Chapter Forty: The Quill Pen

Goose quills, the earliest hard-tipped pens that appeared long before fountain and ballpoint pens, stood alongside the Chinese brush as one of the two great writing instruments of the world. In later ages, the goose quill would flourish, surpassing the brush to dominate the art of writing. The steps for crafting a goose quill pen remained vivid in Mo Dun’s memory; he had spent many a class in later years tinkering with them, wasting countless feathers in trial and error.

“Master, let me do it for you!” Uncle Fu looked on with pity as Mo Dun, his left hand still swollen and red, stubbornly plucked at the goose feathers.

Zi Yi, standing nearby, had already been reduced to tears, cursing the wicked Tutor Liu under her breath for beating the young master so harshly.

“No, you won’t do it properly. These goose feathers must keep the wing roots intact, and not suffer the slightest damage!” Mo Dun shook his head resolutely.

Crafting a goose quill pen was a delicate task demanding the utmost care. Even the selection of feathers was crucial: the five longest primaries from the left wing were best, for since Mo Dun was right-handed, the natural curve and inclination of the left wing’s feathers suited his grip perfectly.

After subjecting two large white geese to his designs, Mo Dun finally sighed in relief, having ruined two feathers but managed to collect eight intact.

“All right, have these geese dealt with and prepare a special meal for tonight!” Mo Dun handed the two dead geese to Mo Wu for processing. He needed to focus on the eight feathers now; making quill pens was only the first step. Next, the feathers had to be degreased.

“Whoosh!” Half a pot of sand roasted in the wok, making a sharp, grating sound.

“Master, are you trying to train the Iron Sand Palm?” the burly Tie An peered curiously at Mo Dun’s pot of hot sand.

“Yes, that must be it. The young master was beaten by the tutor today—surely he’s planning to master the Iron Sand Palm and take revenge on the Imperial College’s teachers,” Zi Yi fretted, worried the young master might do something reckless.

“You two talk too much!” Mo Dun shot them a glare, directing Tie An to add more firewood beneath the pot. As the flames roared and the sand began to steam, Mo Dun gently placed a sheet of rice paper on the sand. When the paper turned yellow and was close to igniting, he quickly signaled Tie An to withdraw the fire.

Eight goose feathers were evenly planted into the hot sand, and soon a pungent burning smell filled the air.

“Master, what is this?” Zi Yi sneezed, her nose running from the fumes.

“This is called degreasing. The reason geese can float on water is that their feathers are coated with waterproof oils. We have to remove that grease now,” Mo Dun explained with satisfaction as the feathers gradually turned golden—the pens were nearly complete.

Zi Yi and Tie An didn’t fully understand, but they were nonetheless impressed by their master’s ingenuity.

The eight stiffened quill feathers were neatly arranged on the table. Mo Dun exhaled in relief; only the final step remained.

He brandished his dagger—far less convenient than a modern craft knife, but it would have to suffice.

Taking up the blade, Mo Dun carefully sliced the root of each feather at a forty-five-degree angle, revealing the fibrous inner shaft—the true secret to a successful quill pen, for it was these fibers that would absorb the ink.

He then bored a small hole in the tip, scored a slit along the center, and rounded the nib. At last, the goose quill pen was complete!

Having succeeded with the first, Mo Dun’s confidence soared. Of the remaining seven feathers, he spoiled one by accident but managed to fashion six more quill pens.

“Ha ha ha!” Mo Dun was beside himself with joy.

“It’s just a feather, what’s there to be so happy about?” Zi Yi scoffed dismissively.

“What do you know? This is the first goose quill pen in the world! One day it will replace the brush, and I, Mo Dun, will save scholars everywhere!” Mo Dun shamelessly claimed all credit for the invention. After all, the quill pen wasn’t created in Europe until the eighth century; for now, he was its true inventor.

“You just want to save yourself,” Zi Yi muttered under her breath.

Tie An beamed with simple admiration, convinced that being the best in the world was impressive, and that his young master was indeed remarkable.

“Zi Yi, lay out the paper and grind the ink!” Mo Dun declared, brimming with confidence.

Soon the ink was ready and the rice paper spread out.

Mo Dun took up his quill, adjusted to its feel, dipped it in ink, and began to write in smooth, flowing strokes. In less than half an hour, all the assignments Tutor Liu had left were completed.

“There! Let’s see what Liu Yinian has to say tomorrow!” Mo Dun gazed with satisfaction at his handiwork.

The students of the Imperial College had endured a wretched few days: first they lost two months’ living expenses on a bet, suffering defeat in five out of six matches and losing both pride and profit. To make matters worse, Emperor Li Shimin had rubbed salt in their wounds by declaring that all students must pass mathematics to graduate, fuelling their resentment towards the Mo family’s scion.

The only consolation for the students was watching Mo Dun receive a beating. Thanks to Xiong Maocai’s eager gossip, news of Mo Dun’s poor calligraphy and subsequent punishment at Tutor Liu’s hands spread throughout the college.

“Mo family brat! Now you know how it feels—you made us suffer through mathematics, and now it’s your turn to pay. Calligraphy will be your greatest torment!” Kong Huisuo was positively gleeful; the anger that had nearly made him ill vanished. He had even come to school despite his sick leave, just to see Mo Dun get his comeuppance.

“Good day, Tutor Liu!” Kong Huisuo greeted respectfully.

“Hmm. A single failure is nothing—your future holds great promise,” Liu Yinian encouraged him, his vanity well satisfied by the display.

“Thank you for your guidance, sir!” Kong Huisuo replied as the model student, pleasing Liu Yinian further.

“Sir!”

“Good day, sir!”

…

All along the way, Liu Yinian was greeted by countless students of the Imperial College, filling him with quiet pride. He congratulated himself on making things difficult for the Mo family’s son—these students were destined to be the empire’s pillars, and earning their favor promised great rewards in the future.

Growing more excited at the thought, he quickened his steps, eager to reach the classroom and expel Mo Dun without delay.

“Good day, sir!”

In the classroom, everyone greeted him respectfully.

Liu Yinian surveyed the spotless desk, where a cup of fragrant tea had been placed. He took a sip, nodded in satisfaction, then set his face sternly and announced, “The inspection begins now. All students, submit your assignments.”

“The show’s about to start!” The students exchanged excited glances, all eyeing Mo Dun with ill-concealed anticipation.

“How insidious,” Qin Huaiyu muttered angrily under his breath.

Cheng Chumo and Yuchi Baolin nodded in agreement.

“If you ask me, Mo Dun, you should have just taken sick leave. Don’t you know Old Liu has been targeting you?” Qin Huaiyu advised.

“It’s all right, I’ll be fine,” Mo Dun shook his head, touched by the genuine support of these three friends.

Under the watchful eyes of the entire class, Mo Dun rose slowly, approached the desk, and handed in his work.

Some sharp-eyed students noticed that Mo Dun’s submission consisted of just two thin sheets, while the others had handed in hefty stacks.

Liu Yinian glowered at the folded pages before him, his anger rising.

“This time, the Mo family brat is doomed!” the students exulted inwardly.