Lushui and the Red Cliff

Overview

About

The Lushui scenic area in Chibi (formerly Puqi), Hubei, comprises the Red Cliff battlefield and Lushui Lake.

The battlefield on the south bank of the Yangtze, across from Honghu, is where the famous Battle of Red Cliffs of the Three Kingdoms was fought. The two characters “Red Cliff” carved on a rock by the river are said to be in the hand of Zhou Yu. There are also the Yijiang and Wangjiang pavilions and a gallery of steles.

The place described in Su Dongpo’s two “Rhapsodies on the Red Cliff” is at Huangzhou, more than 100 km downstream, called the Literary Red Cliff or Dongpo’s Red Cliff; the true battlefield at Lushui is therefore called the Military Red Cliff.

Lushui Lake, formerly the Lushui reservoir, lies south of the city with more than 800 islands and the 681 m Xuefeng Mountain on its south shore; other sights are the Zhaotian Candle, the Sword-Testing Stone, Mulan Temple and Jingquan Cave.

“First Rhapsody on the Red Cliff” by Su Shi

In the autumn of the year renxu, on the sixteenth of the seventh month, Master Su and his guests went boating below the Red Cliff. A clear breeze came gently and the water lay unruffled. Raising wine to his guests, he chanted the poem of the bright moon and sang the stanza of the graceful maiden. Soon the moon rose over the eastern hills and lingered between the Dipper and the Ox; white dew lay across the river and the water’s light met the sky. We let our reed of a boat go where it would, over ten thousand acres of boundless water, vast as if riding the wind through the void, not knowing where we would stop; light as if we had left the world behind to stand alone, grown wings and risen to immortality.

Then, drinking and very merry, we beat time on the gunwale and sang: “Cassia oars and orchid sweeps strike the empty brightness and row up the stream of light; far, far my longing, I look for the fair one at the edge of heaven.” A guest who played the flute accompanied the song, its sound mournful, as if yearning, as if weeping, the lingering notes thread-thin and unbroken, enough to make the hidden dragon dance in the dark gorge and the widow weep in her lonely boat.

Master Su grew grave, straightened his robe and asked: “Why is it so?” The guest said: “‘The moon is bright, the stars are few, the crows fly south’: are these not Cao Mengde’s lines? Looking west to Xiakou and east to Wuchang, the hills and river entwined, dark and green: is this not where Mengde was trapped by young Zhou? When he had taken Jingzhou and come down to Jiangling and sailed east with the current, his ships stretched a thousand li and his banners hid the sky; he poured wine over the river and composed verses with his lance across his saddle, truly the hero of an age; and where is he now? How much less we, fishing and gathering wood on the river islands, companions of fish and prawns, friends of deer, riding a leaf of a boat and raising gourd cups to one another, mayflies lodged between heaven and earth, a grain of millet in the vast sea. I grieve that life is a moment and envy the Yangtze that has no end; I would take a flying immortal to roam with and embrace the bright moon for ever; knowing this cannot be had at once, I lodge the lingering sound in the sad wind.”

Master Su said: “Do you know the water and the moon? The water flows away like this, yet has never gone; the moon waxes and wanes like that, yet never grows or shrinks. Seen from what changes, heaven and earth cannot last an instant; seen from what does not change, things and I are alike without end. What then is there to envy? Besides, between heaven and earth each thing has its master; if it is not mine I take not a hair of it. Only the clear breeze on the river and the bright moon over the hills, which the ear takes as sound and the eye meets as colour, are ours to take without restraint and use without exhausting: the inexhaustible treasury of the Creator, which you and I enjoy together.”

The guest laughed with pleasure, washed the cups and poured again. The dishes were finished, cups and plates lay scattered, and we lay against one another in the boat, not knowing that the east had grown white.

“Second Rhapsody on the Red Cliff”

In the tenth month of the same year, on the night of the full moon, I walked from the Snow Hall to return to Lingao, two guests following me over the Yellow Mud slope. Frost and dew had fallen and the leaves were all shed; our shadows lay on the ground and we looked up at the bright moon, glad of it, singing to one another as we went. Then I sighed: “I have guests but no wine, or wine but no food; with the moon white and the wind clear, what shall we do with so fine a night?” A guest said: “At dusk today I cast a net and caught a fish with a great mouth and fine scales, like the perch of Songjiang; but where shall we get wine?” I went home to consult my wife. She said: “I have a measure of wine, long kept against your sudden need.” So with wine and fish we went again below the Red Cliff. The river ran loud, the sheer bank rose a thousand feet; the hills were high and the moon small, the water low and the rocks bare. How few days and months had passed, and yet the hills and river could not be known again. I gathered my robe and climbed, treading the jagged rocks, parting the tangled growth, crouching on tiger-and-leopard boulders, mounting dragon-shaped trunks, reaching the perilous nest of the roosting falcon and looking down on the hidden palace of the river god; the two guests could not follow. I gave a long whistle; grass and trees shook, the hills rang and the valleys answered, wind rose and water surged. I too grew quiet and sad, solemn and afraid, chilled, unable to stay. I went back down to the boat and let it drift midstream to rest where it would. Near midnight all around was still and empty. Just then a lone crane came across the river from the east, wings like cart wheels, black skirt and white coat, gave a long harsh cry, skimmed my boat and went west.

Soon the guests left and I slept. I dreamed of a Taoist in feathered robes dancing past below Lingao, who bowed to me and said: “Was your outing to the Red Cliff a pleasure?” I asked his name; he bowed his head and did not answer. “Ah! I know. Last night, the one that flew crying past me, was it not you?” The Taoist looked round and laughed; I woke with a start. I opened the door to look; there was no sign of him.