Chapter Four: An Immortal Born of Wine
Noticing his grandson’s lapse in composure, Yu Chaoran adjusted his demeanor and scolded with a smile, “Lang’er, aren’t you going to greet your uncle?”
Yu Lang stood dazed for a while before finally coming to his senses and, with the proper respect of a junior, greeted Li Bai.
Li Bai waved his hand dismissively. “I don’t care for these empty formalities.” He squinted at Yu Lang for a moment. “Lang’er, you’re not as lively as you once were.”
Yu Chaoran then recounted for Li Bai all that had happened to the two of them in recent days, concluding with a sigh: “Lang’er has lost his memory. He doesn’t recognize me, his grandfather, but he remembers you, his uncle.”
Li Bai stroked Yu Lang’s forehead affectionately. “Lang’er, just call me Third Uncle. Your father—what the Tang call ‘Aye’—Meng Haoran, and I, are sworn brothers. I was the one who gave you your name—Yu Lang, courtesy name Ziyou.”
A strange feeling swept over Yu Lang. So, my name was given by the Immortal Poet himself—Yu Lang, Ziyou. Goodness, in modern times this would be like suddenly being told that Jay Chou named me.
Yu Lang pressed on, “Third Uncle, what kind of man was my father?”
Li Bai poured himself a large bowl of wine, bowed to the southern wall in respect, and downed it in one gulp. “Your father was a hero born before his time.”
Yu Lang had thought Li Bai would elaborate, but after saying this, he offered nothing more.
“And my mother?”
“Your mother… she was a wonderful woman.”
Having lived one life already in the mortal world, Yu Lang could immediately see that Li Bai had feelings for his mother.
“That year, the four of us traveled together to Yangzhou. Who would have thought that now, separated by life and death, only I remain alone.” Li Bai raised his head and drained another bowl of wine.
Yu Lang glanced at the table, where more than a dozen empty wine jars were scattered about, and was stunned. This Li Bai could truly drink—most people would succumb to water poisoning before finishing so much, even if it were just water.
“I’d rather be like you, Lang’er—poisoned and lost to memory. If only someone would pour the poison into good wine, so I could forget a few things in my head.” Li Bai was finally starting to show the haze of drunkenness. “Forget a few people, become a man without attachment.”
Yu Chaoran remarked, “The world says you, Li Taibai, are the most talented yet most unfeeling man alive—spreading affection everywhere but holding none. You have friends everywhere, drinking together as if your lives were bound, but few truly weigh on your heart.”
“I’m just too lazy. I go with the flow—when we meet, we drink to our hearts' content. When we part, I don’t dwell on it. If fate wills it, we’ll meet again.”
Yu Chaoran smiled. “It’d be good if you truly were so carefree. You only pretend at detachment when drunk. There’s much you can’t let go—seeing through it all but still caring deeply, caught in between, neither advancing nor retreating.”
“Uncle Yu knows me well,” Li Bai nodded, then called to Yu Lang, “Lang’er, sit. Can you drink?”
“Brother Bai, I want to drink too!” came a sweet, soft, and coquettish voice from the doorway.
A girl of about thirteen or fourteen entered, hugging two large wine jars to her chest. She wore a pale yellow dress, her figure slim and petite, but her face was strikingly beautiful—especially her large eyes, which drew one in irresistibly.
Li Bai feigned sternness. “Qingqing, girls shouldn’t drink.”
Qingqing rolled her eyes. “Last time at the Pavilion of Fragrant Red, I saw you with a girl in each arm, both drinking, and you were pouring wine for them yourself!”
Yu Lang grinned with a mischievous admiration, while Yu Chaoran looked on with a calm air, as if long accustomed to such scenes.
Li Bai coughed awkwardly. “They... they had internal injuries. I gave them wine to help activate the medicine.”
Qingqing pouted, refusing to give in. “Well, I’m injured too. These two jars are heavy; carrying them here hurt my energy and blood. You should pour for me as well!”
