The first morning of Book 4 opened quietly upon the southern step of three men: Liu Bei (劉備), Guan Yu (關羽), and Zhang Fei (張飛).

After the autumn when the fire of Wuchao (烏巢) scattered Yuan Shao’s (袁紹) seven hundred thousand, Liu Bei found it hard to stay long at the side residence in Jizhou (冀州). Yuan Shao’s grain had sunk deep beneath the rash of defeat (敗北); beneath that grain, Liu Bei could not rest long.

Liu Bei spoke low to Sun Qian (孫乾). “Gongyou. Yuan Benchu’s (袁本初) grain no longer holds us today. Let us send a writing to Liu Jingsheng (劉景升) of Jingzhou (荊州), and prepare a southern step.”

Sun Qian nodded deeply. A writing entered his bosom, and his step turned toward Jingzhou. On the first line lay these words: “Lord Jingsheng. The grain of the Han royal kin (宗室) has been laid upon two households. From today, I wish to lay our grain a step beneath Your Lordship’s grain.”

A few days later, Sun Qian returned with a reply in his bosom. On the first line lay these words: “Lord Xuande. That the grain of the Han royal kin is laid upon two households is today’s joy. I offer the small walled city of Xinye (新野) beneath Your Lordship’s grain.”

Liu Bei let out a deep sigh. A low word slipped from his mouth. “Yunchang, Yide. From today, our step is laid beneath the grain of Liu Jingsheng of Jingzhou. The small walled city of Xinye, beneath Lord Jingsheng’s grain, may yet be a seat where our own grain can be raised.”

The three brothers stepped out of the gate of Jizhou. The cart of the two elder-sisters (兄嫂) went in front. Guan Yu’s Green-Dragon Crescent Blade was set at the right of that cart. Zhang Fei’s Serpent Spear (丈八蛇矛) was set at the left. Liu Bei reined his horse at the rear.

Two thousand li (二千里) of road stretched southward. Liu Bei had turned forty-five. Seventeen years had passed since his days as a twenty-eight-year-old warrior of the Yellow Turban (黃巾) campaign, and those years lay upon his shoulders.

By the well of a small village along the way, an old woman handed a bowl of water to Liu Bei. “Lord Liu. Today’s step will reach a great grain of the south.” Liu Bei bowed his head low. “Old mother. I shall long remember the grain of your word.”

That evening, the three brothers lodged at a small inn. A low word slipped from Liu Bei. “Yunchang, Yide. Today’s step shares the grain of the start of the Peach Garden (桃園) oath. Beneath Liu Jingsheng’s grain at Jingzhou, our grain will again be tied into one.” Guan Yu nodded low. Zhang Fei nodded low.

Midway along the road, the cart passed a small shrine on a slow bend outside an old village. The shrine held a wooden plaque bearing the name of a long-dead warrior of Han who, decades earlier, had passed this same bend on his own southward road. A village elder had freshly dusted the plaque; the dust lay in a small heap beside the threshold. Liu Bei dismounted and bowed before the plaque. He did not speak his own name to the elder. A traveler bearing the name of Han rarely announces himself at a Han shrine. He laid a single copper upon the threshold, remounted, and rode on. The elder, behind him, understood without being told; he would tell his grandson about the bow for the next forty years, and the grandson would tell his own grandson. Some bows travel farther than their rider’s horse.

Farther south, as the road bent past the last low hills of Runan, the three brothers crossed a stone bridge over a narrow river. The bridge was old; two of its stones had been replaced within the last decade. Liu Bei paused upon the newest stone and laid his hand upon its surface. The stone, it was said, had been cut from a quarry that also cut the stones for a section of wall at Xiangyang, the capital of Jingzhou. A stone that shares its quarry with a capital is a quiet promise of kinship between two seats. Liu Bei did not mention the promise to his two brothers. He only laid his palm upon the stone a grain longer than a traveler’s usual pause, then remounted. The bridge held without a sound beneath the cart of the two elder-sisters.

Three evenings later, the road opened onto a long plain of early rice fields. The green of the young stalks shone a grain brighter than any green Guan Yu or Zhang Fei remembered from their northern winters. Zhang Fei rode close to the edge of a field and lifted a thin stalk between two fingers. The stalk bent with him and did not break. He released it; it sprang back to its place. He rode on without speaking. Guan Yu watched him without speaking. Some roads south are best felt in the spring of a single stalk rather than in any spoken word.

The first morning of Book 4 opened quietly upon a road of two thousand li southward. The three characters Hyeongju-ro (荊州路, the road to Jingzhou) were planted as a seed: the breath on which Sun Qian’s writing, Liu Jingsheng’s reply, the cart of the two elder-sisters, and the word of the well-side old woman lay together at one seat. The fire of Day 90’s Osohwa (烏巢火) had, this morning, moved and been laid upon the road of two thousand li southward.

—

WIA Code 스캐너로 비추면 인터넷 없이 발행 사실과 위·변조 여부를 확인할 수 있습니다.
휴대폰 기본 카메라로 찍으면 스캐너 안내 페이지가 열립니다 — 기사 바로 열기

움직이는 코드는 스트림입니다 — WIA Code 스캐너로 약 44초 비추면 기사 전문(사진 포함)이 폰에 저장되어 인터넷 없이도 읽을 수 있습니다.

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