WSMTATMC C111

Chapter 111

The carriage rolled on through ice and snow. Though a small brazier had been set in the floorboards, that warmth was nowhere near enough to fend off the bitter cold.

A northerly gust cut through the seams, stabbing in and making bodies shiver uncontrollably.

“Achoo!” Chen Qingsong rubbed his nose, cheeks flushed an unhealthy red.

Chen Qingyan quickly tucked the quilt tighter around him. “Cold?”

“Manageable. Brother, when can we get home?”

“Soon. Six or seven days more to Jizhou.”

“I miss Mother so much…” Qingsong’s voice hitched; he leaned his head on his elder brother’s shoulder.

He was only thirteen; in the other life, that was barely middle school. He had set out early, traveling with his brother and teacher.

Heart aching, Qingyan held his brother closer, himself swallowing a lump.

At least he could see Ah Ying and Yuanbao in the experimental field; his brother had gone a whole year without seeing a single family member.

In the field, Qingyan had left a note: they had all caught cold at the start of the journey. He and Qinghuai were better—several days of medicine had eased things.

Teacher and Qingsong were more serious, with the illness recurring stubbornly.

They had wanted to rest longer, but they could not. The troop would not wait; without moving with the soldiers, the way would be harder, and they might not reach home by year’s end. They had no choice but to grit their teeth and press on.

In the other carriage, Chen Qinghuai handed tea warmed at the brazier to his teacher. “Please have a sip to warm up.”

Liang Boqing cupped the tea but did not drink—drink meant you had to climb down to relieve yourself; one in-and-out and the little heat you’d gathered would be gone, and the cold would bite worse.

“I wonder how many more days to Jizhou.”

“Anxious?”

“Not very.” He didn’t know his mother was already in Jizhou; compared to his cousins, he felt less urgency.

“Enough fretting. Recite for me the Shang Book, ‘Instruction of Yi’ from the Book of Documents.”

“On the yi-chou day of the twelfth month of the first year, Yi Yin offered sacrifice to the former kings…”

They drove until the Wei hour and finally reached a post pavilion. General Lu ordered camp made. Chen Guang and Liang An hastened to pull the carriages into a windbreak, help the old and the young down, and set water to boil for porridge and medicine.

When the porridge was ready, Qingyan brought his brother a bowl. After that, a bowl of decoction. At last, the boy broke into a sweat.

Qingyan bundled him in a thick quilt. “Sleep a bit. If you need to go, use this earthen jar. Don’t you dare step into that wind.”

“Mm.”

He hopped down, shut the carriage door, and went to check on the teacher.

“How are you, Teacher?”

The old man blew his nose. “I’ll live.”

“Please don’t keep talking about life and death. You must live to ninety-nine and see the three of us step onto the court.”

Liang chuckled. “Ninety-nine? You do dare say it—that’s a proper old goblin. How’s Song’er?”

“He just took his medicine, sweated, and lay down.”

“Keep him out of the drafts. A few days’ good rest and he’ll be fine.”

Qingyan worried less for his brother than for the old man. On the way to Laizhou, Teacher had had a bout of typhoid; now another again.

At his age, how could he stand being battered like this again and again? The hair at his temples had gone whiter.

“Please do take care of yourself.”

“If you’re idle, write out the Mencius a few times.”

Qingyan smiled wryly. If he had strength to order homework, he was no worse for wear. After two more admonitions, he returned to his own cart.

At dawn, they moved on.

The weather worsened. Barely twenty li along, a blizzard struck. The wind and snow were too much; even with the army breaking trail, they could not proceed.

General Lu rerouted to a nearby town to sit out the storm.

They had to follow—and stayed seven or eight days. When they set off again, it was already the twentieth of the twelfth month.

—

In Jizhou, aside from Wang Ying who knew the reason, everyone else was nearly frantic.

Especially Fourth Aunt Fang Ling, who would mutter from time to time, “Why aren’t they back yet? This long—what if something happened?” Transport was poor and bandits many—meet brigands on the road, and luck would be grim.

Worry took her appetite. In half a month, she lost seven or eight jin; her looks grew wan.

This couldn’t go on. Never mind Huai being fine—at this rate, Fourth Aunt would be ill.

Wang Ying had Qingyan write a letter in the field. He then had someone pretend to deliver it—explaining that wind and snow had blocked the road, and Teacher had fallen sick, so they would rest before continuing.

Only after reading did she truly breathe again, and food returned to her mouth.

—

A blink—and it was the twenty-eighth of the twelfth month. At last, the party reached the gates of Jizhou.

Seeing those high walls, the three were overcome—tears spilled. A year apart—they were home.

At the gate, General Lu’s column split. The officers and soldiers rolled straight in; the young men had to queue. Fortunately, Qingyan held papers and a token. They passed without trouble.

Chen Ershun twitched the reins. “Young master, where to? Find an inn to settle first, or head to where the young lord is staying?”

