WSMTATMC C92

Chapter 92

At this, both women could only sigh. If the manor’s fields failed, tenants could be excused the rent; but for common folk without grain, life would become truly hard.

Chen Rong said, “This rain reminds me of a flood more than thirty years ago—same month, seven days and seven nights without letup. The water rose higher than the table tops.”

“I remember my parents laid planks across the rafters, and we children huddled up there to escape the water. As a child, I didn’t understand much and even found it novel; thinking back now, so many died in that flood. Many families in town were wiped out entirely.”

Qingyun grew anxious. “What should we do now?”

Wang Ying thought a moment. “For now, we watch and wait. Our side sits higher; the water won’t reach us immediately. If it keeps up like this, we’ll have to move up the mountain.”

Fortunately, the nearby hills were thickly forested, unlikely to shear off into mudslides or rockfalls during heavy rain.

That meal tasted flat to everyone except Yuanbao. Afterward, Wang Ying returned to the bedroom to keep writing.

The first volume—Seeds—had five pages already; when complete, it would cover the seed forms and identifying features of over sixty plants.

The second would be Breeding, with a third, fourth, and fifth to follow. Altogether, around five hundred pages—a major undertaking. Wang Ying wasn’t in a hurry to finish in one go; writing and revising in turn, he hoped to complete it within a year or two.

He’d thought his learning had mostly faded, but as soon as he took up the brush and reviewed systematically, it returned almost entire—the advantage of a young memory.

Outside, the rain still stitched the air—an irksome sound without end.

The sky was so dim he could barely see without a lamp, so he barred the door and went into the experimental field to write.

In there, the weather was faultless—warm breeze and bright sun. The rose bushes that Qingyan had brought in recently were blooming.

There were roses back home as well, but only deep pink and pale pink. Not like the Laizhou academy’s diverse varieties: in the grove behind the academy, a broad sweep of roses—orange, yellow, white, and double-petaled hues.

The species propagated easily, it was said—pinch a tender tip and stick it in the earth, and it would root. Qingyan had found time to snip several fine shoots and slipped them into the field.

Wang Ying planted them by the peach trees where they’d take little space.

A new note lay in the field. He picked it up—it must have been left last night. Seeing that the three had entered Laizhou Prefectural Academy put him at ease.

He left a note of his own: the old home had endured days of endless rain, fraying tempers; the downpour was so heavy he feared for the crops. All was well otherwise, and Yuanbao had been obedient—no mischief; not to worry.

Then he settled into writing. Perhaps he had finally grown into his wits; concepts once opaque fell into order under systematic review, and he understood them clearly.

The delight spurred his enthusiasm.

After two hours, he stood to stretch. The field’s remaining allotment of time for the day could not be used; they had agreed to leave at least half an hour for one another in case of need.

Back in the bedroom, he rubbed his eyes—unaccustomed to the gloom—and drew in a breath full of damp. He put on an outer robe and stood in the covered walkway for a while.

Still no sign of a pause—the clouds rolled like poured ink; now and then a muffled thunderstroke resounded, a dragon’s roar. Who knew how many days this rain would drag on.

He crossed the corridor to the rear courtyard. Yuanbao had just woken from his nap, and the nurse was feeding him water.

“Ah Fu…” The little one shot across the floor.

Wang Ying scooped him up and smoothed the messy topknot. “What’s wrong?”

“The young master must have had a nightmare,” the woman said. “He’d been crying. I just woke him.”

Wang Ying chuckled—so small, and already dreaming. “What did you dream?”

Yuanbao’s mouth puckered and tears clung to his lashes; he burrowed into Wang Ying’s neck and sobbed.

“Don’t cry—Ah Fu won’t ask.”

“I dreamed… dreamed of water… so much water… Yuanbao couldn’t… find Ah Fu…” Halting through hiccups, the child’s words gave Wang Ying a start. He guessed it was the endless rain working on the boy’s sleep.

“Don’t be afraid. Dreams are false. Ah Fu will protect you—nothing will happen.”

“Waa… Yuanbao is afraid of water…”

He patted the boy’s back and soothed him. In time, the tears passed. Children forget quickly; when Mutou and Chunsheng came, he was soon leaping about again.

Wang Ying did not forget. A vague worry gnawed at him: if the rain kept on, if the river upstream burst its banks, the whole of Qingshui Town would suffer.

The Yellow River might be called the Mother River, but it was a mother with a violent temper, schooling her children on both banks with the stick—floods beyond counting, from ancient times to now.

Qingshui lay about a hundred and seventy li from the river. The county gazetteer recorded that thirty-two years ago the Yellow River had overrun and drowned the whole town—houses collapsed, crops failed—starved corpses lay everywhere.

He summoned Chen Bo and Dunzi. “Gather all the rain gear in the house. Prepare more planks and rope. If the rain hasn’t stopped by tomorrow, we head for the hills.”

