Zhang Yue still couldn’t understand: how could Guo, so poor, keep a servant?

He hadn’t eaten his fill, and for all his years—two lifetimes—this was the first time he truly felt the pangs of hunger.

Mountain rain comes swiftly and leaves just as quickly. Moments ago, clouds covered the sky; now the rain had stopped and the clouds dispersed.

Feeling stifled, Zhang Yue left the hut, wandering down to the stream.

The scent of earth lingered after the rain. The full moon climbed over the mountain, casting silvery light through the pine forest onto Zhang Yue.

The cold stream water beat ceaselessly against the stones. He gazed at the moon reflected in the water, thoughts swirling. If he followed the stream, he might find his way back to the county town, to his family.

At that moment, homesickness overwhelmed him—he missed his brother and Qiu’er, loneliness flooding his heart. The urge to sneak home lingered, but in the end, Zhang Yue turned back toward the hut.

Guo Lin sat at the pine table, reading by lamplight. His “books” were actually bamboo paper from Jianyang, copied from others for reading.

Zhang Yue noticed Guo Lin’s handwriting was elegant, the scrolls unmarred by ink stains—a testament to years of diligent study.

Seeing this, Zhang Yue gained a little confidence in Guo the Scholar.

As Zhang Yue approached, Guo Lin grew shy and awkward. Zhang Yue understood; when he used to write essays, he disliked being watched before finishing.

He wandered to the side, listening to the scattered rain drip into the clay basins.

“Is it alright to urinate in the basin at night?”

Guo Lin grew flustered. “Did you know, brother?”

How could I not? I’ve been there myself.

Zhang Yue laughed, lay down, and pulled out the blanket brought from home. As he did, a small, heavy pouch fell out.

Zhang Yue glanced at Guo Lin, who remained absorbed in his studies. Turning away, Zhang Yue opened the pouch—it held more than a string of coins.

No need to guess; it was left by his brother!

His eyes grew moist as he carefully hid the pouch.

Mountains, rain, pines, hut, lone lamp—all blended together, fermenting new feelings. Unconsciously, Zhang Yue drifted to sleep.

In the middle of the night, he woke angrily to swat mosquitoes—blood smeared with every slap! Guo Lin, meanwhile, slept soundly.

Are these mountain mosquitoes picking on me? Only biting me!

Fuming, Zhang Yue went to Guo Lin’s basin, checked the water in the moonlight—yellowish, pungent. He rummaged around Guo Lin’s bed, muttering, “Where is it? Where is it?”

Finally, he found half a leftover cake by Guo Lin’s side.

“I knew you’d get hungry reading so late,” Zhang Yue said, biting into the cake.

“What a lousy cake, dry as dust, no flavor at all.” He finished it in a few bites, feeling his stomach settle.

The next morning, Zhang Yue was awakened by the sound of recitation.

He dressed and stepped outside; dawn had barely broken, yet the grass hut was already filled with children.

Guo the Scholar was teaching them to recite the classics.

Zhang Yue watched as Guo paced slowly, hands behind his back, shuffling his wooden clogs, eyes closed as he recited in a measured tone.

The clogs’ dragging sound mingled with the scholar’s rhythmic chanting, forming a unique cadence. Only a few children followed along seriously.

One child mimicked Guo’s head-shaking, prompting laughter from the others.

Guo glanced over, unfazed, continuing his recitation.

Zhang Yue paused to listen, at first amused, but soon bored, and wandered away.

He strolled around, finding a hollow behind the pines, dotted with a hundred houses, and beyond that, fields encircled by the stream.

Pucheng: seven mountains, two waters, one field—few fields, many people. Even in the remotest mountain, wherever the land is somewhat flat, there are homes.

“All the land under heaven is tilled, yet farmers still starve”—how true.

Zhang Yue reclined on a large stone, hands behind his head, gazing at the sky. He mused that Guo the Scholar lacked the authority of a true teacher, unable to discipline his students. No wonder none of them amounted to much. Perhaps, like his brother, their parents were simply after the cheap tuition.

Three years with such a teacher—one might learn a few more characters, but likely couldn’t write a decent essay, much less escape these mountains. Yet, for an ordinary person, living a life in such an unworldly village isn’t so bad. Life doesn’t always need to be about success—like the carefree clouds in these mountains.

But the thought left Zhang Yue restless.

He rose and walked down the mountain; at the village’s edge, there was only a food shop. He bought some sweet flower cakes, tucked them away, and returned to the hut.

Guo taught until mid-morning, after which the children left to help with farm chores. Guo came to the east room to test Zhang Yue’s knowledge.

“Recite the Hundred Family Surnames,” he said.

For Zhang Yue, who had studied for three years, this was easy; he recited fluently.

Afterward, Guo corrected several mispronunciations.

He then tested Zhang Yue on the Thousand Character Classic.

After reciting, Guo quizzed him on several allusions. Zhang Yue could only answer from the original owner’s memory—some he knew, some he didn’t.

Guo patiently explained the references, then said, “Though you recite well, you don’t grasp the meaning. Without understanding, the writing is empty.”

“Copy the Thousand Character Classic, writing as you go. Tomorrow, I’ll test you again.”

Zhang Yue thought, copying is copying—since when do teachers consult students? He agreed, and Guo shuffled off in his clogs.

Zhang Yue lamented, “I came to study the classics, not to recite the Thousand Character Classic. Well, I’ll sleep first.”

He lay on the bamboo bed and slept until dusk. Guo Lin was already at the desk, reading by lamplight.

“Good evening, brother!”

“Mm… Suit yourself.”

Night had fallen, and among the three huts, only Zhang Yue and Guo Lin’s room glowed with a solitary lamp—extravagant indeed.

Zhang Yue recalled a poem: “Growing old, ambition fades; riding a thin horse along the long road. In the lonely village, lamps burn till dawn—someone surely studies late into the night.”

In these times, only scholars would dare light a lamp at night. Thus, financial aid was aptly called “lamp oil money.” No wonder ancient scholars disliked daytime naps; if you don’t study during daylight, must you burn oil reading at night? What a waste!

Zhang Yue remembered he hadn’t finished his assignment, so he placed a stack of bamboo paper on the table, sitting opposite Guo Lin to copy by lamplight.

Guo Lin asked cautiously, “Brother, last night… the cake by my bed…”

“Hmm?” Zhang Yue raised an eyebrow, continuing to write.

“I didn’t mean to exclude you… I saved some spare coins, so I’d have a cake to eat while studying late. I still have some, tonight we can…”

Zhang Yue, pen in hand, pulled a large oil-paper packet from his pocket and tossed it at Guo Lin.

Guo Lin scrambled to catch it. “What’s this?”

Zhang Yue smiled, “I ate your cake last night—tonight, it’s my treat!”

Guo Lin’s expression was complicated.

“…And last night, the urine in my bedside basin…”

“It wasn’t me!”