Chapter Forty-Six: Folding Wings and Retracting Claws—Endurance

Chapter Forty-Six: Folding Wings, Hiding Claws, and Enduring

Tongzi was not a person with a rebellious spirit. Even though his whole family lived like beasts of burden, he never had the courage to defy his father's authority.

People like Tongzi were plentiful in the Song Dynasty, too many to count. Their ancestors toiled their whole lives like cattle or horses, then passed what little they had amassed on to their descendants, who dared not slacken but labored dutifully in turn, hoping only to leave a greater inheritance to their own children when their time came.

This way of life had persisted on this land for thousands of years. Of course, the greatest threat always came from the fear of hunger. Because this fear was so deeply rooted, the older generation would habitually drink thin porridge even when there was surplus grain at home.

They believed, quite simply, that if they took one less mouthful, their descendants would have one more. In the Song, many family fortunes were thus accumulated, bit by painstaking bit, becoming models for the less fortunate—examples to strive toward, inspiring many more to embark on the same arduous journey.

Though Tie Xinyuan's family and the Tong family were neighbors, door to door, and Tie Xinyuan often sat on a small bench at his threshold watching the world outside, he rarely saw Tongban. And even when he did, Tongban was always in the same state—aproned, face smudged with soot, five fingers like charred sticks gripping the doorframe as he called for Tongzi to get to work.

There was no need to search for Tongzi; aside from the abandoned garden, he went nowhere else. His world was that small, and life in the abandoned garden was something he longed for, something he said he dreamed of.

When Tie Xinyuan arrived at the garden, he found Tongzi as happy as a bird, climbing trees, raiding empty nests—though it was autumn and the nests were long deserted, he still scrambled from tree to tree with undiminished enthusiasm.

It was clear he had bathed thoroughly—no telling how long he spent, but the coal-black grime in the folds of his skin was gone, proof of how much he despised his days at the printing workshop.

This was the real Tongzi, Tie Xinyuan thought with a touch of melancholy. Years of hard labor had forged a body of steel; though only fourteen, his bronzed muscles gleamed with beauty in the sunlight.

Tie Xinyuan did not intend to send Tongzi back just yet. If he returned now, he would never again have the courage to escape the printing workshop. To give him a stretch of happiness, to prolong these days as much as possible, was worth a lifetime of remembrance for Tongzi.

Tie Xinyuan believed that time was the sharpest weapon in the world—not only could it fade beauty and whiten the hair of generals, it could also erode a person's courage. Tongzi was relying on a moment's youthful recklessness, but given time, his father's looming shadow would surely drag him back into the dark, damp, acrid-smelling workshop that was his fate.

Compared to the abandoned garden, the printing workshop was his destiny and his life.

Yang Huaiyu was practicing with the broadsword, performing the eight military forms. These were ordinary movements, but every soldier tasked with shield and blade in the army was required to master them. To call them swordsmanship was a stretch—they were simply the most basic cuts, chops, lifts, swings, slashes, blocks, thrusts, and strikes. Yet these ordinary motions had been passed down unchanged since the broadsword was first wielded in battle.

Yang Huaiyu was very familiar with these forms, executing them in one smooth flow. To Tie Xinyuan's eye, they were already flawless. Yet the chubby old veteran bellowed curses, scolding Yang for wielding his blade like a courtesan in a brothel trying to entice a patron.

Sweat poured from Yang Huaiyu's nose, chin, and neck, sometimes flying in all directions when he shook his head.

As for Xiao Qiao and the others training nearby, there was little of note. Each gripped an oversized wooden mallet, driving sharpened logs into the ground. With every blow, they exhaled and shouted—though perhaps after too much time at their work, their shouts had grown as soft as a kitten's mewl.

This was the right environment, the right atmosphere. Seeing his friends—some enjoying themselves, others suffering—Tie Xinyuan felt content and went off to find the pigs. This was a daunting task, one only he could accomplish.

When it came to raising pigs, there was a large herd across from the building under construction. These pigs belonged to the Butchers' Guild. They bought fat hogs from the countryside, fattened them further with fine feed, and then slaughtered them to sell to those in Bianjing who had acquired a taste for pork.

The Tie family bought a large pig every day, making them good customers in the eyes of the Guild. Many in the city were still reluctant to eat pork, but since the Tie family's noodle shop began selling delicious pork dishes, more and more people had acquired the habit.

