Daming: Brother, there is no future for monks, let's rebel

“Alright.” The calligrapher nodded quickly. “I can move the inkstone to a shady place so the ink won’t evaporate.”

The mirror maker laughed, "I replaced the shiny cloth with coarse cloth, so it won't dazzle your eyes."

"And another thing," Zhu Han moved the bamboo ruler between the two of them, "The character's face isn't a face, it's the heart. The person writing should keep the character's face firmly in their heart; the person looking in the mirror should keep the light firmly in their hand. Whoever gets impatient should touch the rope again."

After those words were spoken, everyone around fell silent for a moment.

Shen Lao Er made a fine stroke on his beard, like adding a stroke to a piece of paper.

Zhu Han caught a glimpse of a small figure quietly approaching from the corner of his eye on the right street corner—it was one of the children who had lengthened the red rope yesterday.

The child tiptoed and touched the newly tied knot, then shrank back into the crowd, his ears turning red.

Around noon, Suzhi arrived.

Today she changed into a light blue coarse cloth dress, with the cuffs rolled up, revealing her delicate wrist bones.

She entered the bamboo shed and bowed to everyone: "Today I will still teach 'sleeves,' but in a different way. You will not be 'flicking your sleeves,' but 'keeping your sleeves.'"

She took a step forward, gently extending a sliver of her sleeve, but stopped half an inch away. "You see," she said, "this half inch gives the audience's eyes a place to rest. If you give them space, they won't try to grab it."

A young porter in the crowd was secretly imitating the others, carrying a load on his shoulder with one end lighter than the other.

He pushed the load out and then pulled it back in, and the swaying of the load lessened considerably.

He was taken aback, and quickly touched the red rope, grinning to reveal his two tiger teeth.

Suzhi saw him and nodded: "Your load is about a foot and a half long when you walk. If you leave half a footprint for passersby, you'll be more stable."

“She’s right.” Zhu Biao looked at Su Zhi. “Your word ‘leave’ is actually ‘let’.”

“I understand,” Su Zhi said softly, a glint in her eyes. “I’ll also hang a ‘one and a half foot’ rope on stage and backstage. People entering the venue will touch the rope first. Only after touching it can they go on stage.”

"Okay." Zhu Han smiled and then saw a familiar figure approaching.

It was Li Yu. He didn't bring a drum; his hands were empty. His expression was calm, but his gaze was like a fine pen, falling on each person and outlining their features.

“If you don’t want to knock today,” Li Yu said, bowing as he stood by the rope. “I’ll sit here for half an hour and just watch.”

"See who's afraid to look at themselves," Zhu Biao reminded him. "After you've looked, tell me how many kinds of 'afraid' they are."

"I've got it." Li Yu found a corner stool, sat down quietly, like a still pond.

In the afternoon, as the sun slanted slightly, the heat from Nanshikou was sliced ​​into strands by the wind, some carrying the aroma of sugar, others steaming.

Three people suddenly squeezed into the "mediation office" under the bamboo shed. They wore the same boots, but they were not a group: a constable, a barber, and a young girl who sold hairpins.

The three men stood in front of the rope, each with a different expression.

The constable's sword hung at his side, the barber had a thin cloth draped over his shoulder, and the girl with flowers in her hair held a wooden box in her arms, on which red plum blossoms were painted.

"Who will touch the rope first?" Shi Buwai asked.

The youngest daughter reached out first, her delicate fingertips trembling slightly on the rope.

The barber followed, his hands smooth, like stroking a scalp. The constable, finally, felt a little stiffness in his hand as he touched the rope, but he slowed down.

"Speak in half-sentences," Zhu Han advised.

The younger daughter spoke first: "I set up a stall at the intersection of Chengxi Street, this morning..."

The barber added, "I also set up my barbershop there, two steps away from her."

The constable added half a sentence: "I'll go on patrol."

"What did you find?" Zhu Biao asked.

The constable said half a sentence: "Someone has lost their waist token."

The younger daughter only said half of what she meant: "He said it was in my box."

The barber said half a sentence: "I also said it was in my own hands."

The onlookers made a slight murmur.

Losing one's waist tag is no small matter, and the constable's face darkened.

Zhu Han gently shook the bamboo ruler: "The ruler on the table is one and a half feet long, not a gavel. You should touch the rope with your hands and calm your minds first."

The youngest daughter placed the wooden box on the table, and the red plum blossoms on the box shone brightly in the sunlight.

She opened the box, and inside were small hairpins, some plain, some red, wrapped with silk thread, without any waist tags.

The barber also opened the bucket, inside were a few pairs of scissors, an old towel, and half a bar of soap, but no name tag.

The constable's brow furrowed even more: "This morning I saw someone squeeze past your stall, his hand darting past your box. I lost him. The waist tag was issued by me; losing it is my fault."

There were whispers in the crowd, but they weren't talking; they were just breathing.

At times like this, people hold their breath. Zhu Han suddenly said, "Smell."

