Chapter 100

Chapter 100

In the early summer, the sun grew increasingly harsh. Heading out at dawn with a hoe to till the fields for a bit meant changing clothes upon return.

Under the big tree at the village head, a group of toothless old men sat daily, fanning themselves with palm-leaf fans and sighing deeply. The heavens, they grumbled, can't stand to see folks doing well. Last year had been favorable, with timely rains and winds, but this year He'd started throwing a fit. They'd never seen such an incompetent deity—one good year, one bad, with sunshine and rain like a kid playing games.

First came the heavy rains, now the scorching heat.

As each day grew hotter, with no rain falling recently, the villagers grew anxious, yet they kept their cool, seeing that the river and well water levels hadn't dropped. When the fields lacked water, they carried it from the river. Though it took effort and tired them out, the crops were thriving, and even the old-timers were all smiles, saying that despite the drought, if they tended the fields carefully and looked after the crops, waiting for a good rain, this year would surely be a bountiful harvest.

Old Man Zhao was dragged by a few old fellows every few days for a chat. Hearing this talk repeatedly, he didn't have the heart to say straight up, "You're dreaming too big. A bountiful harvest? You'll be lucky if you don't come up empty."

He thought it but kept his mouth shut. Earlier, his eldest son and the others had gone to Tongjiang Town to scout things out. They'd learned that some rich folks had recently taken their entire households on long trips to visit relatives, leaving their fields, houses, and shops in the care of servants, with no word on when they'd be back.

That's just what was out in the open. There were likely many more families secretly fleeing. To confirm this, Zhao Dashan had even gone to a brokerage, acting like he wanted to buy land, asking if there were any fertile fields near the town. The answer was yes—plenty, actually.

All the prime land in Tongjiang Town was owned by rich families. On ordinary days, not even a half-acre of such fields could be bought. Land being sold meant only one thing: the rich families were selling it off. Selling land had always been something a wastrel would do. Whether poor or rich, folks treasured land like their own kids. Unless their lives depended on it, they'd never go that far.

After he reported back, the next day, Zhao Dashan and Zhao Sandi took Zhao Xiaobao to the Ping'an Clinic in Qinghe Town to buy a large quantity of medicine—stuff for everything: headaches, fevers, plague, heatstroke, colds, bleeding, you name it.

Then they went back and forth between Qinghe, Tongjiang, and Shilin towns, buying up salt, sugar, alcohol, cloth, cotton, and various flours, blowing almost all their silver.

Old Man Zhao was freaking out. Damn it, after buying supplies, he wanted to run too, but had no place to go and didn't dare. All he could do was hunker down and watch the outside. At the first hint of trouble, he'd get the whole family out of there.

While getting ready, he first tipped off his other two in-laws to head into the hills whenever they had time to dig up bamboo shoots and wild greens and dry them—basically, anything you could eat, stockpile it. Then came the handcarts. Each family was to build at least two big carts, big enough to hold all their grain and clothes. Don't ask why—just do it, or don't bother.

When they heard this, Old Man Zhu and Old Man Luo were scared stiff, but they didn't dare ask too many questions, afraid that knowing too much would keep them up at night. All they could do was build carts and scrounge more food from the hills. If their wives nagged them with questions, like Old Man Luo, who had a short fuse, he'd slap them upside the head and cuss, "Ask, ask, ask! What's it to you? If my in-law says build a cart, you build it!"

"If it weren't for him pulling some strings last time, your son would've been conscripted and dead by now! He came all this way to tip us off—don't be ungrateful!"

At the mention of her son, Old Woman Luo shut her mouth, hung her head, and muttered, "I was just asking, not trying to start anything."

"You'd better not try anything. Keep your head down for now. If the villagers ask, just say the cart's for convenience. Don't mention my in-law." Old Man Luo glared at his wife. "And stop going back to your family's place. Haven't you learned your lesson by now? After decades of being a blockhead, you should've wised up by now. Those two nephews of yours have been running their mouths that you tipped them off about the draft. The whole village has been pointing fingers and bad-mouthing us for it. I've been a straight-up guy my whole life, and now, at the end of it, I'm stuck with a reputation for being cold-hearted and ungrateful!"

