Chapter 36 Silent Father and Son

On the xin-si day of February in the fourth year of the Taikang era, twelve-year-old Liu Xian officially began his period of mourning.

As a folk custom that had gradually gained popularity since the Han dynasties due to the veneration of Confucianism, the ritual of mourning not only persisted in the Western Jin dynasty but had reached its absolute zenith.

According to the records in the *Book of Rites*, during the mourning period, to fully demonstrate filial piety, the mourner had to adhere to extremely strict dietary restrictions: for instance, consuming nothing for the first three days and only partaking in thin rice gruel after the funeral procession; after a hundred days, upon the cessation of loud weeping, one was permitted to switch to plain vegetarian food and water; after the small *xiang* sacrifice at the end of the first year, fruits and vegetables could be added; following the grand *xiang* sacrifice at the end of the second year, soy sauce and salt were finally allowed for seasoning; and only when the full mourning period expired could one resume a normal diet, which included meat.

Housing regulations were equally stringent: before the deceased was interred, the filial child had to dwell in a temporary, crude thatched hut; after the burial, the inner walls of the hut could be plastered with mud to block the wind; after a hundred days, the hut could be slightly tidied up; at the small *xiang* of the first year, the hut could be rebuilt, its walls painted with white lime, and ordinary sleeping mats used; by the grand *xiang*, one could return to a regular dwelling, though beds were still forbidden; once the mourning was officially completed, all restrictions were lifted.

Such harsh mourning practices hindered agricultural production and ravaged the human body, making complete adherence in daily life nearly impossible.

During the Han dynasties, filial children who could actually execute the *Book of Rites* to the letter were not merely rare—they were entirely nonexistent. The *xiaolian* candidates recommended by local commanderies as paragons of morality included men like Zhao Xuan during the reign of Emperor Huan, who mourned for twenty years while continuously fathering children with his wife, and men like Xu Wu during the reign of Emperor Ming, who initially feigned unfilial behavior only to suddenly repent and correct his ways with dramatic flair. Hence, a contemporary satirical ballad went: "Recommend a *xiucai* who knows no books; examine a *xiaolian* whose father lives apart. The pure and upright scholars are muddy as clay, while the high achievers and brave generals are timid as chickens."

Thus, anyone who could withstand worldly temptations and strictly observe a three-year mourning period was already celebrated as a paragon of filial piety in their time. For instance, Yuan Shao at the end of the Han dynasty mourned first for his mother and then for his father, a total of six years, thereby gaining renown across the realm and universal praise for his virtue. By contrast, Cao Cao, though recommended as a *xiaolian*, had no such remarkable deeds to showcase.

By the time of the Western Jin dynasty, however, the ritual of mourning received unprecedented emphasis, fostering an overarching societal atmosphere of "fatal filial piety." In recent years, the Prince of Hedong received news of his mother's death and mourned her for three years, strictly following the dietary mandates of the *Book of Rites* to the point of becoming "emaciated and withered as firewood," resembling a starving ghost. The Prince of Pingyang, Yan, was even more extreme; it is said that he lost his mother at the age of nine and spent the three-year mourning period weeping blood, nearly destroying his health, and thereafter spent over ten days wailing and grieving every year on the anniversary of her death. Even recluses like Ruan Ji, famed for his unrestrained eccentricity and disdain for ritual laws, could not avoid observing the rites of condolence, though the specific details he practiced were unconventional.

To mourn to the brink of death was, of course, untimely. Yet for a custom to develop to such an extent, there were naturally unique reasons rooted in the era, which could be boiled down to two primary points:

First, after centuries of power struggles, the aristocratic clans had finally secured the political status and authority they desired, and they had to pay a corresponding price.

Having vaunted their moral purity as superior to that of ordinary men to justify their claim to power, they naturally had to display commensurate emotional sentiments. Filial piety, being the paramount Confucian virtue, was precisely the arena where they could make a grand display. Whether their actions matched their reputation, however, was perhaps a matter for separate consideration.

