Chapter Eleven: A Faint Possibility

Over the following year, Liu Xian’s rapid growth astonished Chen Shou. Initially, Chen Shou had thought Liu Xian, just beginning his education, might lack the zeal to study and planned to take a perfunctory approach. Yet, after an inadvertent remark, Liu Xian became engrossed in his books, studying day and night without pause. Each day, Chen Shou taught him new characters and texts, and the next day Liu Xian would recite them flawlessly from memory, prompting Chen Shou to teach him even more. This cycle continued until the first month of the fifth year of Xian Ning (279 AD), by which time Liu Xian had mastered the Classic of Filial Piety, the Analects, and the Erya, and could independently read parts of the Book of Songs, the Book of Changes, and the Doctrine of the Mean.

According to their agreement, Chen Shou should have begun instructing Liu Xian in the Records of the Grand Historian and the Book of Han. But after spending time together, Chen Shou found his pupil astonishingly ignorant of history. The reason was clear: since the fall of the Anle Duke’s family, whether to avoid political suspicion or simply not to revive painful memories, they had kept the past tightly sealed.

How then should he teach the heir of the Anle Duke? Chen Shou was troubled. He feared that if Liu Xian learned the truth of his heritage, he might become as discontented and troubled as the current Anle Duke. Yet he also knew that truth was like the thunder of a summer night—sudden and shattering, destroying all silence in an instant, leaving no place to hide.

Some dilemmas must be faced. But before finding a better way, Chen Shou postponed teaching history again and again.

One morning, Liu Xian was reading poetry and came upon the "Millet and Millet Shoots" poem, which contained the lines, “Those who know me say my heart is sorrowful; those who do not, ask what I seek.” Chen Shou was moved and suddenly called out to ask what these lines meant.

Liu Xian pondered for a moment, then replied, “At first reading, I thought it was about unrequited love, like the poems ‘Guan Ju’ and ‘Reeds and Rushes.’ But the poem clearly says, ‘Those who do not know me ask what I seek,’ which means I still do not understand its true meaning. So, I mistakenly thought the author was seeking love, but what he truly mourns, I cannot say.”

Chen Shou was pleased and said, “Your insight shows you have entered the realm of poetry.”

“You must consider these lines with the earlier ones. The poem begins, ‘The millet shoots sprout thickly, as does the grain of broomcorn millet.’ Both millet and broomcorn millet are grains; without grain, people perish, and without grain, the state falls. Thus, the state is also called ‘Sheji’—the altars of soil and grain. The author’s sorrow in these grains is actually a concern for the fate of the state. That is why the poem laments, ‘O Heaven above, what manner of man is this?’ Here, Heaven represents the state. Because this poem expresses such deep concern for the country and its people, Confucius placed it at the head of the ‘Odes of the King’s Domain.’”

“Then is his sorrow meaningful?” Liu Xian asked, now grasping the poem’s meaning but unaware of the historical context or its outcome.

“This poem was likely composed after King Ping of Zhou moved the capital east to Luoyang. Since then, the Zhou dynasty’s royal authority waned, until it was ultimately destroyed by King Zhao Xiang of Qin six centuries later,” Chen Shou explained slowly. “Around Mount Mang to the north, there are twenty-five royal tombs of the Eastern Zhou kings.”

At this moment, an idea struck Chen Shou: why not take Liu Xian to see these ancient relics of the pre-Qin era? Witnessing the weight of history might calm his restless spirit.

He asked Liu Xian, “Would you like to see them?”

Liu Xian eagerly nodded. The words “six hundred years ago” themselves held a magical allure for him.

The two set aside their books, took up bamboo walking sticks, changed into straw sandals, and spent the day wandering the mountain paths of Mangshan. Though Liu Xian had often seen tombstones on previous outings, it was only today, climbing with Chen Shou, that he realized how many ancient graves lay hidden in Mangshan. Almost every hundred steps revealed a wild hill overgrown with weeds. Most had become dens for snakes and rats, occasionally a red fox darted through the brambles.

They reached a broad hilltop with an unobstructed view. Looking south, countless small mounds appeared like chess pieces scattered across the land. Between them, the Luo River wound through, transforming the surrounding angles into a verdant plain.

Chen Shou pointed to three adjacent mounds and told Liu Xian these were the tombs of Kings Jing, Dao, and Jing of Zhou.

To their eyes, the so-called Three Kings’ tombs were merely three small hills covered in trees and thorns, lacking any imperial grandeur or majestic formation. Without Chen Shou’s words, Liu Xian could never have imagined that three Zhou monarchs rested here.

Probably, the poet who wrote the “Millet and Millet Shoots” mourned this very sight. All the splendor of life eventually vanishes, and past joys and sorrows become fleeting smoke. Even one’s name is forgotten. Only this poem, without melody, endures like the Luo River, peacefully recounting the sorrow of a lost kingdom a thousand years hence.

