WSMTATMC C88

Chapter 88

Because he hadn’t eaten much at noon, Yuanbao polished off a big bowl of noodles in the evening, down to the very last bite of the poached egg.

Li Shi kept praising him. “Yuanbao is so good today—such a hearty eater!”

At the flattery, the child puffed up with bravado, holding up his bowl and asking for another.

Wang Ying said evenly, “If there’s another bowl, it must be finished completely—no leaving food and wasting grain.”

Yuanbao hastily put down his bowl and chopsticks, patting his round belly. “I’m full—my tummy is round! Look!”

Everyone burst out laughing; the child was impish and quick-witted.

He wasn’t allowed too much at night lest he get indigestion, so once he’d had enough, Mutou and Chunsheng took him out to play for a while.

When the child had gone, Li Shi said, “I heard from Third Aunt that you taught Yuanbao not to waste food this morning. That was right. When Qingyan was about his age, his father taught him for the same thing.”

“Qingyan was like this as a child too?”

“He ate slowly and drifted—after a few bites he’d run off to play. He always left half, and when he got hungry again, he had the kitchen make more. One day his father was so angry he left him hungry for a whole day, not even water to drink, and that’s how he broke the habit.”

Chen’s father had survived lean times with the old master; as a boy he had known what it was to not be sure of the next meal and so cherished grain. Not so for Qingyan, who had known only comfort from birth; his food had always been carefully prepared, which bred a bad habit.

After that stern lesson, he never dared waste again.

Wang Ying couldn’t help smiling—he hadn’t expected such a mischievous phase in his husband’s childhood.

That night, Yuanbao slept with Li Shi. Wang Ying washed up and went into the experimental field to wait for his husband.

The weather had warmed; the shop had shifted from vegetables to popsicles, and the experimental field’s vegetables had been harvested and replanted with wheat.

Wang Ying had converted all stored vegetables in the system into experience points, lest they expire and go to waste.

Now most storage slots held wheat. Wheat kept far longer than vegetables—up to eight months in storage, and it could be retrieved anytime within that window.

With the field’s weather control and time acceleration, one could harvest three crops in a month; in a month, easily stockpile six to seven thousand jin of wheat.

Wang Ying didn’t plan to trade the wheat for experience—the experience bar had become a bottomless pit; thousands of jin of wheat would barely move the needle. Nor did he plan to sell; there was enough silver on hand. Better to keep the grain in reserve for emergencies.

In ancient times, unlike the modern era, natural disasters and man-made calamities were common; when they struck, survival fell to oneself. Waiting for imperial relief? One might starve before it arrived.

He opened the experience bar and froze—two days ago it had barely budged, but now it had jumped to eighteen percent. What had Qingyan done?

After more than an hour, Chen Qingyan finally came.

Seeing the dusty look about him, Wang Ying asked, “You’ve left Jizhou?”

“Mm. Set out at dawn and reached a relay station by dusk.”

“Coming in like this—won’t they notice?”

“The teacher’s already asleep. I told Qingsong I was stepping out to the latrine, then slipped into the field from the carriage.”

Wang Ying smoothed the stray hairs at his temple. “Hard going.”

Qingyan took Wang Ying’s hand and rubbed it against his cheek. “Not hard. Today is your birthday: may you enjoy this day every year, and may there be many more like it.” He took from his bosom the hairpin bought back in Jizhou.

“Open it—see if you like it.”

Wang Ying opened the box and examined the hairpin. “It’s beautiful. I like it.” He didn’t much care for adornments, but because it came from his beloved, he loved the gift as well.

“Let me pin your hair.”

“Alright.” Wang Ying pulled out the wooden hairpin; black hair fell like a cascade over his shoulders, softening all his features.

Qingyan couldn’t help kissing him; Wang Ying hooked an arm about his neck and returned the kiss. It had been too long since such closeness; both were impatient.

Mouths met and parted, breath grew hot, and feeling rose. Wang Ying was no coy one; deprived for so long, he grew greedy, pushing Qingyan to the ground and deftly loosening belt and underclothes.

A ge’er’s body differed from a man’s; it was born fit for union, and in the heat of feeling, little different from a woman.

The familiar sensation made both ache with pleasure. Qingyan gripped his waist and let out a low, hoarse sigh.

Shadows swayed; garments swung from an arm; sweat dripped from Wang Ying’s neck. He didn’t know how long it was before his voice turned hoarse and he finally released; the two cleaned themselves quickly.

Childbirth had been too perilous; Qingyan couldn’t bear to let Wang Ying face it again, so every time, he took care that nothing remained.

Wang Ying leaned against him. Qingyan combed his hair with his fingers and fixed it with the silver pin, kissing his brow.

“I should go.”

“Mm.”

“Close up after I’m in bed.”

“I know.”

Reluctantly, he helped him dress, and only after seeing him back in the room did he withdraw from the field.

