ITIEQ C82

Chapter 82 – Beneath the Clouds

“Old Lin, what treasure have you been hiding every day?”

Yang Dingtian squatted in the field, sneaking looks at Old Ding’s millet seedlings next door, and finally couldn’t help asking.

He and Old Lin had been next‑door neighbors since childhood, two men who couldn’t stand the sight of each other—brawling from boyhood to grown men, now both in their thirties, both bachelors, lifting their heads and seeing each other daily only to turn up their noses: today whose seedlings were taller, tomorrow whose panicles were fuller.

This time was different. Though they’d planted at the same time, Old Lin’s seedlings were visibly a whole head taller, and lately he’d been mysterious, which itched Yang Dingtian’s heart for days until he spoke.

“Tell you and you wouldn’t understand.”

Old Lin’s lip tilted; he tossed his head, shouldered his hoe, and sauntered home along the field path.

The oddity in the field soon drew neighbors’ notice. Asking around, they learned that an agricultural master from the next county had come, teaching without charge. Old Lin had gone to visit family in Little Bu County, happened upon the master’s lectures, and even got a “wordless heavenly book.” Follow the book and millet would grow faster and better.

Then Old Lin’s threshold was nearly trampled flat. Countless folk wanted to see the legendary “heavenly book.” Winter was at hand; every household lacked surplus grain and tightened belts. Next year’s harvest—they all wanted to eat full bowls.

Old Lin savored the adoration for a few days, tail nearly up to the sky, and—pretending reluctance—told everyone how to tend these delicate shoots. Sallow, thin villagers crowded around the table, marveling as Old Lin opened the “wordless book”—paper thin as cloud‑flakes, painted with simple pictures: sun, hoe, yellow earth. Most could recognize these, but together—what did they mean?

Under their eager gazes, Old Lin explained, floating on pride. He’d never studied, but he remembered every word of the agricultural master’s teaching.

Ordinary farmers’ fields barely fed them. When disaster struck, they gnawed bark. But bark alone kills; those who couldn’t endure sold their fields to the You family—

The You were the leading house in the county—under a great clan’s shelter. With the land gone, one could still rent next year and avoid starving the whole family.

So the wheel rolled, until half the county’s land belonged to the You. As for their Jiaochuan County—infamously barren—common crops yielded thirty percent less than elsewhere; even if sold, the price was poor.

The villagers swarmed in and left with bright faces. Wax‑yellow cheeks glowed with red.

After the next year’s harvest, the first thing Jiaochuan folk did on waking was to run to their rice bins, lift the lids, and peer inside. Only on seeing them full did they rest easy. At last, no more handfuls of millet cooked into thin gruel for a whole family. For the first time, bowls brimmed high.

News of plenty spread fast. The next day, the You sent a steward, “magnanimously” promising to accept Jiaochuan’s lands. But with a year’s grain and old rice enough to last with frugality, the villagers refused. The steward cursed them ungrateful and returned the next day with retainers and thugs, raided Old Lin’s home, seized the book, piled wood at the door, and burned it to ash.

Hearing the grim news, villagers brought homemade flatbreads to visit. Lin Qingsheng sat on the boulder at his door; before him, a mass of blackened ash. Half his bare arm was burned—he’d flung himself into the fire, and still failed to save the book.

In Jiaochuan, a single book was rare—let alone a “divine book” that fed a whole county—they’d have enshrined it if they could!

Old Lin’s face was ashen; the people, too, were silent in grief. How had the steward learned of the book?

He suspected his across‑the‑way nemesis Yang Dingtian, jealous of his prize, had tattled. He went with a crutch and no words to confront him. Yang, of course, denied it. They quarreled fiercely and parted in anger.

Others comforted him: do not rage. The book is gone—but the agricultural master remains. Go beg another copy—this time, hide it well and keep them from finding it.

The family to the east offered a donkey cart; the family to the west offered travel money. Old Lin set out with the pooled funds and hopes of all Jiaochuan.