And what of oneself? Chen Shou smiled bitterly in his heart, then gathered his thoughts and leaned on his bamboo staff.

“Recently, the capital has been abuzz with talk of mysticism, of immortality and cultivation. Yet in all these years, I have never seen an immortal. Many popular myths, when witnessed firsthand, turn out to be mere local legends.”

“If this is true of people, what of states? The Zhou dynasty ruled for eight centuries—the longest of any—but it too crumbled to dust. Although Cao Pi, Emperor Wen of Wei, spoke boldly, saying no country is eternal and no tomb unexcavated, his words ring true.”

For a child, such talk is disillusioning. Childhood imagines aging as distant, passion as boundless, youth as eternal. Breaking these illusions spares one much confusion and allows peace with mediocrity—this was Chen Shou’s intention.

Liu Xian was puzzled and asked, “Have the longest-lived states lasted only eight hundred years?”

Chen Shou did not immediately answer but continued westward. Two li farther, in a mountain hollow, they found another ancient tomb, more desolate and mournful than any before, its gravestone entwined with yellowed vines. Only two moss-covered stone horses stood sentinel, hinting at the occupant’s distinction.

Chen Shou pointed beneath the vines and asked, “Bi Ji, can you guess how long the owner has been dead?”

“Four hundred years?”

“No.” Chen Shou shook his head slowly, peeled back the vines, revealing the faint inscription: “Tomb of the Late Grand Marshal Cao Zhen.” He explained, “This is the tomb of Cao Zhen, Grand Marshal of the previous Cao Wei dynasty, who died only forty years ago.”

Liu Xian was astonished. Though he did not know what a Grand Marshal was, he sensed from his teacher’s tone that Cao Zhen was a man of high rank. Why then was his tomb so neglected? Didn’t his descendants tend to it?

The mystery soon unraveled. Chen Shou said, “After Cao Zhen’s death, his son Cao Shuang rose to favor under Emperor Ming of Wei, entrusted with his father’s affairs, wielding great power. But Cao Shuang was incompetent and soon was betrayed, arrested, and executed along with his entire clan—over a hundred men, women, and children. Later, the court ordered a distant relative of Cao Zhen to inherit the title, to continue the family line, but no one dared visit this tomb.”

“Why dared they not?” Liu Xian asked.

Chen Shou turned to him slowly and said, “Because the one who executed Cao Shuang was none other than the grandfather of the current emperor, Emperor Xuan of Jin.”

Liu Xian was momentarily stunned.

Chen Shou stepped back from the sorrowful tomb, thinking how fate plays cruel tricks: Cao Wei had been the formidable opponent in the Shu Han northern campaigns, yet within a decade, its family withered like fallen blossoms, destroyed by its successor, Sima Yi.

Ten years is but a blink for the eight centuries of Zhou. And eight centuries are but a fleeting instant in the vastness of cosmic creation.

From this, one sees how insignificant an individual is compared to the world, and how fragile the existence of "self" truly is.

Chen Shou thought that if Liu Xian could understand the limits of human power and thus view the rise and fall of family and state with equanimity, then this journey would have fulfilled its purpose.

On the way back, the two walked in silence until they reached the thatched cottage. Only then did Chen Shou ask, “Bi Ji, after this excursion, what thoughts do you have?”

Liu Xian lowered his head in thought, then said, “Fate is truly terrifying; even an eight-century dynasty can be destroyed.”

Chen Shou silently admired his pupil’s insight, surprised when Liu Xian continued, “But people are stronger. In the face of such fickle fate, they have found ways to resist.”

“Oh?”

“People invented writing to record poetry and history. Even if an eight-century dynasty falls, this sorrowful poem remains. That is remarkable!”

Liu Xian flipped through the scroll of poems again, his eyes shining, and said,

“I remember when we first met, my teacher said, ‘People are destined to die, some deaths weigh more than Mount Tai, others lighter than a feather.’”

“I didn’t understand before. Today’s journey has taught me that a person’s value is ultimately measured by moving words!”

“But to write moving words, how can one lack a brilliant life?!”

Looking at Liu Xian’s radiant expression, Chen Shou was momentarily stunned. He had never realized that beneath Liu Xian’s silence lay such a lively spirit. It reminded him of his first impression of the boy: disdainful of all. Yet lately, he had somewhat forgotten.

A child only seven or eight years old could already defy fate. Were his worries truly excessive? After all, he bore the blood of the former lord. Perhaps he could laugh in the face of all hardship and even break the chains of destiny.

Thinking this, Chen Shou’s expression softened. Perhaps it was time to teach him history.