Chapter Thirteen: Neither Words Nor Sword

The drunken man’s wild and frenzied behavior instantly drew the attention of everyone in the tavern; the two tables nearby were so startled they recoiled to either side, fearful of being caught up in his drunken madness. The innkeeper had already grown impatient with the drunkard, who had caused them trouble all night, but since the man had paid his way, and business was business, he’d chosen not to stir up trouble, especially as the drunkard mostly kept to his corner—drinking until he was drunk, sleeping until he woke, then drinking again, round and round, without disturbing the other guests. But now, with his drunken rampage affecting those around him, the innkeeper could bear it no longer and signaled the attendant to put a stop to the chaos.

Pei Min, too, was drawn by the sudden commotion. He saw the drunkard sprawled on the ground, gripping his own hair and scribbling furiously across a length of silk. Using hair instead of a brush—so soft, uneven, and split—meant the writing was a blur, the characters muddled together, almost impossible to decipher.

Pei Min furrowed his brow. He could only try to guess the words by the movement of the makeshift pen. Yet, watching the vigor of the strokes, two words formed in his mind: “wild cursive.” The drunkard’s calligraphy was unrestrained, sweeping from top to bottom with a momentum that seemed to pour forth like the Yangtze, or surge like the Yellow River, waves crashing against stone.

Zhang Xu! He must be Zhang Xu! No one else in the world wielded such force in their writing. Not even the Sage of Calligraphy, Wang Xizhi, could match this.

The thought rose unbidden in Pei Min’s mind. As he saw the attendant marching over with intent to intervene, Pei Min acted without hesitation, grabbing the attendant and pulling him back. “Don’t disturb his writing!”

The attendant stumbled, nearly falling, and looked ready to protest. Yet, confronted by Pei Min’s stern and commanding presence, he shrank back, muttering, “It’s all just scribbles anyway…”

Pei Min ignored him. Even an expert would have been hard-pressed to make sense of the writing, for hair was no substitute for a brush, and its value was all but destroyed. Yet, having witnessed the man’s technique, Pei Min could guess at the words, and by following the hand’s movement, he could sense the ruined piece’s original intent.

The first character seemed to be “grace,” though he couldn’t be sure; the second was “nature,” the third “not,” the fourth was unclear, but the fifth was “beauty.” Put together, it read: “A gentle nature, though not beautiful…” The opening line from Xie Lingyun’s poem, “In Praise of Prince Jin,” from the Northern and Southern Dynasties: “A gentle nature, though not beautiful, endures for ten thousand years. Though a prince’s rank is noble, how can it compare to ascending the heavens? Prince Jin was pure and free, the world was noisy and clamorous. Amidst the tumult, he met Master Fuqiu, and together they soared and tumbled.”

Pei Min understood what the drunkard had written. Guided by the memory of his hand, he felt himself drawn into a strange, ethereal realm, as if he could sense the rush of the Yangtze, the roar of the Yellow River…

“Together, we soar and tumble!”

As the drunkard finished the last character, he swayed to his feet and let out a hearty, unrestrained laugh, then collapsed onto the floor in the shape of a great character, snoring almost immediately.

He had fallen asleep, drunk!

“Attendant, help me gather up his things. I’ll take him to the inn to rest,” Pei Min said, stepping forward to fasten the drunkard’s robe and move him aside. In the corner was a short blanket—the innkeeper had left it the night before, fearing the man might freeze to death. Pei Min tucked it around him.

He took the silk scroll, studying the childlike scrawl and sighing deeply. Such a work of power, ruined for want of a proper brush, destroyed by a handful of hair. What a pity!

The innkeeper, relieved to have someone take the troublesome guest off his hands, was only too happy to oblige, instructing the attendant to help.

Pei Min placed the silk into the drunkard’s basket, hastily ate his meal, and with the attendant’s help, slung the drunkard over his horse’s back. After asking for directions to the inn, he led the horse away.

Crossing a street, they arrived at the Huailai Inn as the attendant had described. Pei Min, never one for extravagance, took two modest rooms on the ground floor, just for the night. He laid the drunkard on a bed and covered him.

The drunkard slept like a dead man, utterly insensible to Pei Min’s ministrations. Whether or not he was truly Zhang Xu, the artistry he’d shown that day was enough to earn Pei Min’s care.

Pei Min returned to his room to wash and rest.

At dawn, as Pei Min slept soundly, a heart-rending scream from the next room startled him awake—a cry so anguished it sounded as if someone had lost their dearest loved one.

“Has something happened?” Pei Min thought. He rushed to the next room, sword in hand, not stopping to dress. There, the drunkard paid him no mind, but stared in abject misery at the calligraphy he’d written in his drunken stupor, heartbroken, tears threatening to fall. Before Pei Min could speak, the man seized a brush and began to write in the air, his movements bold and grand, full of boundless energy.

But time and again, he stopped midway, exclaiming, “No, it’s not right!” and started over, repeating this process nearly a dozen times, lost in a frenzy.

Watching him, Pei Min was reminded of the wild inspiration that had seized the drunkard the night before, the same passion and abandon. Now, as the man wrote in the air, it was like swordplay—though unpracticed, his gestures were as sweeping and heroic as a master swordsman’s grandest forms.

A strange feeling welled up within Pei Min. He closed his eyes, recalling the drunkard’s spirit from the night before and the force of his strokes today. His mind shifted back and forth, in the span of a few breaths, rehearsing the essence and technique hundreds, even thousands of times, until gradually, the image of the drunkard in his mind became himself, and the brush in his hand turned into a sword…

Sudden enlightenment!

Pei Min burst out laughing. “Come with me!” Without another word, he dragged the drunkard toward the courtyard.

The drunkard was still struggling to recapture the feeling from the night before, and was in no mood to be yanked away by a stranger, but Pei Min’s strength brooked no resistance, and he was hauled along.

In the courtyard, Pei Min drew his sword. His opening stance resembled gripping a brush, but the blade swept with powerful, expansive movements—rising, falling, thrusting, cleaving—each stroke vigorous and unrestrained. The transitions between moves were majestic, surging forth like the Yangtze, or the Yellow River in flood, waves pounding stone, unstoppable.

The drunkard stared, spellbound. Before Pei Min had even sheathed his sword, the man clapped his forehead, hurried back inside, seized brush and ink, and completed his work in a single, fluid motion. Gazing at his masterpiece, he laughed three times and declared to Pei Min, who had just reentered, “Without your sword, this character would not exist.”

Pei Min replied, “Without your calligraphy, this sword would not exist.”

The drunkard bowed deeply. “Zhang Xu of Wuxian, at your service!”

Pei Min returned the gesture. “Pei Min of Huairou, honored to meet you, Brother Zhang!”

The Sword Saint.

The Sage of Cursive.