Xiao Shiyi Lang , ¿½¤Q¤@­¦

(The Eleventh Son)

Chapter 3 The Sound of Singing in the Night

Original novel written by Gu Long

Translated by Becky Tai

Filled with bamboo-leaf-green wine, the green porcelain cup looked like a huge piece of translucent jade.

The bright moon hanging in the sky was like a plate of ice. It was full and complete. Were people?

Feng's face was flushed and she was slightly inebriated. The moonlight shone through the window. As she gazed up at the moon, she remembered something that sobered her almost immediately.

Is today the fifteenth day of the month?

July fifteen, in the lunar calendar, was her birthday. After this day, she would be one year older.

Thirty-four! What a terrible number! she thought.

When she was fifteen or sixteen, she used to think that once a woman was over thirty, life became meaningless. A woman in her thirties was like an old chrysanthemum in November, simply waiting to wither.

Yet she was thirty-four now. She didn't want to believe it, but she had to. Why was time so relentless?

There was a bronze mirror in the corner of the room. She gazed at the face reflected in it.

The face was youthful. It had no wrinkles around the eyes, even when she smiled. Few would believe it was the face of a thirty-four-year-old woman.

Although she could fool everyone else, she couldn't fool herself.

She turned and poured herself a large cup of wine. The moon cast her long shadow onto the floor. Two lines of a well-known poem came to her mind:

Raising my cup I invite the Moon,

Then turn to my shadow, which makes the three of us.

She had never understood the loneliness and sadness it described . . . until now.

From far off, she heard the sound of a baby crying.

She had once loathed the sound of crying babies, but, now, how she wanted a baby! How she wanted to hear the crying of her own baby!

Her face reflected the moonlight, and a few glistening tears slipped down her cheek.

Several times, in the past few years, she had thought about finding a man and getting married . . . but, she couldn't. Most men made her sick.

Her youth was fading. In a few years, perhaps even those she considered disgusting wouldn't want her. Alas! A woman of thirty-four . . . .

She heard the loud laughter of a man passing by her door.

The laughter was raucous and seemed slightly intoxicated.

What would this man be like?

He was certainly vulgar and ugly, and he probably reeked of alcohol.

Nevertheless, if this man barged in now and begged her to marry him, she might say yes.

Does a woman become less picky when she is thirty-four than when she was twenty? she mused, her lips curling into a wistful smile.

It was getting late. The outside sounds had died down.

The tones of the night gong echoed in the distance. The sounds were dull, yet they marked the passage of time . . . and life.

It's time to go to bed, Feng told herself.

Just as she rose to close the window, the sound of distant singing came drifting in with the night wind. The haunting voice, desolate and poignant, sounded familiar.

Xiao Shiyi Lang!

Nearly very time she had seen Xiao, he had been humming this tune. It made him seem aloof and distant.

Aroused by an inner excitement, and without hesitation, she placed a hand on the window frame for support and leaped out, darting toward the source of the voice.

  *   *   *

The long street was quiet.

In front of every household door, the road was scattered with drifts of ash where paper money had been burned. When a gust of raw wind arose, the ash dispersed, swirling into the air. In the dark, no one knew exactly how many ghosts might be waiting to snatch the burned money.

July the fifteenth was also the Ghost Festival, supposedly when the gates of hell are opened wide and the spirits are let out. Was it true that the world was filled with every kind of spirit at this very moment?

Between clenched teeth, Feng murmured, "Xiao Shiyi Lang, you are exactly like a ghost. Why don't you ever show yourself?"

She didn't see any sign of ghosts around her. Even the sound of singing was gone.

"That man really is a ghost," she grunted, feeling bitter. "If he didn't want to see me, why did he let me hear his singing?"

She suddenly felt incredibly weary and morose. All she wanted to do was go back to her room, have a few more drinks, and sleep until tomorrow. Maybe everything would be different tomorrow.

Maybe the most important reason which keeps people going is that there is always a tomorrow.

When Feng saw candlelight radiating from her room, she felt a hint of warmth in her heart, as if she were returning . . . home.

When one comes home and closes the door, it seems as if all worries are left outside. This is what a home is for . . . .

But is this my home? Of course not, she thought. It's little more than . . . a room in an inn.

Feng drew a sigh. She didn't know where her home was or when she would have one.

When she reached the doorway, she heard someone in her room reciting a verse:

When I have left the border one thousand miles behind me,

Mr. Xiao will be just like another stranger.

Then the voice said, "Feng Siniang . . . my Feng Siniang. I'm afraid you've forgotten me, haven't you?"

Feng came alive instantly. She dashed into the room, yelling, "You damned . . . ! You finally showed up!"

The wine in the goblet on the table was gone.

