Chapter 20: The Cloth Merchant Zheng Ji

Chapter 20: Zheng Ji, the Cloth Peddler

Clip-clop, clip-clop… Along a winding country path, a cloth peddler spurred his gentle old ox onward. Laden with bundles of cloth, the ox plodded steadily, its gait unhurried as it bore both man and wares. The peddler’s impatience was clear, yet though he flicked his whip through the air, he never let it fall upon the animal’s back. Instead, his persistent, rhythmic urging grew only more frequent.

Zheng Ji, the cloth peddler, was hurrying to reach the city gates of Wei Commandery before they closed at dusk. Yet oxen were never quick beasts—let alone this domesticated, aging creature, whose ears had sprouted white hairs, whose steps were ponderous and slow. The sun’s last rays slipped away behind the mountains, the sky dimming steadily. Zheng Ji’s heart grew anxious; if the gates closed, he would have to spend the night outside. Worse, if he missed the delivery window, the miserly owner of the cloth shop would surely invent new excuses to dock his pay. With a deep breath and a resolute clench of his jaw, Zheng Ji decided to take a shortcut—he would brave the overgrown burial mounds at Heisong Post.

The burial grounds sprawled beneath wild grasses, scattered with nameless earthen graves that cast a desolate air over the place. The night wind rustled the weeds with a persistent sigh, as if a thousand whispers swirled at Zheng Ji’s ears. Though a chill prickled his skin, it was the challenge of the journey after dark that worried him more. Pulling his bamboo hat tighter, he tapped the ox’s flank with his whip, urging it to quicken its pace.

The bell hanging at the ox’s neck chimed brightly in the silence—clang, clang—resonating across the lonely graves. To steel his nerves, Zheng Ji began to hum a song from his village, a tune of spring’s warmth and hope:

“The common folk gather, blessings for the unborn, all creatures rejoice, spring brings its grace—”

The old ox, sensitive to its master’s unease, twitched its ears and glanced warily around as it walked. Zheng Ji sang on, clinging to the melody that, in spring, was sung at the sowing of seeds, when the sun’s energy was at its peak—a tune he hoped would chase away the chill and his own fear.

His voice echoed across the empty burial ground, mingling with the wind and the rustling grass until, strangely, they formed a kind of harmony. From time to time, moonlight slipped through breaks in the clouds, lighting the path before Zheng Ji and his ox, lengthening their shadows across the earth. He glanced back often, checking that his bundles of cloth were secure, and listened intently for any sign of movement nearby.

The path was little used—grass had grown waist-high over the old trail. The wind’s wailing through the weeds and the twisted shadows of trees made his skin crawl. Suddenly, a strange, cackling laugh sounded nearby, making Zheng Ji’s soul nearly leap from his body; he nearly tumbled from the ox’s back. Steadying himself, he squinted to see its source: an owl perched atop a broken stone marker, its eyes round and unblinking as it regarded him from above. Zheng Ji muttered a curse under his breath and hurried the ox onward, the clip-clop resuming.

As he ventured deeper into Heisong Post, a mist began to rise, crawling along the ground as if conjured from the earth itself. The further he went, the darker it became. At some point, the moon had vanished behind thick clouds, leaving only a faint ring of light and a damp chill that seeped into his bones.

“Steady now, old ox, just a bit longer and we’ll be out of this place. Once we reach the city, I’ll fill your trough with the finest hay, and you’ll have a good night’s rest. Just a little longer—let’s hurry now…” Zheng Ji coaxed his companion, promising rewards if only it would pick up the pace.

As he rounded a small rise, the darkness abruptly gave way to the glow of lanterns. Relief flooded him. “At last! Didn’t expect to find a home here—must be a new house, looks like there’s a celebration inside.”

Atop a hillside stood a modest courtyard, a single lantern hung at its gate, casting a gentle light into the night—a beacon for travelers. The red paper of the lantern fluttered in the breeze, the characters inked upon it spinning out of sight. Bathed in its glow, the house exuded a festive warmth.

Rather than follow the main path, Zheng Ji nudged his ox along the slope toward the lantern’s glow, which made the way easier to see. As they neared the courtyard, voices—lively and overlapping—reached his ears. The sound of human company and light soothed his nerves, so he no longer rushed the ox, but paused to peek curiously through the gate.

The courtyard gate was ajar, and within, the clatter of pots and pans rang out alongside the scrape of wooden stools and the laughter and shouts of people drinking and playing games. The scene was a sharp contrast to the gloom of Heisong Post.

A heady aroma of wine, woodsmoke, and savory dishes drifted out, an intoxicating blend that seemed to tumble into Zheng Ji’s nostrils like a pack of playful children. Even before he reached the courtyard, warmth began to spread through him, his mouth watering and his stomach rumbling in response to the feast inside.

Passing the half-open gate, Zheng Ji straightened on the ox to peer into the courtyard, taking in the joyful scene. Men, women, and children of every age gathered around wooden tables, their voices rising and falling in cheerful conversation. Children with pigtails darted about like minnows, faces alight with innocent laughter, clutching little wooden toys or brightly colored sweets.

The tables groaned under platters of steaming buns, fragrant braised meats, fresh fruit, and cups of wine. Guests sat together, savoring the food and sharing stories.

Just then, a young man in a blue tunic stepped out to the gate, a wooden basin in hand, clearly about to toss its contents. Zheng Ji, riding close, was caught unaware.

With a splash, the young man flung the basin’s wash water in an arc—straight onto Zheng Ji atop the ox. The sudden dousing knocked Zheng Ji’s hat askew, soaking his clothes and sending cold droplets trickling down his face and sleeves.

Startled, Zheng Ji cried out, pulling the ox to a stop. He had no time to worry about himself; his first instinct was to check the cloth on the ox’s back. His expression shifted from shock to dismay—the bundles had been splashed, the fabric undoubtedly damaged and devalued. Thinking of the miserly shopkeeper, Zheng Ji’s heart sank; he might lose everything on this trip.

“How could you just toss water without looking! Look what you’ve done to my cloth!” Zheng Ji exclaimed, his frustration directed at both the careless youth and himself for being distracted by the tempting aromas and lively scene.

He hurriedly lifted the bundles from the ox, shaking off the water and laying them out on the ground to dry.