The doctor struggled to place the heavy camphor wood chest on the ground, then leaned against the wall gasping for breath: “This should be the last box, right? This is killing me, my back…”
The shop owner glanced at the doctor’s dramatic complaints and said indifferently: “You volunteered to help.”
“Yes, yes, I brought this suffering upon myself.” The doctor smiled bitterly. What was it called when effort went unrewarded? This was exactly his situation. Today happened to be his day off, so he came to the Mute House to pass time. When the shop owner mentioned that today was the sixth day of the sixth lunar month and books should be aired in the sun, how could he not help? Could he just stand aside and watch the shop owner work alone?
The doctor looked at the shop owner’s slender frame and felt it was more reliable for him to do the work himself.
Though he complained, after catching his breath, the doctor once again regretted not bringing a face mask. He used a cloth to wipe the thick dust from the camphor wood chest, covering his mouth and nose with one hand while opening the chest’s lock with the other.
Dust flew everywhere, but was unexpectedly mixed with a strong fragrance of books and ink.
The doctor’s spirits lifted upon smelling this ink fragrance, no longer particularly minding the dust. This ink fragrance was unlike ordinary book ink with its faint putrid smell. Instead, it was initially rich and aromatic but not overpowering, and upon closer inspection, it was lingering and enduring, containing countless intertwined fragrances. The doctor couldn’t help but poke his head inside, carefully searching for the source of the ink fragrance: “Why is this chest different from the others? Is there a piece of ink inside?”
“No, this chest mostly contains manuscripts, not thread-bound books.” The shop owner put down the book in his hands and walked over, taking out stacks of manuscripts from the camphor chest and carefully spreading them out layer by layer to dry in the sunlight.
“You have manuscripts here too!” The doctor came over with great interest to look. He didn’t dare casually touch these delicate items, having once accidentally broken a bamboo slip from the Classic of Mountains and Seas. Though it was unintentional, he still didn’t dare handle things carelessly. Moving boxes and such was fine, but he feared accidentally tearing a page and having some divine beast pop out. However, looking around, this was the first time the doctor realized there was such a small courtyard inside the Mute House. The square bluestone floor occasionally had one or two caterpillars crawling on it, but the shop owner didn’t remove them, instead avoiding their crawling paths when placing books. It was now noon, with sunlight falling directly here—perfect for airing books. But contrary to his expectations, there weren’t many books in the Mute House. Including the chest of manuscripts he had just moved, the books being aired didn’t even fill the entire courtyard.
“Boss, is this all that needs airing?” the doctor asked in disbelief. He wouldn’t find it strange if there were many more books—what was strange was that there were so few! The shop owner had lived for thousands of years after all, so how had he only collected this many books and manuscripts?
The shop owner blew dust off a manuscript, carefully examining it while saying indifferently: “Books are inherently difficult to preserve. Even Song and Yuan dynasty thread-bound books are rarely seen in the market now. Most of my books are stored safely in sealed conditions—vacuum storage is more secure. These by my side… this is all there is.”
Hey hey! What was with that suspicious pause?
Though the doctor stood in sunlight, he suddenly felt chilled all over. Based on his understanding of the shop owner, only ancient artifacts he was concerned about would be kept nearby. So did this mean these books all had problems?
The doctor immediately stiffened, not daring to move. But then he thought again—weren’t all the ancient artifacts in the Mute House problematic? Didn’t he often come here anyway? What was there to fear!
While he was thinking, the shop owner took out another stack of manuscripts from the chest. That rich book and ink fragrance struck again, making the doctor unconsciously lean closer: “So fragrant… why is it so fragrant?”
A smile appeared on the shop owner’s refined features: “You want to know?”
The doctor nodded happily: “Another story? I love hearing stories.”
But the shop owner’s gaze fell on a caterpillar on the bluestone floor, struggling to crawl forward. After a long time, he finally spoke softly: “Do you know how a caterpillar crosses a river?”
“Ah!”
Qing Dynasty, Third Year of Shunzhi Reign
“…We need to prepare the zhuazhou ceremony for the young master. Are all the items ready?”