—

June ushered in the rainy season.

Laizhou was by the sea; at this time of year, the rains came heavy—one might hardly see a sunny day in a month.

A bright morning turned in an instant to thunderous overcast.

Ershun hurried to pull oilcloth over the cart; nothing feared water like books—ink would run at the slightest damp, and the characters blur away.

In the front carriage, Qingyan shut all the windows to keep rain from blowing in.

In moments, fat drops hammered the roof, drumming like firecrackers.

At the sound, Master Liang felt aches in waist and legs. Laizhou’s dampness had left him with rheumatism over the years; he missed the Chen manor’s heated kang beds.

Traveling in a downpour was too dangerous. Chen Guang led the horse to shelter and waited for the storm to break.

Idle, Master Liang told the three to compose a single line on the theme of rain.

Qingyan spoke first. “Fierce winds scour the earth; ten thousand grass-blades break; great rains pour in torrents; ten thousand gullies run.” Note 1

Master Liang stroked his beard. “Rare—there’s a sweep and grandeur in this line.” He had often scolded Qingyan for too-gentle verse—pleasant, but not advantageous in the exams, where bold, broad lines often won favor.

Next was Qinghuai. He paused and said, “Sudden rain washes fragrant chariots; the Milky Way slants as the sky swings back.” Note 2

Master Liang clapped. “Good—apt for the weather. Finish the whole poem when we return and present it to me.”

“Yes, sir.”

Last came Qingsong. He scratched his head and finally managed, “Black clouds like ink half-shroud the hills; white pearls scatter, leaping along the cart’s edge.”

“Passable. Black and white in contrast; the rhymes are correct. Better than before.”

Qingsong grinned sheepishly. Praise had been rare on this road; more often, a rap on the head and a scolding.

The rain thickened, seeping through seams; the roof and wall began to drip. Their clothes grew damp.

The three took turns holding oil-paper umbrellas to shield the master.

After nearly an hour, the rain slackened. With dusk drawing near, they sought a relay station.

Ancient roads were mostly dirt; heavy rain turned them to slick mud. Night fell and they still hadn’t reached the next station.

Riding in the cart was one thing, but horses could not endure it; soaked and forced to keep going, they’d fall ill.

Chen Guang spotted an abandoned earth-god shrine and pulled in. “Master, we’ll have to sleep rough tonight.”

“Very well. We’ll rest properly when we reach the station tomorrow.”

The shrine was small, abandoned who knew how long—doors and windows gone, half the roof caved in.

Chen Guang lit a torch and inspected within; a few rats skittered away—no other beasts.

“You may come down.”

Qingyan jumped out first, then helped Master Liang down. They entered the shrine.

A clay idol stood inside, its pigments flaked away—hard to tell which deity it was meant to be.

Master Liang pressed his hands together and bowed. “Passing through, we beg your forbearance for our disturbance.”

The others followed suit, then found a dry corner and sat.

After such rain, there was no dry wood to boil water. They made do with cold water from their skins and a little dry rations.

Their clothes were wet to varying degrees. The younger men were hardy—damp wouldn’t hurt.

Not so for the old. Qingyan feared a chill from wet clothing; he rummaged through the packs. Though covered by oilcloth, much inside was still damp; in the end, he found only one half-dry tunic.

“Change into this first—don’t catch cold.”

Master Liang didn’t refuse. He took off his clothes and put on the offered tunic—only to find it little drier than the first.

Chen Guang and Ershun fed and stabled the animals and came in for a rest. They would keep watch in shifts—one for the first half of the night, the other for the second—against beasts and passing cutthroats.

Ershun took first watch; Chen Guang, second. Once set, they snatched what sleep they could.

After a day on the road, the others were drowsy and dozed, leaning together.

In the latter half, a fine drizzle began again. Near the end of the Chou hour, Chen Guang’s shout jolted them awake.

“Wake up!”

“What’s wrong? What happened?” They rubbed their eyes and sat up.

“I think the roof is about to collapse—out, quickly!” The day’s heavy rain had soaked the earth walls, and they had begun to slump. Just now, when he’d stepped out to the back latrine, he’d heard a grating creak; looking up, he’d seen the wall sagging down.

It frightened him so badly he’d run without finishing his business.

They scrambled for the door. At the threshold, Master Liang suddenly turned back. “My book bag—I left it!”

Qingyan jumped to stop him. “Please get on the cart—I’ll fetch it!”

He darted inside—just as, with a crack and a rumble of thunder, the teetering shrine collapsed completely.

—

Footnotes:

1. “Fierce winds scour the earth…”—A couplet in the heroic, sweeping mode favored in examination verse, emphasizing vigor and momentum. 
2. “Sky swings back, the Milky Way slants”—alludes to shifting heavens and star-river imagery, a conventional way to render a storm-cleansed, tilted sky.