WSMTATMC C91

Chapter 91

Perhaps because it was a new and unfamiliar environment, none of them managed to sleep; they lay in bed, tossing and turning.

After a silence, Chen Qingsong spoke first. “It’s been four months since we left home. I wonder how Mother and the others are doing.”

Chen Qingyan said, “They’re fine. Everything at home is well.”

Qingsong propped himself up. “How do you know?”

“A guess.” He couldn’t very well tell his brother that he had just met with Wang Ying a few days before—and that he not only knew all was well at home, but also that their son had been disciplined for wasting food.

Qingsong fell back onto the bed. “I miss Mother so much, and Sister, and Sister-in-law…”

At the side, Chen Qinghuai felt a pang. He had not seen his parents for more than a year. When he left home, his youngest brother was only a little over one; by now he should be walking and talking.

The fourth branch did not have many children: aside from Qinghuai, there was one son and one daughter; the daughter was seven, the youngest son not yet two, and several in between had not survived.

Chen Jing placed high hopes on his eldest, which was why he had let him follow Master Liang to study.

Qingyan consoled them. “Hold on a while longer. Compared with those too poor to study, we already have it much better. Don’t let the family’s expectations be disappointed.”

“Mm.”

Only after the two fell asleep did Qingyan quietly open the experimental field. He had come late; Wang Ying was no longer there. Qingyan picked up a charcoal stick and left a note.

“My brothers and I have entered Laizhou Prefectural Academy. All is well—do not worry.”

He finished writing and slipped back to the dormitory. Seeing that the others hadn’t woken, he finally fell asleep.

At dawn they were roused by the bell.

The great bell resounded through the academy. They started, hurriedly got up, changed into the student uniforms issued the day before, donned their scholar caps, and went to the classroom for morning reading.

By the time they arrived, the room was already full. Normally, morning reading began at the first quarter of the Yin hour and lasted until the Mao hour, when they went for breakfast; study began afterward and filled the day.

The morning curriculum was the main classics—Four Books and Five Classics, poetry and prose, and policy essays—each class one period in length, taught in rotation by several tutors.

Around noon came the midday meal, with a short half-period recess; in the afternoon, there were “miscellaneous” courses, including Mingjing (scriptural studies), Junshi (selection of the talented), Mingfa (law), Mingzi (characters), and Mingsuan (mathematics); the gentleman’s Six Arts were among them. They finished only at the You hour.

At the Xu hour, night curfew began. Students were not allowed to leave the dormitory except to use the privy; those discovered would be severely punished, and repeat offenders expelled.

Open flame was strictly forbidden in the academy; most buildings were wooden, and there were great storehouses of paper and books, to say nothing of the number of people. A fire would be catastrophic. Students lived by sun and candle: rising at dawn, sleeping at dusk.

Three new faces suddenly entering class made a stir in Class C. Somehow word spread that they were Master Liang’s disciples—eliciting curiosity and envy in equal measure, and, inevitably, jealousy.

Most jealous was Peng Huan, just past twenty. He had entered the academy as county laureate (first place) of Song’an and, upon entry, gone straight into Class A. But the city’s glitter had dazzled him; fond of making friends (the wrong kind), his grades plunged in a few months—from Class A down to B, and in the year’s first monthly exam he slid from B into C.

He fancied himself richly gifted but lacked a renowned mentor. The academy’s tutors, in his view, “served what the diner ordered”—the moment he slipped in a monthly exam, they drove him out of Class A. Too much! After all, he had been a county laureate.

Such things he did not dare say openly; he groused only to cronies, while inwardly longing for a master.

Seeing Qingyan and the others, his ambitions stirred. He would first cultivate friendly ties, then, under cover of friendship, seek a visit—and beg Master Liang to take him in. With his talent, surely the elder would favor him!

The more he plotted, the more feasible it seemed. He rose warmly at once. “There are open seats here. Come sit over this way.”

The three had never seen Peng Huan and didn’t understand why he was so effusive. With their prior experience of being tricked, they were instinctively wary of such types; they pretended not to notice and went to the back row to sit.

The nearby students were more normal—offering a polite greeting, then lowering their heads to read.

The three took out the books issued yesterday and began reading; they continued until the end of the Yin hour, when the tutor arrived.

Three tutors taught Class C: surnamed Zhang, Xu, and Zhou.

Tutor Zhang was responsible for their class in particular; they could go to him with questions.

He was elderly and thin, slightly stooped, with hair gathered in a topknot and a sparse beard. The severity in his brows made one feel cowed at a glance.

He entered with a rattan ruler. The students’ voices rose and backs straightened, all of them sitting ramrod-stiff for fear of punishment.

Tutor Zhang walked to their side and tapped the desk with the ruler.

They stopped reading and looked up, puzzled.

“You three—newcomers?”

The chorus of reading faltered. Everyone turned to look at the three.

Qingyan quickly tugged his brothers to stand. “Students Chen Qingyan, Chen Qinghuai, and Chen Qingsong, reporting to class.”

Tutor Zhang did not make things difficult. He gave them a measuring look and said, “Very well. Sit and read.”

They sat, faces still puzzled, and resumed their reading.

