Chapter 58: This is not its World (2/2)

The wind blew snow onto Meng Hao’s hair. It didn’t melt, but rather began to collect together.

Everything was still and quiet. As he grew closer and closer to the capital city, a horse-drawn carriage approached from behind him, speeding forward at top speed. It seemed whoever was inside was afraid the city gates would be closing soon.

It passed Meng Hao, kicking up billows of snowflakes in its wake. As it passed, the wind blew open the carriage’s curtain just a crack, revealing a young scholar reading some texts.

Meng Hao looked at him calmly, recalling his own similar appearance years ago. As of now, Meng Hao was clearly about twenty years old. However, inside, he felt much older.

He let out a light sigh. Up ahead, the carriage came to a stop, and the curtain lifted up. The young scholar looked back at him, then stepped down out of the carriage and saluted Meng Hao with clasped hands.

“Brother, are you going to Capital City for the Imperial examinations?

Meng Hao quickly returned the salute. “Years ago I dreamed of doing so, but those dreams have long since faded. I just want to go take a look at the Tower of Tang.”

“That’s a pity, my Brother,” he said, looking regretful. “Your bearing seems very refined, I thought perhaps we were fellow candidates. Are you sure you wish to give up on your aspirations to become an official?” The young man appeared to be about the same age as Meng Hao.

Meng Hao shook his head silently.

“Well, never mind,” said the young scholar. He looked at Meng Hao’s scholarly appearance and smiled warmly. “It’s starting to snow harder, and it will only become more difficult to travel along the road. If it gets too late, you won’t be able to enter the city. Brother, why don’t you join me in the carriage? We should still have enough time to make it to the city.”

Meng Hao looked up at the sky, then back at the scholar. He bowed respectfully, then stepped up into the carriage.

A fire crackled in a small oven inside, dispelling the bitter cold. This, coupled with the fact that an old family retainer drove the carriage, made it clear that the scholar came from a rich family.

The old driver wore a wide bamboo hat and the knuckles of his hands were large. It seemed he could do some kung fu.

“I am Zheng Yong,” the scholar said with a smile, warming his hands. “Brother, there’s no need to be shy. We’re both scholars, and scholars should help each other whenever possible.”

“I am Meng Hao,” he said with a humble smile. “Many thanks to you, Brother Zheng.” His gaze fell upon the book resting next to Zheng Yong. It was the Book of Rites. It looked very old, and was obviously not a copy, but rather an ancient original text.

“You’re surnamed Meng?” said Zheng Yong, his expression brightening. It was somewhat cramped inside the carriage, but he still managed to stand and give Meng Hao a respectful salute. “Such an honorable family name. So you’re a descendant of Qingfu! I have been disrespectful; please forgive me, Brother Meng.”

Meng Hao stood and returned the salute. “There’s no need to act like this, Brother Zheng. It’s just a surname. My ancestors were resplendent, but as for me, I failed repeatedly in the Imperial examinations, which has left me extremely ashamed.” The two of them sat back down.

“Brother Meng, you spoke incorrectly just now,” said Zheng Yong solemnly. “Your surname will bring you good fortune. It has been passed down to you from ancient times. As a descendant of Qingfu, even if you didn’t pass the Imperial examinations, as long as you have kindness and virtue in your heart, you can still live by the values of Confucius.”

Meng Hao thought silently for a moment, then lifted his head and looked at the scholar sitting in front of him. “Brother Zheng,” he said quietly, “what is the true meaning of Confucianism?”

“Courtesy, benevolence, loyalty, and the golden mean,” he responded unhesitatingly. “This is Confucianism.”

Meng Hao didn’t respond. He looked out through the curtain at the snowflakes filling the air. After a while, he spoke again in a cool voice: “What is the meaning of life?”

“Life?” said Zheng Yong, looking surprised. He hesitated for a while, not saying anything.

The inside the carriage grew quiet, filled only with the sound of falling snow, which drifted in through the window. Meng Hao lifted up his hand and reached outside. Snowflakes gradually accumulated on his hand.

“Snow will only appear during winter,” he said quietly, “and can only exist in the cold wind. Therefore, its life exists only during the depths of winter.” He pulled his hand back into the carriage and held it next to the copper oven. The snow began to melt, turning into water, which flowed through the creases of his palm.

“Snow can only live in the winter. When it nears a fire, it dies. That is its life. It may yearn for summer, but… it can only desire it. In my hand, the snow becomes water, because this is not its world….” He raised his hand back up and brushed the water off outside the window. There, beyond the vision of the young scholar, it once again became snow.

Zheng Yong stared mutely, a deep look appearing in his eyes. Eventually, the carriage entered the city.

“Thank you for allowing me to accompany you, Brother Zheng,” said Meng Hao coolly. “I shall take my leave.” He saluted politely, and stepped out of the carriage, then treaded across the snow-filled street.

“Yearning for summer,” Zheng Yong murmured to himself, “but only able to exist in the cold of winter. Only able to look off into the distance… that is snow.” He watched Meng Hao disappearing into the distance. After a while, he got out of the cart and gave a deep bow in Meng Hao’s direction.

Snow began to cover him, but he knew that as soon as he reentered the carriage, it would die. He would never forget what had just happened, and what he had just seen and heard. Years later, after he became a famous Confucian in the State of Zhao, he would think back to that windy, winter night when the snow slowly melted into water. And he would think of a scholar named Meng Hao.