WSMTATMC C12

Chapter 12

The whole family sat together at the table. The dishes, reheated twice, were now warm — just right for eating.

Hungry from the day’s trip, Chen Qingyun kept her head lowered over her bowl, eating without pause.

Li Shi ladled her a bowl of soup. “Slow down. Was the country food not to your liking?”

“Mmm… the food was fine — but the bowls were filthy.”

Wang Ying explained, “Earthenware bowls aren’t like porcelain; they’re easy to trap dirt.”

Chen Qingyan recalled that his first time visiting the manor, he too encountered the same thing — and was given a severe scolding from Father for his reaction. Seeing his sister in the same situation now, he couldn’t help but smile slightly.

Li Shi’s tone grew strict. “You didn’t do anything impolite, did you?”

“No, I just ate less.”

From the side, Chen Qingsong’s face was full of curiosity. “Sister, was the manor fun?” If not for school today, he too would have liked to go and see.

“Not much to see — trees and grass all along the way. We arrived around noon, and it was too hot, so I stayed in the steward’s house instead of going out.”

Wang Ying added, “I went to the fields with the steward. The wheat harvest looks decent this year, and they’ve already planted millet. Once the wheat’s dried and sold, the money will be sent over.”

Li Shi nodded. She knew little about farming, and since she had entrusted management of the household to Wang Ying, she naturally trusted him.

After the meal, Wang Ying had Liuzi bring in the things from the cart, displaying them one by one.

“These mountain mushrooms are a good thing — put some in the chicken stew this winter, and the flavour will be rich.” (In modern terms, like the famous northeastern dish Small Chicken Stewed with Mushrooms.)

“These mountain jujubes taste good too — Qingyun and I ate a few on the way.” He picked one up and handed it to Chen Qingyan.

The latter brought the green jujube to his nose, sniffed — then bit in, only for his face to crumple at the intense sourness.

“Hahahaha — forgot to say, you have to let them soften first.”

Chen Qingyan spat it out and shot him a sideways glance. This man had done it on purpose.

Wang Ying only gave him a sly wink before carrying on.

The straw-woven bird he gave to Chen Qingsong. For all the boy’s usual maturity, faced with a toy he was still all child, playing happily.

Though none of the items were worth much, their novelty pleased everyone.

As they chatted, somehow the conversation turned to supernatural tales, and Wang Ying recounted the Treasure Bowl story — one his grandmother had told him in his previous life.

“Once there was a poor family. One year, famine hit; the parents starved themselves to death so the children might live. But the children too soon had no food left, and were on the brink of dying. The eldest took a bowl and went out to beg.

“No-one else had any grain to give. Exhausted and hungry, he sat down by the river to cry.

“An old beggar came along, saw the boy’s pitiful state, and asked what had happened. The boy told of his parents’ death, and how his younger siblings would die in a few days too.

“The beggar sighed and brought out a pottery bowl from his robe: ‘Put a single grain of rice inside it when you get home. Tomorrow morning, there will be a meal for you.’

“The boy, half-doubting, went home and dropped the household’s last rice grain into the bowl. He thought the old man was making sport of him, and had little hope. But when he woke the next day — the bowl was full of grain!”

Everyone gasped. In ancient times, with so little diversion, a strange and wondrous story could grip an audience completely.

Wang Ying went on. “With the grain, they could eat — the boy cooked porridge, and they all had their fill. That night, he put in a few more rice grains; come morning, the bowl was full again.”

Qingyun couldn’t hold back. “Wow! That’s a treasure indeed!”

“Yes. The four children survived the famine and life improved. But in time, each grew up and started their own family — and began quarrelling over the bowl.”

Qingsong said, “It was the eldest brother who got the bowl, so he should have it.”

Chen Qingyan disagreed. “They’re siblings — they should share it.”

“Ah, but people’s hearts are greedy. Such a treasure, all would covet it. The quarrels turned to blows; at last, the old beggar came by again. Seeing their bloodied heads, he shook his own in pity.”

Li Shi clutched her handkerchief anxiously. “And then?”

“Then the beggar sang a ballad called ‘Severed Blood Ties’ — and the bowl in the cupboard suddenly shattered. From then on, no more grain ever appeared in it.”