Second, the Sima clan had seized the imperial throne through usurpation and regicide, running contrary to the Confucian doctrine of loyalty to the sovereign. Yet emperors, too, were obliged to burnish their own virtue, forcing them to compensate in other areas such as benevolence, forgiveness, and leniency so as to conform to the moral standards of the "Imperial House."

Among these, the path of filial piety was of paramount importance. Sima You, the Prince of Qi and head of the imperial clan, led by example, mourning first for Emperor Jing of Jin, then for Emperor Wen, and subsequently serving the Empress Dowagers Yang and Zhang. He, too, grew emaciated, thereby winning the hearts of the entire realm. Emperor Sima Yan, though slightly inferior to his brother in such displays of grief, vigorously promoted filial piety through administrative decrees. As the saying goes, whatever rulers practice, their subjects follow; consequently, the wave of "fatal filial piety" swept across the nine provinces, reaching a historic peak.

None of this held much meaning for Liu Xian, however. His mourning now was neither a performative display of fatal piety nor a perfunctory going-through-the-motions.

Because Chen Shou had been in mourning during the years Liu Xian studied under him, Liu Xian had shared those meals and long since adapted to a mourning lifestyle. Experiencing it once more caused him no discomfort.

Nor did he wish to behave like other mourners, weeping loudly before the tombstone every day. The sight of Zhang Ximiao's tombstone instantly recalled his mother's teachings during her lifetime, filling him with a weighty sense of responsibility. Shedding tears was a sign of succumbing to that burden; he needed to prove to his mother that he could walk forward with strength.

Therefore, Liu Xian politely declined the offers from Fei Xiu and others to send servants to care for him. Despite being only twelve years old, he built his own wooden hut on a flat patch of ground near his mother's burial site. He cleared away thorns and weeds, drove wooden pillars into the earth, laid wooden boards across them, and erected a hut measuring ten square feet—a structure quite similar to the small cabin Chen Shou had inhabited years before. Aside from the living quarters, he added a lean-to on the side to serve as a study. The only difference was that Liu Xian continued his daily practice of swordsmanship and archery, for which he set up several straw men as targets.

Once everything was prepared, Liu Xian journeyed to the East Dock and had Zhu Fu transport a cartload of books. After unloading the books and daily necessities, Liu Xian sent Zhu Fu back, agreeing before departure that Zhu Fu would return every ten days with fresh provisions and clean clothes.

From that day onward, Liu Xian officially entered the life of mourning. His mornings were dedicated to reading, his afternoons to martial practice, and the approach of dusk found him at his mother's tomb to pay his respects and report the day's insights and accomplishments. It was a life of great simplicity and, in retrospect, perhaps the loneliest period of Liu Xian's entire life. Yet for him at that moment, his inner mind was as clear and serene as a bamboo grove after rain. He had established the first true goal of his life: to marry after the mourning period ended, then enter official service, and, in accordance with his mother's dying wish, travel to Chengdu to see it for himself.

Beyond this, however, there weighed another concern upon his heart—the vanished Prince of Anle. Although a month had passed without a glimpse of him, according to his mother's words, the Prince would surely come to visit her. Trusting Zhang Ximiao's words, Liu Xian patiently waited. Yet as five or six days stretched on without a sign of him, doubt and resentment inevitably began to creep in.

Soon, the first ten days had passed. Zhu Fu arrived by cart with rice and flour, accompanied by the maidservant Ah Chun. Just as they were preparing to leave, a heavy downpour suddenly broke out, and the three of them sat beneath the lean-to, waiting for the rain to cease.

The sudden mountain rain pounded down relentlessly; the air was damp and chilly, the surroundings dim. Seeing Ah Chun sitting by the corridor with her arms wrapped around herself, staring blankly at the driving rain, Liu Xian suddenly remembered hearing from Zhang Ximiao that Ah Chun had accompanied her from Chengdu to Luoyang. Had she lost her family as well? A sudden wave of sorrow stirred within Liu Xian, and he asked her, "Do you still have any family members alive?"

Ah Chun shook her head and replied with difficulty, "None are left."