"Smell?" The constable paused for a moment, clearly remembering the word the old night patrolman had mentioned that morning.

"Smell your hands," Zhu Han said. "All of you, smell the smell of your hands."

All three of them lowered their heads.

The youngest daughter's hands had a faint scent of pollen, the barber's hands smelled of soap, and the constable's hands smelled of tanned leather.

Zhu Han said, "Think about it again, what did the person who squeezed through smell like?"

The constable closed his eyes briefly, as if a gust of wind had swept through them, revealing a small detail: "It smells like stinky tofu—no, it's like 'baby powder'...sweet."

"Where does the sweetness go?" Zhu Han asked.

"Go down." Li Yu suddenly spoke, his voice soft as if afraid of startling something. "The sweetness is deep, gathering inside the clothes."

"What does he have on him?" Zhu Han asked the constable.

The constable thought for a moment: "He was carrying a small bundle, with the opening facing inwards. He tucked it between his elbows and twisted slightly when he squeezed through."

"Which way did he turn?" Zhu Han asked.

"On the right," the constable replied, his voice quickening. "He turned to the barber's box, his cuff brushing against the little girl's box lid—yes, his cuffs were made of coarse cloth, with white powder on the edges."

"Do you remember his shoes?" Wang Fu suddenly asked.

"Straw sandals, the heels are worn thin." The constable blurted out.

People with thin heels tend to drag their feet and lift their feet half an inch slower when walking.

Wang Fu nodded. "He wasn't in a hurry when he squeezed through, which means he wasn't flustered."

"He wasn't flustered because he was holding something in his hand, which gave him a sense of security."

Zhu Han concluded, "Don't just look at these two stalls. Go to the end of the alley at the street corner where the medicine is applied. There's an old woman selling face powder there. In the corner of her house, there's an old curtain, and under the curtain, there's a cracked wooden box. Go smell it."

The constable was taken aback, then realized: "He 'gave' the thing to the wall—not to someone." He clasped his hands in a fist salute, turned, and left. The crowd parted to make way, as if gently pushed aside by a bamboo ruler.

The barber and his youngest daughter paused for a moment, then simultaneously touched the red string, as if answering "okay" together.

Before long, the constable returned, carrying a tattered roll of cloth, inside which was the waist token.

He stood outside the rope, not immediately entering. He first reached out and pressed the red rope before stepping in, placing the waist token flat on the table, and bowing to the two men with a fist and palm salute: "Excuse me."

The barber laughed: "You're the one who should be looking for it. You've even learned to 'smell' now."

The youngest daughter's eyes sparkled, and she pursed her lips: "So, in an emergency, the first thing to do isn't to shout, but to smell."

"Just remember that," Zhu Han said. "From now on, hang a little red string on your stall, touch it before opening the box."

The youngest daughter responded, picked up the wooden box, and glanced back at the bamboo shed of the "mediation office" before leaving, her eyes seeming to want to put it into her heart.

Just before dusk, an unexpected guest arrived.

The man was dressed very plainly, like a merchant from another county living in the city, around forty years old, but his back view was familiar.

Zhu Han looked up and saw him clearly, a slight tremor running through his heart. Zhu Yuanzhang. Today he wasn't wearing a dragon robe, nor did he wear any ornaments; he was only leaning on a bamboo cane, the tip of which tapped silently on the ground.

He stood silently in the corner, watching people just like yesterday, watching the small space of one and a half feet, watching the shoes, planks, stakes, ropes, and drums, and watching people come and go.

Zhu Han didn't greet him, but simply made room for him in his gaze. Zhu Yuanzhang's eyes held a faint smile. He stood there for a while, then moved to the rope, reached out, and touched it.

He touched it lightly, as if afraid of hurting the rope.

After touching him, he didn't speak, but turned to look at Zhu Han. A fleeting sense of relief flashed in his eyes, like the wind passing through a lamplight, yet the lamplight remained steady.

Next up came a hunched man carrying a tattered picture frame on his back. Inside the frame was an old piece of paper with a few charcoal strokes on it, vaguely outlining the shape of a bridge.

The man limped to the edge of the rope, first reaching out to feel it, feeling a long stretch, as if he wanted to get a firm grip on that foot and a half.

When he looked up, his voice was rough, “Your Highness, I beg for ‘half a step’.”

"Speak," Zhu Han said.

"My name is Chen Guaizi. I used to be a painter, painting door gods and animal figures on roof ridges. A while ago, I injured my leg and can't walk fast, and my hands also shake."

Some people said my paintings weren't as good as before and told me to move my stall, saying I was obstructing their way.

I dare not argue. I stood by and watched all day yesterday, and seeing you all talking about 'giving way,' I'd like to ask: may I 'borrow half a step' here to draw something before I leave? I only ask for half a step, half an hour, and I won't block anyone."

He speaks slowly, each word as if wiped clean with a cloth before being uttered.

The onlookers were quiet at first, then started whispering among themselves, but no one laughed.