The donkey cart swayed out—and swayed back—with only Old Lin’s mute bewilderment—

Clan ties ran deep; the You were kin by marriage to the Yan house of the neighboring county. Failing to recruit the master, they had the yamen seize him.

Lin Qingsheng was livid to fainting. He hunted down his sworn enemy and rained curses. Let the book be burned—but now their great benefactor was dragged down!

Yang, who loved to spar with him, said nothing this time. The man who silently farmed clenched matters in his hands. Dragooned long ago, burly and barrel‑waisted, Yang’s black face, when darkened, was terrifying.

Under the villagers’ fearful eyes, he said, eyes blazing: “Where is he held? I’ll break him out.”

Everyone stared at each other—tongue‑tied in fright.

That night, they dispersed to eat a rare full meal. At dawn, Yang saw neighbors arrive, clutching sickles and hoes.

Having trembled their whole lives, the first time they grew bold—it was to do something that could cost their heads.

From Jiaochuan to the county seat was dozens of li. Old and young walked a day and a night. Heaven favored them—the guard at the gaol had once benefited from the agricultural master, and with a token push let them take the man out.

Leaving the prison into daylight, they were dazed—could it really be done so simply?

A jailer pointed them toward escape and bade them flee.

The “master” was, in truth, very young—not more than twenty‑five or six. Many present were older than he.

Seeing a host come to rescue him, Zhang Jilian was deeply moved. But this deed meant they had offended the local magnates; they could hardly remain. He pointed them to a bright road: Qingbei County of Cangzhou—where all ate their fill, dressed warmly, read books, and no officials or great houses bullied the weak.

Villagers were born to their soil; leaving the only home they’d known brought sorrow. But hearing of the golden land where “gold flows from the soil and golden chambers are seen in books,” they couldn’t help longing. They conferred and chose—go there!

Zhang had gone a day unfed. Seeing those who had once received his kindness now risking life to repay him, he finally grasped his teacher’s words—“a benevolent heart and humane art, to succor the world”¹.

The Jiaochuan folk gave him the donkey cart; he rode, feet never touching ground, northward. Clouds steamed and brocaded the horizon; below, the people trudged in dust—yet spirits ran high, dreaming of the master’s promised golden land.

But no sooner had they left the county than the yamen sent men in pursuit. Spent and faint, how could they outrun government soldiers? Surrounded, blades gleaming at their throats, they shut their eyes to meet fate—when a sharp whistle pierced from afar—

A young general in white sat astride, gold spear in hand, dashing and valiant.

Soldiers behind him, armored and armed, advanced with force.

“Who are you, committing villainy in broad daylight?!”

How could yamen runners resist a marching force? The young general would not hear their sophistry. In a few moves, all the officers were captured alive.

Saved, the Jiaochuan folk were still stunned. Conscious of their grave offense, they had quaked at the sight of iron riders, thinking the court had come to seize them. Who knew that in a blink, these soldiers would bind the ones chasing them?

Zhang poked his head from the cart, crying out in delight: “Teacher Shen?”

Shen Qinghe rode a jujube‑red horse. Lifting his veil cap, he happened to see Zhang sprawled in the cart, marveling at survival. He had thought it common bandit trouble—he’d seen plenty along the way. He hadn’t expected to meet a Qingbei student.

Zhang hastened down and recounted all that had happened. Yaoguang, hearing it, snorted: “The You clan—we were just going to them. They’ve delivered themselves.”

Xiao Yuanzheng intended to strike first at several “nail” houses. The local You and Yan had colluded in misrule, annexed land, lived as petty emperors—and sat at a junction of three prefectures, a prime target on the list.

Yaoguang had hurried from the Northwest to the capital. Since arriving, Shen had only been in a few locales, so he requested to accompany him—see the world.

Even with several houses felled, others still swaggered. Wealth and power make men bold; perhaps they thought the fire would not reach them.

“This is my teacher!”

