Chapter 217 - Willow Fluff and Silver Lamps
In the eighth year of Yuanhui, a month before my sixteenth birthday, I finally set foot once again upon the soil of the Great Jing beyond the capital’s walls. Behind me, the late spring willow catkins drifted like phantom snow—warm, weightless, and pale. These maddeningly soft things had once been used by my teacher as a metaphor for a certain style of qin music: a sound so hollow it seemed non-existent, yet as fluffy as bird’s down. In compositions like *Dreams of the Snowy Mountain* or *Solitary Angling on a Cold River*, pieces defined by their icy desolation, the occasional infusion of such a tone could balance the bone-deep chill, preventing the melody from becoming too sharp, too harsh, or losing its aesthetic grace.
The "Mama" who taught us the arts of seduction in the pavilion had also described us in such terms, though with a smirk. She said that willow branches were inherently weak, unable to support their own weight, and thus they bowed their heads and lowered their brows—this was the posture we were meant to adopt. The catkins, however, were the willow’s seeds. Though they could be crushed with a single pinch, they were nearly impossible to catch when dancing in the air. Our thoughts, our loves, our hates, and our whims were to be like those catkins—omnipresent yet impossible to pin down. Our gaze was to be everywhere and nowhere, ensuring a man could never truly grasp, guess, or capture us. Only then would he be eternally enthralled.
The interior of the sedan chair was stifling. Biyao, unable to bear the heat and fearing I might find the air oppressive, reached out and pinned back a corner of the curtain. Through the gap, I watched the grassy verges lining the willow-shaded roads of the capital’s outskirts. The ground was carpeted in a dense layer of willow catkins that looked like fallen snow. Some had clumped into small balls, rolling across the earth in the wind, gathering dust until they were no longer white. When they soared in the sky, they seemed fit to brush against the clouds, but once they touched the dirt, they were soiled. I recalled Mama’s teachings and felt a surge of respect for her cynical wisdom: once those "inscrutable" thoughts of ours hit the ground, they weren't worth a single copper. Were they not exactly like this willow fluff?
The capital bid me farewell on this brief journey with this flattering "snow," much like the countless smiling faces I was forced to confront daily. Yet, I knew that what awaited me further north was the actual goose-feather snow of the twelfth lunar month—cold and biting, much like the indifferent faces I had seen in my youth. Pingjing was such a place; the world was such a world.
As for my parents' graves, I had only managed to save enough surplus wealth six months ago to hire someone to travel south and repair them. They did not lie in the direction of this journey—they were much further to the west—but they served as a convenient excuse for my departure. In truth, I possessed neither many memories of them nor much affection. I remembered only a desolate world and a body stiff with cold. I remembered the blisters on the soles of my feet bursting and scabbing over, and how they never showed pity for my small, weak frame, leaving me only the sight of their two tattered silhouettes as they trudged ahead. To prevent me from getting lost, my mother had tied me to her waist with a length of rope. By the time she died, that rope was nearly frayed to dust; I, so weak I could barely lift a bowl of water to my own lips, had snapped it with a single, feeble tug.
It was an older man traveling with us who buried them. That very night, he tried to lay his hands on me. I struck him over the head with a stone, and he collapsed into a dead faint. He hadn't eaten or drunk for nearly ten days, yet he still possessed the animalistic urge to prey on a six-year-old girl. In a way, I suppose I should be grateful to him; he allowed me to see through the essential nature of men at a very early age. Unlike the girls in the pavilion who were pampered from childhood and who, despite Mama’s thousand warnings never to give away their hearts, still harbored naive fantasies, I was spared that folly. Those girls always had to stumble once or twice over some tender, elegant youth or some melancholy, displaced official. They had to tear up a drawer full of stationery, cry enough tears to fill half the Dan River, and suffer through a lingering illness before they were considered "graduated"—true women of the demimonde. I never had to endure any of that.
After I ranked among the top thirty in the Qin Kui selection at the age of fourteen, I "opened my pavilion." In the two years since, I had maintained stable associations with several men—all of them dignified, refined, and relatively young high officials or wealthy merchants. They treated me with courtesy and respect. In that regard, I was far luckier than the average woman in this trade. They were, by all accounts, objects worthy of love. Yet, I found that the only true pleasure lay in mastering their emotions—making them ache or rejoice at my every frown or smile. That so-called "love" was nothing more than a splash of rouge-colored dye. Amidst the multicolored ripples floating down the Jin River, it added a bit of interest, but on its own, it was monotonous and dull.