A man was lying languidly on the bed, with his face covered by a pillow.

He was dressed in faded blue. A blue cloth band was tied casually around his waist and a saber was tucked casually into the band.

This saber was far shorter than regular ones. Its scabbard was made of shabby black leather, but at least it looked newer than his boots.

He lay with one knee up, his other foot perched upon it. There were two big holes on the sole of the shoe.

Feng leaped up and kicked his shoe, shouting, "Lazy bastard! Lazy and dirty! Who said you could sleep on my bed?"

The man in the bed sighed and grumbled, "I just took a bath last month, and here you are saying that I'm . . . dirty."

She couldn't help but giggle a little, but she sobered up again, immediately. Grabbing the pillow covering his face, she tossed it into the air. "Sit up and let me see exactly how ugly you've become in the last few years."

Although the pillow was gone, the man's face was still covered with his hands.

"Have you become too ugly to look at?" she said.

The man in the bed separated his fingers, revealing eyes that were sparkling and joyful. "Whoa! What a ferocious woman!" he said. "No wonder you're not married yet. It seems that other than me, no one would dare marry you-"

Before he could finish, Feng had slammed one of her hands down.

The man in the bed suddenly pulled back. His whole body stretched flat against the wall, like a paper doll sticking to a flat surface. He stayed there, refusing to come down.

His bright eyes were still laughing. His eyebrows were bushy, his nose straight, his short beard so thick it looked like it could puncture skin.

This man was not really handsome, but the glistening eyes and the bright smile gave him an aura of animal energy . . . untamed, but charismatic.

"Xiao Shiyi Lang, you haven't changed at all, not even one little bit," said Feng, sighing softly and shaking her head. "You are still a one-hundred percent asshole in every sense of the word and in every way."

"I thought you wanted to marry me-an asshole!" Xiao grinned. "It appears that I was mistaken."

"Me marry you?" she shrieked, her face burning with anger. "You think I'd want to marry you? Even if every other man in the world were dead, I would never marry you."

Xiao expelled a long sigh. "Whew, am I ever relieved."

He slid from the wall, landing on the bed with a thump. "Honestly speaking," he said with a laugh, "when I heard you were looking for me, I was a little scared. I'm only twenty-seven. If I wanted to marry, I'd find a young girl of fifteen or sixteen, instead of an old hag . . . like you."

Feng was furious. "You call me an old hag? How old do you think I am?"

With a flourish, she withdrew a sword from her sleeve.

In a matter of seconds, her sword had lunged toward him seven or eight times.

Xiao was even faster. He scrambled back to the wall and climbed to the ceiling, staying there like a giant gecko. He waved his hand at her. "Please, don't move. I was only joking. Actually, you're not old at all. You don't look a day over . . . forty-something, at most."

Feng tried to keep a straight face, but she couldn't hold back her laughter. She wagged her head at him. "It's lucky for me I don't see you often. Otherwise, I would have died getting mad at you a long time ago."

Xiao flashed her a broad smile. "Too many people flatter you. Isn't it fun to have someone tease you for a change?"

After he came down, his eyes rested on the sword Feng was holding.

The sword was a little over a foot in length. Its blade was very thin and had a greenish-blue shine. This kind of sword was most suitable for a woman. Madame Gongsun, the most famous swordswoman in the Tang Dynasty, used a similar one. She taught sword dances in the Imperial Music Institute. Even the renowned poet Tu Fu had written a poem to extol her prowess:

A fair lady there was

   the Madame Gongsun;

  The dance of her sword

   marveled the world.

  Beholders, many as mountains,

   were filled with awe;

  Even the heaven and the earth

   breathed to her rhythm.

  She flashed, like the Nine Suns

   whirling down to the Archer;

  She flew, like graceful gods saddled

   on gliding dragons.

  She moved, like rolling thunders

   as the storm rages;

  She ceased, like cold light shimmering

   off placid rivers.

This poem was a testament to the superiority of Madame Gongsun's sword skills. She was a petite woman. If she had not used this kind of sword, she would not have been able to dance so deftly.

  *   *   *

While Xiao was staring at her sword, Feng was studying his eyes. Without warning, she moved her hand, slashing the wine cup on the table with the weapon.

With a clang, the green porcelain cup was cut in half.

"Excellent sword!" exclaimed Xiao, in admiration.

"Although this sword can't cut iron as if it were clay, it comes close," said Feng, with the shadow of a smile. "Count Carefree cherished it so much he was reluctant to let anyone else view it."

The edges of Xiao's mouth curled upward. "Yet . . . he gave it to you?"

Feng raised her head high. "Exactly."

"Does that mean he is . . . interested in you?"

"So what?" Feng smiled humorlessly. "Is there some reason he shouldn't be interested in me? Am I that . . . old?"

