WSMTATMC C98

Chapter 98

Because of the previous incidents, Steward Chen grabbed a weapon at the very first knock and asked tensely, “Who is it?”

“Government runners—here to register the surviving townsfolk.”

Peering through the crack, Steward Chen saw two men indeed in official livery. “Please wait, officers. I’ll fetch our young master.”

Soon Wang Ying came from the back courtyard and also glanced through the crack. To his surprise, the visitor was an acquaintance—the same Huang San who had helped him before.

He had the others wait inside, then opened the main gate. “Third Master? You’re still… alive!”

Huang San blinked—he hadn’t expected Wang Ying to have survived either. He clasped hands. “Grateful that Shopkeeper Wang still remembers me—I am well.”

Wang Ying nodded, though the man’s sallow face and unshaven beard suggested anything but “well.”

In the Huang household of many mouths, more than half had perished in the flood—only he and two sons remained.

Survival meant work. Orders had come down to tally all the living in town, so he’d been out since early morning.

With a register in hand, Huang San recorded the Chen household’s survivors one by one—name, sex, age.

“Your family… suffered much loss.”

“The house collapsed. We’re making do for now. When the rain came, we happened to be at the estate and fled into the mountain cave to escape the flood.”

Huang San leaned in, voice low. “Shopkeeper Wang—do you still have grain at home?”

“A little, but not much. With so many mouths to feed, it won’t last. When will the relief grain from the court arrive?”

Huang hesitated. “Wait. And keep your stores hidden. If anyone calls out, don’t answer—the town is near mad with hunger…”

The feral look in his eyes made Wang Ying start; he nodded quickly.

Once they left, he had Steward Chen gather everyone to reinforce the main gate again and inspect the perimeter walls, patching all weaknesses lest anyone climb over.

Qingshui Town had once held over 1,700 souls; after this flood, fewer than 300 remained—houses emptied out—disaster near total.

After the count, Huang San organized men to clear corpses from the streets.

Bodies lay everywhere, bloated by floodwaters. In this heat, corpses rotted within days, and the stench of decay choked the entire town.

By the third day of clearing, people began to fall ill. At first, small rashes prickled the skin; a few days later, they ulcerated into sheets of searing pain.

Worst of all, the sickness was contagious: one stricken meant a whole household followed.

With few doctors and no medicine, no one could treat it. People rotted alive as others watched, and none dared leave home. Doorways were sealed tight.

Fortunately, Wang Ying had already registered Tian Daniu and the crew as part of the Chen household—thus they avoided being pressed into corpse duty and the contagion.

Exhausted from long days, Huang San dragged himself home and knocked; soon his two boys opened the main door.

“Father, you’re back. Is there food? We’re starving…”

He fumbled in his coat and drew out a small pouch of mold-flecked millet. “Wash it well—boil porridge.”

“Yes!” The brothers took the grain gladly and went to light the fire.

Huang squatted on the steps, drained of strength. Since handling the dead days ago, he had felt unwell—did he carry the sickness too?

He turned to look at his two half-grown sons. If he died, how would they live…

A sudden, knifing itch raked his back; he scratched—and his fingernails came away with a slab of ulcerated flesh.

Horror seized him, and then he broke into sobs. He did not want to die. His sons were not yet grown. He had not lived to gray hair—why… why must he be the one…

Hearing their father cry, the boys ran over in fright. “Father, why are you crying?”

“Stand back. Eat, then go.”

The elder, Huang Baiguan, asked, “Father, why drive us out? Did my brother or I do wrong?”

“I can’t feed you.”

The younger, Huang Qianguan, whispered, “We won’t eat… Please don’t send us away.”

Pain clutched his chest. But he had no other choice—if they stayed, they would surely catch the curse. He snatched up a bamboo pole and swung at them. “Go. Go!”

“Father!” They fell to their knees, clinging and weeping. “You cannot send us off—we’ve already no grandparents or mother. We cannot also lose our father!”

He sobbed with them, forced to confess. “I’ve caught the plague. I won’t live long. Staying with me is worse than seeking a way to live.”

Still they shook their heads through tears. “We won’t go—we’ll stay with you.”

“Don’t be foolish! Baiguan—you’re the elder. Take your brother. Find the house with paper lanterns at its gate—you’ll know it at a glance.

“Tell the Chen family my name—kneel at their door and beg a way to live. Shopkeeper Wang is a kind man—if he can save you, he will keep you. If not, then go…”

Still they refused. With no choice left, he knelt. “Have pity on your father—or there will be no one to burn incense for me.”

