WSMTATMC C124

Chapter 124

After spending a day repairing and tidying the ancestral estate, the next morning the family set out in carriages for the village estate (zhuangzi).

Since this would be their ancestral worship before departing for a long time—perhaps never knowing when they could return again—they bought especially many sticks of incense and paper money.

After riding for about an hour, they reached Chen Family Village. Along the way, all the other hamlets lay desolate, but Chen Village alone remained whole.

Pulling aside the curtain, everyone peeked out. They remembered clearly that when they left last time, the whole village’s houses had been washed away. Yet now, every family had new homes, looking almost as before!

Wang Ying exclaimed, “If we hadn’t seen with our own eyes the houses washed away, I could never believe these are all newly built.”

“Exactly!”

In rural villages, houses were unadorned: mostly mud‑brick and thatched. But such dwellings could be erected in just ten days.

In calamity, the role of the zhuangtou (village head) became vital. Led by Chen Xi, once the fields were sown, all the men and women dug earth, pressed bricks, and constructed basic homes. According to population, each household had to help build one dwelling, with larger families contributing more.

By autumn, they completed rebuilding, and so all passed the winter warm and safe.

Soon someone spotted the oncoming caravan. So long had strangers not come; the villagers guessed at once—surely the masters had returned!

Word spread like fire. In moments the whole village poured out, standing by the road, asking breathlessly, “Is it the masters returning?”

The carriage halted. Wang Ying lifted the curtain and stepped down. “Old and young, neighbors—are you all well?”

The people fell silent. Then, as one, they knelt in the frost and kowtowed. “We greet our Master! May Master be ever in peace.”

Wang Ying’s breath caught. He rushed forward to lift them. “Please rise. Elders, how could you kneel to me? You’ll shorten my life with such gestures!”

Old Madam Li clung to his hand. “If not for you giving us grain seed, we’d have starved long ago. You are like a living Bodhisattva reborn—who else should we kneel to?”

“Yes! We prayed to gods and buddhas but none saved us. You alone delivered us—greater than they!”

“Shhh—it cannot be said so!” Terrified, Wang Ying pressed both palms to heaven and bowed thrice.

Chen Xi squeezed through, his smile wrinkling his face. “Two days ago Ershun returned and said you were coming. We’ve been longing. The rooms are prepared. Please, Master, go rest.”

“Let’s go.”

So Uncle Chen steered the carriage toward Chen Xi’s home, while Wang Ying and Qingyan were surrounded by eager villagers walking behind.

On the way, Wang Ying asked about the harvest of millet.

Chen Xi answered honestly: “Better than any year before. Each mu yielded one full stone, even lands that were called barren produced one stone and seven or eight dou!”ⁱ

“That is good. Has the wheat been sown?”

“Yes. We bartered millet in Baishi Town—they lacked millet, we lacked seed wheat. So each household traded a few dou and planted.”

“Well done. I too brought a sack of drought‑resistant seed, but it’s too late now. Wait until weather warms, sow in open land. By autumn, we can share it, replacing lesser seed with higher yield.”

“Yes!” Chen Xi almost danced in gratitude.

Inside the yard, everyone descended. For Fang Ling this was her first visit to the family village, so curiosity gleamed.

Li Shi introduced her, and Chen Xi bowed reverently in respect.

Inside, his wife Madam Yang stood shyly. The new house was small but neatly built, with a north‑south kangⁱⁱ (heated brick bed) running the room. With fire burning, the air was so warm thick coats were unnecessary.

“Ah,” sighed Wang Ying, stretching, “these fire‑beds are truly a blessing.”

“Of course!” Chen Xi said. “All our households built them by your earlier instruction. Far better than cold beds!”

Beds had been too troublesome to build, with only three carpenters in the whole village to supply. But a kang was simple—mud and stone, built seamlessly while constructing the house. One fire lit beneath meant warmth all night, even saving on stoves and braziers.

“Come, sit upon the kang, warm yourselves!”

Everyone removed shoes and sat cross‑legged. Chen Dashun carried in a low table; his wife brought boiled water, scrubbed bowls clean.

No tea in farm homes, but warm sugar‑water in bowls. Each drank, feeling warmth flow through limbs.

Chatting, Qingyan asked about relief sent after the flood.

Chen Xi snorted. “They sent some by the eleventh month—five dou of grain and thirty coins per family. Truth be, had we relied on that, we’d all be dead. Thirty coins can’t even build a latrine!”

Qingyan darkened. He knew the court allocated relief amply. For it to shrink so much, it was stolen in layers by corrupt officials.

