Chapter 5: Unmatched in Poetry and Wine

Young Master Pei knelt on the mat, gazing at Miss Wang’s radiant smile, utterly enthralled. Suddenly, he noticed a trickle of drool escaping and hastily wiped it away with his sleeve.

Madam Chen and Huan Heng sat right beside Young Master Pei. Observing his behavior, Madam Chen’s expression was full of disdain.

Madam Chen had been a widow for many years; though no longer young, her allure remained. More importantly, her nature was flirtatious—how could she endure the loneliness of widowhood? Thus, soon after Huan Heng arrived in Huainan, Madam Chen became entangled with him. In recent days, the two were inseparable, as if they wished to share even their trousers.

Madam Chen harbored her own issues. She always craved being the center of everyone’s attention, so seeing Young Master Pei fixated on Miss Wang irked her deeply.

Of course, Miss Wang was not merely a nameless maiden; her name was Wang Siyao.

Wang Siyao’s smile was wise, though within that wisdom lay a hint of exhaustion imperceptible to others. Navigating the treacherous currents between powerful noble clans, she still managed with apparent ease, but she was, after all, a woman. The fate of her family and the nation often left her feeling powerless.

She understood why Huan Heng relentlessly questioned Daoyuan. In recent years, the power of the great clans had grown, arousing the Sima imperial family’s suspicion. After the Battle of Feishui, Xie Xuan’s meritorious service brought him not reward but exclusion. The noble families were hardly ignorant; peace was but a fragile balance, and conflict could ignite at any moment.

Everyone knew the immense influence of Buddhism—a great monk could be as potent as a hundred thousand elite soldiers, to say nothing of the support brought by an entire Buddhist sect. This was why the Wang family spared no expense in trying to win Daoyuan’s allegiance. Yet Daoyuan remained noncommittal, leaving her somewhat disappointed.

But Huan Heng remained oblivious to the deeper reasons. Huan Heng had long studied under Master Huiyuan of Mount Lu, though in truth, this was merely a ploy by the Huan family to strengthen ties with Huiyuan. Huiyuan had yet to fully align with the Huans, and Huan Heng, understanding the shifting balances, was naturally unwilling to let Daoyuan, brought by Miss Wang, rise in influence.

Moreover, Huan Heng knew that both Huiyuan and Daoyuan had studied under Master Dao’an. Even Huiyuan, upon meeting Daoyuan, would address him as elder brother in the Dharma.

Yet Miss Wang paid Huan Heng little heed. His reputation for talent was thin; his vision, though broad, was ultimately shallow—like a clear pool whose bottom could be seen at a glance. If only Huan Xuan were here today… Wang Siyao’s thoughts drifted to that unparalleled, handsome man.

Perhaps only he was her true rival.

Wang Siyao glanced first at Huan Heng, then at Zhang Chi, unable to suppress another gentle smile. She was certain this was the most intriguing monk she had ever met.

At first, Zhang Chi knelt formally, but the posture was unbearable. Soon, he shifted to sit cross-legged, but even that became intolerable after a short while. He was simply too used to chairs. Zhang Chi swore that if he were ever to invent something to make a living here, he would start with chairs.

Three cups of wine down, the alcohol surged to his head. Emboldened, he simply spread his legs and sat openly on the mat. Even so, it was no match for a real chair; every so often, he had to shift his position to find comfort.

“Now that we have drunk,” Huan Heng narrowed his eyes, his face sly, looking at Zhang Chi as though he suffered from hemorrhoids, and sneered, “Just now, I posed three questions to Master Daoyuan, but received no answers. Can you answer them?”

Huan Heng hadn’t even bothered to ask Zhang Chi’s name; though he spoke of seeking advice, his manner was unbearably arrogant.

“It doesn’t matter if you cannot answer. What matters is self-awareness.”

Of course, Zhang Chi couldn’t teach Huan Heng anything—he’d probably read less scripture than Dao Xuan. In fact, even Dao Xuan at the side looked worried for him.

Zhang Chi found it all amusing. At least he had knowledge spanning a thousand years more—if he couldn’t outwit a man of antiquity, his journey through time would have been in vain.

He decided to spout something profound and mysterious to confound his challenger.

“Young Master Huan, well-versed in the classics, must know the story from Zhuangzi—Zhi Bei wandered by the Xuan River and met Wu Weiwei, asking him three times about the Way, but Wu Weiwei did not answer.”

Dao Xuan was wringing his hands in worry for Zhang Chi, but Zhang Chi began to speak.

Huan Heng, a renowned scholar of Jingzhou, had certainly read Zhuangzi, and recognized the story from “Zhuangzi: Zhibei You.” But hearing a monk speak of Zhuangzi rather than the Buddha surprised him: you’re a monk, not a Taoist.

“It was not that he refused to answer, but that he did not know how to answer. This is the meaning of ‘those who know do not speak, those who speak do not know.’” Zhang Chi sipped his wine, nodding his head in the manner of a charlatan.

