Ten years later, the winter snow was still falling softly across Cyan Ox Ridge, while the sweet aroma of roasted sweet potatoes drifted from the Medicine Cottage. Zhang Yifan curled up inside a pile of firewood, half a book of the worm-eaten Book of Lord Shang spread across his knees. The tip of his nose was frozen bright red, and he held half a piece of honey-dripping roasted sweet potato in his teeth, reading the passage about "One reward, one punishment, one teaching," when suddenly the wooden door creaked open. In a panic, he shoved the book into the firewood, forgetting that the fragments of book pages were still clinging to his trouser cuffs.
"Sneaking a look at your grandfather's bottom chest again?" Zhang Xuanzhen stood in the doorway leaning on his jujube-wood walking stick, the chill of the snowy ground still clinging to his cotton shoes, his tobacco pouch dangling from his waist and clinking softly. The boy scrambled up in a hurry, the back of his head striking a bundle of herbs hanging from the rafters and sending the fragrance of dried tangerine peel and angelica tumbling down. "Master, I was just helping you organize the classics! Look, this Book of Lord Shang was almost eaten through by worms, I was just airing it out in the sun..."
The Old Daoist suddenly let out a cough, shaking three torn pages from his sleeve—the very bamboo slips that had been ripped off in the boy's panic. Zhang Yifan scratched his head and gave a foolish grin, a withered piece of mugwort leaf still stuck to his temple. Zhang Xuanzhen suddenly raised his walking stick as if to strike, but when it reached the boy's shoulder, he gently swerved it aside and struck the crooked stack of firewood instead. "The Book of Lord Shang is an art of statecraft. Can a little brat like you understand it? Last year you sneaked a look at The Art of War and rigged the pheasant traps into an Eight Trigrams Formation, ending up chased all over the mountains by Old Yang's hunting dog. I haven't settled that score with you yet!"
The boy suddenly turned serious, pulling out a small notebook bound with mulberry-bark paper from his bosom, covered in crooked diagrams of counting rods. "Master, look, Lord Shang said, 'A well-governed world does not follow a single course; to benefit the state, one need not imitate antiquity.' Shouldn't our Cyan Ox Village change as well? Right now, gathering herbs in the village relies entirely on brute strength. Uncle Li's daughter is delicate and can't pick heavy medicinal ingredients, yet she's always accused of 'eating for free.' If we follow the Guanzi principle of 'assessing the land to levy taxes moderately,' and base our credit on the age and category of the herbs, then use salt and iron implements as rewards, we might just produce thirty percent more herbs!"
The Old Daoist's tobacco pouch hung suspended in mid-air, a faint gleam welling up in his cloudy eyes. This child had loved squatting beside the medicine grinder since he was little to listen to him lecture on the Tao Te Ching; at five he could recite the Essential Prescriptions Worth a Thousand Gold, at eight he secretly altered the irrigation methods in Essential Techniques for the Peasantry, and now at ten he was actually able to combine the Book of Lord Shang with the practical affairs of the village. No wonder people always said of him, "His eyes hold double pupils, his heart harbors ten thousand apertures."
"So you actually have reason and evidence?" Zhang Xuanzhen purposely put on a stern face, but reached out to add a piece of pine wood to the charcoal brazier. "Then tell me, why must you insist on sneaking a peek at my forbidden books? Last month The Zhuangzi was used by you to wrap yams, and the other day the Guiguzi was taken apart to make a kite. Do you think your grandfather's bottom chest is a treasure pouch?"
Zhang Yifan suddenly grinned mischievously, pulling a bamboo tube out from the firewood pile and pouring out a dozen shiny chestnuts. "Xiaoxiu just brought them over, saying roasted chestnuts go best with the Book of Lord Shang. Master, take a whiff—these charcoal-roasted chestnuts are far better than the ones you stir-fried in the elixir furnace last year. The heat must follow the way of 'Cook Ding's butchering of an ox'—moving along the natural lines so they are neither burnt nor raw."