The end of these relationships came for various reasons. Sometimes it was because someone else offered a higher price; other times, they seemed to simply fade away. In reality, it was usually because I felt the rouge had become too thick and cloying. Their ways of fawning and seeking my favor became greasy and tiresome, until I could no longer be bothered to play my part. A few maintained their grace, offering a well-crafted poem as a parting gift. Most, however, eventually revealed their crude origins, flaring up in rage, their hands itching to strike or their mouths full of curses. I only ever responded with a mocking sneer. I always knew they were like that.
Once we crossed the mountain ridge marking the border between Suizhou and the capital region, the glittering world vanished, replaced by a rugged, provincial landscape. Although Suizhou was a major thoroughfare, its terrain was treacherous. The central basin was a sunken hollow, while the borders were guarded by undulating, high mountains. Gazing at these deep forests and ancient groves, I felt a sense of displacement, as if I were looking back at a previous life. I was meant to be a mere country girl picking mulberry leaves, walking barefoot through the fields. Now, I was wrapped in fine silks, adorned with gold and silver, riding in a shoulder carriage high enough to look down upon the pedestrians in the capital. After a moment of daze, I laughed at myself. This was all something I had fought for; it was my greatest glory. There was nothing inconceivable about it, and no need to wonder if I "fit" this life.
When I was first sold, I was so starved I was nothing but a bag of bones. My hair was a matted, filthy mess, and my face was caked with soot and grime. The patrol guard hadn't even bothered to look at my features before selling me to a human trafficker for a single string of orchid copper coins—money he likely spent on a single night of drinking after his shift. He had been cheated, though he didn't know it. The slave trader’s eyes, however, were venomously sharp. When the officials came to the temple to select girls, she was the first to push me forward. The officer in charge was patient; he had someone wash my face and hands with water, inspected the "goods," and took me in without a word.
Wangxiang Pavilion was a Tang-style structure with vast halls. The rooms were separated by sliding lattice doors; from a distance, they all looked the same—pale beige and cream—but inside, they were a riot of color and a thousand kinds of elegance. From the age of seven, I spent two years scrubbing those floors. This was the mandatory education for any young girl entering the trade. It saved on labor costs, ensured no one ate for free, and, most importantly, ground down one's spirit. From then on, you learned to bow and scrape; kneeling became more natural than standing.
According to the rules, if a girl showed the potential for beauty, remained obedient, and proved a quick study, she would be allowed to serve as an apprentice in a "Flower Queen's" pavilion. If she earned the lady's favor, she would call her "Elder Sister." At nine, I followed a dance queen who was at the height of her fame, a woman named Xiwu. she was breathtakingly graceful, yet she was consumed by a failed romance. One day, she took her own life in her room.
She had taken an abortifacient—an entire bottle of it, though a single pill would have sufficed. Such a massive dose caused the child in her womb to take all the blood in her body with it as it left. A thick, sticky red crawled across the black-lacquered wooden floor that I had spent every day polishing until it shone like a mirror. Xiwu’s face was cradled in her arms on the table, looking as though she were merely tired at midday and had drifted into a nap. Her slender, white legs, however, were stretched out straight, tracing a beautiful, slight curve. She had been kind to me, teaching me countless subtle ways of being. Even today, I find myself unconsciously using her expressions and methods to attract those I wish to ensnare.
I touched her body while it was still warm, committing the pallor and texture of death to memory. In the years that followed, I would touch death many times.
As it happened, Jinzhu’s "Elder Sister," Fanliao, had been close with Xiwu. She arrived in tears and pulled me into her arms. For the next six months, the pavilion was in an uproar as girls fought for the chance to study in the same pavilion as Jinzhu, the "Princess" of Wangxiang Pavilion. In the end, Fanliao intervened and took me in. I did not let her down; after studying the qin with Teacher Xue for only four months, my progress surpassed what Jinzhu had achieved in over a year. In our line of work, girls usually don't have formal names before they "open their pavilions," but I was given special treatment. Because I was paired with Jinzhu, I was given a name that complemented hers. But while "Jinzhu" (Golden Candle) was noble, magnificent, and festive, "Yindeng" (Silver Lamp) was merely the ignored base that held her up, catching every mess her recklessness created.
In the beginning, I didn't even love the qin; I loved the pipa. Before the famine struck, my neighbors had been a happy newlywed couple. The wife was in her thirties, a former maidservant released from the palace. To my four-year-old eyes, she was so elegant and beautiful she seemed divine. She was a master of the pipa and had a voice like clear water. When the music started, I couldn't bear to sleep; I would press myself against the window and listen endlessly. Unfortunately, she escaped neither the famine, the plague, nor the bandits. She was raped by outlaws before she died, and her pipa had long since been pawned.