Qianguan stiffened, wiped nose and tears. “Father—I’ll go with my brother…”

Watching them leave, Huang San at last smiled through tears, turned, and went inside.

He was so very tired. Since the flood began, he had lived in dread: watching father, mother, wife, and brothers die before him—an impotence that made breathing itself labor. Now, finally, he could rest.

He pulled a quilt over himself and slept—and never woke again.

—

Elsewhere, the two Huang boys found the Chen gate and, after giving their father’s name, knelt there to wait.

Steward Chen brought the matter to Wang Ying. “They’re young. The older is about eleven or twelve; the younger is about Mutou’s age.”

Wang Ying hesitated. Feeding a few more was nothing; the field held enough grain. But what if the two already carried the plague? If they entered, what if the household caught it…

“Set them in the empty compound next door. For now, pass food through the crack. No contact.”

The adjacent house stood empty—its occupants either dead or gone to kin. Anything useful had been stripped; a few bare rooms remained.

Steward Chen relayed the instructions, and the boys obeyed, moving into the abandoned house.

Madam Li set her needlework down and sighed. “Who knows when this will end? Just as the flood eased, plague begins. No wonder hearts are in terror.”

Wang Ying said, “After great flood comes great pestilence—disaster and plague twine. But with so many dead already, the epidemic should burn through quickly.”

Without living hosts, how could infection maintain itself?

Chen Rong shook out a tiny garment she’d mended and handed it to Wang Ying. “Try this on Yuanbao later. Food and clothes are tight now—adults can make do, but a child mustn’t suffer.”

Madam Li patted her arm. “His aunt loves him still. I wonder how Qiu’er and the little Mai are faring?”

At his name, Chen Rong’s eyes watered. Seeing Yuanbao made her think of her own little grandson. She regretted returning so soon—she should have stayed in the county a while longer.

Wang Ying soothed, “Brother-in-law is a capable man. He’ll keep Qiu’er and Mai safe. Don’t fret—perhaps they’ll come soon.”

“May it be so…”

—

Perhaps mother and son truly shared a bond—far off in the county, Lin Qiu was thinking of his mother just then.

Though the county had flooded too, the city walls held. The damage within was not severe—beyond a few old, neglected houses that collapsed, most remained intact.

When the water surged, Cao Kun laid planks across the beams and placed their grain and bedding atop; Lin Qiu and the baby lived up there a few days. Once the water fell, life resumed its former pace.

A few days later, Cao Kun heard at the courier house that Qingshui County had been devastated—homes emptied out.

Hearing it, Lin Qiu fainted on the spot.

Cao Kun, shocked, pinched his philtrum and called his name until he came around.

Little Mai, terrified, wailed. Lin Qiu rose woozily, took the child, and moved to go. “I must go find Mother and my brother.”

Cao Kun caught him. “Qiu’er, don’t rush—we can’t walk it. I’ll borrow a carriage—two or three days at speed. Pack at home first.”

“Okay!” Lin Qiu steadied, hurried to gather bundles.

Cao Kun first went to the old house to tell his mother.

At once she said, “Go quickly—take more grain. With calamity there, there won’t be food!”

“Take care at home.”

“Don’t worry—Huinang is here to serve.”

Cao Kun went to the courier house; with business shattered by flood, borrowing a horse was no trouble. He returned at once.

Lin Qiu had packed—their clothes, four or five sets each warm and cool, and over two hundred jin of millet. At first light the next day, the couple set out with their child toward the town.

Just outside the city, they were stunned by the sight along the wall: piled in dense ranks lay hundreds, thousands of corpses—some mere bones, some with putrid flesh riddled with flies and maggots, the reek unbearable.

These bodies had been swept in by the flood from nearby villages and lodged against the wall.

One glance, and Lin Qiu retched. A cold sweat broke over Cao Kun; the disaster was worse than he’d feared.

They went by fits and starts, fending off several attempts to halt the cart and steal their grain.

Cao Kun, a man hardened by travel, pulled a great blade from the cart. At the sight of it, none dared close, scattering far down the road.

The nearer they came to Qingshui, the worse it seemed—hardly a single intact house, even the posthouse torn away.

Lin Qiu’s heart sank to the bottom. Perhaps his mother and aunt-in-law had met with misfortune…

Cao Kun’s mouth erupted in canker sores from the rush of heat; even water burned.

Only little Mai, too young to understand sorrow, ate and slept and ate again—and on the third morning, they reached Qingshui Town.