The Old Daoist could not help laughing and scolding, "You've got an excuse for everything!" Yet he reached out to take the chestnuts, his peripheral vision catching a glimpse of the draft "Merit Ledger" drawn in the boy's handwritten notebook, each page marked with entries like "Hunter Li, three sets of tiger bone, exchange for two catties of salt" and "Aunt Wang, five dou of honeysuckle, exchange for half an iron hoe"—clearly transforming the "punishments and rewards" arts of the Book of Lord Shang into village regulations.
From outside came a crisp, cheerful call: "Brother Fan! Brother Fan!" Xiaoxiu, with red strings tied in her hair, peered in through the door frame, snow particles still clinging to her cotton shoes as she cradled a coarse pottery jar in her arms. "My father said the 'running medicine grinder' you made last week scared Huwa so badly he landed flat on his backside, and his mother is coming to settle accounts with you!"
Zhang Yifan immediately leaped up and stuffed a handful of roasted chestnuts into Xiaoxiu's pocket. "Don't be afraid, I installed a spring mechanism under the grinder so Huwa fell right onto the dandelion soft cushion I buried—oh, and you take this packet of Yunnan Baiyao to him, just tell him Brother Fan is compensating him with sugar figurines." Xiaoxiu stroked the warm chestnuts, then suddenly caught sight of the torn pages of the Book of Lord Shang beside the charcoal brazier, tilting her head as she read aloud: "'The nature of the people: when hungry they seek food, when weary they seek rest'—Brother Fan is studying bad books again!"
The Old Daoist suddenly burst into loud laughter, rattling the icicles hanging from the rafters until they dropped. "What does a little girl know? Your brother Fan is studying the 'books of statecraft.' In the future, I'm afraid he's going to turn this Cyan Ox Village into a 'little Chang'an'!" He suddenly turned his gaze to stare at Zhang Yifan, his eyes burning like torches. "But let's make it clear first: if you really want to implement this 'Merit Ledger,' you must first pass your grandfather's test—tomorrow, follow me into the mountains to gather herbs. If you can find three stalks of 'Seven-leaf Rejuvenating Grass' in the snow, I will permit you to plead your case at the ancestral hall."
The boy's eyes lit up, and he immediately cupped his hands in a bow. "Thank you, Master, for fulfilling my wish! But let's agree on this: if I find five stalks, you have to lend me the Salt and Iron Monopoly from the bottom of your box to read—I caught a glimpse of half a page under your pillow last time, which said, 'The enlightened change according to the times, the wise adapt their measures to events.' It's just right for my ideas on improving the medicine grinder!"
The snowlight reflected off the paper window of the Medicine Cottage, casting two figures onto the frost-patterned glass. The Old Daoist watched the boy skip about as he packed the herb-gathering bamboo basket, the tips of his hair still dusted with the mugwort leaves that had fallen earlier, and suddenly recalled that snowy night ten years ago when the baby in swaddling clothes had grasped his finger and refused to let go, who had now grown into a shape that made even him unable to help marveling. Perhaps this was the "Dao"—taking root in the mundane firewood, rice, oil, and salt, sprouting amid laughter and curses, just like the Taiji symbol in the palm of one's hand: seemingly divided into yin and yang, yet in reality generating and sustaining one another.
"Remember to glue the torn pages of the Book of Lord Shang back together!" Zhang Xuanzhen called out toward the retreating figure in the wind and snow, his tobacco pouch tapping out a fine rhythm against his palm. "If I catch you wrapping yams in classics again, watch out for your 'running grinder' turning into a 'flying kite'!" From the distance came the boy's light laughter, mingling with Xiaoxiu's frolics to startle the cold crows resting on the eaves, yet lending this ancient, unchanging snow-covered mountain village a few more traces of vibrant life that filled one with anticipation.