Chapter Twelve: His Name Is Zha Wenbin

Inside the infant’s basket was a letter, one that Ma Sufeng had never found the time to open. After Li Lao’er left, he finally unfolded it and read: this child was born to an ordinary family, but the recurring famines had left them unable to raise her, so they abandoned her by the roadside, hoping a kind soul would take her in and raise her well. The letter included the child’s birth date. Ma Sufeng calculated it with his fingers and felt a surge of ominous energy—this child’s birth chart was composed entirely of the yin elements. He was startled: could this be the very child he had searched for months to find?

In the northwest of Zhejiang, in An County, there was a village called Wulipu, about ten miles from Hong Village. There lived a family with the surname Zha, a couple who farmed for a living—the husband was honest, the wife virtuous, yet after more than a decade of marriage, they remained childless.

One dawn, as the sky was just beginning to lighten, the husband rose early to head to the fields, while his wife stayed home making rice cakes for lunch. Someone knocked at the door. When she opened it, a stranger was standing outside.

The man held a basket in his hand, and inside slept a baby, hungrily sucking at her tiny fingers. Seeing this, the farmer’s wife hurriedly welcomed them in. The stranger also carried a cloth sack on his back, which he set down in the courtyard, saying, “Sister, I have a child here, and a bit of grain in the sack. Could you make some rice porridge for the baby? She must be starving.”

When the couple lifted the cloth from the basket, they gasped—the child had large, bright eyes, long lashes, and rosy cheeks, an exceptionally adorable little face. They were instantly fond of her.

After being fed half a bowl of rice porridge, the baby soon fell into a deep sleep to the gentle sounds of the woman soothing her. Only then did Ma Sufeng pull the husband aside and say, “I am a wandering monk, a rough man at that. This child was found abandoned—I fear I cannot raise her properly. Would you and your wife be willing to take her in?”

The couple was overjoyed and readily agreed, asking the man to name the child.

Ma Sufeng, noting the child’s delicate features and the heroic aura between her brows, said, “I hope this child will grow up to be accomplished in both the civil and martial arts. Let’s give her the character ‘Bin’ for martial valor, but let her be more learned than martial, so add ‘Wen’ for literature. Let her be called Wenbin.”

The Star of Calamity, accompanied by the Pillar of Disaster and Death, brings doom to spouses and children, loss of father and wife, hardship in marriage, a lonely old age, estrangement from kin, misfortune for friends, and a lifetime spent in solitude. Even if there are benefactors amid the pillars, suffering and wounds are inescapable.

Since the child was not born to the Zha couple, she did not count among their six closest kin. Ma Sufeng reasoned it would be best to find such a household to adopt her, so that when she reached her teens, he could take her as his disciple and use Daoist methods to dispel the ominous energy in her fate.

The next day, the village received word that the grand campaign of “catching up with England and surpassing America” by smelting steel had come to an end. The focus of life shifted back to grain production and restoring social order. Thus, the people of Hong Village ceased their search for iron lumps, and the very spot where the child had been found collapsed the next day. The mountain cliff crumbled halfway down, burying half of the general’s temple at its base.

From then on, Ma Sufeng settled in the Wulipu area, building a grass hut and keeping his identity hidden. Aside from drinking wine, he lived on coarse tea and plain food, no different from any other farmer.

I was born two months apart from Zha Wenbin. It’s said that when I was born, my grandfather held his old almanac and insisted on checking my birth chart to choose a name that matched. My father had no patience for such superstitions and ignored him. It so happened that the night I was born, there was thunder and lightning outside and a torrential downpour. My father looked at the sky and said, “Born on a rainy day—let’s call him Summer Rain.”

When my grandfather heard this, he was beside himself with worry. He said that my fate was already surrounded by water, and if my name included “rain,” I would be doomed to disaster. My father, however, wouldn’t be swayed and retorted, “He’s my son, I make the decisions. His name is Summer Rain!”

Grandfather had no way to argue, stamping his feet in frustration and pointing at my father, “One day, you’ll regret this. This name will bring disaster upon my grandson!”

Every time dusk fell, the village women would run through the lanes, shouting at the top of their lungs, “It’s raining! It’s raining! Hurry home and bring in the laundry!” Whenever this happened, I would dash outside and shout back to the village, “Hey, who’s calling me?”

