WSMTATMC C95

Chapter 95

After that group left, no one in the household dared to relax. Who could say whether they might sneak back under cover of night?

Chen Xi arranged the night watch in squads—three shifts, each with over thirty men. Even if outsiders tried to slip back in, there would be enough men on guard to block them and rouse the rest in time.

Back inside the cave, Wang Ying realized his hands were trembling slightly.

The scene just now had truly been frightening. If he hadn’t brought the whole village up the mountain together, there was no way his single household could have held others out of the cave.

He and Yuanbao could always hide temporarily in the experimental field—but what of his mother-in-law and Third Aunt?

Not to mention, Qingyun and Lin Sui were a young maiden and a gē’er at a prime age; who knew what disaster might befall them in such a chaos?

The more he thought, the colder the sweat on his back.

Seeing him return, Madam Li and Chen Rong hurried to ask, “What’s happening outside?”

“A group came—they’re from the neighboring Zheng village. Their village was flooded; only thirty-some men escaped and want to come in to take shelter.”

At once, people shook their heads and refused. “We cannot let them in. Who knows if they are good or bad? And our food isn’t much—if they turn ravenous and try to seize our grain, what then?”

“Yes, and no one knows when the rain will stop. By the time it does, the grain at home will likely have been washed away. How are we to live then…”

Sighs echoed in waves. The heavy air pressed on everyone like stone.

A piercing child’s wail shattered the gloom, rebounding through the cavern.

“Qiushuang—why does your baby keep crying?”

The woman addressed as Qiushuang wept as she spoke. “He was caught in the rain yesterday and ran a fever. Aunt Zhang tried guasha to draw it out, but it’s burning again.”

The child was still small—only seven or eight months—lying prone in her arms, crying as if his heart would break.

Afraid to disturb everyone, she rose and paced with the babe, hoping to lull him to sleep.

The village doctor came at the sound, examined him, and took out silver needles for a few points of moxibustion. “We left in a rush, and I didn’t bring medicine. The child has caught typhoid; let’s see if he can fight it off.”

At his words, Qiushuang bowed her head in tears, stroking the child’s fevered cheek. He was her first—she truly did not know whether he could survive.

Wang Ying remembered that there were still some anti-typhoid medicines in the field—prescriptions he’d gotten when Madam Li felt unwell earlier; she’d only taken one dose.

He slipped outside and soon returned, clutching a pouch of medicine. “I’ve a bit of Four-Substances Decoction—could we give this to the child?”

The doctor nodded rapidly. “Yes! Reduce the dose—split one packet into five portions, decoct, and feed!”

The woman, receiving the medicine, fell to her knees in gratitude. “Thank you, Master, for saving my child’s life.”

Wang Ying hastily helped her up. “Go, have it boiled and fed to him.”

“Yes!” Her husband rushed to boil it. Before long, the child swallowed the dose, broke a sweat, and at last his fever eased a little.

Wang Ying glanced at his own son—curled like a small dumpling in Madam Li’s arms, pitiful and quiet. These days, he had neither begged to go out nor made mischief.

Wang Ying took the boy into his lap.

“Ah-Fu, when can we go home? We want to go home…”

“Soon. Once the rain stops, we’ll go back.”

Wang Ying held his son tighter. If only they could go back to find…there was still a home to return to.

—

The rain did not truly cease until early on the fourth morning. Though the sky was still leaden, no drops fell.

People filed out. Standing at the cave mouth, they felt both the joy of survival and the grief of lost homes—laughing and crying, joy and sorrow twisted together.

“Come—let’s go see…”

They supported one another as they descended. The flood below had not fully receded. Houses and fields lay buried under muck; it was impossible to tell it had ever been a place of life.

Chen Xi seemed, in a blink, to have aged by a dozen years—hair gone white, back stooped against his staff.

Over thirty years ago, he had fled here with his father; after much toil, a house stood, sons were born, and life grew stable. One flood returned it all to ash.

Imagination was one matter; seeing it with his own eyes was another. He could not bear the blow—right there, he fainted.

They hurried to pinch his philtrum and call him back, then followed the river onward, hoping to find some place firm enough to stand.

Ahead was a slightly higher patch. But when they stepped onto it—they sank to the knees in mud. They yanked each other free and dared not try again.

“Let’s go back for now. The rain has stopped; the sun will come soon. Once the ground dries, we’ll cross.”

They had just turned to go when a faint cry reached their ears.

Mutou pointed to a plank bobbing not far away. “Young master—that’s our cat, Lizhu! Our orange cat!”

Sure enough, there was the orange tom, clinging to the plank, drifting to and fro on the water.

Steward Chen quickly fetched a long bamboo pole, hooked the board near, and called out.

Wang Ying scooped the orange tom up. Once a dozen jin of plush arrogance, he was now skin and bone. Heaven knew how he had endured these days.

“Never mind—alive is good enough…”

The usually haughty cat let out a weak mewl and lay limp in his arms, obedient and still.

The stopping of the rain did not dispel the gloom in people’s hearts; after seeing the valley below, it only deepened.

A few of the elderly could not withstand the shock—upon returning, they fell ill. The village doctor went from person to person with needles—but the ailment was of the heart; no amount of needles would remedy it.

This heavy pall held until midnight—then a shriek split the dark.

“Auntie Second! What are you doing?! Someone—help! Help!”

