Jiangnan is abundant with hills, where accents change every ten miles and customs every hundred. The Yu family village, with less than a hundred households, is built halfway up the mountain slopes, with hills behind and hills before, and streams trickling below. Squeezed between two other villages, Yu family village has never produced any talent—no scholar-bureaucrat, no official of grandeur—and has been constantly oppressed by its neighbors. Every summer, when fighting for irrigation water, they were often humiliated, forced to secretly break open their neighbors’ small dams under cover of night to divert water to their own fields.
There was a local custom of dancing on bamboo horses, but Yu family village was too destitute for even beggars on bamboo horses to bother entering. The village children could only watch helplessly from behind, risking bullying just to catch a glimpse of the festivities in neighboring villages. Few in Yu family village bore surnames other than Yu, as men could only marry women from their own village. They called it keeping blessings within the family, unlike the neighboring villages, where brides from afar often arrived in grand processions.
San Yazi, born with idiocy, had both parents from the Yu family, his two relatives living at opposite ends of the village. It only took a few steps to walk from one end to the other while eating a half-bowl of rice. San Yazi looked delicate, but in local terms, he had simply drunk too much soul-obscuring soup during reincarnation and never awakened in this life. His parents took him to a famous shaman dozens of li away to retrieve his soul, but even the shaman could not bring it back from King Yama.
Yet every village has its fools, and San Yazi’s parents had long accepted their fate. At least he was a boy; they could spend more money later to marry him off, and at worst, he could still carry on the family line. But recently, the Yu family village was abuzz with astonishment—San Yazi had somehow awakened. Previously, he only smiled and drooled when seeing people, but now he was clean and even greeted elders properly.
The neighboring Song village, relatively prosperous, had a small village school in a thatched cottage, not belonging to any clan, thus open to outsiders. Yu Fu, known as San Yazi, went to squat by the window to listen to the teacher’s lessons. Every day he returned to the village, drawing strange symbols on the ground, which villagers later realized were actually characters from books. The tutor, whose academic achievements were unknown, had settled in the village twenty years ago and never left. His teachings were limited to the three foundational classics: “San Zi Jing,” “Bai Jia Xing,” and “Qian Zi Wen.” Nothing extraordinary, never saying anything impressive, he was likely just a mediocre Confucian scholar with a heavy accent, making it hard for young students to adapt.
The elderly tutor, in his sixties, inexplicably took a liking to San Yazi. Not only did he deliberately place a small stool by the window, but he also casually taught the boy various Confucian etiquette—bowing, walking, listening, and watching. He neither asked Yu Fu’s parents for tuition fees nor required the boy to perform the formal Apprenticeship(bai shi) ceremony.
At the head of Song village stood an ancient locust tree, hollow yet lush, standing by stone and water for centuries. According to the Song family genealogy, their ancestors had been there for four hundred years, yet still younger than the old tree.
A young Daoist priest, carrying a peach-wood sword and a cotton satchel, walked along a winding mud path. Standing under the old tree, he gazed outward, revealing a panoramic view of three villages. In winter, the stream was low, exposing many rocks. A Daoist of rare elegance in the countryside squatted by the stream, following a well-trodden path, cupping a handful of cool water to wash his face. He heard roosters crow and dogs bark, smiling as he stood. On the bank, several village children, bolder ones among them, asked if he could exorcise ghosts and demons. The Daoist, in a plain robe, smiled warmly but shook his head, causing the disappointed children to scatter like birds.
The Daoist entered the village, where many elders sat lazily on tree stumps, warming their hands on charcoal-filled bamboo baskets. Seeing a rare Daoist, they looked on with simple curiosity and respect, unsure how to greet him properly for fear of offending him, so they merely smiled.
The young Daoist, with clear eyes and a naturally kind face, did not overly reciprocate their greetings. He wandered through the village, pausing occasionally, following the sound of chanting until he reached the village school. There, he saw Yu Fu sitting on a small stool by the window, swaying his head while reciting, his thin back utterly absorbed. The young Daoist stopped, lowered his gaze, and quietly adjusted his robe before stepping forward to stand beside Yu Fu, listening to the chanting.
Inside, the aged tutor, after assigning a reading section, did not sit upright but stood by the other window, holding a book in one hand and nodding occasionally.