Zhu Han said, "What you've come to borrow isn't land, it's your heart. What do you want to paint?"

Chen Guaizi opened the broken frame, revealing an old piece of paper tucked inside, which depicted a small old school gate.

He pointed to the painting, his hand trembling slightly: "I want to draw this 'one and a half feet' of rope. So that people will know there is such a rope, and such a one and a half feet of rope."

“Draw.” Zhu Han said without hesitation, “But first feel the rope, then put pen to paper. Put pen to paper, half a sentence at a time.”

With each stroke you make, pause your hand half an inch. You're not drawing shapes, you're drawing 'emptiness'.

Chen Guaizi's eyes suddenly lit up, as if the light were emerging from under the paper.

He moved the broken basket to one side, knelt down, and put his knees on the ground.

He first touched the red rope three times before picking up his pen. He lightly touched the paper with the pen tip, paused, and then continued, as if he had to consult the rope with every stroke.

Li Yu glanced at him sideways, a slight smile playing on his lips.

Old Shen played a slow tempo, his bow trembling and pausing, perfectly matching the rhythm of Chen Guaizi's pen moving forward and backward.

As he finished drawing, Chen Guaizi suddenly paused, turned to look at Zhu Han, and said, "Your Highness, I want to leave an inch of blank space on the paper."

"Keep it," Zhu Han said. "Keep it for whom?"

"Leave it for those who come later to feel the rope." Chen Guaizi laughed, a laugh with a touch of childishness, "Let them feel it in their hearts, so that they can say they've been here."

As they were talking, the constable returned, put down his badge, touched the rope as usual, and then stood aside, like someone who had just learned to slow down.

Zhu Yuanzhang moved his fingers as if he was about to clap, but then stopped himself.

At dusk, the lights at the entrance of the old academy were not yet lit, but the light seemed to have been lifted from under the eaves and held in someone's hand.

As the sun sets, the shadows at the street corner grow longer.

There was another commotion outside the crowd, as a young wheelbarrow maker pushed a handcart over.

The vehicle had two large wheels on it, and the axles were a bit loose, so he was pushing it with slight panting.

The wheelwright stopped before coming in, first feeling the rope, running his palm back and forth on it twice.

He said, "My wheels aren't straight because I was in a rush when installing the axle. There's an old man who pushes his cart across the passageway every day at the north gate of the city, and he complains that my cart is noisy. I wanted to ask him—should my wheels be 'seamless'?"

"Even wheels have cracks." Lu Yicong looked up; this was the first time he had spoken all day.
"Take out one-third of the hemp rope from the bearing, and apply a little more grease, but don't let the rim touch the ground too much. Leave the rim slightly off the ground, and it won't get sand stuck in it when it rolls—that will make it half as noisy."

"But it's not stable when you walk on it," the cartwright frowned.

“Your mind is unsteady,” Lu Yicong replied, his voice not loud. “Grip your hands tighter and look three feet ahead. If you let your mind 'let go' of your mind, your hands will be steady.”

The wheelwright listened intently and carefully followed the instructions.

An old night patrolman in the crowd grunted, "They're looking for a 'scapegoat' for 'rolling'." His words made the people around him laugh, the laughter was not loud, but warm.

Just then, Su Zhi suddenly glanced at the street corner and gently raised her hand.

She didn't say anything, but the movement of her sleeve drew the crowd's attention.

On a street corner, a woman dressed in mourning clothes was supporting an elderly woman whose legs were weak, as if she had just suffered some kind of emergency.

The woman walked to the rope, first settling her mother-in-law down, then touching the rope herself, and also touching the mother-in-law's hand.

She spoke up: "Your Highness, my mother's shop is at the corner of this street, close to the stove of the neighbor's house. We were thinking of moving the stove in an inch, afraid of blocking their view. Something happened at home today, and I'm in a daze, so I came to touch the rope and ask."

"If you move the stove an inch, the firebox will change." Zhu Biao pondered, "How many stoves do you have in your family?"

“Three mouths. We usually use two,” the woman replied, her voice trembling slightly.

"Don't rush," Zhu Han said gently, his gaze sweeping over her and his mother-in-law's faces. "'Giving way' doesn't just mean giving way to the ground; you two should also give way to the fire. Turn the fire you usually use down a little, and turn the fire you don't use up a little, so the two fires can be holding hands in the middle."

Move your stove in an inch, so the fire spreads from both sides, leaving a 'cool gap' in the middle. It won't be too hot for people to walk through. Go and do it, slowly, don't move it all at once.”

The woman nodded repeatedly, gripped the red rope, and though her eyes were glistening with tears, they did not fall.

The old woman held her hand on the red rope for a long time, as if touching a piece of her longing for the deceased. Finally, she let go and whispered, "Touching this rope makes my heart less troubled."

As night deepened, lamps were lit under the bamboo shed. The light cast shadows on the bamboo wall, like a large shadow puppet show. (End of Chapter)