Chapter Nine: The Hidden Mountains and Rivers of Upper Tang

Cheng Che took a step forward, leaning in close to whisper softly in Chen Shengxiao’s ear. Whatever he said made her nod with a smile. Zhang Qinglin had no idea what Cheng Che had told her, but before they left, Chen Shengxiao actually handed the Qianlong porcelain box to him, asking him to keep it safe.

“What did you say to Sister Xiao? Why did she give me the porcelain box?” Zhang Qinglin asked.

“I told her you like Wanqing, and Wanqing likes you too, so you’re using this as a token of affection—hehe... If you don’t believe me, go ask Sister Xiao yourself.”

Zhang Qinglin glared at him, so exasperated he couldn’t utter a word. He didn’t believe a thing Cheng Che said. Judging by his expression, it was probably Cheng Che himself who liked Wanqing but was too embarrassed to admit it, so he used Zhang Qinglin as a scapegoat.

By the time they took a cab back to “Mist and Clouds Above Water,” it was already around two in the afternoon. The teahouse was empty; there weren’t many people wandering the alleyways at midday, and besides, it was a Monday. Business was always slow on Mondays, and everyone says Tuesday and Wednesday are just passable. That was just how it was today, so they left Sister Zhou to mind the shop downstairs.

Zhang Qinglin and Cheng Che went straight upstairs, laying out the torn “Eight Steeds of the Upper Tang” painting on the large round table. They examined it from top to bottom, even fetched a magnifying glass, but could not find any secrets hidden within.

Neither of them was an expert in ancient paintings. Cheng Che had only picked up a smattering from his father, and as a spoiled young master, he had never really applied himself—no one expected him to discover anything. Zhang Qinglin, though he had learned quite a bit about antiques from Uncle Jiang, was not deeply versed either. Uncle Jiang, aside from being a tea merchant, was a true connoisseur and collector of antiquities.

After a whole afternoon of fussing with the painting, they still found nothing remarkable.

Zhang Qinglin sat at the table, head bowed, still staring at the painting. “I really can’t see what’s special about this picture,” he muttered.

“Old Zhang, I think we should just find an expert to look at it tomorrow,” Cheng Che shrugged.

“No, the fewer people who know about this, the better.”

“What are you two discussing up here?” Suddenly, Jiang Xinyue’s voice called from the staircase, startling them.

She stood at the railing, holding a watering can. She had come straight home after her tutoring session ended, intending to water the potted flowers upstairs that were nearly wilted. She hadn’t expected to find Zhang Qinglin and Cheng Che there, especially since they’d been coming and going at odd hours these past few days, acting all mysterious. Last night, they hadn’t even come home, spending the night at the teahouse with a strange girl. She was convinced they were keeping something from her.

“Xinyue... why are you home so early today?” Cheng Che greeted her with a beaming smile.

Zhang Qinglin quickly stood up and started rolling up the painting. Jiang Xinyue grinned at Cheng Che and then walked over in a couple of brisk steps to see what Zhang Qinglin was doing.

“Qinglin, stop that... isn’t this the painting I bought? How did it end up like this? So it’s a fake, but you didn’t have to destroy it!” Jiang Xinyue said angrily.

Zhang Qinglin hurried to explain, “It’s not like that, let me explain—”

Before he could finish, Cheng Che interrupted, “Xinyue, it’s just a painting. I’ll take you to buy another one tomorrow.”

His words only made Jiang Xinyue angrier. She slapped the table, set the watering can down—it wasn’t steady, and the whole canful of water spilled onto the table, soaking both the painting and the furniture.

Zhang Qinglin was splashed as well. He shook off his clothes, quickly scooped up the soggy painting, and, not daring to shake it too much, laid it out to dry on the Eight Immortals table nearby.

Jiang Xinyue watched as Zhang Qinglin tended the painting and Cheng Che tidied up the table. Grabbing the watering can, she stormed downstairs in a huff.

“Xinyue, hey... Xinyue...” Cheng Che called after her.

Jiang Xinyue ignored them for the rest of the afternoon.

“Xinyue, come on, let me treat you to dinner tonight.” Cheng Che approached her, his hands on her shoulders, gently steering her toward the door. Zhang Qinglin, standing at the stairway, followed and closed the door behind them.

Cheng Che took them to a specialty Sichuan restaurant near Wangfujing, selecting a quiet, window-side corner and ordering several signature dishes.

He nudged Zhang Qinglin with his elbow and shot him a look. Zhang Qinglin nodded, picked up the hot water pot, and filled everyone’s cup.

Then, with candor, Zhang Qinglin told Jiang Xinyue what had happened over the past two days, omitting what Chen Shengxiao had said so as not to worry her. After she heard the story, Jiang Xinyue shivered with lingering fear, saying they were meddling too much. She also blamed herself for her own impulsiveness in ruining the painting.

After some discussion, the three of them headed back to the teahouse after dinner to check on the “Eight Steeds of the Upper Tang.” Zhang Qinglin carefully laid the now wrinkled, torn painting back on the big round table; the edges of the picture curled up in creased rolls.

Jiang Xinyue tried to smooth out the curled edges and, as she gently ran her hand over the painting, noticed that the colors of the horses on her half of the scroll had faded. Gradually, faint lines emerged, resembling a continuous map of mountain ranges, along with some unfamiliar characters.

“Hey! Come look at this—what are these?” Jiang Xinyue stared intently at the painting.

The half-scroll indeed revealed a map of mountains, though incomplete. None of them could decipher the writing, nor tell where it depicted.

One thing was certain: the “Eight Steeds of the Upper Tang” really did conceal a secret.

Zhang Qinglin transferred the map from the painting onto paper and copied down the characters, asking Cheng Che to find someone literate to translate them later.

...

Early the next morning, Cheng Che arrived, his notebook in hand. He found Zhang Qinglin in the main room, pen in hand, drawing something on a sheet of paper.

“Old Zhang, the translation is done—look!” Cheng Che excitedly placed the notebook in front of Zhang Qinglin.

“It says here that Li Chunfeng hid a treasure in Maple City. Only by gathering the other three pieces of the silk map can the treasure be found. I looked up Maple City—there are a lot of places with that name, but during the Tang dynasty, there was one near Wuzhou, not far from your hometown.” Cheng Che pointed to a corner of the map.

“Wuzhou? Then there must be some secret hidden there,” Zhang Qinglin gazed at the tallest peak on the map.

Cheng Che walked over to pour himself a glass of water. After a sip, he asked, “Shall we take a trip to Maple City and see?”

Zhang Qinglin closed the notebook, glancing at the silk scroll on the table. “Yes, but Uncle Jiang isn’t back yet, and no one will be here to look after Yueyue.”

“Just bring Xinyue along—treat it as a trip to clear our heads. Oh, and by the way, Old Zhang, we’ll pass your hometown on the way to Wuzhou. We can check out that lead I found too.” Cheng Che patted Zhang Qinglin on the shoulder.

(And so, the adventure is about to begin. Friends, give Old Zhang a ticket—without one, how can they get to Wuzhou? The coming exploration will be thrilling; forgive the earlier rambling, and remember, your support is my greatest motivation.)