Chapter Eighty: Song Mo Tells Stories on the Stage, Golden Brocade Teases the Crowd

Master Wanqiu is tall as a hill, yet the Wanqiu Study is small as a boat.

Song Mo had changed into the storyteller’s garb and disguised himself, only to find himself pushed onto the stage of the Spring Breeze Felicity Pavilion.

“Just do your best, sir. When you’ve finished, you’ll get every bit of your reward,” said the waiter, now more restrained than before, his earlier insolence replaced with an adept mix of firmness and tact. Clearly, the manager of Spring Breeze Felicity Pavilion was a capable person.

Standing on the stage, Song Mo surveyed his surroundings. At the center stood an ebony table, upon which rested a pot of tea and four cups.

Something was amiss—many essentials for storytelling were missing: the awakening block, the paper fan, the handkerchief...

While Song Mo was dazed, the audience grew restless.

“What’s going on? Are we getting a story today or not?” grumbled a frail middle-aged man.

Jolted by the complaint, Song Mo slapped his forehead and murmured, “Searching thousands of times among the crowd, how could I not know he was right by the lantern’s edge?”

With that, he took off the cloth bundle he’d snatched from his shoulder.

Upon opening it, he found inside a neatly arranged handkerchief, awakening block, and paper fan.

Surprisingly, the brash old master really was a storyteller.

The awakening block, also called the Nine-Sided Block, was carved with twenty lines on a piece of wood, making ten faces in total. Storytellers would lay it flat so nine faces were exposed. Beyond its use as a prop, the awakening block was a symbol of identity. Different lineages and skill levels meant different blocks.

The paper fan and handkerchief were also vital props. Storytellers often used the fan to mimic swords, weapons, brushes, and so on, skillfully wielding it to replicate martial stances or the flourish of scholars at their writing. There was little the fan could not represent. Of course, methods varied by teacher and personal habit.

Aside from the most common awakening block and fan, some storytellers used other tools: handkerchiefs, teapots, cups, smoking implements. The handkerchief, a simple white cloth, could mimic many objects during the performance, such as letters. It also allowed the storyteller to imitate characters wiping sweat or tears, making the tale livelier.

Song Mo was still recalling the craft of storytelling in his mind, but as the mood below soured and even Jiang Wanyi, Tang Yi, and the young man glanced at him, he steeled himself, poured a cup of tea, and then—“thwack!”

He struck the black awakening block.

The sturdy, hollow ebony table carried sound well; all eyes turned to him.

Sitting upright, Song Mo stared straight ahead, his voice clear as thunder, resonant but not harsh.

“One awakening block, divided up and down; above, the king, below, the ministers. The king’s block governs civil and martial affairs; the civil and martial block manages the people. The sage’s block transmits Confucian teachings; the master’s block stuns ghosts and gods. The monk’s block preaches Buddhism; the Taoist’s block urges the mysteries. One block in the hands of wanderers, drifting across the world, advising all. Friends of the lakes and seas, not my concern; if you seek art, debate my lineage.”

With the prologue done, he picked up the block again and, under puzzled gazes, tapped it lightly on the table.

“Thwack!”

Silence.

The audience still had no idea what Song Mo was up to. He calmly set the block down and smiled:

“Many stars in the sky, but the moon is dim; many people on earth, but hearts are restless. Many birds in the trees, so the song is muddled; many fish in the river, so the water is unclear.

Esteemed guests, old and young, bear with my clumsy tongue, my rambling, my rough speech and muddled words. Sit tight in your seats as this storyteller pushes aside the little drum covered in cowhide, knocks open the three wooden boards that have floated across rivers and seas, and sings you a tale to dispel your worries and ease your minds.

No need for head wraps, no need for painted faces, no need for the stage, no need for boards. The young lady climbs the kang, I turn and begin to sing. Like stories of valor? Like stories of treachery? Like tales of tears? Like tales of laughter? Like those plain? Like those sour?”

Song Mo’s measured and commanding opening stilled the audience’s dissatisfaction. His voice was clear as thunder, every word distinct, echoing from all directions without bias.

Seeing the crowd subdued, Song Mo smiled slightly. “One cannot please all. Today I’ll say nothing else—let me recount ‘The Brocade Garment’.”

The audience, accustomed to Master Kang’s ‘Four Great Constables of Six Gates’ and ‘The Manifold Arts’, now turned their faces with renewed interest as Song Mo announced ‘The Brocade Garment’.

Capturing their attention, Song Mo took up the paper fan and began his tale.

Storytelling is not mere recitation; it is the art of drawing listeners in.

Song Mo cleared his throat. “You may have heard, today’s story is ‘The Brocade Garment’. But do you know what it is?”

No one replied. Song Mo was not worried—there was plenty of time ahead.

“Some may guess the brocade garment is simply a robe woven with gold threads. But you would be mistaken. The brocade garment is not a piece of clothing, but a song.”

Indeed, the audience’s curiosity deepened.

Song Mo continued, “Let me tell you, in the southern provinces was an extraordinary woman named Lady Du Qiuniang. Born of humble origins, she possessed unique grace and beauty, unmatched in the world. Ah, just three degrees more beautiful than that young lady over there.”

Playfully, Song Mo waved the fan and pointed, seemingly at random but precisely at Jiang Wanyi.

The crowd chuckled—Jiang Wanyi was already coldly beautiful; to be three degrees more beautiful, how stunning would that be?

Jiang Wanyi merely frowned, unconcerned by the storyteller’s jest.

Song Mo pressed on, “Alas, Lady Du Qiuniang’s family was poor, but her talent in song and dance gained her a place as a singing girl. Was it fortune or misfortune, do you say?”

He paused deliberately, and sure enough, someone called out, “Well, what happened?”

Song Mo grinned—it was the frail middle-aged man again, clearly a devoted fan.

Smiling, Song Mo said, “Later, at fifteen, Lady Du Qiuniang became a singing girl in the mansion of Li Qi, the Pacifying Seas Governor.”

“Ah, a high official—surely that’s a good thing?” the middle-aged man chimed in again, almost as if he were a planted comic.

Song Mo tapped his folding fan. “The official was indeed high, but the man was a little old fellow over fifty.”

“Oh, what a pity for such a beauty,” the audience murmured sympathetically.

Song Mo snapped his fan and joked, “Who can deny it? The worst men in the world are of two kinds: first, those who toy with women but never marry them; second—”

“And the second?” someone prompted.

Song Mo slapped the awakening block, chuckling, “The second, naturally, are those who marry them but never play!”

His quip sent the audience roaring with laughter, except Jiang Wanyi, who frowned ever deeper.

Beside her, the young man muttered, “Rustic boor, unbearably vulgar. Shall we retire to an upstairs private room?”

Jiang Wanyi cast a glance at Xia Yu, who sat in the corner pouring himself a drink, and then shook her head.