Chapter 58: The Eight-Holed Bamboo Flute

"Duo Yi County, North Lu District, Liu... Passed."
"He Fang Township, Ou District, Fu... Passed."
"Buzhi Township, East Alley District, Wei... Not skilled enough."
"Buzhi Township, Jia House Village, Wang Ge, passed."
"He Fang Township, Falling Moon Pavilion, Zheng Que, passed!"
"Xun Bi Township, Swamp Ditch Camp, Shi... Not skilled enough."

As time marched on, nearing noon, the drums of fame and defeat thundered within and outside the examination hall, their beats interlacing ever more densely. The shouts of the drummers and the eliminated candidates often overlapped.

The sound of fame pierced clouds and shattered rocks, stirring some to join in with passionate zeal, sharpening their minds to the finest point and displaying skills deeper than in ordinary days. Others, unable to restrain themselves, grew increasingly agitated, making irreparable mistakes.

Those who lacked skill, returning to the outer grounds, each reacted differently. Some paced or sat quietly, awaiting the results of the craftsmen's exam; others had already shouldered their bundles and begun their journey home.

This time, Wang Ge finally heard clearly—the candidate who always crafted one more piece than she did was named Zheng Que. He Fang Township was not notable for just Zheng Que; she had heard this township’s name several times in the fame drum announcements. And Buzhi Township’s East Alley District? Wasn’t that where Liu Xiaolang lived?

At this moment, Wang Ge was leaving the production area at the east corner, where the tool racks no longer held simple molds. Four hours had passed since she entered the venue at dawn; she was growing hungry, especially thirsty, and the toolbox she had carried so lightly now weighed heavily in her hand. As for her need to relieve herself, it was not unnoticeable, but each time the thought surfaced, she deliberately distracted herself with other matters.

Spotting a bamboo brush mold, she hesitated slightly, but did not choose it. She could not be fooled by appearances; if the number of splits in each bamboo strip was uneven, it would take twice the time to replicate.

Past the bamboo brush were brooms—only two placed on the racks.

Keep moving! Rattan rope, straw sandals, single-seat bamboo mats, wooden pulleys... a dozen racks in succession, all holding time-consuming, complex molds.

Folded fan ribs?!

Bad luck! Only one, and the materials lay on the other side of the rack! Wang Ge hurried forward to find a path around, but glancing back uneasily, she saw a candidate had already taken the mold.

She had to let it go. Panting, she continued her swift search, stopping with some doubt before the bamboo flute rack. She recalled, during her first fame contest, passing by a candidate making a bamboo flute—why had such a simple mold led to that candidate’s elimination? Moreover, she was sure she hadn’t heard the craftsman test its sound, proving the pitch was never checked.

Ahead, behind, and opposite, candidates converged on her position; clearly, there were no simple molds further on.

So be it. She picked up the bamboo flute, drawing envious glances from the others.

Wang Ge had made bamboo flutes in her previous life, all far more complex and delicate than this mold.

This flute mold was made of purple bamboo, an eight-hole design. Perhaps because purple bamboo is hard, only the areas around the holes were scraped clean. The flute body had two joints; one hole outside the head joint, with the remaining seven on the second joint. The eight holes were distributed from head to tail as: two, three, three.

Examining the internal structure, she realized why the craftsman didn’t test pitch—the flute was an empty, unobstructed tube, no stopper!

Making a flute without testing pitch? Truly odd. Still, it was a stroke of luck. She turned to the materials: ten slim purple bamboo tubes, their thickness matching the mold; a palm-length drilling pin, iron-tipped with a wooden handle.

That was all.

Wang Ge untied her hair cord again, pairing it with a wooden ruler to first measure the mold’s inner diameter, then the ten tubes one by one. Don’t assume the ten tubes offer ten chances—rather, they demand the candidate select the one best matching the mold’s inner diameter; the other nine, no matter how skillfully crafted, would be judged failures.

After selecting the tube, her innate caution had her inspect the internal structure again. Indeed, the tube was unobstructed... No sooner had the thought crossed her mind than she drew a sharp breath!

She found a bright spot, looked closely, and at once understood why the previous candidate had been eliminated.

Inside the tail end of the tube was a barely visible, tiny mark: a horizontal character for flute. The carving was truly straight and precise!

That previous candidate either hadn’t noticed the mark, or had failed to replicate it exactly.

None of the fixed tools could carve inside such a narrow diameter—the only thing usable was the drilling pin; no wonder the pin was so short.

That mark must be carved last!

Wang Ge sighed. Luck was not with her today; this mold was even more troublesome than the bamboo brush. But at least she now understood the challenge.

The first step in replicating this flute mold was to outline the scraped areas. Placing the mold and material tube side by side on the wooden board, she bound them with hemp cord to prevent rolling. Using the ruler, she marked several reference points for scraping on the material tube.

Once confirmed, she removed the tube and began peeling the bamboo skin, cutting lightly, always comparing the depth to the mold.

The second step: marking hole positions. Returning the tube to the board, she used the ruler to draw circles at the eight spots for holes.

Third step: drilling. Bamboo tubes easily roll; hemp cord alone wouldn’t suffice. Now the wooden board’s real function appeared—using the wooden hammer and file, she carved a vertical, semi-circular groove deep enough to cradle most of the tube. Once done, she wedged the tube in, held it down with one hand, drilled with the other. After each hole, she sharpened the pin’s tip on the whetstone.

Once all eight holes were drilled, she blew away the bamboo shavings—the shape was complete.

The mold’s internal “flute” mark was uncolored, making it easy to overlook. She randomly chose one of the nine remaining tubes, fashioned a thin bamboo strip, dipped it in soil, and carefully applied it to the mark to make it clearer.

Next, she removed the short pin, cut the soil-stained strip short, split its head into a fork, wedged the pin upright between the forks, and reinforced it with hemp cord.

She inserted it first into the mold, then into her own flute, measuring the mark’s exact position and size. Now it was time for true skill!

During Wang Ge’s work, the fame drums surged in waves; two candidates nearby were dragged away by the patrolling officials, one of whom inexplicably broke free and ran toward her—fortunately caught and kicked down before reaching her, then hauled away.

Terrifying! Why run at her? Thank goodness her hand hadn’t slipped!

She drew a deep breath, reminding herself: Don’t let outside influences disturb you. Don’t rush just because you chose a time-consuming mold; be mentally prepared—there will be no more simple molds from here on!

Soon, she blocked out the drumbeats and shouts.

Two examiners patrolling the area stopped behind her, speaking softly, “Up till now, no one who chose this mold has ever passed.”

“Anyone who could pass has already learned their lesson—they wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.”

“Exactly. Though the mark inside the flute mold is small, it must be perfectly straight; even a slight tilt means failure, and you can’t replace the bamboo tube. To carve it precisely—ha, at least half a... hmm? This candidate...”

The other examiner turned to look, equally astonished, “How is this...?”

How could it be? They had barely walked ten steps, and this young woman was already packing up her tools?

“Did she give up?”

“Doesn’t look like it.” If she had, why run so quickly to the craftsman’s station?