Chapter 51: The Strange Occurrence

Feng Changshun and Feng Hanyun pulled Feng Yuan up the mountain, chattering all the way about the remarkable abilities of the master who would be giving the lecture. They praised him to the skies, describing him as almost a sage reborn into the world.

Yet Feng Yuan felt nothing but puzzlement. Who was this legendary figure, and why would such a person come to lecture in his shabby little village? And why at night, instead of during the day?

Dragged along by the two, they soon arrived at the Temple of the Sage. At the sight before him, Feng Yuan was stunned—this was no longer the dilapidated building he remembered, but seemed newly constructed, immaculate from top to bottom, the statue of the sage at its center freshly restored.

Beneath the statue, an elderly man was holding forth with a book in his hand, lecturing to a group of some twenty-odd people, young and old alike, all sitting respectfully and listening with rapt attention.

“Teacher, when was the Sage’s Temple rebuilt?” Feng Yuan whispered to Feng Changshun, perplexed.

“It’s been done for a while now!”

“Really? How did I not know about it?” Feng Yuan was even more confused. The temple was right behind his house; surely he would have noticed such an event. And only that afternoon, he was certain it was still a ruin. Had his eyes deceived him?

“Over here, Feng Yuan!” Feng Changshun beckoned softly, leading him to a mat at the back of the crowd, where they sat. Immediately, both Feng Changshun and Feng Hanyun devoted their full attention to the master’s lecture, looking wholly absorbed.

Feng Yuan studied the so-called master: a man of about fifty, slightly overweight, barely five feet tall, with a round, sallow face that gleamed with oil, small eyes like broad beans, and a scraggly moustache. His robe, yellow-gray and threadbare, looked as if it had been salvaged from a rubbish heap. The man’s entire appearance was shabby and even a little disreputable.

Listening to his lecture, Feng Yuan found it nothing but a rote recitation from the book—dry, uninspired, with nothing of substance. Any literate man could do as much. Looking around at the audience, he noted that aside from the three of them, most were dressed in rags, impoverished and dirty, as if they had just crawled out of the fields.

Presumably, these people were all from Fengjia Village, yet Feng Yuan recognized none of them.

The master droned on above, while his audience listened as if entranced, nodding and murmuring their approval, especially Feng Changshun and Feng Hanyun, who seemed fervently inspired. Feng Yuan was utterly bewildered. What, exactly, was so marvelous about this? Were all these people illiterate?

“Teacher, what’s so impressive about this master’s lecture? I don’t hear anything special,” Feng Yuan asked, puzzled.

“Hush, don’t speak! The master will be angry. Just listen quietly; you’ll understand in time.” With that, Feng Changshun immersed himself once again in the lecture, a look of bliss on his face.

Feng Yuan frowned, staring at the master on the dais, listening carefully for a while longer. Still, he found nothing of merit—if anything, it was so dull it made him drowsy, like a lullaby. He wondered if he should just slip away.

But seeing how enraptured Feng Changshun and Feng Hanyun were, he feared leaving would upset them. So he decided to wait a bit longer.

Unwittingly, Feng Yuan drifted off to sleep.

He did not know how long he slept, but was eventually roused by the crowing of a rooster. His neck ached as he opened his eyes to see the crowd dispersing.

Feng Changshun and Feng Hanyun were hurrying out of the temple. Soon, Feng Yuan found himself the only one left inside.

“Is it over?” he wondered, rising and glancing toward his companions, who were already outside and heading down the mountain.

“Teacher! Hanyun! Why are you leaving without me?” he called, hurrying after them. But the two walked on as if they hadn’t heard, quickening their pace.

Assuming they hadn’t heard him, Feng Yuan called out again, but they ignored him, breaking into a trot as if in a rush to get home.

“Wait for me, Teacher! Hanyun!” he shouted, lengthening his stride, but the two only sped up, quickly leaving him behind.

Feng Yuan was baffled by their behavior. Were they deaf? Why were they in such a hurry? Eventually, he gave up the chase and strolled leisurely down the mountain.

He noticed the sky was already lightening in the east—it was nearly dawn. No wonder his neck ached; he’d slept the whole night without realizing it.

Halfway home, he spotted something on the ground and bent to pick it up. It was a waist tag, the kind scholars wore on their belts for decoration. Examining it, he saw it was engraved with the character “Shun”—it must belong to Feng Changshun, dropped in his haste.

Feng Yuan tucked it into his robe and continued homeward.

When he arrived, the sun was already up. Hu Xiao was waiting anxiously at the door. Seeing Feng Yuan return, she hurried over, her face full of concern. “Young master, where have you been all night? I was worried sick!”

“It’s nothing, don’t worry. I went with Teacher and Hanyun to the Sage’s Temple on the mountain to listen to a lecture. It was so boring I dozed off, and before I knew it, the whole night had passed. Sorry for worrying you,” Feng Yuan replied, smiling, reaching out to pat her head. “Look at those dark circles—you must not have slept at all. Go get some rest.”

“All right, you should rest too, young master,” Hu Xiao said, visibly relieved. They each returned to their rooms to sleep.

Feng Yuan slept until midday. After lunch, he set out for Feng Changshun’s house, waist tag in hand, intending to return it.

Feng Changshun’s home was near the village school on the northern edge of the village, about seven or eight hundred meters away. As Feng Yuan approached, he heard the mournful sound of funeral instruments.

“Who’s died?” he wondered, hurrying on. From afar, he saw white funeral banners hanging at the gate and a mourning hall set up, with people in mourning clothes gathered outside.

“Teacher’s house? Who passed away?”

Stunned, Feng Yuan quickened his steps and reached the mourning hall. What he saw left him speechless.

“The Spirit Tablet of My Late Father, Feng Changshun.”

He stared at the tablet in shock—it actually bore Feng Changshun’s name. That meant it was Feng Changshun who had died. But last night, Feng Changshun had gone with him to the Sage’s Temple. How could he be dead by midmorning? How could it have happened so quickly?