Mencius had said: in the royal kitchens, fat meat steams, in royal stables fine horses neigh; yet people show hungry faces, corpses litter the wilds. Officials who feed themselves while the people starve can only heap resentment.

He resolved silently: I must write Master about this, to send it higher.

The topic shifted. Wang Ying asked after surrounding estates.

Chen Xi said, “You recall Zheng Village? The ones who tried to seize the cave shelter from us?”

“I remember.”

“They survived too. After the floods they went back to their mountain village. But…I heard one more thing.” Lowering his voice, “That Song Daming, whom we expelled—remember he left with Zheng clan? Well, on the way down he was seen no more.”

Everyone’s expressions shifted. Qingyun whispered, “Could they have harmed him?”

“Not harmed—eaten.”

“Ughhh—!” Qingyun gagged, retching. Li Shi quickly held her, patting her back, offering water.

Wang Ying did not look surprised. He knew too well: when hunger pressed, men became beasts. History held many tales in famine years of people eating one another.

After a time they climbed the hill to the ancestral tombs. Uncle Chen carried a spade, filling earth around the mounds eroded by rain.

They lit incense and candles. Qingyan, Qingsong, and Qinghuai knelt in a row, knocking heads three times, reporting to forebears that they had passed the county exam, begging blessing for the prefectural exam too.

After them, everyone else took turns to bow. Even Yuanbao fumbled forward, bottom in the air, knocking three solid kowtows.

By reckoning of age, Yuanbao had just reached three years old this season.

In folk custom, small children were not feted with birthdays—fragile lives risked early death if celebrated. Only when they were sturdier did families dare.

So Wang Ying observed quietly. No banquet. Instead, he boiled a few eggs, and at night cooked his son his favorite fish.

Indeed, as children grow a little older, they see adults’ serious faces and behave, no longer loud or unruly. Yuanbao sat at Wang Ying’s side, watching solemnly as paper offerings curled into smoke.

At her husband’s grave, Madam Li stepped forward with a bundle of paper. Lighting it, she murmured:

“My dear, long have I not come. Perhaps you do not think of me.”

“You are cruel—even in dreams, you never came once. You would not know how much I miss you.”

Beside her, Qingyun’s eyes reddened. She buried her face against sister‑in‑law’s shoulder. Wang Ying softly rubbed her back. The girl simply missed her father.

Madam Li went on, low but steady: “Now our children have achieved success. Soon we move to the prefecture city. There, we may not often come to see you. But all is well at home. Do not worry. When your sons excel further, we shall return with the good news.”

Paper money burned to ash. She slowly rose with support. There were no tears, but Wang Ying knew—they were there, hidden deep.

Bereavement is never one stormy downpour, but a lifetime of dampness.

By noon, descending the hill, Chen Xi’s wife had prepared a chicken stew.

Wang Ying said quickly, “Life is scarce for you. Why kill even one of your hens?”

Madam Yang wiped her hands. “We had little else to treat you. At least the bird was fat. May Master accept it without disdain.”

“How could we disdain kindness? Call little Tiger and Second Lass, let them eat with us.”

“Yes.”

The children came shyly inside. Tiger had grown tall, Second Lass now blossomed into a maiden.

Qingyun remembered—they once cried for lack of meat! Four years gone, they had grown up.

Everyone sat: women and children on the kang, men around the floor table.

Over the meal, Wang Ying mentioned the ruined shop in town. “It stands empty. Dashun, if you’ve time, go settle it, perhaps make a small business there.”

Dashun trembled silent. His wife, a brisk woman, spoke instead: “Yes! Don’t worry, Master. Tomorrow I’ll go tidy it.”

Wang Ying liked her spirited vigor. “Very well. Run it as a sundry shop. Since you’ll be in town, and since the ancestral house here needs a caretaker, stay between both—watch over our home.”

Dashun nearly burst into tears, Chen Xi too nodding with gratitude, vowing they would guard it well.

Qingyan then said, “Also, thank you for leading the repairs. Without you we’d have found a ruin.”

Chen Xi waved off. “I only spoke. It was the whole village who labored.”

“Still, our thanks.”

Wang Ying laughed, “Enough thanking! Our chicken will grow cold.”

Laughter filled the room.

They had wanted to return to town the same day, but Chen Xi told them two days hence was a good day—for his second son Ershun’s marriage.

The bride was local, long betrothed, though postponed because last year Ershun traveled with Qingyan. Now that he was back, better to wed quickly. After marriage, the young couple might even follow to the prefecture. Then the parents would worry less.

A happy event indeed. So of course all agreed to stay and rejoice.