“The Way that can be spoken is not the eternal Way. Even Laozi declared the Way is beyond words. Are you greater than Laozi? That is why you asked Master Daoyuan three questions, and he gave you no answers.”

His words left Huan Heng speechless.

At this time, the founder of Chan Buddhism, Bodhidharma, had not yet come east, and the later fusion of Chan and Daoist thought was still unknown. Huan Heng wished to argue, but found himself at a loss for words.

Zhang Chi, inwardly amused, decided to press further.

“You ask about the emptiness of Dharma, but why must one argue what is Dharma and what is emptiness? Before there were words, the Way already moved through Heaven and Earth; the ultimate truths of the world do not reside in mere script. Dharma is ultimately without Dharma; emptiness is not truly empty.”

As soon as these words left his lips, the entire gathering was stunned.

Zhang Chi felt that his current smugness must be truly shameless; perhaps he was born to be a charlatan.

Madam Chen, seeing Huan Heng silenced, hastened to his defense—after all, she was his lover. “Ha! Quite a sharp-tongued monk you are. You’re well practiced in sophistry.”

She failed to grasp the profundity of Zhang Chi’s words, nor did she notice the scornful glances from others. Instead, convinced all eyes were upon her, she struck a pose she thought irresistibly seductive.

Perhaps she was too accustomed to contempt.

By contrast, Young Master Pei was shrewder. He understood none of their conversation, content to eat and enjoy himself. Suddenly, he realized the room had fallen silent—only the sounds of his own chewing could be heard. Alarmed, he looked up to see everyone gaping in astonishment, so he spat out his food, straightened, and opened his mouth wider still.

Anyone witnessing his expression would have thought him the most shocked of all.

“Dharma is ultimately without Dharma; emptiness is not truly empty,” Daoyuan murmured, gazing at Zhang Chi.

Hearing the essence of Chan Buddhism for the first time, Daoyuan felt as if a single conversation had surpassed years of study. He pondered aloud, “To take Dharma as Dharma, yet Dharma is ultimately without Dharma; to make emptiness empty, yet emptiness is not truly empty.”

Zhang Chi was uncomfortable under Daoyuan’s intense gaze, thinking he only looked at women with such fervor.

After a moment, Daoyuan approached Zhang Chi, bowed deeply, and with his customary brevity said, “Amitabha.”

Except for Huan Heng, no one doubted the sincerity of Daoyuan’s gesture.

Steeped in Buddhist study for decades, Daoyuan sensed enlightenment within Zhang Chi’s words—almost as if a thin veil separated him from ultimate understanding.

He said, “I beg you, please elaborate.”

Zhang Chi had no idea how to elaborate, and stood silent for a while. Seeing this, Daoyuan pressed again, “Please, do not withhold your teaching. If I may attain the truth, I will be forever grateful.”

Knowing Daoyuan’s reticence, Zhang Chi realized how deeply his words had struck—the man would never repeat himself unless truly moved.

“The Buddha said: Unsayable. To speak is to err,” Zhang Chi replied, feigning a sage’s air.

“In the old days, the Buddha gathered at Vulture Peak, plucked a flower, and said nothing. None understood, save for Kasyapa, who smiled. Thus the story of the flower and the smile.”

He took another drink.

“A flower is a world, a grain of sand an entire universe. Without attachment to words, to transmit the Dharma is to realize one’s own nature and become Buddha.”

Daoyuan stood motionless, thoughtful; after decades of practice, perhaps today was to be his moment of enlightenment.

Huan Heng, red-faced, finally managed to speak, “Absurd! If you do not rely on words, how is the Dharma transmitted? How can you know the meaning of ‘all is empty’ as the sutras declare?”

Zhang Chi ignored him, instead raising a finger to Daoyuan. “Master Daoyuan, tell me, what is this?”

Daoyuan hesitated, but answered, “A finger.”

“You see only my finger, but I refer to what my finger points toward.”

Dao Xuan, following the direction, said, “Wine.”

“Exactly,” Zhang Chi explained. “The ‘emptiness’ spoken of in the sutras is like my finger. What it points to is the true emptiness, but the finger itself is merely a guide, named ‘emptiness’ only by convention.”

Daoyuan, deeply versed in Buddhism, was struck as if awakened from a dream.

After the founder of Chan Buddhism came east, he would use such principles to confound even Huiyuan. Now, before that time, it was Zhang Chi who had left Daoyuan in awe. Inwardly, Zhang Chi found the situation rather amusing.

Huan Heng seethed. The best way to deal with contempt is not to return it, but to ignore it. Now, seeing Zhang Chi disregard his questions and converse only with Daoyuan, his anger boiled over. Without thinking, he snapped, “Mere sophistry!”

“In that case, Young Master, you must surely know what the sutras mean by ‘all is empty’?” Zhang Chi retorted.