Zhang soothed the still‑uneasy villagers. The dean was his teacher’s teacher, and had not taught him directly—but the academy did not quibble over titles; Qingbei’s students gladly called him “Teacher,” as if that brought them closer to this near‑mythic figure.

“Because of Teacher Shen, Qingbei County exists. Don’t be afraid!”

Their legs still trembled. The “agricultural master’s” man dismounted, approached, and removed his veil. Tall, elegant, unmatched in beauty, he stood in unworthy yellow earth. With a sigh of wind, his neat, fine clothes rustled. Their fear ebbed at once.

In their simple eyes—someone looking like a god reborn—how could he be a bad man!

Seeing their dazed looks, Zhang was speechless. He had labored so long to teach agriculture freely, earning a respectful “master”—and still, at Teacher Shen’s mere appearance, hearts were won more completely…

Truly, “comparing people makes you die of envy”!

But Teacher Shen—was naturally made to be admired and revered!

The turn was too swift for them to process. Then the unearthly gentleman laughed brightly: “You needn’t leave home. Whoever’s land was swallowed; whoever was taken for forced labor—will all return at once.”

Yaoguang tugged his reins; the gold spear flashed in his hand. “Local tyrants have had their fill for too long—time to turn the tide.”

…

Men seized under their very noses by “rabble”—was that not kicking the You of Run’an in the face, a public slight?

The yamen sent one troop; the house sent another. Two hours passed—no word from either.

Just a mob—how much trouble could it be? Were they all eating dry rice?

Surely, aside from capture and execution, there would be no other result. Wait a bit more.

In the You’s private residence, ponds and covered walks did not freeze in winter; grotesque rocks and artful stones, luxuries everywhere, lovely maids and charming pages drifted along the galleries. Uncountable wealth and beauty. Shen stepped in and thought coolly: truly a paradise on earth—locals knew how to live.

Armored troops burst in; the picture‑perfect scene shattered. Precious trees were trampled, attendants shrieked and fled—chaos.

Shen frowned at the panicked servants—some nearly ran their necks into the blades.

Yaoguang’s voice cracked like a whip, battlefield tone in place: “I am Yaoguang, Northwest Pacification Commissioner—by imperial command. Those who yield will not be killed. If you want to keep your lives—down on your knees!”

…

By day’s end, Run’an’s local snake was uprooted. Their in‑law, the Yan, were terrified to the core. Fleeing with all their clan, they did not forget to stuff bags with gold and silver—only to be reported by fishermen along the Han River and thrown into prison to the last.

For a time, all clapped with joy—cheers unending.

So goes the pendulum of hearts.

People on both banks had lived a lifetime knowing there was a Son of Heaven above—but the land was vast; who would think one day Heaven’s dew would fall, and its grace reach them?

When the tree falls, monkeys scatter. The You’s crimes were too many to hide. Two counties’ people were spring in drought; physical and human evidence snowed down. On the day of the shaming parade, the crowd roared; the proud rich had no silks or servants. Close up—they were mere flesh like them.

When the Northwest Army departed, people knelt along the road, shouting “Long live our Emperor”—a tide of sound, more moving than daily reports from the Forbidden Palace.

This time, Shen only played guest. He watched the young general in white—silver armor gleaming, methods crisp—everywhere obeyed, nothing amiss—already a man who could take charge alone.

The world’s multitudes do not know the bargains and timing argued in the clouds; they do not know they are crushed to and fro—unworthy even of the chessboard to the great; sometimes no more than dust on a sleeve—flicked off into mud.

Bittersweet swelled in Shen’s chest. “Long‑term plans” were prudent—yet if grim forces were not struck swiftly, the tormented would suffer a day more each day… then what was prudence for?

Regardless—driving out families who lorded over them, the two counties’ folk had only joy.

Today, be happy. Be extravagant for once—go home and eat an extra bowl!

Footnotes:

1. “Benevolent heart and humane art, to succor the world” (仁心仁术，匡济天下): A classical physician‑scholar ideal that medicine (or any applied learning) should serve common people and the realm, not just personal fame.