Chapter Three: The Illness Strikes Again

At dawn, a crimson sun rose slowly in the east, casting golden light upon the sea as if fragments of gold had been scattered across the rippling waves. The water lay calm as a mirror, reflecting in shimmering gold the jagged rocks and sparse shrubs atop the coastal cliffs.

Though the fishing village where Li Sanjian and his mother lived was poor, the scenery was exceptionally beautiful, and the air remarkably fresh.

“Jian’er, here, take these—your father’s brushes and paints,” said Fu Ernian, handing Li Sanjian some painting tools left behind by the late Li Qing.

Li Sanjian’s father had once earned the degree of scholar and was a man of letters who enjoyed painting in his leisure; thus, he had left behind a few brushes and pigments. The brushes were nothing more than ordinary goat-hair, but the paints were exceedingly rare and precious. Because they were relics of Li Qing, Fu Ernian had treasured them all this time.

Now, Li Sanjian suddenly mentioned to Fu Ernian that he wished to paint by the seaside. Hearing this, she was filled with both surprise and joy. When his father had been alive, he had hoped to teach Sanjian reading, calligraphy, and painting. Yet, since childhood, Sanjian had been considered simple-minded, unable to read or write.

The fact that he now spoke of painting brought Fu Ernian immense comfort—could it be that his fall into the sea had somehow made him clever? In this world, the four arts—music, chess, calligraphy, and painting—were essential skills for any scholar.

San Jian’s capacity for painting proved he was not, in fact, dull-witted.

Truth be told, the only thing San Jian understood in this world was painting, yet his works were incomprehensible to almost everyone here. As for books, San Jian could barely make sense of them, unable to recognize even half the characters.

“Mother, do we have any canvas or xuan... paper?” San Jian asked softly, stumbling over his words.

These days, San Jian had come to understand that their home was destitute, with nothing but bare walls. They survived on the meager income Fu Ernian made by gathering seaweed or with occasional help from her family. Days were hard, and xuan paper was out of the question—he only hoped for some kind of canvas.

As expected, Fu Ernian wiped her hands on her apron, apologetic. “Jian’er, we don’t have xuan paper. It’s not something our family can afford. But your father did leave some canvas behind. I’ll go upstairs and look for it.”

With that, she went to fetch a ladder, intending to search the ramshackle loft.

“Mother, let me do it,” San Jian hurried to get the ladder before her.

“It’s all right,” Fu Ernian said cheerfully. “You’re still recovering. Let me handle it.”

San Jian was indeed becoming more considerate. Fu Ernian could now understand nearly everything he said, and she felt deeply gratified by his thoughtfulness and filial piety. Anyone who didn’t know his history would never guess he had once been considered simple.

“Mother, I’m fine,” San Jian insisted, but the heavy wooden ladder was a struggle; he was left panting, sweat beading across his brow.

What a frail body, he thought. I’ll have to work on building my strength.

With great effort, San Jian climbed up to the loft, which was piled with all manner of odds and ends, thick with dust and spiderwebs.

He rummaged through the boxes until he finally found some coarse linen in a battered old chest.

“Mother, is this what you meant?” he called down, holding up the cloth.

“That should be it,” Fu Ernian replied. “Your father used to paint on it too. But he always said the best canvas is silk—it’s called... called silk painting, I think.”

“That’s good enough,” San Jian said, climbing down with a smile.

Silk? Silk paintings? Such things were far beyond the reach of ordinary folk.

“Mother, I can’t open this small box—what’s inside?” San Jian then asked, holding an exquisite iron case.

“I don’t know,” Fu Ernian replied. “Your father said he’d show you when you were older. It’s a pity your brothers...” Her eyes brimmed with tears.

“Mother, don’t be sad. You still have me,” San Jian comforted her.

Fu Ernian glanced at her son, nearly as tall as herself, and nodded with tears in her eyes. Though San Jian was thin, he was not short—taller than most his age.

“Jian’er, you want to paint by the sea?” she cautioned him. “Be careful—don’t fall in like last time. You nearly scared me to death; if your uncle hadn’t been there, you could have...”

“Mother, don’t worry. I’m... how old am I this year?” San Jian suddenly asked.

“Silly child, you just turned thirteen last month,” Fu Ernian replied with a smile.

“Mother, you say I’m silly again. How am I silly?” San Jian complained.