What sound? So noisy… Xi Mo drowsily opened her eyes. She seemed to have slept for a very long time. Was it several years this time? Or several decades?
“We’re still missing the Four Treasures of the Study! The master asked me to find a set from the storeroom. Oh, and preferably find something small and delicate that a baby could grasp.”
“I remember there’s a piece of ink… oh, here it is.”
Xi Mo felt the box that had been confining her being opened, and long-missed sunlight poured in. She squinted her eyes, somewhat unaccustomed to it.
“So ugly! Such an ugly piece of ink?”
“But this ink is small enough! And I remember the gift-giver said this ink was made by Li Tinggui of the Southern Tang during the Five Dynasties and Ten Kingdoms period—it’s Tinggui ink! Worth a thousand gold pieces! It just doesn’t have any decorative patterns or carvings. They said it was from Li Tinggui’s early period. Fortunately it was from the early period, or it wouldn’t have survived until now!”
“Alright, alright, what does this ink’s origin matter! It’s still a piece of ink anyway, hurry and pack it up…” The box was closed again. Xi Mo felt herself bouncing around inside the box. Though it didn’t hurt, it was already starting to annoy her.
Ugly? Was she ugly? She was the world’s first piece of Tinggui ink! Well, although when her master originally made her, he didn’t have a good ink mold, causing her to be irregular rather than square and neat or elegantly distinctive like other inks. But was it really acceptable to speak so bluntly in front of a lady?
Xi Mo’s complaints didn’t last long. Soon she was again enveloped by sunlight, and this time she discovered many types of items arranged around her: seals, scriptures, brushes, paper, inkstones, abacuses, coins, account books, jewelry, flowers, rouge, food, toys, and more, filling an entire bed with a dazzling array too numerous to count. From the other stationery items near her, one could see this household was truly wealthy—not everyone could afford Xuanzhou paper, Duanzhou inkstones, and Zhuge brushes. Combined with her piece of Tinggui ink, these were truly the world’s most precious Four Treasures of the Study.
However, among all these items, only she had cultivated a spirit. Though the other objects were extraordinarily precious, they were just items. But she, being the first ink her master had made, had gained a bit of consciousness when her master formed the smoke materials into balls and pounded them thirty thousand times in an iron mortar, pouring too much expectation into each pounding.
Thus Xi Mo was born, though from the beginning, her master had cast her aside.
Being despised didn’t matter much to Xi Mo—she was quite philosophical about it. This way she wouldn’t be given away, sold, or used up. Over the following decades, in her dust-covered corner, she watched her still-young master follow his father to create the famous Shezhou ink, watched her master and his father both receive the imperial surname from Emperor Li Yu, later changing their name to Li Tinggui. Everyone knew “gold is easy to find, but Li ink is hard to obtain.” In the end, only she was ink made by her master when he still had the surname Xi and had survived, so she named herself Xi Mo.
Later, her master’s fame surpassed his father’s, and the world-famous Li ink gradually became known as Tinggui ink.
Even later, her master died.
Xi Mo still wasn’t quite used to her long lifespan, but she knew she was different from other objects. Over several hundred years, she had changed hands many times. Though her appearance was ugly, her quality was excellent, and having been confirmed as Tinggui ink, she was actually worth a thousand gold pieces. She remembered the last time she saw sunlight was when she was given as a gift to the Hong family, wasn’t it? That generation’s head of the Hong family didn’t like her and simply locked her away in the storeroom.
Living such days locked in a brocade box, what could she do besides sleep? She would rather be discarded in a corner like before.
Speaking of which, had she slept for a long time again? Why had people’s clothing changed so much? Women weren’t too different, but why were men’s hair completely bald in front and tied in a big braid behind?
Xi Mo looked with amazement at this group of richly dressed men and women clustering around a delicately beautiful little boy as they approached. Oh right, this was the zhuazhou ceremony, where a one-year-old child grabs what he likes to predict his future prospects and temperament.
What could a one-year-old child understand? Xi Mo looked disapprovingly at the little boy being placed on the bed.
“Sheng’er, take whatever you like.” A beautiful woman said with a smile. She wore a neat married woman’s hairstyle, had bright eyes and white teeth, and her head was adorned with pearls and jade—she should be this boy’s mother.