In truth, Zhang had only come to put faces to names. The dean had spoken to him yesterday and asked him to keep an eye on the three new boys and see that they didn’t suffer any bullying.

A glance told him these three were not weaklings; likely no one would push them around.

Morning reading ended and they took their bowls and chopsticks to the refectory. Halfway there, they found Cai Jingqi and Zhao Lan waiting. The two hurried over.

“How goes it—are you settling in?” asked Jingqi.

Qinghuai nodded. “It’s alright—though we nearly woke late for morning reading.”

“That means you slept late. Here, everyone wakes before dawn.”

Evenings at the academy were dullest; one couldn’t light lamps to read or go strolling—most lay down early, and many woke in the Chou hour.

They went to the dining hall together. No sooner had they entered than Peng Huan waved them over again to eat together.

Jingqi tugged at Qinghuai’s sleeve and shook his head slightly; they pretended not to see and followed him to sit elsewhere.

Peng Huan’s face fell. He tossed his chopsticks on the table and stalked off.

His hangers-on scrambled to clean up and trailed after him.

Once they were gone, Jingqi murmured, “Keep your distance from him. He used to be Class A, but because he shunned study and haunted brothels, his grades fell into Class C.”

Zhao Lan added, “He likes to form cliques and target those he dislikes—led a campaign in Class B once that hounded a young licentiate out of the academy.”

“Don’t the tutors intervene?” Qingyan asked.

“They do, but there are a thousand ways to make life hard. The boy was very young and couldn’t endure it; he left of his own accord.”

They nodded—and put a mental label on Peng Huan: Do Not Engage.

After breakfast, classes resumed. The morning lectures were dense and dry, the tutor’s voice drawn-out and slow—lulling many to drowsiness.

Not just the three—others fell asleep as well, only to be hauled up by the ear and punished to stand outside and listen.

Under the June sun, eyes smarted; after one class, they came back flushed and dripping.

The afternoon offerings were a touch lighter. There was even a music theory class taught by a young tutor surnamed Bai, whose qin playing was masterful. The piece “High Mountains and Flowing Waters” held them spellbound.

It was the first time Qingyan had heard the guqin; he made a silent vow to learn it and play for Ah Ying.

—

Wang Ying, for his part, had no leisure to listen to the qin. Torrential rain had hammered the town for days on end; if it continued, they would be facing floods.

Another roll of thunder; outside, the rain grew heavier.

Madam Li and Chen Rong sat by the window, brows knotted. “It’s been raining four days straight—no sign of stopping.”

“Yes—and if this keeps up, the crops will drown. I don’t know how Ah Ying and the others are coping.”

Early that morning, Wang Ying and Chen Bo had gone to the village, calling the people together to dig channels for drainage. There was a river by the Chen manor; in normal times, it barely reached one’s calves. After days of rain, the water had risen more than a meter, roaring past laden with silt.

The sky showed no inclination to clear; at this rate, the water would spill its banks and swamp the fields.

Wang Ying ordered the channel widened and had embankments of wood and sand raised on both sides to hold the river back. The villagers, hearing the call, took up spades and mattocks and came to help.

The downpour was too heavy; by noon, they had built barely two hundred meters of flood barrier. Fearing that hours in the rain would sicken them, Wang Ying sent the people home to rest and continue in the morning.

Back home, Chen Bo handed him a cloth. “Langjun, the rain is too heavy. Don’t go tomorrow—let me lead them.”

Wang Ying wiped the rain from his face. “No matter. I can’t rest easy without seeing. Have Aunt Chen boil a pot of ginger broth—everyone should drink some against chills.”

“Aye.”

He pushed open the door and stepped inside. Yuanbao ran up at the sound. “Ah Fu!”

“My clothes are still wet—don’t jump on me.”

The boy stopped short, seized his hand, and peered up. “Ah Fu, your hand is so cold—Yuanbao will blow it warm.”

Wang Ying laughed and pinched his cheek. “It’s nothing. What did you do this morning?”

“Played hide-and-seek with Brother Mutou and Brother Chunsheng.”

“Hiding in the woodpile, were you?”

“How did Ah Fu know!”

Smiling, Wang Ying plucked grass stalks and splinters from his hair. “Be good and play indoors with your brothers; don’t go out. If you get soaked, you’ll catch cold.”

“Okay.”

Wang Ying took a hot bath and changed into dry clothes before returning to the back courtyard. Lunch was chicken soup—Madam Li, fearing he was worn out, had ordered it specially.

“How is it outside?”

Wang Ying’s face tightened. “The river is nearly over the fields. If the rain doesn’t stop, there may be no harvest this autumn.”

Footnotes:

• Timekeeping references: Yin hour (roughly 3–5 a.m.), Mao (5–7 a.m.), You (5–7 p.m.), Xu (7–9 p.m.), Chou (1–3 a.m.). Early rising and curfew reflect academy discipline and fire risk in wooden structures with paper stores.
• Class system: A–E bands reflect ranked academic streaming, with monthly mobility; A/B stipends indicate institutional support for top performers common in some historical academies.
• Flood control: emergency river widening and earthen/wooden embankments were standard community responses to monsoon flood risks in premodern agrarian settings.