Noticing Liu Xian sinking into deep thought, she slowly continued, "When I was fourteen, the great turmoil broke out in Chengdu. My father, my mother, my husband, and my child—all were gone!"

At the mention of her child, Ah Chun's emotions stirred visibly. She closed her eyes, whether recalling the past or holding back tears, it was impossible to tell.

Liu Xian knew she had lost relatives, but he had never known she had been married and had a child.

After a moment, Ah Chun regained her composure. She gave a dry, mirthless laugh and said to Liu Xian, "Whenever I miss my child now, I recite the name of Guanyin Bodhisattva. The master said that as long as one's heart is sincere, they will be reborn into reincarnation and suffer no more bitter days."

A pang of sorrow struck Liu Xian's heart. He wanted to comfort Ah Chun, to ask why she didn't take the opportunity while she was still young to remarry and have another child. But looking at her face, scarred entirely by burns, he instantly recalled the past incident when his father had thrown boiling water at Ah Chun's face. A wave of profound shame washed over him, causing him to turn his head away, unable to meet her gaze.

When the rain stopped, Ah Chun rose and, carrying their bundles alongside Zhu Fu, descended the mountain. Liu Xian stood beneath the eaves, silently watching their figures gradually vanish into the distance. He thought to himself that he, too, must shoulder the responsibility of caring for Ah Chun.

The rain resumed by nightfall. The following morning brought an even more torrential downpour, shaking the little wooden hut so violently that Liu Xian feared it might collapse.

The rain fell with such fury that its sound drowned out all else. Liu Xian built a fire to cook a bowl of thick rice gruel and sat on the ground, preparing to eat. The creaking of the eaves made him somewhat uneasy. He rose and walked to the doorway to observe the rain; the runoff on the ground had coalesced into small streams rushing between the wooden pillars toward lower ground. The dense thicket rustled wildly in the storm, as if concealing some hidden creature. As the wind swept through, the bushes shivered as though shivering with cold.

*Once the rain stops, I must add more thatch and find a sturdy log in the forest to install a new support beam inside the cabin,* Liu Xian thought to himself. He paced back into the gloomy room, sat down with his back to the door, and prepared to finish his remaining food. As he sat eating on the floor, he suddenly felt the light filtering in from behind shift and flicker, accompanied by a momentary darkening. He stopped chewing and pricked up his ears, but heard nothing amiss.

*Something has come!* A chill ran down Liu Xian's spine. The location was remote, devoid of mountain bandits, but if it were a wild beast like a leopard or a bear, the outcome was unpredictable. He hurriedly stood up, went to the wall, and grabbed his Zhaowu sword, his elm-wood bow, and a dozen arrows. Walking on tiptoe to the doorway, he listened intently to the sounds outside.

At that exact moment, a heavy footstep sounded on the porch outside the threshold, as if someone had landed with a heavy thud onto the wet ground. Liu Xian sprang forward, shouted a challenge, drew his bow, notched an arrow, and rushed out into the rain, aiming directly at a human figure. Standing in the rain before him was a person wearing a bamboo rain hat and a coir rain cape. Hearing someone burst from the cabin, the figure abruptly turned, locking eyes with Liu Xian. The man had unkempt facial hair, a pale complexion, and sunken cheeks, and was holding a few withered loquat flowers whose petals, battered by the rain, had lost their color.

It was none other than the long-vanished Prince of Anle, Liu Xun.

Father and son stood face-to-face in the rain, frozen in mutual astonishment. Liu Xian's grip on the bow weakened, his arms slowly lowering, while the loquat flowers slipped from Liu Xun's grasp and fell into the mud.

The torrential rain poured down, leaving nothing in the world save for the vast, roaring sound of the downpour.

Liu Xian stood in cold, expressionless silence, yet the hatred surging within his breast churned like angry waves. Simultaneously, his mother's dying countenance rose before his eyes, staying his hand and preventing him from striking out at this man. At the same time, he found himself asking: *Why must he of all people be my father?*

He finally reined in his fury, lowered his head, and said to Liu Xun, "Why stand out here in the rain when there is a place to shelter?"

