Chapter Twenty-Eight: The Carpenter

The people I've met lately—how should I put it? Each one seems more pessimistic than the last.

Liu Chengzong thought this as he walked along the country path outside the village, accompanied by his dog, Little Whirlwind. His father had sent Xiao Sixteen to call him and his elder brother over to greet Yang Dingrui, and perhaps to have them stay for a meal. But when the conversation turned to matters of the court, the topic was quickly diverted, and the two brothers were ushered out.

Liu Chengzu was sent off to drill the troops, while Liu Chengzong was tasked with delivering bowstrings to the carpenter on the eastern outskirts, and then checking in with the blacksmith at North Mountain Pass to see if anything else was needed.

He overheard Yang Dingrui say that the court was failing in Shaanxi, but didn't catch the details. All he knew was that this scholar, who had earned his degree in the Tianqi era and served as a deputy official, had resigned from his post—an act that left Liu Chengzong itching with curiosity for more news from the prefectural city.

Little Whirlwind carried a small cloth bag on his back, filled with bowstrings and crossbow strings that Liu had fashioned in his spare time. Bowstrings and crossbow strings differed in both materials and methods: crossbow strings were made from hemp, bowstrings from cotton. Cotton thread formed the core, wrapped crosswise for strength, yielding a suitable string—though not the finest, which would be made with silk from mulberry wood, but still more durable than sinew strings from beyond the frontier.

He carried dozens of strings, though he didn't have as many bows or crossbows; strings, like arrow shafts, were consumables. Each bow or crossbow needed at least three spare strings to ensure reliability, preventing mishaps and safeguarding both archer and weapon.

Arrowheads, by contrast, were not consumables. In the frontier army, all arrowheads were forged with skill, rarely wearing out. Years ago, he'd bought a dozen forged arrowheads. After a year in the army, two skirmishes outside the passes, over twenty hunts, and daily target practice, he'd broken nearly a hundred arrow shafts, but the arrowheads in his possession only increased. Now he had forty-two, aside from the two lost in the river last year. After nearly a decade of archery, Liu Chengzong reckoned some of those original arrowheads might accompany him to the grave.

The carpenter's house stood not far from the village, skirting the fields and nestled against the woods—not for easy access to timber, since lumber these days was bought from specialized merchants. Their family had missed out on the village's allocation of homes and land, so all the good spots were gone, leaving them to settle outside.

The elder craftsman, Xiang Liang, was of Liu Chengzong’s uncle’s generation. Born into a family of artisans, he’d followed his father on conscription to distant Yunnan, then spent over a decade with the army before returning home with his three children and a wife from Liaodong. When they returned, his two sons didn’t even have proper names; they were simply called Liu San and Liu Wu.

Little Whirlwind, the sleek hound, outran his master, darting into the courtyard and immediately barking at the guard dog tied there, as if they were old rivals.

His master arrived later, calling off Little Whirlwind with a laugh and a respectful salute, “Uncle Liang, I brought the bowstrings. Is there anything else I can help with?”

The courtyard was lively, with piles of bamboo and lumber stacked along the fence—materials Liu Chengzu had procured from the northern paper mill some time ago. Amidst the shavings scattered across the ground, the Xiang Liang family of five worked together in a flurry, shaping bow blanks under their planes. Nearby, two crossbows and eight bows hung on the wall, their finish gleaming with oil.

Bows and crossbows were simply tools. At their best, they were made from timber dried for a year, periodically soaked in oil, with sinew and horn laminated to the limbs. Such a process yielded a batch of fine bows every two years. But if speed was the goal, quality would inevitably suffer.

You get what you ask for.

“Lion’s here,” Liu San and Liu Wu greeted him before returning to their tasks. The old carpenter paused to wipe his brow and said, “Nothing needs doing; everything we’re making is simple enough.”

Since Liu Xiangyu and Liu Chengzu had organized all the able-bodied men into three squads, they faced a dire shortage of weapons, unable to conduct proper drills. Apart from morning runs around the mountain and digging trenches, there was little they could do. So they relied on the blacksmith and carpenter to produce more arms.

Weapons—everything kept to the basics.

Liu Chengzong smiled, walking over and pointing at the bows on the wall. “Uncle Liang, are those finished bows?”

The old craftsman nodded, so Liu Chengzong picked up one, called Little Whirlwind over, and strung it. The structure was simple, the materials plain: two layers of bamboo laminated together, with wood reinforcing the grip and tips, wrapped in hemp thread. It felt good in the hand.

Once strung, Liu Chengzong carefully drew it to full extension, nodding, “Uncle’s craftsmanship is excellent. The bow is very light, draws smoothly.”

For this batch of bows in Xingping, the requirement was as light as possible—twenty pounds was ideal, no heavier than thirty. Most of the future archers would be farmers; among them were men strong enough to draw fifty or sixty-pound war bows. Yet Liu Chengzong, skilled in archery, knew that bowcraft was not about overpowering with brute strength, but rather technique conquering force.

No matter how strong, if you can’t shoot accurately, it’s wasted effort; but if you can, even a twenty-pound bow can kill.

Technique and practice mattered more. For novices, lighter bows helped establish good habits and proper form. Besides, once the first batch of archers was trained, these light bows could be given to women and children in the village’s three squads.

Diligence earns admiration and joy from all, and Xiang Liang was no exception. He laughed as he walked away, “Lion cub, you say that, but your uncle once made bows for Korea in Liaodong—let me set up a target for you to try.”

“You went to Korea too, Uncle? When was that—the Korean campaign?”

Xiang Liang smiled, hanging a wooden plaque on the old elm tree in the yard before shaking his head, “I went to Yunnan after the Korean campaign was already over. Let me think, that was the forty-first year of Wanli.”

“That was when their old king died and the new one—Gwanghaegun, I think—took the throne. Not sure how it all went, but the general had the army craftsmen make bows in Liaodong to sell to the vassal state… Go on, try the bow.”

Liu Chengzong hadn’t brought his own bow and arrows—he’d only carried a knife while walking the dog—so he searched the yard for a tube of freshly made wooden arrows. The shafts were straight and true, the heads carved from bamboo into three-sided points.

He eyed the bamboo arrowheads, then glanced at the wooden target, looking to Xiang Liang for reassurance.

The old carpenter caught his meaning, grinning, “Poplar wood. Shoot away.”

Liu Chengzong worried the bamboo tips might break against the target, but hearing it was poplar—soft and fast-growing—he felt at ease.

He didn’t start too far back, first loosing an arrow from ten paces, then stepping back to fifteen, finally shooting from about twenty paces, after which he stopped. Any farther, even if he hit the target, it wouldn’t stick.

As he expected, the bamboo bow sent arrows slowly. Slow enough that he felt confident he could stand at the target and dodge, or even parry the arrows if he drew his knife.

Before he could express his thoughts on shooting with a bamboo bow to Xiang Liang, someone nearby applauded, calling out, “Not bad, Lion cub! Your form is excellent!”

Turning, he saw Yang Dingrui, the scholar, step forward and pick up the bamboo bow for inspection. “Why not make longbows? Tang-style longbows.”