Chapter Fifty-One: As Dusk Falls and One Turns Back, the Fish Remains Deep Within the Pond

The pool rippled gently. A long rod of mottled bamboo stretched out, and Chen Yu sat serenely, his demeanor calm and detached, as if nothing concerned him at all. Yet the unwavering gaze fixed on the float betrayed the true state of his heart. The mountain air was fresh, and as he breathed it in, he sat upright on the sandbar, staring intently at the motionless float.

A quarter hour passed, and a dragonfly alighted on the rod. Another half hour, and a second dragonfly joined the first, settling close by; their wings fluttered, drawing them nearer together. Chen Yu’s expression remained blank as he glanced at the slender grass surrounding the pool; sure enough, more dragonflies danced among the blades. The float, however, remained still, drifting quietly atop the water, while insects and butterflies gathered ever more thickly upon the rod.

He pulled in the rod, scattering the insects in alarm. His gaze fell upon the hook—the once rosy earthworm now nearly pale from soaking, yet still intact, revealing that no fish had visited in the past hour. Even the troublesome black fish that had disturbed him twice before failed to appear.

Though puzzled, he reasoned that if the black fish was not around to stir up trouble, perhaps today he might finally make a catch. He calmed himself, and cast the hook once more.

Another half hour slipped by. His hope ebbed away—it seemed that the fish in the pool were simply not at home today. Perhaps the small bag of bait he’d prepared earlier, a mix of rice grains and strongly scented mountain herbs, was flawed; maybe he’d overestimated the number of fish and oversupplied them, or perhaps the odor was too strong and had driven them away.

In any case, today appeared to be another fruitless day. At this, Chen Yu let go of his expectations, no longer thinking of the fish in the pool, instead relaxing and appreciating the scenery around him.

Compared to the scenes he’d watched in the temple for months, what lay before him was altogether fresher and more vivid. He decided to treat it as a mountain outing.

He turned back to look at the fish basket, where the faint sound of bubbling could be heard. Truthfully, he had already made a decent haul—greed led only to dissatisfaction.

“Ah well, if I don’t catch anything, so be it.”

Looking over the pool, Chen Yu smiled freely—he’d find a chance to block off the source above and drain the pool someday. Though the pool was deep, nothing in this world is insurmountable!

With such thoughts, his spirits gradually lightened.

…

Afternoon, around the hour of Shen.

Before the Cloud Crane Temple, a young man returned, his clothes and trousers stained with fallen leaves and grass roots. In his hands, he carried a fish basket and rod, with his bamboo pack full to the brim.

Whew!

Setting down his things after the trek across mountain and stream, Chen Yu exhaled, then selected the clearest of the four water jars by the wall, and emptied all the crabs and loaches from his basket into it.

Splash!

A shower of water scattered, black-and-red crabs tumbled to the bottom in clusters, some entwined with water weeds, their many claws tucked at their sides as they swaggered about. On the surface, three loaches lay motionless, bellies bloated and floating, their bodies still soft but lifeless. Their slippery skins bore marks of crushing—clearly, they had encountered some aggressive crabs and had been pinched to death.

Fortunately, the remaining loaches were lively and healthy. With a thought, he fished them out and placed them in another water jar, separating them to avoid needless casualties.

As for the three dead ones, Chen Yu chose not to waste them, deciding to give them a grand farewell tonight.

“There’s still time—these can be eaten.”

Back in the kitchen, he grabbed a cleaver, basin, and plates. He gutted the loaches, scraping out the inedible bits and fed them to the hens in the coop.

Washing, salting for flavor—alas, he had no starch to thicken the broth; otherwise, a fried dish would have been crisp and fragrant. So he settled for a handful of dried mushrooms, cleaned them, and chopped up two pieces of dried chicken purchased from Yungu Village below the mountain.

Wild boar meat was too strong for such a soup, so he opted for mountain chicken, especially the pair of wings he removed, intending to savor them.

All this took little time. Chen Yu arranged the ingredients on the board and covered them with a bamboo mesh.

“In the future, I’ll need to plant ginger, scallions, and garlic—without them, the flavor is always lacking.”

Though this generation of Daoists no longer forbade pork and lamb, many still observed the prohibition against the Five Pungent Spices, rarely consuming them.

These are chives, garlic, leeks, scallions, and coriander—the last also known as cilantro.

To those Daoists who pursue purity, these are considered foul and excessive consumption is thought to hinder spiritual practice.

Of course, those who uphold such rules are now mostly found within the Qingwei school, which is precisely what the Jingming sect specializes in. Hence, the lack of Five Pungent Spices in Cloud Crane Temple is hardly surprising.

In truth, there are few taboos left in the Daoist tradition, though some old rules linger, most erased by the passage of time. For example, in the “Guangyun Treatise: Five Elements Volume,” he’d read a tale: centuries ago, Daoists still forbade meat and strong flavors, but as war and martial demands grew, fewer and fewer observed this rule.

Until today, not only is meat no longer forbidden, but it has become essential for daily offerings and annual rituals.

…

The changes are indeed profound.

Yet none of this concerned Chen Yu.

He ate whatever he pleased. The Daoist rules were for the Daoists—they did not apply to a false Daoist like him.

Chen Yu practiced according to his heart, not by calculation or intrigue; such pursuits would be dull and held no appeal for him.

As dusk settled, blue smoke curled from the temple chimney.

Sizzle!

As the loaches went into the pot, the smoke burst forth, filling the kitchen with a mist like “fairyland.”

Amid crackling sounds, the loach meat gradually turned golden brown, its rich aroma wafting out.

Chen Yu poured in well water. Truth be told, he would have liked to use spiritual water, but most of it would evaporate and be wasted.

Still, though the pot was small, the flavor of wild loach should not disappoint.

Even with few seasonings, he was confident in his cooking.

When the broth turned white, he added mushrooms, then tossed in washed celery—just enough to bring out the flavor.

…

In the mountain, by the stone pool.

Night fell, and a silver moon hung bright above the clouds.

Soft moonlight spilled down, casting a gentle glow over the water, and faint threads of light gathered.

The halo was fragile and thin, as if it might break at any moment; indeed, it did, as moonlight above the pool formed and dispersed, again and again.

It never penetrated the water, only hovered on the surface, drifting like rootless duckweed.

Meanwhile, deep within the pool, inside a stone cave.

A jet-black fish, oblivious to all above, lay at the mouth of the cave, still and silent.

Not far from the rocky wall, a scattering of rice grains gave off a pungent scent.

A small fish swam near, probing cautiously.

In the next instant, the black fish lashed its tail and lunged, biting fiercely.

The mud churned, and amid a faint crimson, the water grew cloudy and thick.