His tone was exceptionally discourteous, treating the man like a passing stranger, yet this was the absolute limit of his ability to suppress his disgust. He forced himself to execute his mother's command of forgiveness, but doing so was ultimately no easy task.

Yet this clearly exceeded Liu Xun's expectations. Instead of flying into a rage as he usually did, Liu Xun remained silent for a brief moment, then, without a word, finally moved his feet and walked straight into the thatched hut.

Watching his father enter, Liu Xian followed behind, tossed more wood onto the fire, ladled out a bowl of gruel, and handed it over to the Prince of Anle, saying, "Eat!"

Having removed his rain cape and hat, the Prince of Anle was staring blankly at the straw mat, entirely unexpecting his son to make such a gesture. Remaining silent, he took the bowl with both hands, but merely used the spoon to stir the liquid within, unable to bring himself to eat for a long time.

Liu Xian stopped looking at him, picked up a copy of the *Guanzi*, and began to read. In truth, it was merely a facade; with Liu Xun sitting beside him, his mind was in turmoil, and he could not absorb a single word.

After a long while, he finally heard his father speak: "Liu Xian, I only just realized—you have grown into a man."

A sharp ache pierced Liu Xian's heart, but his lips reflexively retorted with sarcasm, "All thanks to your grace and fine upbringing, Father."

This pointed retort left the Prince of Anle speechless once more. Only after finishing the remaining broth in the bowl did Liu Xun say, "You are not me; you do not understand."

"Indeed I do not. Perhaps Mother did."

Grieved though he was, the Prince of Anle could not endure his son's continuous teasing and finally said with a trace of irritation, "Then why speak at all?! You have studied the sword—have you ever seen blood?"

"I have seen my mother's blood."

Those few short words struck Liu Xun dead silent.

The Prince of Anle nearly collapsed, utterly drained of any strength to retort. Unwilling to entangle himself further in the topic, he asked briefly, "Ximiao... did she leave any final words?"

Liu Xian finally lowered his book, looked up at his father, and said slowly, "Mother said... she told me not to hate you. She said... none of this was... your fault."

Hearing these words, Liu Xun choked back a sob, utterly unable to utter a single syllable.

As tears threatened to spill, he hastily turned his back, facing the corner of the wall so his son would not see.

Liu Xian indeed failed to notice; he could only feel how hateful his father was, rendering every action of his loathsome. There was no debating right and wrong here; no matter how tragic one's past might be, it was never an excuse to inflict violence upon those closest to one. When there were still people in this world who loved him, how could one not cherish them? Liu Xian constantly reminded himself to cherish the love of those around him.

Neither father nor son spoke another word. After half a day had passed, the rain finally abated somewhat, and the Prince of Anle donned his rain cape to leave. As he departed, Liu Xian gave him a final piece of advice: "You should return to the manor early. Second Uncle and the others must be growing anxious."

The Prince of Anle glanced at his son, nodded in silence, put on his bamboo hat, and walked northward through the drizzle.

Human life, after all, was merely tears falling amidst the rain.

From that moment onward, Liu Xian settled into his life of mourning with a tranquil heart.

A month later, when Zhu Fu arrived to deliver fresh clothing to Liu Xian, he brought news of a major event in Luoyang.

It turned out that as Emperor Sima Yan continued his suppression, the faction of the Prince of Qi suffered consecutive defeats, forcing Sima You to obey the imperial decree and return to his fief. Unexpectedly, before he could depart, the Prince of Qi fell gravely ill and died. Rumor had it that, consumed by bitter resentment over his defeat in the factional struggle, he had vomited blood and expired in a fit of rage. Emperor Sima Yan was profoundly grief-stricken; he immediately ordered the execution of the imperial physicians who had treated Sima You, and commanded the Prince's nephew, Sima Jiong, to inherit the title without having to leave the capital.

Thus, the nearly two-year-long factional struggle surrounding the Prince of Qi finally drew to a close with the total victory of the Emperor's faction.