At that, Old Woman Luo knew she'd messed up.

Ever since last year's draft, life in the village hadn't been easy for them. The villagers were openly and secretly shunning them, saying they had no conscience—knowing about the draft and not warning the village. Some even wanted to run them out of town, though it never came to that.

But their reputation in the village was thoroughly ruined. She regretted it big time. She never should've told her nephews. Those two were big mouths, totally unreliable!

Having learned her lesson once, she didn't dare go back to her family's place to show off this time. Looking at her angry husband, she hunched her shoulders and said, "I won't say anything."

The same went for Li Dahe and the others. Everyone was on edge, their hearts in their throats. The women of the households went into the mountains daily to dig bamboo shoots and wild vegetables, while the men cut trees, shaved wood, and built carts. In any spare time, they hauled water from the river to irrigate the fields, busy as could be.

When the villagers saw them building carts, the clever ones followed suit, while the simpletons stood by laughing and joking, saying, "Old Zhao's family builds carts because they have a donkey. What are you lot joining in for? Planning to sell donkeys too?"

"Oh, you guys must be secretly rich, about to buy donkeys."

"From now on, you'll all be riding donkey carts out of the village, haha! What a sight—first in ten miles!"

Li Dahe couldn't be bothered to argue, nor would he explain. The growing unease in his heart hardened with the increasingly hot weather. He trusted Old Zhao—whatever he said, do it. Don't ask too many questions. He wouldn't lead them astray.

With that resolve, he worked even faster. Once the carts were built, their families picked a less hot day to go together to Qinghe Town to buy some stored grain, and spent most of their savings on coarse salt. None of them were fools. The weather was worrying—hotter by the day. Anyone with half a brain could sense something was off. If this year brought drought, the harvest would surely suffer. Even if not for this year, they had to plan for next year's food for the whole family.

And salt—people couldn't live without it. Without salt, they'd have no strength and die.

The two carts sitting in the yard constantly reminded them that things were likely worse than they imagined. They had to prepare more.

No one dared to cling to their money boxes anymore. When it came to the lives of the whole family, even the stingiest woman had to hand over the keys.

Amid the bustle, the sun grew more brutal by the day.

Under the banyan tree, a few old men fanned themselves with palm-leaf fans, not moving a muscle, shaded by the leaves. Just chatting for a moment, sweat dripped down in streams.

The sunlight stung their eyes. Looking into the distance, big halos of light made their heads spin. The soles of their feet burned through their straw sandals, the ground scorching hot. It was too hot—even the men hauling water dared not linger outside, especially at noon. Even the children weren't allowed out to play, for fear of heatstroke.

"This year's not right," said one old man, tugging at his collar. His weathered skin, like aged bacon, was tanned black with a reddish sheen. Sweat poured from his forehead down his cheeks into his open chest, giving his skin an oily gloss. "I feel like today's even hotter than yesterday. My eldest and second son have been hauling water from the river since before dawn, back and forth who knows how many times, and the fields are still dry. At this rate, they'll crack soon."

"That big bend field of mine is already cracked. It's far from the river, and we skimped on two buckets of water. This morning I went to check and nearly had a heart attack!"

"Ah, the heavens just love tormenting us. Either it pours or it doesn't. First the fields flooded, now they're dry. Is the deity swapping jobs with the emperor? Raining when it shouldn't, not raining when it should—no rhyme or reason, all on a whim."

In past years, the heat didn't come until July or August. But now, at the start of early summer, the sun was already scorching. Nights were restless, tossing and turning on a hot mat. Even with mosquitoes, they had to sleep with the windows open, the only cool time being the brief evening breeze.

Having lived long and seen it all, the old timers felt this year would be tough.

"Did you build a cart?"

"Build a cart? Waste of effort. No use for it."

Li Dahe and the others building carts, looking ready to flee with Zhao Dagen, had been the talk of the village lately. Was the weather just a bit hotter than usual, and they were already thinking of fleeing? So what if the rich folks moved? Qingzhou Prefecture had never been peaceful—with refugees and conscription, if they were rich lords with endless silver and food, they'd want to move somewhere safe too, to avoid disaster. Wouldn't it be a huge loss otherwise?

