WSMTATMC C10

Chapter 10

The Chen family owned two mule-carts: one was a flatbed used for transporting goods, and the other had a wooden hood, much like the ones seen in television dramas.

It was the latter that had been driven to Wang family village last time. Today, Chen Bo wasn’t here; instead, Xiao Liuzi, who usually handled purchasing, was in front with the reins. Wang Ying rode inside with Chen Qingyun and Tian Mama. (Incidentally, Liuzi was Tian Mama’s son.)

The cart swayed along the dirt road. Without any shock absorption, the jolts it gave left one’s body tingling.

Chen Qingyun didn’t seem the least discomforted; her face was alight with excitement as she leaned out of the window to watch. She had never been to the manor before.

“Girl, come sit down — be careful you don’t fall,” Tian Mama, pale-faced, urged as she clung to the cart.

“It’s fine, it’s fine, I won’t fall.”

Wang Ying also looked out. Everywhere was green: green mountains, green water, and green seedlings in the fields. At first it was pleasant, but after a while, it became almost dizzying.

It was the season for young crops to grow. Local farmers generally harvested wheat in the fifth month, then planted millet (shu 黍, i.e. glutinous millet), proso millet (ji 稷, i.e. broomcorn millet), and soybeans (shu 菽) in the same fields. But “two harvests in one year” was taxing on the soil, so every one to two years, a field would be left to rest for half a year.

In this era, people already knew to use human and animal manure as fertilizer, but supplies were limited; only some fields could be fertilized this way. Most still relied on the natural fertility of the soil and the mercy of Heaven.

“Qingyun, do you know what’s growing in these fields?”

She shook her head. “Do you?”

“Look: the darker green fields are shu (glutinous millet). The lighter green ones are ji (broomcorn millet). And those with rounded leaves — that’s soybeans (shu).” In North China’s dry climate, rice cultivation was rare.

“Wow — how can you tell?”

In his past life, Wang Ying had studied just this, though of course he couldn’t say so. “I farmed a lot back home. After a while, you just know at a glance.”

Tian Mama shot him a sidelong glance. She couldn’t see why Madam would let some country-born ge’er manage the household. The way he strutted about with a feather in his cap was galling — and it likely meant her son Liuzi would see fewer benefits from procurement work in the future.

The cart suddenly hit a large rut in the road, bouncing all three passengers into the air. Wang Ying and Chen Qingyun landed steadily enough, but Tian Mama, unprepared, went face-first to the floor.

They hurried to help her up, but she cursed as she flung the curtain aside. “You little wretch, drive like that and you’ll kill your own mother!”

Liuzi took the scolding without a word, only slowing the cart. By the time they neared noon, they’d reached the manor.

With no prior notice sent, they arrived unannounced, and no one came out to receive them. The manor was called Chen Family Manor (Chen jiazhuang, 陈家庄), about the same size as Wang family village, with around a hundred households.

The surrounding fields all belonged to the Chen family. Because the Fourth Master had passed the juren⁽¹⁾ exam, the fields were exempt from land tax — but the male head tax (ding tax, 丁税) still had to be paid individually.

Last year, the tax for one adult male was 23 copper coins. That may seem little, but in a household with five or six adult men, it added up to over a hundred coins — a large burden for tenants living off the whims of weather and soil.

The mule-cart stopped in front of the steward’s gate. Over the low fence they could see the packed-earth house inside.

In the yard sat an old woman, chopping grass for the ducks. At the sight of the cart, she froze, then quickly got up to greet them.

“Is that the master?”

Liuzi reined in. “Hoy— it’s the Second Young Lady and the Eldest Young Master’s husband.”

The old woman promptly dropped to her knees to kowtow.

Wang Ying leapt down to stop her. “Don’t, Elder — please get up.” This was the mother of the steward, Chen Xi, which made her, by seniority, his grandmother-aunt.

The old woman rose, her cloudy eyes quietly assessing Wang Ying and Chen Qingyun. “It’s a long trip out here. You haven’t eaten, have you? I’ll have the children fetch someone to make you a meal.”

Wang Ying was hungry; breakfast was long digested on the road. He didn’t protest.

“Simple will do.”

She grinned. “Right away. Dayun! Huzi! Go call your grandpa and grandma back from the fields!”

“Okay!” Two tots of about four or five ran out, bare feet slapping, and dashed toward the fields.

“Come rest inside; I’ll bring you some water.”

“Thank you, Elder.”

The thatched house was low and a little dim, but very clean. The main building had three rooms — the middle was the kitchen-cum-hall, the side rooms their bedrooms.

The kitchen’s rafters were black with smoke; the bedrooms were bare, with just a bed, a few trunks, and bundles of straw rope on the walls — likely twisted in slack farming months. In daylight, with the paper windows removed, it was airy and free of bad smells.

It was Chen Qingyun’s first time in the countryside, and she peered about in curiosity. Wang Ying sat her down on the plank bed.

He noticed something: in North China’s bitter winters, with temperatures below freezing, heated brick beds (kang, 炕) were warmer — yet both Wang family village and Chen manor folk slept on wooden beds. Rich families used braziers; poor families just stayed under quilts. Perhaps the brick-bed tradition hadn’t spread here yet?

His thoughts were interrupted when old Madam Chen brought in two earthen bowls of water. “Miss, Young Master, please drink.”

Chen Qingyun took a bowl, but before it reached her lips, a foul sour smell hit her and she nearly gagged. “What is this smell?”

The old woman flinched. “Is the water bad? Shall I have Xi pick fruit for you instead?”

Wang Ying quickly smoothed things over. “It’s fine — Yun’er just isn’t used to manor water.”