Xiwu had also known a bit of pipa. In her final days, she would often hold it in her lap, plucking out disjointed, half-formed phrases.
When Jinzhu saw how quickly I learned, her spoiled temper flared. She smashed her qin and refused to study, which sent Teacher Xue Yishan into a towering rage. I immediately dropped to my knees to beg for punishment on her behalf, barely managing to see the teacher out of the pavilion. I was beaten and kicked by Jinzhu for my trouble. She threw a precious Song Dynasty qin at my face; the strings snapped, lashing my skin and leaving bloody welts. Fortunately, the healing power of youth is great, and in a brothel, treating scars is a primary skill. The medicines were effective, and no blemishes remained.
Her mother also gave me a thrashing, then turned around to coax and coddle Jinzhu, switching her to a different instrument: the pipa. They hired another of the ten great masters, whose skills were also extraordinary. However, this teacher was a sycophant; he did nothing but flatter Jinzhu and never criticized her. His lessons were sporadic at best. I longed to study with them, but I knew I didn't have that luck. Moreover, the only reason Teacher Xue didn't wash her hands of Jinzhu entirely was because she cherished my talent and couldn't bear to stop teaching me. She coldly laid down the law with the pavilion: she would never set foot in our quarters again. If I wanted to learn, I had to go to her private courtyard in Rue Alley or to the Qingshang Pavilion. I studied like that for three or four years, mastering the qin until I was ready to debut.
At fourteen, it was extremely rare to rank in the top thirty of the Qin section. The bidding for my "first night" reached the highest price in the capital, won by an elderly Prince. Jinzhu was consumed by hatred. On that day, she drugged me, bound me, and sent me to be defiled by a local playboy. Fortunately, Sister Fanliao discovered the plot in time and took my place, suffering the humiliation in my stead. I ran toward Wangxiang Pavilion with my clothes in tatters and my hair disheveled, praying I wouldn't miss the appointed hour. To offend a member of the imperial family was to ensure one could never rise again. As I ran, teeth clenched and tears streaming, I made a silent vow: I would not let a single one of them go. And as for Jinzhu, sooner or later, I would make her wish she were dead.
That night, I served the Prince so well he was utterly content. The next morning, I pushed open the door to Jinzhu’s room while she was still deep in sleep. When she saw me standing before her, dressed in magnificent robes and completely unharmed, she was struck with terror. I smiled and straddled her. While she was still in shock, I forced a pill down her throat, then squeezed her neck with a grip that suggested I might just strangle her then and there.
She was naturally much plumper and stronger than I was, but I had taken a pill stolen from the Prince that temporarily boosted my strength. I suppressed her struggles with ease. Her face turned purple, and she wept snot and tears, looking hideous as she clawed at my hands. I slammed her against the wall, grabbed her by the hair, and delivered several solid slaps. I laughed and asked, "Does the medicine taste good? Once you're unconscious, I'll find a few men to come and have some fun with you, too."
"Qiao Mumei, you country-born trash! You beggar! You dare touch me!" Her tongue was thick with pain, and she could barely speak, yet she insisted on calling me by my original name, as if I weren't even worthy of the name meant to complement hers.
I reached out, grabbed a porcelain vase, and smashed it. Picking up a sharp shard, I pressed it against her cheek with a beaming smile. "Of course I dare touch you, and there's nothing you can do about it. After noon, I'm going to Prince Chen’s manor to provide the music for a special banquet. You can try your little trick from yesterday again; it would be the perfect way to finish off both you and your mother. But before that, you’re going to have a long sleep. In your dreams, I’m going to do everything to you that needs doing—starting with ruining this pretty face of yours."
Before I could even finish, she was so terrified she actually fainted. In truth, I didn't have any of those sordid drugs; I had only fed her a common beauty-enhancing pill. Besides, why would I want her unconscious? I wanted her to watch with her own eyes as I humiliated her.
I should have been triumphant and happy that day. But when I returned from Prince Chen’s manor, I received the news: Fanliao had been tortured for a day and a night by that playboy, and she had bled to death.
***
Enjoying the story? Rate this novel:
Dreams of the Ancient Mountain: The Cat's Masquerade | Chapter 217 | Willow Fluff and Silver Lamps | Novela.app | Novela.app