Dagen was being overly cautious. To put it bluntly, even if a real drought hit, would he abandon the ancestral graves and run? That old well in their village—no matter how dry past years got, it never ran out of water.

And there was a river too. People wouldn't go thirsty, and neither would the crops. They'd just be more tired. If they could just get through this year, next year would be better.

It wasn't time to flee yet. Unless...

War came to their doorstep, the well dried up, the river ran dry, the crops failed completely—only when there was absolutely no way to survive would they pack up and flee.

Even then, they might not run. What about the house and fields? Those were ancestral properties left by their forefathers. Lose them, and they'd have nothing!

Even Zhao Shanao and a few village elders said privately that they wouldn't run. Even if a drought hit this year, they wouldn't budge. As long as there was a single drop of water in the river, they wouldn't move. Even if the crops failed completely, they'd rather go into the mountains and dig up tree roots to eat than flee. Get through this year, and next year everything would be fine. Run, and they'd lose everything!

At their age, with one foot in the grave, they couldn't bear to abandon the farmland they'd tended their whole lives.

Old Man Zhao didn't know their thoughts. His family had been too busy to even go to the village. Wang and her three daughters-in-law were steaming buns, baking flatbreads, and cooking porridge day in and day out. The two stoves—one in the wooden house and one outside—never stopped. Zhao Xiaowu and the others went into the mountains to cut grass and wood, but the firewood they gathered couldn't keep up with what Grandma and the women used. The eaves, usually stacked with firewood, were empty. What they found never matched what was consumed.

Old Man Zhao was the same. From before dawn, he'd weave baskets with lids. He'd nearly stripped the bamboo grove in the mountains, losing count of how many he'd made. Only the yard of the wooden house, piled high with baskets full of steamed buns, stuffed buns, and flatbreads, showed his handiwork—stacked sky-high, their aroma wafting from afar.

The divine land had changed again. Zhao Dashan, with the family's precious ox, was clearing new fields. But mindful that it was still a calf, he felt sorry for it and didn't push it too hard. Besides, they were busy lately, so he only managed to clear two acres. One of those acres his wife had planted entirely with wild vegetables.

It seemed the divine land treated wild vegetables like weeds. The wild veggies in that field grew like crazy—one day picked, the next day a new batch sprouted—while the vegetables in the garden plot took half a month to show a sprout. Infuriating.

Besides the wild vegetables, they'd transplanted a chestnut tree. Luo had dug up a sapling while foraging in the mountains. Chestnuts were great—good any way you cooked them. Boiled as a snack, or stewed with chicken for a delicious, fragrant meal that went well with rice. The whole family loved them.

Especially Xiaobao. Ever since she'd mentioned it once and he'd remembered, when she spotted the chestnut tree, she'd dug it right up.

Now, the family worried about nothing regarding food. Every time Old Man Zhao saw the piles of baskets, felt the constantly hot stove, and watched the ever-smoking chimney, his anxious heart eased a little.

Amid the bustle, midsummer arrived.

During this time, the weather grew unbearably hot. Even eating breakfast in the morning left faces dripping with sweat.

The fields were completely dry. Where once hauling water four or five times a day was enough, now, from dawn to dusk, whenever they had a moment, the men would grab their carrying poles and shuttle between the river and the fields. One trip left them drenched, clothes dripping.

The men changed clothes three times a day. In the mornings and evenings, the women would carry basins of laundry to the river to beat and wash. They wanted to tell the men to change less, but they couldn't. Wet clothes were heavy and uncomfortable, and even when dried, they stank. Working was already exhausting enough—they couldn't skimp on this. They'd rather wash more clothes than let the men suffer.

And the children—if they didn't change out of sweat-soaked clothes, they'd break out in red bumps, and if not careful, they'd get sick.

Hauling water daily, washing clothes daily. Then one day, a little boy ran back from the river, his little bird swinging, shouting to everyone.

"The river's getting shallower!"

"The water level's dropping!"