“Nonsense! You have the Nourishing Sword Qi to protect you—how could a bit of weight hurt you? Put the jars down and stand by the wall!”
Nourishing Sword Qi? Yu Lang mused inwardly. Legend had it that Li Bai was both a master poet and swordsman. It seemed he should seize the chance to become his student. Yu Chaoran, proud old man as he was, wouldn’t humble himself to ask Li Bai for justice, but surely he wouldn’t stop me from learning from him.
Seeing Li Bai truly angry, Qingqing obediently set the jars down and went to stand by the wall, her large eyes blinking and full of pitiable charm.
But Li Bai made no move to introduce the lovely girl to Yu Lang. Instead, he picked up their conversation as if nothing had happened. “Lang’er, you’ve just recovered from illness—can you handle a few cups with your Third Uncle?”
“This lad can drink even more since his illness. Last time, he finished off the strong liquor I’d had someone bring all the way from the Western Regions...” Yu Chaoran quickly took the cue.
Li Bai’s eyes lit up with excitement. “Strong liquor from the Western Regions! Where is it? Bring it out so I can taste it!”
Yu Lang grinned. “Sorry, I drank it all in one go.”
“You, such a small lad, finished off such fine wine? What a waste!” Li Bai feigned outrage.
“No matter who drinks it, it still ends up as a puddle on the ground—what’s the difference?” Influenced by Qingqing, Yu Lang felt less restrained. After all, Li Bai himself was a free spirit, unconcerned with convention.
“How crude,” Qingqing said from the wall, making a face at Yu Lang.
Li Bai burst out laughing. “Ha! Well said. When I drink, I compose poetry. If you drink, you should leave something behind too.”
Qingqing pinched her nose and interjected, “He already said, when he drinks, he leaves behind... you know what.”
Challenged by the girl, Yu Lang refused to be outdone. “I get inspiration from drinking too—I came up with a couple of lines.”
His earnest demeanor amused Yu Chaoran and Li Bai, while the girl looked at him with disdain.
Li Bai, swaying slightly, gestured grandly. “Recite them. Let us judge their merit.”
Yu Lang raised his bowl, gathered his thoughts, and recited: “A youth’s ambition should touch the clouds; who cares for the cold and lonely sigh?”
These lines, borrowed from the mid-Tang poet Li He—known as the “Poet Ghost”—expressed how a young man’s aspirations should soar to the heavens, yet fate leaves him desolate and unfulfilled. They fit Yu Lang’s mood perfectly, and he recited them with real feeling.
Li Bai clapped his hands in praise. “Superb lines! Ziyou, you have great talent!”
No longer addressing him by his childhood name, Li Bai used his courtesy name Ziyou, a mark of respect for the author of those lines.
Qingqing, too, put aside her scorn; her gaze softened. She hadn’t expected this lad to have such talent.
“Is there a complete poem?” Li Bai asked.
Yu Lang shook his head. He could offer a couple of lines, but reciting the whole poem would give him away—Li He wrote “A Toast to Wine” from personal experience.
“These two lines came to me as inspiration in the moment. I don’t yet have the skill to compose a full poem—the best writing is a gift from heaven, and a deft hand sometimes stumbles on it by chance.” Yu Lang played the part of the modest prodigy.
“The best writing is a gift from heaven, and a deft hand sometimes stumbles on it by chance—wonderful!” Li Bai was amazed again.
Ah, I said it without thinking—a line from Lu Fangweng slipped out. If these two knew I was borrowing from their poems to impress Li Bai, they’d never rest easy in their coffins, Yu Lang thought with a wry smile.
Yu Chaoran stroked his white beard, laughing heartily. “I never thought the Yu family would produce a poet!”
Li Bai consoled Yu Lang, “Lang’er, don’t let sorrow weigh you down. You’re still young, and a bit of adversity is nothing to grieve over. Ahead of you lies a bright future and the best of years.”
Sensing the time was right, Yu Lang asked, as if casually, “Third Uncle, they say your swordsmanship is legendary. Would you teach me a move or two?”