Encouraged by his mother, the little boy began selecting from the dazzling array of items. When Xi Mo was glanced at by those grape-like watery big eyes, she couldn’t help but feel anticipation.
At birth, human nature is good. The younger the child, the more they could sense the mysterious things adults couldn’t perceive. Xi Mo watched as this Sheng’er only looked around once before decisively crawling toward her on hands and feet. Before Xi Mo could prepare herself, she found herself lifted by a pair of chubby little hands.
Xi Mo stared blankly at the baby so close to her—soft, white, looking like a fragile porcelain doll. She watched almost in a daze as this porcelain doll broke into a big smile at her.
No one had ever smiled at her so purely before.
Her master had despised her for not being perfect enough, many people loathed her ugly appearance, and others saw her as a valuable commodity. Only this little boy simply smiled at her with such purity.
Xi Mo’s emotion didn’t last long, and the surrounding adults didn’t have time to speak a string of auspicious words. Everyone watched unprepared as the little baby quickly put Xi Mo into his mouth.
“Wah!” Earth-shaking cries echoed around them. Xi Mo, covered in saliva, was silently thrown back onto the bed.
She knew it—one couldn’t have too much hope for a one-year-old child!
Xi Mo knew her scent carried the peculiar musty smell of ink blocks. Even if this Sheng’er could sense the spiritual energy that made her different from other objects, this smell was simply unbearable.
But knowing was one thing—seeing Sheng’er, who had just treasured her and held her up, now pick up a box of rouge and play with it lovingly, Xi Mo still couldn’t help feeling depressed.
Hmph! This brat was only one year old and already knew to eat rouge! What would happen when he grew up? Look how angry it made his father…
Fifteen Years Later
“Cousin Sheng, is this the legendary piece of ink?” A graceful young woman asked curiously.
“Yes, this is the legendary piece.” The speaker was a handsome young man who showed a helpless expression as he spoke. He had an elongated face with delicate eyebrows and eyes, a gentle and refined bearing, and his every gesture carried the elegant air of a great family’s son, making people admire him at first sight. The woman beside him bore some resemblance to him—beautiful as jade, wearing a lake-blue moonlight dress. Having reached the age of hairpin ceremony, she wore two plum-blossom patterned jade hairpins, making her face appear flower-like and strikingly beautiful.
This handsome young man was Hong Sheng, eldest son of the Hong family, and the woman beside him was his cousin Huang Hui. They were the same age, with Huang Hui born just one day after Hong Sheng, so they had been childhood sweethearts with very deep feelings. Today Huang Hui happened to hear someone mention Hong Sheng’s zhuazhou ceremony from childhood and insisted on seeing that famous piece of Tinggui ink.
Xi Mo sat quietly on the desk. Since that zhuazhou ceremony fifteen years ago, she had ended her life in a box and been sent to Hong Sheng. Of course, this was also because Hong Sheng’s rigid father absolutely refused to accept that his son had grabbed rouge, forcefully demanding his son must study for the imperial examinations to glorify the family name.
Actually, this idea was completely unreliable. Xi Mo, who had observed Hong Sheng for fifteen years, sighed silently. For these fifteen years, she had been placed on Hong Sheng’s desk, watching him study the “Three Character Classic,” “Disciple Rules,” attend clan school, and read the Four Books and Five Classics. She understood him better than anyone in the world—this eldest son of the Hong family was simply not imperial examination material! Making him take those eight-legged essay exams was purely asking for his life!
What Hong Sheng loved most was mixing with his sisters and female cousins, composing poetry and painting in Hong Garden in Hangzhou’s Xixi, exchanging verses and songs, living quite happily. Those women had even established the “Banana Garden Poetry Society,” praising willow catkins in spring, singing of lotus in summer, appreciating crabapple in autumn, and extolling winter plum in winter. For proper young ladies to gather and play—this was something Xi Mo could never have imagined. In her memory, which well-bred young lady didn’t stay within the inner quarters? Some never even left their embroidery towers before marriage. She was certain this women’s poetry society was absolutely the first in history.