In truth, the rough clay bowls tended to retain food residue, and in summer’s heat, it fermented into that stale smell. Locals were used to it, but Qingyun, raised on porcelain tableware, couldn’t bear it.

“Just bear with it,” Wang Ying patted her arm. “All village water’s like this.”

After a short wait, hurried footsteps sounded outside. Steward Chen Xi and his wife Yang returned, with them three sons and the eldest son’s wife.

“The master’s here! Why didn’t you send someone ahead? We’ve nothing prepared,” Chen Xi said with a gap-toothed grin. A short man browned and weathered by years in the fields, he wore coarse cropped cloth — the picture of rustic honesty.

Wang Ying and Qingyun rose. “Steward Chen.”

Chen Xi immediately dropped to kneel, but Wang Ying caught him. “No need for such formality — by seniority I ought to call you cousin-uncle.”

“Don’t dare, don’t dare,” he murmured, unsure how to address this stranger.

“This is the newly-wed young master,” Tian Mama prompted.

“Young Master.”

Wang Ying nodded. “No need to be constrained, Steward.”

“Yes.” Chen Xi agreed, but remained stiff, not knowing Wang Ying’s temperament and fearing to offend.

At the door, Yang whispered, “The master hasn’t eaten. I’ll go kill a chicken.”

“No — don’t trouble yourself.”

“It’s no trouble — just an old hen, stews tender in half an hour.”

Wang Ying hadn’t meant the cooking was trouble — only that chickens were precious. Most households relied on the eggs for cash and eating one was a small loss. But outside came the sound of a squawking chicken, and his protest died.

“Dashun, fetch that piece of cured pork from the storehouse. You — go buy a half-jin of wine from Li Village.”

“No wine — we three don’t drink.”

On learning that, Chen Xi relented.

“How come the eldest young master didn’t come? I last saw him at Old Master’s funeral — three years ago.” News travelled poorly to the manor; he hadn’t heard of Chen Qingyan’s illness.

“He caught a chill,” Wang Ying lied. “Next time.”

“Then he must take care. On your way back, bring some earthworms — cleaned and brewed into tea, they’re a good remedy for chills.”

Wang Ying nodded. “Steward, sit and talk. We’re just here to see the crops. In recent years, the family’s been busy and Mother unwell, so it’s fallen to me to come and put a face to the name.”

“It should be us calling on you, Young Master, not troubling you to make the journey,” Chen Xi said, relaxing as he warmed to his topic. “This year, the estate has 27 qing⁽²⁾ and 60 mu of good fields, plus 10 qing and 17 mu of lower fields.”

“So much?” Wang Ying had thought there were only 200 mu — one qing was 100 mu, so they had over 370 mu.

“Yes. The good fields are all on the register, so they’re exempt from land tax. Many villagers have also reclaimed extra land privately; since that’s not registered, they pay their own land tax and we don’t claim rent from it.”

In modern terms, this was like private plots — usually poor sloped land planted in beans, with low yields and hardly anything left over after tax. To collect rent from it would be unfair.

“What do the good fields grow?”

“Wheat and shu (glutinous millet).”

“Nothing else?”

“Wheat can be sown in autumn and reaped in spring. Shu yields a little more than ji (proso millet), so most prefer it. Also, shu is soft and sticky when cooked, good for old and young alike; ji is only fit for porridge.”

“And the lower fields?”

“Mostly soybeans. Fields aren’t fixed as good or bad — when good fields are planted too long, they lose fertility and yields drop. Then we classify them as lower fields and let them rest a year or two; once recovered, they’re upgraded again.”

Wang Ying nodded. Such cycles were the product of millennia’s experience — more solid than anything in books.

“This spring’s wheat was a bit worse than before — little snow in winter, and drought in spring. But since our good fields are many, the harvest was better than other manors’.”

Wang Ying bit back a comment — his Changfeng No. 3 wheat variety would thrive in such weather — but it wasn’t time to bring it out yet.

“The wheat isn’t dry yet. When the grain merchants come in a few days, I’ll sell it and send the money to you.”

Freshly harvested wheat couldn’t be eaten right away; it had to be threshed and dried. Without modern machines, farmers used flails⁽³⁾ to beat the grain from the stalks.

After some talking, lunch was ready. Farm fare was plain: chicken stewed with cabbage and radish made a hearty dish.

Yang served a generous bowl of meat, brought out grey flour dough, rolled and flattened into pancakes, and even fried three eggs in lard — a feast richer than their New Year’s dinner.

“Young Master, Second Miss — to table.”

“Why not have everyone join us? This is too much food.”

“There’s more in the pot — the women and children eat outside.”

Apart from Tian Mama, only Steward Chen and his three sons sat with them, picking up chopsticks only after seeing their guests eat — and only taking cabbage and radish from the pot. Even so, the touch of grease made it taste far richer than usual.

Qingyun put down her chopsticks after a few bites, still put off by the earlier sour smell from the bowl. It took her appetite away from everything.

Wang Ying, however, wasn’t picky. Farm stews like this were the most delicious — his grandmother had cooked chicken just this way, down to the same flavour.

As they ate, the sound of a child crying drifted in from outside, followed by a woman’s muted curse: “Starved ghost’s spawn — can’t you wait until the guests leave to eat?”

notes:

1. Juren (举人) – Title for one who passed the provincial-level imperial examination; qualified for certain official posts and privileges.
2. Qing (顷) – Land measure in traditional China, 1 qing = 100 mu; 1 mu ≈ 0.165 acre or 666.7 m².
3. Flail (连枷) – Wooden hand tool used in pre-modern farming for threshing grain, i.e., beating the stalks to separate seeds.