After the children finished reciting, the old tutor was about to speak when he noticed the Daoist outside the window, startled. He hurried out of the thatched hut. The young Daoist bowed and said, “This humble Daoist is Li Yufu, once cultivated on Wudang Mountain.”
The tutor, honored by the bow, replied, “So you are a true Daoist from Wudang Mountain. I am Xu Liang, ashamed to be a teacher, fearing I may mislead these children. If my teachings are flawed, I hope the Master will kindly correct me.”
The young Daoist shook his head and smiled, “Master Xu, you flatter me. This humble Daoist is on a pilgrimage, seeking an opportunity before returning to the mountain. There may be many disturbances ahead.”
Xu Liang, usually stern before children, laughed heartily, “Master, you are too polite.”
The current imperial court revered Daoism and Huang-Lao philosophy without limit. As long as they were not frauds in Daoist robes deceiving the ignorant, both court and commoners respected registered Daoists. Across the land, Daoist temples stood everywhere, with Longhu Mountain and Wudang Mountain leading the way. To villagers, any Daoist from these two sacred mountains, regardless of age, deserved the title “Master.” If not for the youthfulness of this self-proclaimed Li Yufu, Xu Liang, with some literary knowledge, would have respectfully called him “Immortal.” As for ancestral disputes and celestial ascensions, the villagers cared little, merely marveling when they heard of such things.
Yu Fu, with clear eyebrows and bright eyes, stood up from the stool but did not leave, quietly listening nearby. Xu Liang glanced at the child he thought had spiritual potential and half-jokingly said, “Since the Master is seeking an opportunity, why not take a look at this child? His surname is Yu, given name Fu—both ordinary, yet together, they are not vulgar. Yu Fu, Yu Fu—blessings in the remainder of life. A fine name indeed. In my youth, I studied some superficial physiognomy, and though he shows no sign of wealth or status, there is something intrinsically joyful about him. Master Li, why not open your celestial eye?”
Li Yufu knelt, gazing into Yu Fu’s fearless eyes, and softly said, “This humble Daoist dares not speak rashly.”
The old man, disappointed at not hearing praise, nonetheless understood that blessings could not be forced, or he would not have accepted a life of poverty as a village tutor.
Then, inexplicably, a Daoist surnamed Li settled in Yu family village. He did not ask villagers for lodging. With many green bamboos on the mountain, he spent half a month building a bamboo house. In his spare time, he wove bamboo baskets and distributed them among villagers. If villagers brought homemade rice wine or food, he repaid them with baskets of winter bamboo shoots. He patiently taught many children to make bamboo flutes and play them. For villagers’ red and white events, they willingly sought his help. If someone fell ill, the young Daoist would venture deep into the mountains to collect herbs, even acting as a physician, diagnosing illnesses and gently regulating meridians. Over time, not only nearby villages but also those within a hundred li came to know that Yu family village’s ancestors must have been smiling from the grave to attract a young immortal to dwell in the back mountains cultivating Dao.
Xu Liang, in his spare time, visited the bamboo house to discuss Daoist cultivation with Master Li, and Yu Fu often accompanied him. Amid firecrackers bidding farewell to the old year and welcoming the new, Yu Fu’s parents felt especially proud, for the Spring Festival couplets hanging on Li’s bamboo gate were written by their son. Since Li’s arrival and his closeness to Yu Fu, the couple’s voices grew louder in the village.
Several pretty village girls, upon encountering the young Daoist on the stone path, would smile shyly, walk slowly past, then secretly look back. Married women, less reserved, would chat freely with the elegant young man while pounding clothes on river stones. Seeing the Daoist’s blushing face, they would laugh and whisper that such a delicate young man would bring great fortune to whichever family won him as a son-in-law.
Before long, winter snow melted, and spring blossoms burst forth. Willows turned green, and carp arrived with the murmuring stream.
Each morning, as the sun rose over the mountains, villagers working in the fields could see a pleasing sight: under Li’s guidance, a group of children practiced boxing in front of the bamboo house, drawing circles in the air, beautiful to watch from afar.
Day after day, spring turned to summer. Except for his refined appearance, Li had become indistinguishable from a villager. He used his earnings from selling herbs to support the elderly and widowed. Whenever villagers faced overwhelming farmwork, a child’s quick message ensured his presence. After the Grain Rain festival, during rice planting season, he could be seen daily in the fields, bending with natural skill, planting rice with surprising proficiency. Possibly inspired by him, the three villages, once often quarreling over irrigation water, now treated each other more kindly, with less bullying.