“All right, not silly. My Jian’er is the cleverest boy in the world,” Fu Ernian quickly reassured him.

...

The fishing village was small; any news spread quickly. Word that San Jian, once considered simple, had suddenly become able to paint and grown clever soon reached every household, filling all with joy for Fu Ernian. But the happiness was short-lived: soon came rumors that San Jian had relapsed.

Almost every morning, San Jian could be seen running wildly alone along the shore, muttering to himself in words no one could understand. When he finished, he would sit staring blankly at the sea, as though lost in his old ways—save that now, a sketch board always lay before him and he painted ceaselessly. The villagers soon began to worry for Fu Ernian once more.

“Simpleton, simpleton—eat and sleep, sleep and eat, wake and run, run and paint...”

One day, as San Jian painted by the sea, some children played nearby, clapping their hands and singing a mocking chant at him.

He glanced at them, shook his head, and continued to paint the beautiful coastal view. What did these ignorant children know of foolishness or wisdom?

Though San Jian’s body was thirteen, his soul was that of a man in his twenties.

By now, San Jian understood his situation. He never could have imagined such a wondrous thing would happen to him; it left him astounded.

Since he had come to this world, he could only accept his fate. Yet how to adapt, he still did not know. The skills he possessed were useless here, and he did not even know what era this was.

But one thing was clear: his family was poor, and the first priority was to escape poverty, to at least secure food and clothing. Yet how to do that, he did not know.

His only skill was painting, but could that lift him out of poverty? The answer was no—not for now. Some families in the fishing village were even poorer than his own.

“Simple big brother, what are you painting?” As San Jian’s thoughts wandered, a soft, childish voice asked him.

He started, turning to see a little girl of five or six standing with her hands behind her back, biting her lip as she gazed at his painting.

The girl wore a short top and a skirt, both made of brightly colored homespun fabric. Her bare feet, fair and tender, stood on the ground, each ankle adorned with silver bangles that jingled as she moved.

Her cherubic face was alight with curiosity, stunningly pretty for her age. Though still a child, her features promised the beauty of a future femme fatale.

Though the girl was adorable, San Jian’s anger was not soothed. Simpleton? Fool? Since arriving in this world, he had heard those words again and again, which infuriated him.

Yet, when she said “simple big brother,” her voice was as melodious as an oriole’s song.

“Enough!” San Jian snarled at her. “Simpleton? You’re the simpleton! Your whole family is! Call me Third Brother. If you call me that again, I’ll give you a beating!”

His ferocious look startled the girl, who stepped back in fright and stared at him.

“How dare you speak to Princess Awen like that?” scolded her servant.

“Princess?” San Jian laughed. “What princess could there be in such a wild place? At best, she’s the daughter of some tribal chief.”

He was correct. Princess Awen was actually the daughter of the Li leader, her Han name Wang Kunrui, and she herself was called Wang Wen.

This was the remote land of Qiongtai—had she claimed to be a princess in the capital, it would have been treason.

Having said his piece, San Jian packed up his board, ready to leave.

Wang Wen spoke to her servant in the Li language, then approached San Jian. “Big brother, please tell me—what are you painting? It’s so beautiful!”

Looking into her bright eyes, San Jian could not stay angry. After all, quarreling with a child was pointless.

He pointed to the painting. “Can’t you see? It’s a landscape—of the seaside.”

“It’s really beautiful. I’ve never seen such a pretty painting,” Wang Wen said, sucking her finger. “Big brother, can you paint people?”

“Paint people?” San Jian smiled. “Of course. I can paint anything.”

Portraits? That’s basic, he thought.

“Wonderful!” Wang Wen clapped her hands. “Paint one for me! I want to show my mother—she’ll love it.”

“Paint you? Why should I paint you?” San Jian scoffed, turning to leave with his sketch board.

“Big brother, here—please, paint me a picture.” She produced a pearl the size of a thumb from her pocket, pleading with him.

The pearl tempted San Jian, but he could not bring himself to paint a portrait for a little girl just for that, so he shook his head. “Third Brother is not so easily swayed by riches. A little pearl won’t move me. You underestimate me.”

“Please, big brother!”

“No, little sister, I must go home. If I’m late, my mother will worry.”

“Third Brother...”

“You’re really persistent, aren’t you? Very well, I’ll paint one for you.”