Chapter Fifty-Nine: The Arrival of Unwelcome Guests, Guo’s Wrath Unleashed (Part One)

Chapter Fifty-Nine: The Unwelcome Guest Arrives, Guo’s Fury Unleashed (Part One)

If I use gears for transmission, the material becomes an issue. Iron gears are hard to cast, wooden ones wear out too quickly, copper would be suitable, but then the windmill would cost nearly as much as an alchemist’s cauldron—far too expensive, and at the dam, it's just inviting trouble... The windmill only solves the problem of power. If I want to lift water from low to high ground, I could use the windmill to drive buckets, like a waterwheel, but the efficiency is too low, and the buckets are too heavy. What if, instead of buckets, I use the method described in certain time-travel novels—a windmill-driven pipeline to pump water? The principle would work, but then what material should the pipe be made of, and how to ensure it’s sealed...

Early in the morning, Zhang Qian was in his study, charcoal pencil in hand, scribbling and sketching nonstop. As a liberal arts graduate student, the little physics he learned in middle school had long since been returned to the teacher. Thus, a simple windmill water-lifting problem was already giving him a pounding headache.

Several times, he considered giving up on the wind-powered water-lifting and drainage system, and switching to a simpler, one-way water gate. But then he remembered that the Dutch, even before the industrial age, had used windmills to reclaim a quarter of their land from below sea level. The thought left him unwilling to give up. So he adopted his graduate exam attitude and launched into a “battle” with charcoal and mulberry-bark paper.

The result of this battle was disastrous.

After “killing” seven full scrolls of mulberry-bark paper, each ten feet long, and a dozen sharpened charcoal sticks, he finally had before him a very abstract sketch on his desk. The details, however, were a mess; from a modern perspective, every component was out of proportion and badly misshapen, with incomplete labeling. If he were to show this to a professor in the mechanical engineering department of the university next to the Normal School, the poor man would surely scream three times and spit blood on the spot.

As the Western “Master of the Mohist School,” Murphy, once said: “When things go wrong, they don’t come one at a time—they come in pairs.” After spending two and a half hours on the first sketch, Zhang Qian found himself beset by the problem of material selection for the components.

At this time, the manufacturing level of the Tang Dynasty was the most advanced in the world, and Chang'an's craftsmanship was unrivaled. However, “advanced” was only relative to this era, and mainly applied to weapons and astronomical instruments, not civilian devices. Nor had this “advancement” spread nationwide.

Though Zhang’s Manor was less than twenty miles from the outer walls of Chang'an, the local craftsmen had never heard of gears. As for “advanced” concepts like worm gears or bevel gears, they were completely in the dark.

Helpless, Zhang Qian had to sacrifice transmission efficiency and mechanical precision, replacing most of the drive components with oxhide belts. But then the pipe for drawing water became another insurmountable obstacle. After much mental wrangling, he finally thought of using bamboo tubes, joined by fire and sealed with hemp cloth and tung oil. But the gasket for the simple pump was yet another mountain to climb...

His head throbbed more and more, his eyelids grew heavier, and every bone and joint in his body began to protest, as if he had just run a marathon and then been thrown straight into a final exam.

Tap, tap, tap... A series of clogs striking the floor echoed beside him, approaching slowly.

Next, ten slender, flower-scented fingers gently pressed against his temples, slowly rotating in a clockwise direction.

Zhang Qian’s exhaustion melted away, his eyes instinctively closed, and his body sank back into the chair.

The visitor was Zijuan; he didn’t need to look. The scent of floral water and the rhythm of her steps gave her away. Recently, with his mood much improved and his meals more nutritious, the little maid’s fingers had grown fleshier and more supple, pressing against his temples with a warmth and softness that were a far cry from their previous state, when they had been as thin and cold as ten withered reeds.

No wonder so many families in later times long for daughters—at least when they grow up, they know to care for their elders. He let out a contented sigh, his muscles relaxing further, his brows smoothing, and a wave of drowsiness sweeping over him. Unlike sons, who just spend all day trying to please their mothers-in-law!

But what was this soft bundle pressing against his shoulder? Wrapped so thickly—there must be seven or eight layers at least. And underneath, two buttons, a washboard...

His drowsiness vanished, his muscles tensed, and Zhang Qian jerked upright, pulling away from the soft bundle! Caught off guard, Zijuan, who had been secretly rubbing her chest against his shoulder, let out a soft cry and tumbled sideways.

“Are you crazy?” Luckily, Zhang Qian was quick enough to catch her before her forehead met the floor. He considered giving her a couple of warning slaps, but noticed her face was already flushed like fire, tears welling in her eyes.

“Don’t be silly; you’re just a child,” Zhang Qian rolled his eyes helplessly and set her down gently. “If you have so much energy, go check on the workshop for me.”

