WSMTATMC C38

Chapter 38

Wang Ying stretched out upon the bed with a sigh of comfort. “These past days of riding have left my back aching and my waist sore. Truly, there is no place like home. What are you standing there for, dazed? Hurry and get into bed.”

“Oh… y‑yes.” Chen Qingyan removed his shoes and lay stiffly upon the bed like a block of wood, unmoving.

Sensing something amiss, Wang Ying reached out and touched him. “Why are you so cold? Did that bath just now chill you?”

“…No.”

Propping himself on an elbow, Wang Ying studied his pallor. “Are you unwell? Shall I call for the doctor to take a look?”

“No, it may be I am merely tired.”

“Then rest quickly. I will check the experimental field to see how the vegetables fare. Only a few days remain till New Year—if we cannot supply vegetables, we shall lose profit this year.”

“I’ll help you.”

“You rest. I can manage this alone.”

He entered the “test field”. To his surprise, its experience bar had advanced another large segment. Just days ago it had not budged. Could it be that merely by returning home, experience increased automatically?

The year’s end pressed close—he had no time for puzzling. He seized his sickle and set about cutting chives.

The night before, at the inn, they had already harvested much of the produce that stored well—cucumbers, tomatoes, beans. This day he harvested only the perishable greens, like chives and celery.

For an hour he labored, cutting dozens of jin of each. At the last instant before the field’s timer expired, he pulled all of it into reality.

In a blink, their chamber was filled to bursting, more than ten baskets of vegetables, scarcely room to step. Too weary to tidy, Wang Ying collapsed into sleep—unaware that at his side, Chen Qingyan still lay wide‑eyed.

For Qingyan had no rest. One matter tossed endlessly in his mind.

He had told himself he no longer cared. Yet when his younger brother mentioned that man, fury rose like thunder.

He remembered the day of the county exam: when the examiner discovered copied notes hidden in a sleeve. In an instant, his limbs had drained of strength, mind gone blank, heart seeming to stop within his chest.

No matter how he begged and kowtowed, the officials were unmoved. With a cold brushstroke they crossed his name from the registry, declaring icily: “Cheating in the exam—qualifications canceled!”

Why? Why was it that one who lied glibly, without virtue or loyalty, who stabbed a friend in the back—was the same one who passed as xiucai (licentiate), while he, honest and genuine, suffered ruin?

He recalled the first days of their acquaintance. Then, Zhang Shiqiu had not even a decent brush—his only pen worn bald, bristles fallen to stubs.

Qingyan had said nothing, but chose two fine goat‑hair brushes from his own satchel and gifted them.

Shiqiu had clutched them with tears, declaring: “For such a gift of writing, I can never repay. Allow me to compose a poem—to memorialize our friendship, may it last for all time.”

How hateful! He had by flowery words deceived him, wrapped in false friendship—which Qingyan, blind fool, had taken for brotherhood.

Thus he tossed all night sleepless, not wishing to wake his spouse. At last he slipped softly up, drew on his robe, and descended.

With dawn, Wang Ying awoke early, only to find Qingyan seated already at the desk, poring over a book.

“How did you rise so soon?”

“Couldn’t sleep. I’ve already tied up your vegetables—take them straight to the shop.”

Wang Ying slipped into his clothes, leaned close, and kissed his cheek. “How good, my husband is so capable.”

Qingyan’s lips curved faintly. “In the side room, congee is kept warm. Eat before you go.”

“Good. I’ll move the vegetables out first.”

Dunzi was waiting outside. Together they loaded the mule‑cart with the heaps of produce, using the same ruse as before—pretending the vegetables came in from the countryside.

Once breakfast eaten, Wang Ying and Ershun headed out to open the shop. Qingyan returned to his study.

With year’s end close, most pupils of the private academy were home for the season. Only Qingyan’s younger brother Qingsong remained, already up and reading earnestly.

“Brother, you’re here!”

“Mm. Continue reading.”

Qingsong recited aloud: “From sincerity arises clarity—this is nature. From clarity arises sincerity—this is teaching. Sincerity brings clarity; clarity brings sincerity.”

Hearing it, Qingyan’s mind leapt to Zhang Shiqiu again. “Yesterday you said you befriended a licentiate. Was his surname Zhang?”

“Yes, Brother—you know him?”

“…I do not. What poems did you compose at this gathering?”

“Me? I can’t write verse! I only went for company. But that Zhang licentiate’s poem was excellent. He wrote Watching the Snow. I even memorized it.”

Clearing his throat, Qingsong recited:

“Seated, I watch snow pile strong, a full foot deep.

At dusk, the light grows keen and cold,

In midair flakes weary, drifting listless,

Yet a lone gust still whirls them frantic.”

Qingyan at once recited the continuation:

“Till all blossoms of white have fallen, Heaven spends without regret,

Sealing plum buds in jade, withholding scent.

Ah, who will grind fine to make dumpling soup,

And warm the weary guts of mortal smoke and fire?”

“You know this poem!” Qingsong asked, amazed.

Of course he knew it. More than that—he himself had once written it alongside Zhang! And that man, shameless as city walls were thick, had now declaimed it anew, palming credit, before his own kin.

“Brother, should I invite him next time, for you to meet?”

“Good.” For Qingyan, it was indeed what he wished—to ask plainly, why had he betrayed him?

Qingsong beamed. “Excellent! That will be grand!”

Meanwhile, Lin Qiu and Lin Sui had accompanied Wang Ying to the shop.