After studying her for a moment, Xiao spoke in a serious voice. "It's not easy to draw the attention of a man like Count Carefree. I was just wondering . . . how many concubines do you think he's had before you?"

Her anger surged. "You're full of shit!"

She raised her sword and Xiao braced himself again.

But then Feng lowered her sword slowly, slanting her eyes at him. "If you're so smart, then you should know the story behind this sword."

"It appears to be Blue Jade, used by Shen Ruolan, Madame Gongsun's first disciple."

Feng nodded. "You do know something."

"But, it is one of a pair. Since you have Blue Jade, you should have Crimson Glow as well. Unless . . . ." He broke off.

"Unless what?"

Xiao smirked. "...unless Count Carefree was reluctant to give you both."

She glared at him defiantly. "If I wanted his head, he would put it on a platter and offer it to me, not to mention two measly swords."

"Really?" Xiao laughed. "In that case, where is Crimson Glow now?"

"I have it with me. I don't mind if you want to take a look at it."

"Actually, I don't want to, but if I refuse, you'll probably throw another tantrum."

Xiao grinned and added, "Remember what happened that October, a few years ago? It was still very hot, but you came to see me in a mink coat. You were sweating and kept insisting that you simply had to wear more clothing, because you had caught a cold."

"Bullshit!" Feng snorted. "You think I was trying to show off?"

Xiao grinned. "Lucky for you, you had something to show off. I have nothing to show off but myself."

"You're such a clown!" Feng scolded, playfully.

She took out the other sword. Its sheath was inlaid with pink gems. Taking the hilt into his hand, Xiao shook his head and remarked, "To no one's surprise, things used by women always smell of rouge and powder."

As he spoke, he started to draw the blade.

  *   *   *

To his bewilderment, Crimson Glow was broken!

Feng didn't seem disturbed. She eyed him calmly. "Surprised?" she said.

"How was such a fine weapon ruined?" Xiao asked.

"By a saber."

Xiao raised his eyebrows. "What saber? How could it be so sharp?"

"I know that every time you hear about a fine saber, you itch for it," Feng said, casually. "But this time, I won't tell you about it, in case you say I'm a showoff."

Xiao rolled his eyes and stood up. "I just remembered I haven't eaten. Let's go. I'll treat you to a midnight snack."

  *   *   *

There was a small noodle shop at the end of the street.

This particular noodle shop had been in business for more than ten years. Rain or shine, it opened every day, even on holidays and festivals.

As a result, the town's night owls were especially fond of it. When their wives threw them out, they could always come for steaming beef noodles.

Old Zhang, the boss, was very old and had graying hair. At this moment, he was sitting in his shop eating noodle soup. The paper lantern hanging at the door was blackened by greasy smoke. It was yellowish black, like Old Zhang's face.

Customers who frequented his shop knew that he never showed even a flicker of expression. Other than asking for payment, he usually remained mute.

"How about eating here?" Xiao inquired cheerfully.

Feng frowned. "All right," she agreed, hesitantly.

"Don't scowl. I guarantee you have never had beef noodles as delicious as these."

Seating himself at a shaky old table near the door, Xiao called out to the boss. "Old Zhang! I have a guest today. Serve us something nice."

Without lifting his head, Old Zhang gave Xiao a sidelong stare, as if to say, "What's the hurry? Wait until I have finished my soup."

Xiao whispered, "This old man is a strange bird. Better not offend him."

The legendary Xiao Shiyi Lang was afraid to offend an old man who ran a noodle shop? Who would believe this! Feng was greatly amused.

After quite some time, Old Zhang brought over two dishes and a jug of wine. He set them forcefully onto the table and then turned away.

Feng could not help laughing. "Do you owe him money?"

Xiao held his head high. "I did owe him a chunk of change, but I paid him back yesterday."

Gazing at him thoughtfully, Feng said, "Everyone in the martial world affirms that Xiao Shiyi Lang is the finest and the most professional thief of the last five hundred years. None of them knows that, in reality, Xiao Shiyi Lang is so poor he can only afford to treat his guests to cheap noodles, sometimes on credit."

Xiao laughed aloud. "I know it and you know it. Isn't that enough? Come, let me make a toast . . . to you."

Xiao was an enigma. Some cursed him, some hated him, some loved him . . . but few understood him.

He didn't expect to be understood and he didn't worry about his well-being.

If you were Feng Siniang, would you love him?
Feng had remarkable drinking skills. When most people drink too much alcohol, they tend to get confused and bleary-eyed.
But she was different. The more she drank, the brighter her eyes became. No one could tell if she were intoxicated or not. That's why few people dared to match her drinking, even though her tolerance for spirits was really not so high.

END NOTE

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