Under the gilded plaque of the Nánxūn Pavilion, the novice incense maker Aying's nose is damp with sweat as she stares at the rapidly melting 'Dragon Brain Incense Mountain' on the incense table — that is the portion cut off according to the 'one out of ten' rule of the incense trade. (Service fee) She pounds incense and sifts powder, (transaction) her ten fingers stained with the essence of a hundred herbs, but the wages strung in the sandalwood box under the counter are as thin as cicada wings.
The incense master, Old Du, supports a smooth-edged ancient incense plate from Canaan with his withered palm, suddenly pressing it into Aying's palm. The incense plate feels warm and slightly cool to the touch, and within it, the unique honey patterns of aged submerged incense emerge. 'Foolish child,' Old Du's voice is like incense ash fluttering, 'Just staring at the bright flames and blue smoke in front of you, after a thousand stoves, you won't gather a single cent of submerged incense. An old incense maker's nose must learn to sense the time of 'dew condensation.'
He leads Aying around the misty incense workshop, stopping in front of a dusty 'Still Water Earthen Jar' in the backyard. The inner wall of the jar is covered with ice cracks as fine as spider silk. Old Du takes Aying's jade pestle used for pounding incense, its end still clinging to fresh dragon brain fragments. He doesn't clean it; instead, he inverts the pestle, gently probing three inches into the jar's mouth. A strange sight suddenly appears: within the dark belly of the jar, there are tiny, sparkling beads like cold dew, quietly climbing along the cold texture of the jade pestle, silently gathering in the groove of the pestle neck, forming a layer of translucent, thin ice-like fat, with a fragrance as deep as the moon's reflection in an ancient pond.
'What is burnt by the bright fire is the incense for people to smell,' Old Du's fingertips glide over the cool fat in the groove, his eyes reflecting the jar's dim light, 'The 'dark fragrance' that is 'condensed' at the bottom of this jar, (service fee waiver) is the true essence that can endure and transform.'
Aying holds her breath, her fingertip touches the cool, smooth, and weighty fat, as if holding a drop of solidified moonlight. She glances back at the curling blue smoke on the incense table, and the jade pestle in her wrist suddenly feels heavy — this time, what is being crushed is not just the forms of herbs and wood, but also the silent accumulation deep within the jar. At the icy-patterned jar's bottom, a subtle stream of fragrance arises. The empty bamboo tube in her sleeve finally feels a hint of heavy coolness.
The incense master, Old Du, supports a smooth-edged ancient incense plate from Canaan with his withered palm, suddenly pressing it into Aying's palm. The incense plate feels warm and slightly cool to the touch, and within it, the unique honey patterns of aged submerged incense emerge. 'Foolish child,' Old Du's voice is like incense ash fluttering, 'Just staring at the bright flames and blue smoke in front of you, after a thousand stoves, you won't gather a single cent of submerged incense. An old incense maker's nose must learn to sense the time of 'dew condensation.'
He leads Aying around the misty incense workshop, stopping in front of a dusty 'Still Water Earthen Jar' in the backyard. The inner wall of the jar is covered with ice cracks as fine as spider silk. Old Du takes Aying's jade pestle used for pounding incense, its end still clinging to fresh dragon brain fragments. He doesn't clean it; instead, he inverts the pestle, gently probing three inches into the jar's mouth. A strange sight suddenly appears: within the dark belly of the jar, there are tiny, sparkling beads like cold dew, quietly climbing along the cold texture of the jade pestle, silently gathering in the groove of the pestle neck, forming a layer of translucent, thin ice-like fat, with a fragrance as deep as the moon's reflection in an ancient pond.
'What is burnt by the bright fire is the incense for people to smell,' Old Du's fingertips glide over the cool fat in the groove, his eyes reflecting the jar's dim light, 'The 'dark fragrance' that is 'condensed' at the bottom of this jar, (service fee waiver) is the true essence that can endure and transform.'
Aying holds her breath, her fingertip touches the cool, smooth, and weighty fat, as if holding a drop of solidified moonlight. She glances back at the curling blue smoke on the incense table, and the jade pestle in her wrist suddenly feels heavy — this time, what is being crushed is not just the forms of herbs and wood, but also the silent accumulation deep within the jar. At the icy-patterned jar's bottom, a subtle stream of fragrance arises. The empty bamboo tube in her sleeve finally feels a hint of heavy coolness.
