Old Raftsman

In the fiftieth year of Huang Zhishui's life, white mourning banners were hoisted at the Pinemist Pavilion in Wellspring Town of Qingzhou. Yet beneath these banners, there was no weeping; instead, the suona wailed in high pitches, and the drumbeats fell like driving rain. It was a funeral, yet as boisterous as a wedding feast. Clad in coarse mourning hemp, Huang Zhishui sat on the ground before the coffin, his hands passionately beating the clay basin. The coffin in the hall stood empty. From outside, the clamor of gongs and drums approached from afar. "This is a joyous occasion! You silly disciple, play something cheerful!" Zhu Chougong staggered in, followed closely by a man blowing the suona. These words were meant for the hall full of guests, but even more so for Huang Zhishui. Fifty years of drifting in the martial world, like a wooden basin tossing upon the river, had finally found the shore. In his early years, relying on his deft hands, he carved jade and engraved gold in the Imperial Treasury. He imitated the ancients and copied his contemporaries; he could even replicate the intricate veins of the Imperial Seal without a single flaw. In those days, the world praised his craftsmanship as the work of spirits, and he himself believed it. Yet that man, Feng Dao, had said, "Cunning craftsmanship is easily acquired; true wisdom is hard to seek." At the time, Huang Zhishui only sneered, laughing at the man for his pedantry. In a world of chaos, wealth was the only true wisdom. But the decades of their association could not be faked. True, he, Huang Zhishui, was sometimes annoyed by Feng Dao, weary of his endless chattering. However, Feng Dao's final letter before his death made him stand in silence for a very long time. The letter contained no matters of great consequence, only rambling about the charm of mountains and rivers, and the joy of scholarly pursuit. And at the very end, it left behind a single word, "Truth." Forging counterfeits to replace the genuine, secretly pulling strings and bribing officials; Pinemist Pavilion aided the commoners in the light, but amassed wealth in the dark... Over these years, step by step, he had gained much, yet he felt all the more empty. Enough, let it be! Let this joyous funeral serve as a send-off for himself. It could also be considered a final send-off for Elder Changle. Behind him, the white banners fluttered fiercely in the wind, echoing the gongs, drums, and laughter. Huang Zhishui smiled and walked out. It was the lightest his steps had been in decades. The coffin held no corpse. The world held Huang Zhishui no more.