“I just came from there! If you don’t believe me, smell!” Zijuan’s voice was as soft as a kitten’s. She wriggled closer, holding out her sleeve for him to sniff.

“Alright, alright! I smell this stuff every day—I'm sick of it!” Zhang Qian brushed aside her wrist, scarcely thicker than a tender cucumber, and scolded her. “Haven’t I told you? Little girls shouldn’t let their imaginations run wild.”

“I’m not that little. The Thirteenth Concubine of Captain Zhang’s family is only eight months older than me!” Zijuan pouted, refusing to yield.

“Eight months is still older. Besides, she’s she, and you’re you. Don’t follow her example... well, if she comes to play, you can accompany her. But don’t listen to any of her wild ideas!” Zhang Qian instantly realized the source of the problem, his headache intensifying.

Ever since that day when, drinking and chatting with He Zhizhang, Zhang Ruoxu, and Sun Anzu, he’d remarked, “To the onlooker, watching chess is a pleasure; to the player, it may not be so fortunate,” the three elders had taken great pity on him.

Especially old Zhang Ruoxu, who had taken him for a junior of his clan—dropping by whenever he had the chance to offer advice as an elder, urging him to study hard and advance himself. Twice, he even brought his womenfolk, who chatted and played with Zijuan.

These women varied greatly in age: the eldest was over forty and could easily have been Zijuan’s mother by the customs of the time. The youngest was barely half a year older than Zijuan, yet had been taken into the Zhang household over a year ago. If not for the old man’s age and fondness for drink, he might already have produced another successor for the Zhang clan.

When women of the inner quarters gather, talk inevitably turns to men. The fact that Zijuan had not yet been taken as Zhang Qian’s concubine was no secret to the maids, and certainly not to Zhang Ruoxu’s favored concubines. These “senior women” all began to worry on Zijuan’s behalf, pulling her aside to secretly teach her the secrets of attracting a man!

The “teachers” were earnest, and the “student” learned diligently. But today, on her first attempt at practical application, she failed miserably. Not only did Zhang Qian remain unmoved, he was left exasperated by her lack of focus.

“I’ve told you before: people are like fruit trees—if the blossoms come too early, the fruit can’t grow large. Look at the village women who married young; they're all small and frail, plagued by illness, and rarely live past forty!” Determined to nip this nonsense in the bud, he glared sternly at Zijuan and scolded her sharply.

“But—but the Thirteenth Concubine said a woman is most attractive at fourteen or fifteen, just as the flower is about to bloom. If you miss that season, men won’t care for you!” This time, Zijuan plucked up her courage and continued to argue.

“I told you not to listen to her nonsense!” Zhang Qian scratched his head in frustration, but couldn’t bring himself to hit or berate her further. Only after nearly scratching his scalp raw did he think of a brilliant idea. “Fine, I see you have too much free time. If you’re idle, go recite poetry!”

“I only know a few characters, sir. Will you teach me? I know I was wrong—I won’t dare again. I’m smart, I promise you won’t have to teach me more than three times!” Zijuan, remembering her teachers’ advice about knowing when to advance and when to retreat, put on a pitiful look and pleaded softly.

“Very well, I’ll teach you!” Zhang Qian shot her a grim look, making up his mind.

If he didn’t teach this little girl a hard lesson, she’d set herself on fire sooner or later. He had to pick a long poem to make her suffer a bit, and in the process, instill the right values.

Which poem would do? It had to be lengthy, and teach a girl to be strong and independent, rather than relying on her looks. Yes, this one!

Quickly recalling the most torturous poems he’d memorized in his youth, Zhang Qian made a decision. “Alright, I’ll teach you this one—the ancient ballad, ‘Ballad of Mulan.’ I’ll say a line, you repeat after me.”

“Yes, sir, you say a line, Zijuan will repeat.”

“Click, click, click, Mulan weaves at the door. She hears not the loom’s sound, only the sighs of a girl.” Zhang Qian straightened up, donned the look of a stern teacher, and began to pace and recite loudly.

“Click, click, click, Mulan weaves at the door. She hears not the loom’s sound, only the sighs of a girl.” Zijuan’s clear voice followed, chiming like a bell.

“What is the girl thinking? What is the girl longing for? The girl has no thoughts, the girl has no longings.” Zhang Qian nodded approvingly and continued.

“What is the girl thinking? What is the girl longing for...” Zijuan, now setting aside her shyness, recited with great earnestness.

“Last night she saw the draft, the Khan is mobilizing troops. The military rolls are twelve volumes, every volume bears her father’s name. Father has no elder son, Mulan has no elder brother. Willing to buy horse and saddle, from now on...”

“...the military rolls are twelve volumes, every volume bears her father’s name!” As Zijuan recited, her voice grew more spirited, as if an oriole were singing in the valley. “Father has no elder son, Mulan has no elder brother!”

Her voice stopped abruptly. She looked down at her chest, blushed deeply, and fled the room in embarrassment.