“Naturally! I have studied for years under Master Huiyuan. ‘All is empty’ means all things are illusory. If you do not understand emptiness, do not know emptiness means illusion, do not grasp the emptiness of the four elements, how can you speak of the Dharma? And you dare to claim the Dharma is beyond words?”

Zhang Chi only smiled, then replied coolly, “Nonsense.”

Huan Heng, famed in Jingzhou for years, was furious at being thus insulted by a young monk. Now, provoked further, he slapped the table and shouted, “What did you say? I dare you to repeat it!”

Zhang Chi laughed heartily, pointing at Huan Heng, “Since you claim to know the emptiness of the four elements, why not let praise and blame be empty, let attachment be empty, let words be empty, let the very emptiness of the elements be empty?”

Each phrase struck like a hammer, the last blow nearly making Huan Heng choke on his own indignation.

Now, Miss Wang was truly impressed by this young monk. She came over to pour him a drink herself. “Master, your discourse is most enlightening. Forgive my earlier discourtesy. May I ask your Dharma name? And why does Master Dao Xuan address you as layman?”

“My name is Zhang Chi,” he answered honestly. “I am not a monk by ordination—just a commoner from the north, traveling with Master Daoyuan.”

Madam Chen seized the chance to sneer, “So, just a commoner in rough clothes.”

During the Wei and Jin, social hierarchy was everything; even seating was divided by birth. Learning Zhang Chi was of refugee stock, Madam Chen was full of disdain. Many of the scholars present looked on with similar contempt.

Typical snobbery, Zhang Chi thought.

Before and after his journey through time, Zhang Chi cared little for status. Now, feeling the wine’s boldness, he laughed aloud, rose to his feet, wine cup in hand, imitating Cao Zhi’s legendary poetic stride as he recited:

“Has no one heard that beneath the wormwood, there may be the fragrance of orchids? In a thatched hut, there may live a marquis or a king. Wealth and rank—how do they harm me? Poor clothes and simple fare—how do they hinder me? The world admires flowers that do not please my eye; others toil but never trouble my feet. To know contentment is to never be shamed; to know restraint is to never be disgraced. The greatest joy is to have none; the highest praise is to be without fame. The truest wisdom is silent; the highest conduct is endless.”

“What a line! ‘The truest wisdom is silent; the highest conduct is endless!’ Let us drink to this!” Miss Wang, moved by Zhang Chi’s spontaneous verse, could not hide her admiration. In truth, she was rarely impressed—now, she was genuinely won over.

The others, seeing her praise, all raised their cups in invitation. Zhang Chi accepted every toast, draining cup after cup. In the Wei and Jin, heavy drinking was the fashion among scholars, but none had ever seen such prodigious drinking; Miss Wang was even more impressed.

“Today, we have poetry and wine—a rare gathering! Why not add music and dance, so all may delight?” someone suggested to Miss Wang.

Before his journey, Zhang Chi had read widely, especially loving traditional Chinese literature. Now, swaying with intoxication, he suddenly recalled how, in the war-torn Wei and Jin era, scholars lived only for pleasure. He could not help but feel disdain. So, reeling on his feet, he declared, “I have a song.”

All eyes turned to him, as he, face full of sorrow, recited:

“Eighteen stanzas, though the tune is done, the echo lingers and longing knows no end. Thus we know the subtlety of music is the work of creation, sorrow and joy shaped by hearts that change. Hu and Han, foreign lands and ways, heaven and earth divided—son west, mother east. My resentment vast as the sky, the six realms wide yet cannot contain it!”

This was “Eighteen Songs of a Nomad Flute” by Cai Wenji of the Han. All had heard of it, but from Zhang Chi’s lips it was full of heroic and compassionate sorrow. Among the scholars of Wei and Jin, who had ever heard such pathos at a banquet? Even Young Master Pei, on hearing this, felt an unexpected stirring in his heart.

Before anyone could respond, Zhang Chi’s expression changed, and he broke into loud laughter, then recited another immortal poem:

“The guest from Zhao wears a loose Hu cap, Wu sword bright as frost and snow. Silver saddle gleams on his white horse, swift as a shooting star. In ten steps he fells a foe, travels a thousand miles without pause. When the deed is done, he brushes his sleeves—hiding body and name. Leisurely he drinks with Lord Xinling, sword lying across his knee. Sharing a roast with Zhu Hai, toasting with Marquis Ying. Three cups, a promise given, the Five Peaks weigh as nothing. Eyes dazed, ears hot—boldness surges like a purple rainbow. Saving Zhao, he swings his golden hammer; Handan trembles first. For a thousand years, the two heroes are famed in Liang. Even in death, the bones of knights are fragrant, never shamed among the world’s worthies. Who can inscribe beneath your name, the secret texts of the Supreme Mystery in old age?”

All present were deeply moved.

Poetry and wine—there was no other way to describe Zhang Chi.

Wang Siyao, for once, was at a loss for words.