“To him. Ah Ying’s shop—”

In short order, they had their directions.

“The grocer is on Zhengyang Street. Straight down a bit—you’ll see it.”

Qingsong, cheeks flaming, forgot the cold. He yanked open the window and craned left and right, terrified of missing their shop.

Qingyan’s heart hammered and his palms went sweaty. Lately in the field, he had kept quiet—hoping to surprise him—

Fifteen minutes felt longer than the year. Then the shopfront came into view—and their taut hearts loosened.

The clamor and the journey’s weariness fell away. Only one thought remained: home.

“Whoa.” Ershun reined in. Liang An stopped as well, and the martial escorts behind them pulled up too.

“Young master—we’re here.”

Qingyan pushed the door. His knees felt weak as he stepped down and walked toward the shop.

Year-end was peak time. Who didn’t simmer a stew for the holiday? People loosened their purses for something fresh, and a queue had formed out the door.

“Excuse me—pardon me!” Qingyan pressed through. A customer snapped, “Hey, no cutting! I’ve queued all morning to buy a bit—if you jump the line, what am I meant to buy?”

“Yeah—back of the line!”

The commotion drew Wang Ying’s eye. He glanced up—one look and saw that worn, beloved face.

He rubbed at his eyes in disbelief. When he was sure, he vaulted forward and wrapped him in a hug.

Qingyan held on just as tight, breath warm against his ear. “Ah Ying—I’m back.”

Customers gawked. They had only ever seen this shop’s young master; never his husband—many had thought him a widower. So—husband wasn’t home.

“Xiao Ma, Tian Ju—take the shop. I’m taking my husband home!”

“Aye—go on!”

Qingyan nodded at the two. He didn’t recall them very well, but Wang Ying had said they’d been a great help.

Wang Ying threw on a cloak and led Qingyan out—where he spotted Qingsong by the carriage, peering.

“Song-di!”

“Sister-in-law!” Qingsong ran over.

“You’ve certainly grown—there’s a bit of a man in you now.”

He scratched his head, shy. He’d wanted a hug—but he was nearly as tall as his sister-in-law now; how could he dare?

Wang Ying had no such scruples. He pulled him close and patted his back. The boy was leaner—and more like his husband. Mother would dote.

“Where’s Master Liang?”

“In the other cart.”

Wang Ying went to pay respects. The old man’s spirit wasn’t bad—not as dire as feared.

“Come. Let’s get home—Mother’s been waiting.”

He called out, climbed up, and gave Ershun directions. All the way, he and Qingyan held hands without letting go.

“I’d thought you’d be caught on the road for the New Year—never dreamed you’d make it.”

Qingyan gave his fingers a squeeze and murmured, “Meant to surprise you.”

It was a fine surprise—though a word ahead would have given him days of extra joy.

“The rooms are all set. I bargained the landlord into laying a heated kang-dragon in the east wing. Master Liang can be truly comfortable.”

Wang Ying had wanted one in every room, but the landlord refused. After much coaxing, he agreed to the east and west wings only; the main rooms still relied on braziers.

“The manor was best,” Qingyan sighed. “Teacher spoke of it all the way—but the waters took it.”

“Sister-in-law,” Qingsong asked, “is our manor truly gone?”

“It’s gone. You don’t know how high that flood ran—over three zhang, covering roofs. The courtyard walls washed away; the houses were down to a few walls. No sense repairing.”

“And the town house?”

“That fared better. Only the front hall in the front courtyard collapsed; a few rooms in the back were badly soaked. The rest can still hold people.”

“Then why come to the prefectural city?”

“No one is left in town.”

“Where did they go?”

“They died…”

Brother and cousin fell silent, then sighed as one. A trip out—and the home nearly gone.

They turned into the lane and soon reached the gate. Wang Ying jumped down first. “Chen Fang—open up.”

“Aye!” Chen Fang hurried to the door, saw four or five carriages, and cried out, “Master is back—Master is back!”

It wasn’t a large compound; the shout carried indoors. Li Shi and Fang Ling, seated on the bed with their embroidery, dropped their needles and rushed out in slippers.

Chen Qingyun was faster—she flew out like a gust. “Big Brother—Little Brother!”

“Qingyun.”

“Sister.”

The three hugged tight.

Qinghuai climbed down—at first he didn’t spot his mother in the courtyard.

Then a call: “Huai’er!”

He turned and stared, mouth working before the voice came. Great beads rolled down his cheeks. “Mother!”

At his cry, both Li Shi and Fang Ling broke into tears. They gathered the son returned from afar.

“Sweetheart—you’re finally home!”

Footnotes:

• Heated kang and “fire dragon”: A kang is a traditional heated brick bed common in northern China. The “fire dragon” refers to flue channels laid under floors/walls to conduct stove heat into rooms for winter heating.