Memory becomes a fickle thing once a man passes seventy. One afternoon, just after a nap, Zhang Yichao wakes …
Memory becomes a fickle thing once a man passes seventy.
One afternoon, just after a nap, Zhang Yichao wakes with a jolt as though suddenly remembering something important. He calls out toward the outer room, "Little Stone, go and see where Huaishen has gotten to. He never misses a meal."
No one is out there but his longtime attendant, Elder Stone, already past sixty himself. Hearing that childhood name "Little Stone," a name no one has used for him in over thirty years, Elder Stone is startled.
He steps forward to help the elderly Zhang Yichao dress, and sighs, "General, you're still half-dreaming. Just how many years back did you wander this time? It's the tenth year of Xiantong. We're in Chang'an. And Huaishen is far away in Hexi."
Ah, that's right… Huaishen is in Hexi. Zhang Yichao then recalls that just days ago, a letter arrived from him, bearing good news: Liangzhou, Ganzhou, Shazhou, and Suzhou have seen a fine harvest this year, and the Guiyi Army has driven back the Oghuz tribes, victories all along the frontier. Reassuring words.
He murmurs, "Before I left for the capital, I asked him to keep the people fed and the borders quiet. And he hasn't let me down."
Elder Stone finishes dressing him, helps him into his shoes, and chatters on as he works. "They say you two are like father and son, and that's why you gave him command of the frontier. But if you ask me, you've no heart for the young General Zhang. If you truly cared, you'd never have left him in a place so high and so cold."
For a long moment, Zhang Yichao sits in stunned silence.
Elder Stone sighs deeply and says no more. He lights some incense to settle his master's mind, and then helps him to a seat beneath the eaves. The once mighty general is now just a frail, gaunt figure, though if you listen closely, his bones still seem to ring faintly with the echo of bronze.
In dreams, iron-clad hooves thunder across frozen rivers. In waking, he sits idle in the courtyard, letting the endless daylight slip away.
Three years in the capital, and the muscle has withered from his thighs; his teeth loosen, and his white hair grows too sparse to hold a jade pin.
A gilded net now traps a body forged for war. A lifetime of glory, left to settle in the dust.
As his final hour nears, memories slip away: the roar of battle, the return to the Great Tang... all forgotten. The only things that remain are trivial, ordinary memories.
Elder Shi, for instance. And the simple wish that Huaishen would take care when the storm breaks, living a life free of illness and strife and rising to the highest ranks... Yet Zhang can no longer recall that very "storm" facing Huaishen.
Then there is this: when Huaishen was ten years old, Zhang Yichao had returned victorious from a campaign in Shazhou and invited the monk Wuzhen to share a vegetarian meal at the ancient temple on the snowy mountain. Huaishen, who never missed a chance to follow his uncle to a meal, had insisted on tagging along.
Back then, Zhang Yichao was still young and strong, hardened by years of martial training. Climbing the steep, snow-covered peak was nothing to him, and he soon left his ten-year-old nephew far behind. When he reached the summit, he turned back anxiously, and there was Huaishen, carefully placing his feet in the footprints Zhang had left, climbing steadily upward.
"Need a hand?"
"No! If you can make it, so can I!"
Zhang Yichao laughed, a great booming sound. He leaned against a towering dead tree and decided to wait for that stubborn little boy.
A fine, warm winter's day. Wisps of cooking smoke rose from the ancient temple nearby.
Surely, Wuzhen had already prepared soft broad beans and tender winter okra for their meal today.