ay in and day out, life in the jianghu is fraught with peril, enough to wear on out. Sometimes it's nice to think of a better future...

Day In and Day Out

Wu Yongsheng

By the seventh cup of wine, Fang Zhu’s vision was getting blurry. “Yue’er, let’s retire from the glint and flash of cold steel of the jianghu to some unknown place. Let’s build a house close to the mountains, a natural building constructed stone by stone from the dark mountain rocks, and we won’t paint it up or adorn it in any way. We’ll let the stones keep their jagged edges, and even if the top becomes overgrown with dark moss, we’ll just let it stay there.

“We’ll reclaim a spot of land in front of the house and use most of it to grow wheat and rice, and with what’s left over we’ll grow beans and vegetables. During the day we’ll work in the fields, the wheat seedlings at our side, undulating in the wind, the breeze carrying the sweet fragrance to stir our hearts. The insects all singing together in low voices, birds chirping, flitting from this branch to that branch, then back again. And sometimes, one of them will fly over and rest a bit on the end of our hoe. Its little round black eyes checking us out, not afraid at all. They’re our friendly neighbors, well disposed toward others. When it comes to harmony and virtue, they understand better than people!

“In the courtyard we’ll have a group of chickens leisurely clucking about, using their hard beaks to dig out insects or pluck up grains of wheat. The cock will lead them, strutting about like a pompous general, possessing many wives and concubines, sons and daughters.

“Under the eaves several cats leaping up and jumping down. You can hear their meows from far away. One of them will be a tomcat, with black fur like satin, and he’ll mate with a gray tabby, and all the other cats around will be their offspring. The gray cat will stick close to the ground, occasionally turning to nip at the black cat’s neck fur…”

The candlelight in the inn flickered, reflecting off the contours of Fang Zhu’s face. Ling Yue’er held Fang Zhu’s hand lightly, her eyes like cold night stars in the candlelight. Whenever Fang Zhu drinks, he always goes on like this. How many times now? Because for one who lives by the sword, a normal, common life is only a broken dream.

“In the early morning we’ll go outside, screened in by mountains on all sides, sunlight reflecting off the dew, cutting in through the hazy dawn mist. In front, a field of newly turned earth, black and shiny. On the ridges between fields, dark green grass, and within, buckwheat blooming red as chicken blood. In the distance, a large grove of trees, mixed with eucalyptus and toona. In the evenings a thin layer of fog will drift in. In the courtyard we’ll sit in bamboo chairs and use plantain or winter mulberry leaves to make a pot of tea, leaves we picked ourselves. The evening breeze will glide through the wheat field, sending the essence of those green shoots straight into our hearts. Stars will fill the sky, resplendent as leopard spots spread out above us. Crickets and locusts in the thick grass chirping, accompanied by the croaking of frogs, and the wind coiling through the grove, rustling the leaves.

“Then it’s raining. We’ll sit under the eaves and watch the raindrops fall in front of us like a curtain of glittering, translucent pearls and just tune out the world, the distant mountains only a vague dark shadow. The courtyard will be saturated with water. Raindrops will fall and splash like shining white blooms, ripples continuously crashing into one another. Maybe we’ll see a person in rain cape and bamboo hat coming this way down a small trail.”

Fang Zhu leaned in and brushed the tip of his ice cold nose against Ling Yue’er’s hair. “Yue’er, we’ll have a lot of kids, a whole mess of them. We’ll teach them well.”

Ling Yue’er whispered, “Will we teach them Greater and Lesser Dashing Wind?”

“No. No. Absolutely, not. Since Master transmitted to us the Greater and Lesser Dashing Wind Swordplay we’ve become more and more entrenched in the life of the jianghu. Everyone calls us ‘Day In and Day Out.’ Greater and Lesser Dashing Wind, we use those skills day in and day out. For ten years, in order to maintain Dashing Wind’s reputation, we haven’t been able to relax. I’m really tired of it. Yue’er, our two swords weigh forty or fifty catties, enough metal to make several hoes.

“We’ll teach our children to differentiate the seasons, when to plant crops and when to harvest them. We’ll teach them to write poetry to please themselves, but we absolutely will not make them adhere to the dogmatic and rigid rules that produce that dogshit official writing. Our children won’t seek official posts. A career as an official is more dangerous than a life among the jianghu. In the jianghu, if you have revenge to take or gratitude to repay, you just do it. But in the realm of officials it’s words and deceitful maneuvers that kill. We can teach them to play the bamboo flute. That will not only mold their temperament, it will ease the soul as well. Resting at the edge of the field, accompanied by a little music—the weariness will just fly away without a trace…”

From outside the window a shadow appeared, along with a faint sound. Fang Zhu shot to his feet and drew his sword, light reflecting off the blade like a pool of limpid autumn water. “Who’s there?” A crash of the table overturning…

Ling Yue’er caught Fang Zhu’s hand. “Brother, it’s only a cat!”

Fang Zhu’s head slumped. “Only a cat… just a cat. I’m really drunk…”

When good and drunk, we can build our home…

A single tear trailed down Ling Yue’er’s cheek and fell quietly.

~*~

Originally published, along with other short stories on this site, such as Flickering Flame and Whirling Snow, in an issue of the Chinese wuxia magazine 《今古传奇·武侠版》 (Legends Old and New: Wuxia Edition)

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