Chapter 26: Upstream

As March arrived, Xingpingli became even busier. It was the season for planting seedlings, and everyone—men, women, young and old—headed into the fields. Even Liu Chengzu’s border troops joined in the agricultural work. This was not a pastoral idyll; next month was the prime time for fertilizing, and every household hauled out the matured manure from their backyard pits, spreading it over an acre of land making the stench carry for miles.

For the border troops, spreading manure was nothing new—they had done it plenty at Yuhe Fort. Yet here in Xingpingli, even stripped of their armor and clad in civilian clothes, they carried themselves with a certain awkward dignity. They were only assigned to fetch water from the river. Truth be told, most preferred hauling water or helping in the fields; otherwise, they would be sent to the city or the mines on the outskirts to buy supplies—a dull, dangerous task.

Early in March, Chengyun took Tian Shoujing east to buy bricks at the mines, but the workers there, mixed with refugees, rebelled. The brick kilns were extinguished, and someone fired a shot that nearly killed Chengyun. In the end, they didn’t get the bricks, but instead brought back two miners, and now a new kiln would be built on the western edge of the village.

Even without danger, a trip out lasted three to five days, living on dry rations dipped in bean paste, leaving mouths bland and weary. Helping out in the village was different. The chives in the fields grew taller by the day; after work, one could cut a handful, pull up a radish, and fry them into balls with soy oil, not to mention the millet rice prepared for the busy season.

Moreover, they discovered neighbors. Neighbors were not unusual, but in a year of disaster, it was rare to meet any. The Panlong River, running northwest to southeast, had even less water during the irrigation season—clearly there were people upstream irrigating their fields, and plenty of them. Liu Chengzong rode upstream along the river with a few others, and soon realized the Black Dragon King Temple Mountain was not an isolated world.

Within twenty miles upstream, seven villages were scattered on both sides of the river, still able to irrigate their fields and relatively unaffected by the famine. Where there was a river, people survived. Both banks had been newly cultivated—people abandoned their old fertile fields to clear wild land closer to water, even the hillsides were tilled. In peaceful times, these would be lands that three generations couldn’t clear in fifty years, now they were orderly and managed.

The villages were not warm to outsiders; four had built fences, and when Liu Chengzong and his riders were spotted, villagers ran for home, young men brandishing crossbows and sticks, shouting them away. The other three villages were bolder, willing to exchange a few words, but their attitude was the same: “There’s no grain here, whether you’re soldiers, civilians, or bandits, please go elsewhere.”

“With just a few questions, we’ve mostly figured out the situation in these villages—they’re all undermining each other.”

Returning to Xingpingli, Liu Chengzong couldn’t help but laugh as he discussed with his elder brother, “North across the river is a village called Dingjia Post, fifty households, headed by Ding the elder, who has no other skill but eight sons—known as the Eight Wolves of Ding Village.”

“Last summer, the Eight Wolves killed the tax collector, and the whole village has been living in fear of the authorities. Their story came from the brothers of Old Temple Village on the east bank, which is seventy or eighty households, run by those Lu brothers.”

“The two villages have been at odds for decades, fighting over water rights. The Lu brothers took me for a soldier and wanted me to raid Dingjia Post for grain, so I played along,” Liu Chengzong continued.

Liu Chengzu frowned, “We downstream haven’t even sent anyone to fight, so what are they fighting over?”

Huh?

Liu Chengzong thought it over—exactly, those two upstream villages cut off the river, but we in Xingpingli downstream haven’t fought them, yet they’re fighting each other first.

“In these times, even with the facts clear, each village along the river is just a handful of desperate souls, yet they still think to destroy each other first.”

“That’s human nature,” Liu Chengzu sighed, then asked, “If these hundred or so households can’t unite, they’re of little use. How are the other villages?”

Liu Chengzong shook his head, “There’s also Songjia Ravine—it’s a bit far, I couldn’t get there, but the situation is similar. Five brothers known as the Five Tigers; in times like these, whoever has more men rules. Then there’s the northernmost Papermill.”

“Papermill... I think I’ve heard of it,” Liu Chengzu mused, “They make paper upstream by the spring, the family name is Wang, isn’t it?”

“No, Shi. The merchant is Shi Jiazhi—a very refined name.”

“Never mind the name, papermaking is good. Papermaking uses bamboo. Tomorrow I’ll take a group to buy some bamboo; then we can finish the rest of the crossbows.”

After Chengyun’s near-death at the brick kiln, the elders of Xingpingli realized the situation was far worse than imagined. Resolute in their decision to fortify the village and train their own troops, they also accepted Liu Chengzong’s proposal for universal conscription.

But in the end, the organization wasn’t quite as he’d envisioned. The villagers were divided into twelve squads: five of able-bodied men, four of strong women, three of youths, and one of skilled workers.

Liu Chengzu, the elder brother, proposed a better structure—Xingpingli’s 488 men, women, and children capable of fighting, together with the border troops, would be organized into three main teams: front, middle, and rear.

The able-bodied men formed the front, the strong women and youths the middle, the elderly and children the rear. Essentially, these were combat troops, reserves, and logistics.

They set the rules: the front team trained every other day, the middle every three days, the rear every five. Liu Chengzong divided training days into four subjects—two in the morning, two in the afternoon: command and formation, military regulations, basic literacy, and weapon handling. During peak farming season, morning classes were suspended.

Before the fortress was built, improving military prowess was not an overnight task, but strengthening organization was urgent. When villagers were forced to fight, it meant bandits had reached their door; even if they couldn’t kill bandits, organization at least gave them a chance to defend themselves.

After a year among the border troops, Liu Chengzong knew exactly what the newly formed militia of Xingpingli was worth. Fifty well-fed border soldiers could rout over a hundred bandits; but the reverse was true—blooded bandits could slaughter the newly formed militia with half their number.

Moreover, they didn’t even have enough weapons for the front team, only fourteen proper suits of armor; any casualties would severely dampen the villagers’ enthusiasm for joining the militia.

Among two or three hundred, the loss of five or eight might seem insignificant, but for each family, a single grain of sand becomes a mountain—one that no household can bear alone.

The two brothers finalized the plan for purchasing bamboo strips at the northern Papermill by the Panlong River’s spring. As they chatted, night fell and Sixteen came running—his little bald head gleaming—calling out, “Squad leader, Lion brother, Master wants you home, there’s a guest—a big official from the city.”

“A big official from the city? Where did you hear that, you little rascal?” Liu Chengzong laughed, patting Sixteen’s head. The boy seemed clever, and his father kept him close as an errand boy, which made him look neat and lively. “Big officials have no business here.”

“It really is a big official. He told Master that Wang Zuogua has attacked Yaoxian.”