In childhood, I had no dealings with Zha Wenbin. I only knew there was a mad Taoist in the neighboring Wulipu who often passed through Hong Village to buy wine. As children, my friends and I would sometimes throw stones at him as he passed. He never blamed us, but Uncle Li from the village would always chase us away, then respectfully escort the Taoist home.

The summer I turned seven, it rained for a month straight. The river swelled and flooded the road. After liberation, a reservoir had been built upstream, but it couldn’t withstand the deluge and burst its banks. The floodwaters surged down, and with them, the collectively farmed fish escaped from the reservoir—some of the big catfish were as large as children.

My house was on high ground, with a tea field out front. Beyond the tea garden was a two-meter drop, and then the river embankment. When the reservoir burst, the water rose into our tea field. Standing at the door, I remember seeing a huge fish washed into the tea bushes, thrashing among the leaves.

I couldn’t resist such temptation. Barefoot, I ran after the fish, trying to catch it by hand. The fish, alive, naturally tried to escape. In the turbulent, muddy water, the current was so swift that the fish, used to calm waters, nearly suffocated and floated near the surface. The fish darted ahead, its dark back exposed, and I chased after it, unable to distinguish road from river in the flood.

All I remember is stumbling and suddenly sinking underwater.

What happened next is mostly a blur. I know that about a kilometer downstream, someone fished me out with a net—they said they thought I was a big fish. After much pressing on my chest, I revived and was saved, though I never got the chance to thank my rescuer.

Some things are just like that—destined by fate, beyond explanation. The man who saved me was swept away by the flood the very next day, and his body was never found. I only remember his name was Afar.

To my father, my fall into the river was just an accident, but to my grandfather, it was a calamity foretold.

Grandfather said he had calculated my fate: in my seventh year, an accident would befall me, most likely involving water. He said I was meant to die that day, but the man who saved me took my place, repaying a debt from a past life. If I didn’t change my name, there would be another disaster in seven years.

As a child, I found his words superstitious but oddly convincing.

Though my father scoffed, deep down he was shaken. He changed my name to Summer Memory.

Many people found it strange that my rough-hewn father would give me such an elegant name. In truth, he only did it for appearances. In the local dialect, “Summer Rain” and “Summer Memory” sound almost identical—this was my father’s way of continuing his battle with his own father. At least, when he called me, he could still say “Summer Rain” without losing face.

By the time I reached school age, the village had built a new school on the site of the old Qi family house, which had burned down. The land had been leveled, the bright red flag of the nation fluttered from the central pole, and the row of classrooms with their black tile roofs and half-white, half-green walls echoed with the sound of students reciting lessons, making people forget the tragedy that had once happened there.

The location of a school often carries meaning. Though this was an era of atheism, many buildings were still sited according to the principles of feng shui. The location of Hong Village Primary School was chosen by my grandfather, who was the only person in the village close to Uncle Li—a solitary, childless, thin old man. They often played chess and chatted together; sometimes the mad Taoist would join them. It was said there were things buried beneath Hong Village—some claimed an emperor was entombed here, others spoke of a long-lost palace. But in those days, people cared most about food; such legends were only topics for idle conversation.

Although my father and grandfather had a poor relationship, my grandfather was still highly respected in Hong Village. In those days, whether it was building a house or digging a grave, people always sought his advice. He even planned the layout of the entire village.

He chose that location for the school because he hoped the aura of learning would dispel the darkness of the past tragedy. The spot was also at the village’s center and shouldn’t be left to ruin.

Rural people valued tradition, and there were many taboos about places where people had died. Building a school there brought life and laughter, and in time, the past was forgotten.

If you ask around, you’ll find that most old schools, especially those built after the founding of the nation, stand on sites that were once mass graves or execution grounds.

My father was a veteran, wounded in the war, and in those days his status would have been respected. When he returned home, the county assigned him a job as a cashier at the supply cooperative—a good position at the time. But my father was a man of integrity and couldn’t stand the corruption of the officials there. After a fight with the director, he was dismissed.

Our home, the house my father built, stood on a small hill at the eastern edge of the village. Mountains surrounded it on three sides, with a wide, flat area in the middle. From a distance, the hill looked like a great armchair, and our house sat right at its center.

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