WSMTATMC C47

Chapter 47

Lin Zhangbin woke with a jolt, head throbbing from the cart’s jolting. His limbs were bound tight, lying flat on a wooden flatbed, and the child who had been on his back had vanished.

Thinking himself kidnapped by robbers, he wailed piteously: “Good sirs—you must have seized the wrong man! Look at me, do I seem wealthy? I beg you, spare me, let me go…”

But the carter said nothing, only cracked the whip for the mule.

Not until dusk, when they reached an inn station, did Cao Kun permit his men to haul Zhang down—to relieve himself, then sit at a table for a meal.

Seeing no true intent to harm, Zhang’s courage slowly returned. “Please—where is my son?”

At a signal from Cao, one of the lads carried him out. The babe, fed with a bowl of noodle broth, now slept soundly. Zhang snatched him back, hugging close.

“And…why seize me? What grudge have I with you?”

Cao snorted. “No grudge. Another requested I deliver you back to the county.”

“It must be Chen Rong, or Lin Qiu! Ungrateful brats—they knew I came and yet would not see me once!”

“Bang!” Cao slapped the table, making Zhang flinch nearly off his bench.

“I…I spoke wrongly?” he whimpered.

“Shut your mouth and eat. One more word and I’ll toss you to the roadside.”

Zhang swallowed his cries and bolted the food in silence.

Two days later, arriving back in the county seat, Cao yanked him from the cart. “Listen well. Do not return to Qingshui to bother Madam Chen again. Next time, you won’t return alive.”

“Yes, yes, I understand…” In truth, he had no means left; travel alone had cost him two hundred cash. His pockets were emptier than his face was haggard. He had no coin to go again.

No sooner had he taken two steps than a shout stopped him. “Oi, you!”

He turned nervously. “Sir—what more orders?”

Cao said, “The courier firm needs a book‑keeper. Two hundred cash a month—take it or not?”

At once Zhang’s sallow face split in joy. “I’ll take it, I’ll take it!”

When he was gone, the runners muttered, “Second Boss—who is that wretch?”

“My future father‑in‑law.”

“What?! Anyone hearing would take him for your sworn enemy. A book‑keeper makes five hundred cash, yet you give him two!”

“Mind your work. No idle chatter.”

In truth, Cao only meant to keep him under heel, lest he stir more trouble for Lin Qiu. Without Xiaoqiu, the man was nothing—never would Cao let him disturb his lover’s mother again.

Chen Rong never knew the details. That her divorced husband had vanished again, without noise, troubled her little. Were he to die in a ditch, she would not spare a glance.

These weeks, Wang Ying divided time between overseeing the house construction and inspecting crops.

The season proved ruthless. By mid‑third month, not a drop of rain had fallen. The earth split in dry cracks. Wheat stood stunted, yellow and short.

Months of labor threatened to fail. Villagers despaired, mouths broken in blisters from worry. Entire households carried water to fields—so many straining that fights broke out over river channels.

One morning, crossing toward his seed plot, Wang Ying stumbled upon a brawl—husbands and wives clawing at each other’s hair, garments shredded, foul curses flung.

He rushed to part them. “Stop! Uncle Liu, Aunt Zhang, let go!”

At sight of the landlord, they grudgingly released each other, though tongues still lashed.

“Your family blocked the ditch! Our fields below receive no water—you shameless thieves!”

“Bah! And whose name is writ upon the river? If your land lies beneath, blame fate—not me!”

“Rotten hag!”

Fists threatened again, but Wang thundered: “Enough! The river water belongs to all! Each family must drink—it cannot be one takes all. Live by the fields, live by sharing.”

One muttered grudging agreement.

He pressed: “Insult and curse no more. Speak civil, or you’ll repay me in doubled rent.”

Faces blanched. “No, no, we’ll stop!”

That threat cut deeper than sermons.

Yet instead of leaving them to it, Wang led them further—to his experimental plot. As they neared, all slowed in awe.

For in contrast with the yellow drought, his parcels shone lush and green. Wheat blades stood half a hand taller, leaves glossy and bright—unlike any other.

Old farmers ran to feel the soil. It was dry, cracked as theirs—yet the stalks flourished.

“Master—why grows it so well?”

“These are new seed. Come harvest, I’ll divide grain for each family. Next spring, we all sow this strain.”

They gaped, nodding eagerly.

Secretly, Wang noted in his ledger: Changfeng No.3—proving drought‑resistant here, though not as tall as in the field. Must be lack of fertilizer.

So be it—he would teach them wet compost soon.

At home, walls of the house now climbed. Six‑foot deep foundations had been rammed solid—the villagers whispered the proverb: “Ground down well, the house will not fall.”

Old Liu assured him: “Once the walls rise and the beam set, it is done. In half a month we’ll dine under your new roof.”

Wang Ying imagined already, heat in his chest at the thought of their new life.

That evening he asked Qingyan—who sat instructing children in characters, voice steady again. “Do you wish to open a private school here?”

Without hesitation, Qingyan nodded. The light in his eyes was answer enough.

“Then when the house is done, we’ll enroll pupils.”

“Good.”

Wang paused, then ventured: “Last trip to town, my mother said—Fourth Uncle wrote: his term in Laizhou ends next year. He may enter the capital. He will see whether connections can redress your case…”

Qingyan froze. Long silent, he murmured at last.

Wang hurried on, “It may fail easily. He advised not to tell you—better silence than dashed hopes.”

But Qingyan squeezed his hand: “I understand. I fix no hope upon it. If Heaven grants me one more chance, I will seize it. If not, I’ll not pine again.”

Indeed, suffering had tempered him. Storms break the weak—or forge them steel.

Half a month slipped by. The walls rose, the structure near complete. They chose an auspicious day to raise the beam.

In ancient custom, Shangliang was no mere carpentry step—it was prayer, celebration, wish for fortune.

Two pigs and a sheep were slaughtered. Villagers feasted.

The oldest carpenter, nearly seventy, vigorous yet stooped by cane, took command. Huffing, he circled the house muttering blessings. Then a rooster’s blood was sprinkled upon the timbers to ward off evil.

Incense was lit. Three bows to Heaven, to Earth, to Master Lu Ban, patron of builders. He recited in singsong:

“Pillar supports the world, house prospers—

Beam bears sun, moon, fortune flows long…”

Young apprentices whispered it to memory—someday, they would recite in his stead.

At last, the call rang: “Raise the beam—!”

Dozens hauled thick hemp ropes. Shouts lifted, the giant beam inched upward, set flush upon pillars.

At that moment, firecrackers burst, confetti coins rained from the roof, children screaming in glee.

By noon, tiles were settled too. The house, at last, took shape.

Back in the village, tables spread with meat and spirits. Eight banquets, laughter to the rafters.

And just then—hooves clattered. A cart stopped at gate. Ershun leapt down, waving an envelope.

“Master! Young Lord! Another letter from Laizhou!”

notes

• Shangliang (上梁, “Raising the Beam”): traditional house‑timber ceremony in Chinese construction, honoring Lu Ban and invoking blessings.