Everyone sighed at the ending. If only they had lived harmoniously, wouldn’t their days have kept getting better? But greed was boundless; in the end, nothing remained.

Noticing her eldest son’s fatigue, Li Shi said, “It’s late — everyone should rest.”

The younger two, however, were still lively, clamouring to see if the household had any Treasure Bowl.

Li Shi gave in and sent Tian Mama to fetch a bowl from the kitchen.

Wang Ying rose and wheeled Chen Qingyan toward the rear courtyard. The moon was bright, a cool wind stirring.

Suddenly, Chen Qingyan said, “If you put silver into the Treasure Bowl… would it be full of silver the next day?”

Wang Ying laughed. “Still thinking about that?”

Embarrassed, Chen Qingyan coughed. “Only that it’s curious.”

“There’s no such thing as so much luck without a price — such tales are mostly people’s invention. If such a thing existed, there’d be a cost.”

Chen Qingyan tipped his head back to look at the moon. “Do you think cause and effect — retribution — is real?”

“I do. What you plant is what you reap; one day it will come back on you.”

Wang Ying once again thought of his own parents, who’d divorced and both remarried, ignoring him completely. As a child, it hurt; later, he realised it might be a blessing — no ageing parents to support, no responsibilities weighing him down. That too was a kind of cause and effect.

Back in the bedchamber, Wang Ying bent and lifted him into bed.

Both of Chen Qingyan’s ears went red. “Th-this… next time, have Chen Bo do it…”

Wang Ying, seeing him like that, couldn’t resist teasing. “I’m your husband — what’s wrong with holding you?”

“It’s always the husband holding the wife — when has it been the other way?”

“It’s not that I look down on you — but if I let you carry me, could you?”

Chen Qingyan bristled. “Once I’m well, I certainly could.”

“Then get well first.” Wang Ying picked up a cloth and a clean under-robe, heading to the bath.

He’d picked up dust in the fields today, and sweat left him sticky. The Chen estate, fortunately, had a proper bath-room; one need only heat the water for a good soak.

By the time he finished, it was nearly the xu hour⁽¹⁾. Eager to tend the experimental field, he returned quickly to the bedroom.

Chen Qingyan hadn’t slept; only when Wang Ying came in did he blow out the lamp.

Sliding under the covers, Wang Ying had barely closed his eyes when Chen Qingyan’s soft voice came: “If I stop studying, what should I do?”

“Go into business?”

“What sort of business?”

For a moment, Wang Ying didn’t have an answer. Ancient times were unlike the modern era; most trades were tightly held by long-standing families.

For example, the two grain shops in town were owned by brothers, inherited from their grandfather; they already met the town’s needs. Opening a third would be folly.

And the range of goods one could trade in was limited. Importing things from outside to resell in town was possible, but without a veteran merchant to guide the way, a man wouldn’t even know the route — never mind the risk of bandits.

“Commerce’d be tricky… Oh, but you can read. What about opening a private school (sishu, 私塾)? Teach children their first characters.”

Chen Qingyan’s eyes lit up. He was naturally talented in learning; if not for that incident…

“Yes — I could open a sishu and teach reading and writing!”

Yawning, Wang Ying said, “Sure. Just get strong first.”

The room fell quiet. Wang Ying closed his eyes, thinking that he’d harvested part of the wheat from the experimental field yesterday; he’d finish the rest today, and in autumn bring it to the manor to sow.

Silently, he called to enter the experimental field. Light flashed before his eyes — and he was there.

Most of the wheat was now ripe; yesterday’s cut crops were stacked aside. He rolled up his sleeves and, wielding a sickle “borrowed” from the Chen storehouse, began to reap.

Halfway through, Chen Qingyan’s voice sounded above his head.

“What’s the best place to open the sishu? At home might not be proper — Mother likes peace and quiet, and it’d be noisy. Better to find a separate place… What do you think?.. Are you asleep?”

No answer. The room was deathly still.

Chen Qingyan turned over and glanced toward the pallet on the floor.

His pupils contracted, and his body went rigid as if struck by thunder.

By moonlight, he could clearly see: beneath the bedding, the floor was empty.

Footnotes:

1. Xu hour (戌时) – The eleventh of the twelve traditional Chinese double-hours, roughly 7–9 p.m.