After all, compared to expensive beef or mutton—which was gamy and needed costly spices to mask its flavor—pork was much more suited to the tastes of the city folk. In the past, it had been a lack of proper cooking methods that kept pork from being appreciated. Now that the Tie family had perfected their recipes, the Butchers' Guild valued their business all the more.

Ever since the local gang leader had been skewered with an iron bar, the Butchers' Guild had taken over the West Water Gate completely. Their fees were low, and they charged the Tie family nothing at all. So when Tie Xinyuan came to the pigpens, they were delighted.

The Tie family consisted of a widow and her orphaned son; naturally, it was inappropriate for a woman to come to these filthy pens, so it was best to send the boy.

"Uncle Liang, my mother says winter is approaching and more people are eating pork. So starting tomorrow, we’ll need one and a half fat pigs delivered to the shop daily," Tie Xinyuan said.

Liang laughed heartily. "Business is good, then? Glad news! When your family's business prospers, mine does too. All right, tell your mother, starting tomorrow, I'll send one and a half cleaned and dressed pigs each day. Still want the three-finger-thick pork belly?"

Tie Xinyuan nodded with a smile, then, a little embarrassed, pointed to the pigpens behind him.

Old Liang burst out laughing. "I can’t understand it—a clean, scholarly lad like you, why do you like looking at pigs?"

He waved Tie Xinyuan on to do as he wished.

The pigs, seeing Tie Xinyuan arrive, surged forward, flaring their nostrils and shoving their snouts toward him. He took out a small bamboo tube wrapped in leather and sprayed each pig’s nose, then leaned on the fence to observe their reactions.

It was said that pigs' genes were similar to humans', so lately, Tie Xinyuan had been conducting little experiments on them. Since mushroom powder affected people, it should work on pigs too.

Today, the dosage was clearly too high. Usually, the pigs just became a bit lethargic, but today they were agitated, snorting and pacing, some even butting their heads against the gate.

Tie Xinyuan knew well that too much mushroom powder could be fatal to humans, but a lethal dose was huge—about the same as mixing a pound of arsenic into someone's meal. Thus, for poisoning, mushroom powder was far less effective than arsenic.

But if one's goal was to impair a person's mind, mushroom powder was the perfect choice, its main component likely a neurotoxin.

The pigs banged against the bars until old Liang came running to see, and, finding them ill-tempered, he beat them with a stick until they scattered.

Tie Xinyuan sighed, bid farewell to Liang, and returned to the shop. He stayed there all day so that if trouble arose, he would be the first to know.

When he got back, the shady middleman with the mismatched shoes was there again, sitting with his mother at a table. The man looked displeased, evidently having been rebuffed once more.

Seeing Tie Xinyuan, the middleman said coldly, "Even if you don't think of yourself, you ought to consider your son's future."

Tie Xinyuan smiled and retorted, "No need. I'm grown now. My mother doesn't have to worry about me. I know all those beggars and crooks in the alleys—if anything happens, they'll tell me at once."

The middleman was at a loss for words.

Tie Xinyuan went on, "I've even given some nameless swordsmen a bit of silver. If anything really happens to me, they'll come to you for an explanation. If they can't find you, they'll go to your wife and children. I asked—they said that's fine, and even gave me their underworld nicknames as guarantee."

The color drained from the man's face. He got up. "What has this to do with me?"

Tie Xinyuan grinned. "You're the only one I know."

The man's expression changed dramatically. He turned and left, only realizing as he passed the Sweetwater Well that his hasty retreat might seem suspicious.

Bianjing was full of all sorts, and if anything was both most precious and most worthless, it was human life. It was never hard to hire a desperate gambler for a string of cash, nor to find a swordsman to risk his neck if you had the money. But families like the Tie's—who would rather perish themselves than let their enemies go unpunished—were rare indeed.

The middleman was an old hand. The longer one lived in the underworld, the more cautious one became. He had seen too many impossible things unfold before his very eyes. That was why veterans never gambled with their lives—they knew what the stakes truly were.

ps: I’m about to take a ride to Hangzhou, so I’m finishing today’s work first. Thank you all for your support—you are my dearest readers. With gratitude, Jieyu.