Master Xu, after drinking, often warned villagers not to burden the Master with farmwork, disrupting his cultivation. Initially, villagers worried, but seeing Li remain ever helpful, they grew reassured. Some claimed to have seen a tiger descending the mountain, only to turn back upon seeing Li stand there. Villagers, with limited knowledge, believed that if there were real immortals, they could be no different.
One summer evening, as mountain heat faded, Yu Fu and Master Xu sat cooling themselves before the bamboo house, while Li wove a bamboo basket with nimble fingers.
The familiar child, squatting beside him, asked, “Is Wudang Mountain very high?”
Li paused, gently replying, “When I was small, the journey seemed long, so it felt high. As I grew, it no longer seemed so.”
The child laughed, “Does it snow on Wudang Mountain?”
Li looked toward the distant peaks, pursed his lips, then nodded, “Of course. My master’s master once carried my young master-uncle up the mountain in heavy snow. My young master-uncle told me that the next morning, when he stood on Xiao Lianhua Peak, it looked like a sea of steamed buns, making him hungry.”
Yu Fu asked, “Can I go to Wudang and see it?”
Li did not answer this time, only smiling.
Xu Liang, no fool, kindly patted Yu Fu’s head, then turned to Li Yufu, softly saying, “Since fate has brought you together, why not take him into your Daoist sect? It would be a great blessing for Yu Fu’s family.”
Li’s eyes shone with determination, “We cultivate Dao to attain immortality, not violating human ethics or defying reason. Parents alive, do not travel far; if travel, have purpose.”
Xu sighed, “Since the Master says travel must have purpose, then distant journeys are not impossible, as long as Yu Fu’s parents are settled without worries, fulfilling filial piety.”
Li smiled warmly, “Wait a little longer. It’s fine.”
Xu hesitated, then asked solemnly, “Master Li, may I ask something?”
Li nodded, “Please speak.”
Xu took a breath, “During the New Year market, I took the liberty to inquire about Wudang Mountain’s situation in the city. I heard the current sect leader is also surnamed Li.”
Li, gazing at the mountains beyond his door, calmly replied, “That is indeed this humble Daoist.”
Xu, shocked, stood abruptly, lips trembling, at a loss.
Li smiled, put down the half-finished basket, pulled Xu back to the bamboo chair, and resumed his work.
Xu muttered, “What kind of immortal are you?”
Another New Year arrived, and Li visited Yu Fu’s home, bringing couplets. Yu Fu’s father, emboldened, asked for several couplets, not forgetting his in-laws and distant relatives.
As Li turned to leave, Yu Fu’s father flushed, hesitated, and struggled to speak. His wife tugged his sleeve repeatedly, but the man lacked the courage.
Knowing hesitation was no solution, recalling storytellers’ tales of facing death bravely, he scratched his head, took a bag from his wife’s hand, and awkwardly said, “Master Li, my wife is pregnant again. With peace prevailing, mountain folk don’t fear having more children, and we can raise them. I was wondering if you might accept Yu Fu as your disciple. If the boy succeeds, our Yu family will share the blessing. Master Li, we have no silver, just these savings. I know you don’t seek wealth, but if you accept Yu Fu, consider it a debt we’ll repay.”
Li pushed back the money bag, took Yu Fu’s hand, and deeply bowed to the couple.
Fearing Li might change his mind, the man hastily called, “Yu Fu, quickly kowtow to your master!”
Li released Yu Fu’s hand, stepped back three paces, hands folded at his waist.
Yu Fu knelt, kowtowing three times with a loud thud.
As Yu Fu bowed the first time, Li had already raised his sleeve to cover his eyes, though tears still streamed down his face.
That year, Wudang Mountain was blanketed in snow, and Sect Leader Li Yufu brought back a disciple named Yu Fu.
The young sect leader carried the child up the mountain, the sleeping boy tightly clutching a string of Reluctant to part(she de) sugar-coated haws.
Upon reaching Wudang’s summit, the young Daoist looked afar, choked up, and whispered, “Little Master-uncle, we’re home.”
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