The vegetable shop was already filling. Wang Ying, busy weighing goods, reached into the cashbox, drew a string of copper, and pressed it into cousin Qingyun’s hand. “Take your cousins about the town. Show them the sights.”

But Lin Qiu said, “Take Sui with you. I’ll stay to help Cousin-in-law.”

“If Brother stays, then I too stay,” Sui shook his head.

On the journey their mother had lectured them repeatedly: here, they must be sensible, quick to work, never cause trouble or shadows of dislike to fall on them.

Thus they kept careful always, anxious lest their kin grow weary of them.

Qingyun pouted. “If none of you go then I won’t either.”

Wang Ying observed all and understood well. He recalled his own childhood days when he too had lodged with relatives, forever watching others’ expressions, terrified of doing aught to displease. He would not allow these cousins to suffer alike.

Thus he beckoned them: “Then come here—all of you, help me pick the vegetables.”

In the baskets lay not a few wilted or spoiled ones, not sorted the evening before. Let the three young cousins pick through.

“Alright!” they chorused, and set to work.

This day was Qingshui Town’s great market. With New Year near, the streets were thronged even before dawn: vendors shouting like in a quarrel, customers rubbing shoulders in endless crowds, so that there was scarcely room to walk.

Business boomed. So many customers poured in that within an hour, a few hands had even tried to snatch vegetables without paying. That morning alone they caught four such thieves.

Luckily, with the cousins’ help, the stall did not collapse in chaos. Wang and Ershun alone could never have managed.

At first, Wang Ying had feared too much was picked, that it would not all sell. But within half a day, nearly every bundle was gone.

Fully half the stock was bought up by two local taverns.

During Wang’s absence, those taverns had returned to serving only the old dried fare. Spoiled tongues could not abide it; customers stopped coming. Business plummeted. Thus, upon news of Wang’s return, both innkeepers set men to wait at his stall, buying vegetables at once when the door opened.

The remainder was snapped up, though priced far above common produce. Still, for the festival, every family bought a little to savor—half a jin, a pound, however much they could afford.

Four hundred jin of vegetables—all cleared before noon. Those who came later went away disappointed.

Counting coins, Wang’s wrists ached with weight. A string of cash weighed near eight catties, and he had piled up several. His arms went numb from threading them.

Across the street, the sesame‑oil seller’s wife, envious, remarked with forced cheer: “Your business is good indeed. But why were your doors shut so long? I thought you’d closed for good.”

“Hardly! We went to the county, carrying New Year presents to relatives, and were delayed.”

“No wonder. These days many have asked when your shop would reopen. Your vegetables are the only fresh ones in all the town. You’ll be rich!”

Wang Ying heard the sour note. “Ah sister, you see only the bright side. Fresh vegetables can be sold only half the year. When spring opens, everyone’s fields yield greens. Who will buy mine then?”

The woman nodded. Indeed, once fields burst into produce, who would spend coin?

“Then what will you do in summer?”

“I’ll sell fruits and such. The shop cannot sit empty.” Inwardly though, Wang Ying had other plans: once heat came, he would sell iced treats, for his experimental field was a natural icehouse. Let rainwater freeze in trays—an entirely novel trade.

After a few more words, she left him to his customers. The last basket was sold cheap, and Wang Ying took up his ledger.

That day’s gain came to seven strings and four hundred seventy cash—a fortune, near half a month’s usual earnings.

And the New Year’s market yet remained ahead.

He thought then: best to hire an errand boy.

“Tomorrow—will you three help again? For the holiday, I’ll even give you wages.”

But Qiu shook his head. “No need for money. Sui and I are glad to help.”

“And I shall not take money either!” Qingyun chimed.

Wang Ying tapped her forehead. “Wages or not, you must help. Otherwise, I’ll be overwhelmed.”

“Hehe.”

Just then, Madam Li and Chen Rong arrived with a food box. Finding the stall bare, they were astonished.

“All sold?”

“Yes, with the crowds today they went quickly. Where’s Qingyan?”

“We went for a walk, so I brought food on the way. He stayed.”

Lunch ate, afternoon business quieted. Madam Li took Qiu and Sui to a cloth shop, buying them fabric for new clothes. Smiling, Wang Ying drew a string of cash. “Take it. Pick fine cloth for the cousins, and for the younger two as well.”

But Madam Li refused. “Keep your money. I brought silver.”

“Have it anyway—and what remains, bring back.” His heart was generous. With family, he was expansive. To Qingyun and Qingsong especially, he gave sincerely as to born siblings.

Unable to dissuade him, she let her maid pack the silver. Off they went merrily to the market.

Wang Ying wound up the stall, barred the doors, and turned homeward. Yet his thoughts were uneasy. Since the night before, Qingyan had been peculiar. At dawn, his eyes were ringed, as if sleepless. Earlier Wang had been too hurried to ask—but now he must. What shadow bound his heart?

notes

: Jin (斤) – traditional weight unit; about 500 grams (~1.1 pounds). Thus 400 jin ≈ 200 kilograms (~440 lbs).

: The recitation is from the Doctrine of the Mean (中庸): “Self‑sincerity becomes illumination, which is our nature. Self‑illumination becomes sincerity, which is teaching. Sincerity brings clarity, clarity in turn brings sincerity.”

: The poem Watching the Snow (观雪) – an original stylized poem, here claimed by Zhang but in fact earlier composed by both Qingyan and him during their friendship.