The boy stared at her intensely without saying a word.
Song Chuyi could vaguely sense his mood – he probably thought she had tricked him into giving her food earlier, so that she could at least die with a full stomach.
“I’m just checking my appearance. Why are you causing trouble?” Song Chuyi waved her hand. “Don’t just stand there like a block of wood. Come over and help me up.”
As if trying to discern whether her words were true or false, the boy hesitated for a long while before finally stirring and helping her up from the ground.
He was injured. Earlier, he had been on high alert, so the pain hadn’t affected him much. But now that he seemed to have reached a place he deemed relatively safe, his body relaxed – and the pain became markedly more pronounced. His movements were unsteady, and it took great effort to help Song Chuyi back to where she had been sitting.
“Hey, what’s your name?” Song Chuyi settled into the pile of hay. After waiting a moment and seeing that the young man showed no sign of answering, she said, “A name is a precious gift from one’s elders. If you have one, then speak it. You are a man – why hide it like a thief?”
In this world, not everyone was entitled to a name. A name signified status; only those of a certain standing were qualified to possess one. Since this boy was clearly no ordinary rustic living in the wilds, he must have a name.
“Zhao,” the boy said, pulling a few wild fruits from his bosom. He rubbed them against the hay and tossed one to Song Chuyi.
“Your lineage name?” Song Chuyi asked.
In the pre-Qin period, surname and lineage name did not mean the same thing. Surname denoted one’s maternal lineage – originally determined by the matriarchal clan and passed down thereafter, unchangeable. Lineage name, on the other hand, was a marker of one’s family branch and could change according to the family’s fortunes. There were no fixed rules for surname: some took it from their ducal house and called themselves Gongsun; some adopted their official posts as lineage name, such as Sima or Sikong; and some used their fiefs as lineage name, like Han, Zhao, and so on.
In short, the lowborn had a surname but no lineage name; only the noble enjoyed both a surname and a lineage. Song Chuyi asked this question only to ascertain the boy’s origins.
“I don’t know,” the boy said, biting into a wild fruit. The sour juice seeped into the wound on his lip, making him wince in pain.
His appearance stirred the last trace of warmth deep in Song Chuyi’s heart. Once upon a time, she had been in a situation so similar to this boy’s. “Do you have a given name?”
Late-autumn fruits were precious – though sour or overripe, winter was approaching, which meant a whole winter and spring would pass before any wild fruits could be gathered again. The boy focused intently on eating his fruit and gave only a slight shake of his head.
Song Chuyi held out the fruit in her hand and returned it to him. “How about I give you a name?”
The boy’s gaze first fell on the wild fruit she was offering back to him. Surprised, he then looked up at Song Chuyi. Everyone fought one another for a single bite of food; had he not been stronger than most, he would have long since perished in the wilderness. No one ever gave away food they had already gotten their hands on.
“Leaning by the tower, listening to wind and rain, watching the road of the realm with a detached eye – Zhao Yilou.” Song Chuyi held the same posture and asked him with a smile. [1]
Many years later, when the boy looked back, he realized he hadn’t understood the meaning of those words at all. He only thought that the gesture of her returning the fruit to him was kind. In the autumn sunlight, upon that plain face, the goodwill she offered – he liked it very much.
“Good.” He quickly snatched the fruit from Song Chuyi’s hand, as if afraid she might change her mind.
Leaning by the tower, listening to wind and rain, watching the road of the realm with a detached eye. Song Chuyi lay back in the hay, sighed, closed her eyes, and continued to rest.
Leaning by the tower, listening to the sound of wind and rain, feeling that the affairs of the world were so mundane – this was Song Chuyi’s state of mind at that very moment.
She had seen her reflection in the lake earlier. Coupled with what had happened last night, even if taking poison had addled her brain, she should by now be able to guess what had transpired.
There was a moment of shock. But the way of heaven moves in cycles, and all things have their causes and effects. For matters that would never bear fruit, it was not worth wasting one’s mind on pursuing them.