Chen Bo hesitated. “Langjun, the water isn’t deep yet—do we go up now?”

“Better to be ready. Also, go tell Chen Xi’s household. If anyone in the village wants to come, we’ll go together.”

Chen Bo bit back objections. It felt excessive—rains like this came most years, and when they stopped, the water level dropped fast.

But he was a servant; he dared not argue. With orders given, he would carry them out. “I’ll go.”

He pulled on his rain cloak and went out. After a few steps, he froze. The flood barrier they’d stacked that morning had been breached; the water had poured straight into the fields, swamping the millet—

He ran without delay.

Chen Xi lived at the east end of the village where the ground lay low; water was already in the houses. Adults and children sat on bed boards, fretting, unsure when the rain would end.

When Chen Bo arrived, Chen Xi hurried out. “Brother Chen, what brings you?”

“The rain is too heavy,” Chen Bo said, wiping his face. “The master intends to lead his family to the hills. He asks whether the villagers will come—if we go in a band, we can look out for one another.”

Chen Xi hesitated, then nodded. “We’ll go! I know a rock cave on the mountain—we can shelter from wind and rain there.”

Most people knew of the cave—from days of herding cattle and seeking shade in summer heat.

That surprised Chen Bo. “I’ll tell the master. Let the villagers know: if the rain hasn’t stopped in the morning, bring clothing and dry rations. Those who can travel should all go—when the rain ends, we’ll return.”

“Aye—I’ll go now!”

He and his eldest son went door to door. Hearing the message was from the master, many began packing at once.

Others balked—said the master was making a fuss. The water was only up to the ankles; running for the hills was cowardice.

Back at the annex, Madam Li ordered the servants to pack clothing and grain. Flour was awkward to carry; Aunt Chen filled cloth sacks with rice and beans.

Wang Ying said, “Don’t take too much food—enough for a week for the family.” If the rain didn’t stop after a week, he would find a way to bring grain from the field.

Qingyun and Lin Sui packed clothes—three sets each for adults and children, both thin and thick. Who knew how the weather would turn? A sudden chill without warm layers would be trouble.

Madam Li and Chen Rong packed valuables—banknotes wrapped in oiled paper and strapped close against the skin; if soaked, they’d be useless. Gold and silver ornaments went into a wooden box. As for bolts of cloth, too heavy to carry, they wedged them into the rafters of the storeroom, safe from the water.

By then it was already late. After dinner, Wang Ying slipped to the storeroom and put whatever could be carried into the experimental field. He locked up and would replace it upon return.

That night, he slept with Yuanbao and entered the field around the You hour. His earlier note still lay there—Qingyan hadn’t come. He let the boy play there for a while.

After a quarter hour, Qingyan arrived.

Yuanbao launched himself forward. “Daddy!”

“Aye!” Qingyan caught him up and hoisted him onto his shoulders.

“I thought you wouldn’t have time today,” Wang Ying said.

“Qingsong and Qinghuai are asleep. I slipped in.”

“So early?”

“There’s curfew at the academy—no lamps permitted. Everyone turns in early.”

“Are you adjusting to Laizhou Academy?”

“The classmates are amiable, and Qinghuai’s friend is there. We’re nearly settled.”

“Good.”

Perched on his father’s shoulders, Yuanbao listened with a grin and didn’t interrupt.

Qingyan set him down and squeezed his chubby hand. “Has Yuanbao been good these days?”

“Good!” he piped.

Wang Ying laughed. “He’s behaved—mostly because the rain keeps him indoors.”

“Is it raining hard?”

“Manageable,” Wang Ying said lightly. “It just won’t stop—irritating.”

“We had rain all the way to Laizhou,” Qingyan said. “Never a dry day. Teacher caught a chill and a fever—we had to rest several days in a nearby county.”

He did not mention the near-crushing in the shrine. Both spoke only of the good, not of the bad—each loath to worry the other.

“No wonder you arrived late.”

“Be careful there—drink ginger broth against the cold.”

“Don’t worry about home,” said Wang Ying. “I may not have time to enter the field for a few days. If anything comes up, leave a note.”

“Alright. I’ll write when I can.” He dared not linger. He kissed Wang Ying’s brow. “I’ll go.”

“Yuanbao wants a kiss too,” the child said, tilting up his face.

Qingyan laughed and smothered him in a prickly-bearded kiss, making the boy squeal.

After they left, Wang Ying carried Yuanbao back to bed. The rain did not slacken all night.

Before dawn, the annex lamps were already lit. Things that feared damp were placed in wooden chests and sealed.

Chen Bo returned with news that there was a natural rock cave halfway up the mountain—just the place to wait out the rain—so the days on the mountain wouldn’t be too hard.

Around the Yin hour, a knocking sounded at the gate. Chen Xi arrived with the village’s elders and youngsters, ready to climb together.

Footnotes:

• Yellow River floods: Historically frequent and devastating; local gazetteers (county records) often documented notable flood years and their impact.