HNYWEF -Chapter 73 Itchy Hands

Second Year of Zhenguan, Seventh Month, Twenty-Third Day.

Bianzhou.

The city gates were a head shorter than the ones in Luoyang, but the bustle was no less lively.

Zhou Yi looked around everywhere, his neck turning like a rattledrum.

Walking ahead, Zhou Xiong suddenly stopped.

Zhou Yi almost bumped into him.

“Dad?”

Zhou Xiong said nothing.

He stood in front of a stall, staring at the things laid out on it.

Zhou Yi leaned over for a look—

It was a junk stall.

Torn cloth, scrap iron, chipped teapots, broken stools—random junk piled everywhere.

Zhou Xiong crouched down.

He reached into the heap and picked up a piece of wood.

Zhou Yi moved closer to look.

It was a long strip of wood, old and blackened with age, cracked in a few places, but still straight. His father turned it over several times, then tapped it lightly with his finger, listening to the sound.

Then he put it down.

And picked up another one.

This one was shorter and thinner than the first, though just as old.

His father tapped it too.

Put it down.

Then continued rummaging through the pile.

Iron wire, copper sheets, nails, scraps of leather—

His father pulled things out one by one, glanced at them, felt them in his hand. Some he kept. Some he tossed back.

The old man running the stall sat nearby, squinting as he watched him rummage, not saying a word.

Standing behind him, Zhou Yi was completely baffled.

“Dad, what are you looking for?”

Zhou Xiong didn’t answer.

He stood up holding a pile of junk—

two pieces of wood, a coil of wire, several copper sheets, a palm-sized piece of leather, and a few strings taken from who-knew-where.

He asked the old man, “How much for these?”

The old man raised one hand.

Zhou Xiong took out some copper coins and placed them on the stall.

Then walked away carrying the pile of junk.

Zhou Yi hurried after him.

“Dad, what are you buying all this for?”

Zhou Xiong still said nothing.

They crossed two streets and found an inn.

Zhou Xiong rented a room, dropped everything onto the table, and went out again.

Half an hour later, he returned.

In his hands were several more things—

a small jar of lacquer, a carving knife, a whetstone, and a brush made from some kind of animal hair.

Zhou Yi watched as his father laid everything out on the table, then spread the junk apart.

Then his father got to work.

Zhou Yi sat on the edge of the bed, watching him.

His father first picked up the two pieces of wood and began carving them with the knife.

Slowly.

Stroke by stroke.

Wood shavings drifted down onto the table and floor.

After carving for a while, he would lift the piece and inspect it.

Then carve again.

Then inspect it again.

As Zhou Yi watched, his eyes slowly grew unfocused.

He knew his father’s hands too well.

When those hands held a hammer, every strike was steady and firm.

When those hands held needle and thread to stitch wounds, he had seen that too—fast and precise.

But he had never seen those hands hold a carving knife.

In his father’s grip, the knife seemed alive.

Fast when it needed to be fast.

Slow when it needed to be slow.

Stopping when it should stop.

Moving when it should move.

Wood shavings covered the table.

And those two pieces of wood gradually changed shape.

The long piece became a slender neck, thicker at the top and thinner below, carved with several grooves.

The short piece became a rounded cylinder, narrow at both ends and swollen in the middle, like a miniature gourd.

Zhou Xiong picked up the cylinder and examined it over and over.

Then he picked up the piece of leather and compared it against the wood.

And began cutting it.

After cutting it, he stretched it over the cylinder.

The leather was wet and soft. Little by little, he pulled it tight, fixing it in place with the wire.

As Zhou Yi watched, something suddenly came to mind.

He had seen this before.

Back in Chang’an, there had been people playing one on the streets.

It was called—

“Dad, are you making a sanxian?”

Zhou Xiong’s hand paused for a moment.

Without looking up, he answered:

“Mhm.”

Zhou Yi parted his lips slightly.

Watching the wood slowly transform in his father’s hands, he suddenly remembered what his father had said a few nights ago—

“Mastery in qin, chess, calligraphy, and painting.”

At the time, he had only half believed it.

But now, all of a sudden, he felt it might actually be true.

The sun gradually slanted westward.

Zhou Xiong never stopped.

Carving, polishing, stretching, tuning.

Little by little, the sanxian took shape in his hands.

By the time night fell, Zhou Xiong attached the final string.

Three strings stretched tightly along the neck.

He lifted the instrument and looked it over.

Then sat down.

His left hand gripped the neck.

His right rested lightly on the strings.

Zhou Yi held his breath.

His father’s fingers moved.

“Ding—”

A single note rang out.

Clear. Bright.

It spread through the room.

Zhou Xiong’s fingers moved again.

This time, a string of notes followed.

“Ding ding dong dong—”

The sound flowed from the strings like water—

and yet not like water at all.

Indescribably beautiful.

Zhou Xiong played for a while, then stopped.

He nodded once.

Setting the instrument on the table, he stood and walked to the window, looking out into the night.

Zhou Yi sat motionless on the edge of the bed.

He looked at the sanxian on the table.

Then at his father’s back.

Suddenly, he didn’t know what to say.

His father really could do it.

He hadn’t been bragging.

He truly could.

And he played better than any of the street performers Zhou Yi had ever heard.

He opened his mouth.

“Dad.”

Without turning around, Zhou Xiong answered:

“Mhm.”

“You play really well.”

Zhou Xiong said nothing.

After waiting a while, Zhou Yi asked again:

“When did you learn?”

Still, Zhou Xiong did not answer.

He stared out the window for a long time.

So long that Zhou Yi thought he would never reply.

Then Zhou Xiong finally spoke.

His voice was very soft.

“When I was young… I learned from someone.”

Zhou Yi froze for a moment.

“Who?”

Zhou Xiong did not answer.

Zhou Yi lowered his head and carefully examined the instrument.

The wood was still new. The lacquer had not fully dried yet. Touching it felt slightly rough.

But the strings were stretched tight, gleaming under the lamplight.

He raised his head.

And looked at his father.

Zhou Xiong stood there, expressionless.

But something was moving in his eyes.

Zhou Yi reached out and picked up the sanxian with both hands.

Suddenly, it felt heavy.

Not because of the wood.

Because of something else.

Something he couldn’t explain.

The lamplight flickered.

Outside the window, the night of Bianzhou was pitch-black.

Inside the room, father and son—

one standing, one sitting.

And on the table, beneath the light,

the sanxian gleamed brightly.