Chapter Twenty-One: The Old Taoist and the Child

The most bustling places in Chang’an are none other than the East Market and the West Market.

The East Market, situated close to the Taiji Palace, Daming Palace, and Xingqing Palace—the three major royal residences—is surrounded by neighborhoods filled with the mansions of princes, nobles, and high-ranking officials. This market boasts rare treasures from all corners of the world and luxurious goods of the finest quality. The West Market, however, is the true center for daily commerce. Its proximity to Kaiyuan Gate, the starting point of the Silk Road in Chang’an, and the presence of many foreign merchants living in nearby wards, have made it an international trading hub. Here, one can find traders from Central Asia, South Asia, Southeast Asia, as well as Goryeo, Baekje, Silla, Japan, and other lands—most notably, the greatest numbers are merchants from Central Asia, Persia, and Arabia.

As Pei Min stepped into the West Market, he was dazzled by the sheer liveliness and vibrancy of the place.

Merchants from every direction, foreign traders, locals, and visitors—streams of people flowed together like a living dragon, and on this ordinary day, the market felt as jubilant as a festival.

Fearing that his little chestnut horse might be startled by the crowds, Pei Min had already dismounted and was leading it by the reins.

After browsing a few shops, he discovered that tea in the Tang era fell into four main categories: coarse tea, loose tea, powdered tea, and tea cakes. The methods of preparation were entirely unlike the green teas he was accustomed to drinking in later times. Out of curiosity, Pei Min asked whether there was any tea that could simply be brewed and drunk directly. The shopkeeper shot him a look, as if he were a country bumpkin, and replied, “You could drink tea plain, without adding scallions, ginger, or Sichuan pepper?”

Humbled, Pei Min learned that tea here was always drunk with seasonings: those who liked it spicy added scallions, ginger, and Sichuan pepper; those who preferred it fragrant and sweet used dates and cinnamon; for a cooling flavor, orange peel and mint; and for a milky taste, tea could be brewed with clotted cream. Most astonishingly, there was even a way to prepare tea by adding beef, pork, or mutton fat.

Pei Min could hardly imagine what a mug of tea reeking of animal fat might taste like.

It was not that tea could not be steeped plain, but those who did so were usually ill. Before the custom of tea appreciation arose, tea was regarded as medicine, consumed only by the sick, who might even chew the leaves while drinking.

Not wishing to stand out as an oddity, Pei Min bought a little of each type of tea to see which most resembled the green tea of later generations. He also bought some mint, figuring that a cooling flavor would be easier to accept than spicy, sweet, or milky blends.

Having bought all he needed, Pei Min had no intention of heading home just yet. Since he was already in the most splendid marketplace under heaven, it would be a shame not to explore it thoroughly.

Leading his little chestnut horse, he wandered left and right, examining the novelties that did not exist in later times, touching them, playing with them—not buying, just enjoying the bustle.

Suddenly, from a corner of the street, a white-haired, youthful-looking old Daoist burst forth in a panic. His hair and beard were pure silver, yet his face was ruddy, and he ran with such swiftness that his age was indiscernible. He darted out of the alley, dodging the crowds, and in just a few breaths had vanished from sight. Moments later, a pack of fierce-looking monks came rushing from the same direction—seven in all, young and robust, but panting like tired old dogs, tongues lolling, some even shouting, “Where’s that wretched Daoist? Where’d he run off to?”

They looked around, but the Daoist was nowhere to be seen.

The monks were especially overbearing, grabbing passersby and roughly interrogating them about the Daoist’s whereabouts.

Pei Min deliberately walked past them.

One monk blocked his path and barked, “Did you see an old Daoist? Wearing Daoist robes, running like a stray dog!”

Pei Min thought to himself, you’re the stray dog, and pointed in the opposite direction, “I just saw someone in Daoist robes run that way. Whether he’s the one you’re after, I wouldn’t know.”

The monks exchanged glances and hurried off in the direction Pei Min indicated.

The people around clearly disliked the monks’ thuggishness; even those who had seen the Daoist kept silent.

Pei Min paid the incident no further mind and continued his tour of the West Market.

After visiting more than ten shops, Pei Min was amazed—there were as many wonders in this age as in any to come, and many strange objects whose purpose or use he could not fathom.

Unwittingly, he found himself on the street of inns and restaurants. The area was crowded with taverns, eateries, and guesthouses. Pei Min, not yet hungry, quickened his pace to see what other amusements the market had to offer. Suddenly, a commotion erupted by the roadside, followed by the terrified wailing of a child above.

Startled, Pei Min looked up to see, outside the third-story window of a nearby tavern, a boy of eight or nine clinging to the window ledge, legs flailing, in imminent danger of falling.

A woman at the window was trying to reach him; the child freed one hand to grasp hers—

Pei Min’s heart leapt in alarm. A child’s strength is limited; even holding on with both hands is difficult, let alone hanging by one. The moment he let go with one hand, all his weight would be on the other—he could not hold on for long.

Sure enough, as the child let go with one hand, his body swung outward, now dangling precariously by a single arm, ready to fall at any moment.

“He’s a sturdy boy, but if he falls, I can’t guarantee I’ll catch him. If I’m hurt, that’s nothing, but if the child breaks an arm or leg, or worse, it would be a disaster.”

Seeing a sunshade jutting from his right, Pei Min wasted no time—stepping onto his horse’s back, he leaped onto the sunshade, intending to climb up to the second floor and rescue the boy.

But the child could hold on no longer and began to fall.

Acting on instinct, Pei Min pushed off hard, using the spring of the sunshade to propel himself forward. In midair, he caught the falling child, twisted his body to shield the boy, and crashed through the second-floor window, absorbing the impact with his back.

A fiery pain seared his back, but seeing the boy in his arms, dazed but safe, Pei Min managed a gentle smile. “Are you all right?”

The child, with thick brows, large eyes, and a mature air, seemed stunned by fright. He stared blankly for a long moment before bursting into tears.

Relieved, Pei Min smiled and cradled him, carrying him upstairs.

Upstairs was chaos. The beautiful woman—presumably the child’s mother—had collapsed on the floor, motionless.

The boy’s cries stopped abruptly; he struggled free and ran to her, calling, “Mother! Mother!”

She did not respond.

The boy, tearful and desperate, looked to Pei Min, pleading, “Please save my mother, please save her!” Having just been saved like a hero, Pei Min was now regarded as omnipotent.

The child’s pitiful expression left Pei Min at a loss. He was no physician and helpless in such matters. He wondered if he should carry the woman to a medical clinic—

At that moment, the old Daoist appeared at his side, saying, “I will save the boy’s mother. I am Liu Shenwei, chief disciple of Sun Simiao. Young man, please do me a favor—go to Changshou Ward and ask Sun Pu to seek out Ye Fashan at Jade Purity Monastery for help, as quickly as possible. If delayed, her condition may worsen.” As he spoke, he produced an acupuncture roll from his robe, checked the woman’s pulse at her neck, and gave the boy a kindly smile. “Don’t cry, child. Your mother suffers from a chronic ailment and has fainted from shock. A few needles, and she will wake.”