The chilling cries brought everyone upright. The men on night watch rushed in time to lift a person down from a tree.

The older woman’s neck was livid red; after a long moment, breath returned. Tears streaked down her face. “Why save me? I’m an old widow with no sons or daughters—now even house and land are gone… What’s the point of living?”

Wang Ying arrived just in time to hear it. After so long together, he had come to regard these people as his own. To see them driven to this by life’s cruelty—he could not say what bitterness settled in his chest.

They guided her inside. Many of the elderly came to soothe her. “A poor life beats a noble death—Zhang old woman, don’t you dare think that again!”

“Exactly! If you die, who will I argue with?” said a white-haired crone nearby.

These two had been feuding neighbors across the lane since their marriages, arguing for decades. Seeing her suddenly try to hang herself, the other panicked—how could she leave just like that?

Wang Ying realized the villagers were gnawed by fear for their livelihoods. He needed to give them something to hold onto.

He cleared his throat. “Don’t panic. The rain has stopped. In a day or two, we can go down the mountain. While the season hasn’t slipped away, we’ll quickly sow a crop of millet. This year—no rent. In the end, everyone will at least have food!”

In summer, wheat cannot be resown, because wheat requires a period of vernalization (cold) and photoperiod to head. Sown in summer, it will sprout but not ear—pure waste.

Someone muttered, “Where would seed come from…”

“I’ll buy it. Thirty jin of millet seed per household!”

Spirits lifted at once. “Thirty jin of millet? Where will Master buy it? Can it even be bought?”

Madam Li tugged Wang Ying’s sleeve. “Ah Ying—we don’t even have a mule cart. How will you buy it…”

“Don’t worry. I have my ways.”

“And what about these months before harvest? Our provisions won’t last till autumn…”

Chen Xi rapped the ground with his staff. “Then gnaw bark and dig roots. One way or another we’ll endure. Or do you expect the Master to feed and water you all?”

The grumbling ceased. With seed, there was hope—and a way forward to live.

—

At first light the next day, the men who had gone down to scout returned. “The water’s dropped by over a foot. The western path is passable. Do we go?”

“Down we go!”

They shouldered their bundles, steadied the elderly, carried children, and in a long line, slowly descended.

Compared to yesterday, the waterline had fallen significantly. In many places, broken walls and shattered eaves protruded. Men and women fanned out by memory to seek their homes—hoping to find some food or valuables under the silt.

Wang Ying’s group returned to the villa. The courtyard wall was gone, though the gate still stood bare, absurd and lonely. The house had been battered into fragments.

Madam Li sighed as they walked. “Who knows how the town house fared? With water like this, surely flooded too.”

Wang Ying said, “We’ll go back tomorrow. For now, tidy here first. See whether we can find a mule cart.” They had brought the mule up the mountain, but with no cart, they’d have to pack goods on backs for the return.

Yuanbao clung to Wang Ying’s back. Seeing the familiar home reduced to a stranger’s ruin, he began to rub his eyes.

Only after much coaxing did he settle; Wang Ying gave him the orange cat to cuddle and had Mutou and Chunsheng sit with him on a stone while he went in with Steward Chen and Dunzi to search.

The main hall still had four walls, but the roof was gone. Inside was a wreck. As the waters retreated, over a foot of silt remained. Step, and you sank to the ankle—hardly able to move.

After a circuit, they actually found the mule cart—though the shaft was broken. They’d need a plank to patch it. Without proper tools, they’d have to see whether anyone else had hammer and saw.

The storehouse had been torn open by the flood; all the cloth was gone. Wang Ying regretted not stashing it all in the field. Cloth wasn’t costly, but after a disaster it was hard to buy.

And the prices, once shipped from afar, would be many times higher.

Qingyun and Lin Sui spent half the morning combing the back yard and found a sewing box and a bronze mirror. Whether useful or not, they took both.

After the rain, the sky looked scoured clean, the sun glaringly bright. Near midday it was unbearable to stand outside; they had to find shade.

Lunch was still a pot of thin gruel—one bowl apiece. When it came to Mutou and Chunsheng, the two quietly pushed their millet aside and sipped only the broth.

Wang Ying saw and asked, “Why not eat the millet?”

Chunsheng waved quickly. “We’re not hungry—just a little fills us.”

Mutou nodded, “We eat little. Please, master, don’t drive us away…”

“When did I ever say I’d drive you away?”

They glanced at each other. Both were children of misfortune, practiced in reading faces. Especially after seeing the villa washed to pieces, dread had gnawed at them. If there wasn’t enough grain—would the Master turn them out…

“Eat. We won’t be ruined by your share of grain. Eat up—then you’ll have strength to help me look after Yuanbao.”

Only then did they relax. Each took one spoon of millet into his mouth and began to eat, bite by bite.

Footnotes

 

 

• Four-Substances Decoction (四物汤): A classical Chinese herbal formula (Rehmannia, Angelica sinensis, Ligusticum chuanxiong, Paeonia lactiflora), here used adaptively in the narrative as a warming tonic; in real practice, pediatric dosing and indications differ and require professional guidance. 
• Jin (斤): Traditional weight unit ≈ 500 grams (1.1 lb). Thus “thirty jin of millet seed” ≈ 15 kg (33 lb). 
• Vernalization: Wheat requires a cold period and appropriate photoperiod to form ears; summer sowing without vernalization results in vegetative growth only.