Song Chuyi turned over, rubbed her aching waist where she had fallen, and drifted off into a daze.
In her haze, she could hear a rustling sound – the boy was piling hay over her. A faint warmth stirred in her heart, and she fell asleep to that sound.
In her dream, she saw Yang City, engulfed in the flames of war.
Amid a furious blizzard, everyone moved with clumsy sluggishness. Standing atop the city wall was a tall, slender figure in a loose grey robe and a black cloak. His features were the same as ever – even the habitual furrow between his brows was there, just as it had always been.
Song Chuyi trod through the snow, walking slowly to stand beside him, and looked down at the battle beneath the city walls in silence. After a while, she suddenly let out a soft snicker.
As if sensing something, Min Chi turned his head abruptly and gazed into the falling snow. But after a moment, his attention returned to the battlefield below.
A meaningless dream…
When she woke, the sky had turned pitch black.
Song Chuyi opened her eyes and saw only a mass of hay above her, with slivers of moonlight like silver sifting through the gaps. Recalling the scene from her dream, she thought it over briefly: the Qin army had rushed here in haste, and it was unlikely they had outstanding strategists or generals. Qin would have reinforcements following behind, but that didn’t mean Wei lacked them either – so the odds of victory were about even on both sides.
Was this what happened after her death? Song Chuyi felt somewhat stifled. What the hell kind of resolution was that? Even without watching the battlefield, she could have guessed as much.
Song Chuyi crawled out from the haystack and was immediately struck by the biting cold that pierced her skin, making her shiver. She glanced over and saw a dark figure curled up against the stone wall, covered in a pile of weeds.
The straw beneath Song Chuyi was coarse and prickly, but it kept in warmth far better than those dirt-covered weeds.
She reached over and tugged at him. “Zhao Yilou.”
The boy shot up like a startled animal, not even registering that the name “Zhao Yilou” was meant for him. He stared at her warily for a long moment before gradually relaxing a little.
“Let’s sleep together,” Song Chuyi said, then, feeling it sounded a bit improper toward a young lad, added, “In a situation like this, it’s bad if either of us falls ill. We have no medicine.”
Zhao Yilou stared at her for a long while. His tangled hair covered most of his face, and his jaw was bruised and filthy – impossible to read any expression from it.
Song Chuyi began to lose patience. “Even I, your ancestor, don’t mind. What are you hesitating for?”
After a moment’s hesitation, Zhao Yilou quickly burrowed into the hay. Cold and hunger were things he experienced almost every day, so he lacked the pride to endure the cold needlessly for the sake of a stranger – or for rules that couldn’t fill an empty stomach.
Song Chuyi crawled in after him. The straw was scarce to begin with; it was comfortable enough for one person, but for two, it meant squeezing together.
“Can’t you wash yourself before sleeping?” Song Chuyi sniffed the strange odor wafting off the boy and couldn’t help nudging him to the side with her foot.
She considered herself not a picky person – she had smelled all kinds of sweat and stench in the military camp. But this smell from Zhao Yilou was something she had to object to, or else it would be downright undignified.
“None of your business,” Zhao Yilou replied in an unhappy tone, yet he still faced her directly.
This was a sign of distrust from someone who had lived in the wild for a long time.
“I think you’d better turn around,” Song Chuyi said, rubbing her nose. “I personally believe that guarding against wild beasts is more important than guarding against me. Look at me – I’m just a weak and foolish woman. Without you, I couldn’t even get out of this place, so how could I possibly harm you?”
This place was desolate and uninhabited. From the boy’s earlier behavior, it was clear he was always on guard, most likely because he often came under attack by wild animals.
Zhao Yilou didn’t dwell on how a so-called “weak and foolish woman” would know such things. He simply felt her words made sense and turned around.
Translator’s Notes:
[1] Yilou was one of the words in the poem.
