Chapter Thirty-Two: The Butcher

"You said Gao Baima went north? Isn't north the opposite of south?"
The bailiff, always a beat behind, had gone into town to fetch Yang Dingrui’s family, while the braver one stayed behind, keeping an eye on the cart loaded with corpses, and idly chatting with Liu Chengzong.
Liu Chengzong was still interested in Gao Yingxiang’s whereabouts. As he untacked Little Whirlwind, he cradled his arms and tried to fish for information from the bailiff.
"I remember it clearly—there was such a crowd you couldn’t see the end of it, all heading north along the Yanchuan road. The garrison at Saimen fled at the first sign of trouble, no mistake about it."
North, then.
He wouldn’t have gone too far north.
Liu Chengzong remembered Gao Yingxiang as a bold horse trader from the borderlands, one who smuggled goods and army horses, and knew the routes better than anyone.
Liu Chengzong himself had traveled west from Yuhe Fort, and was familiar with the forts north of Ansai—Jingbian Fort, Longzhou City, Qingping Fort, and Weiwu Fort—as well as the two defensive walls, solid as iron.
He found Gao Yingxiang’s move north puzzling and tried to guess, as best he could, where the man might go next.
In truth, Liu Chengzong knew that even if he could predict Gao Yingxiang’s exact movements, it would do him no good—but he still couldn’t help trying.
It was like a drowning man, who, not knowing which stalk of straw might save him, still tries to grab them all.
As if in this way, survival might be won for any one of them.
The bailiff finished speaking and, without minding Liu Chengzong’s reverie, tore the oily flatbread in half, wrapped one piece in his grubby hemp cloth, and stuffed the other half into his mouth, chewing noisily like a great field mouse.
He looked as though he hadn’t eaten anything rich in oil for days. Afraid he might choke, Liu Chengzong unfastened his water flask and passed it to him; the bailiff took a couple of gulps, then thanked him repeatedly.
Once full, the bailiff looked around, panting as if exhausted from eating, and slumped down beside the corpse-laden cart, settling onto the yellow earth to savor a brief moment of satiety with his eyes closed.
Suddenly, from not far down the main road, came the sound of heavy footsteps and labored breathing, breaking Liu Chengzong’s contemplation of Gao Yingxiang’s path—a glance caught sight of a man carrying a sharp knife in one hand and a small child slung over his shoulder, approaching at a brisk, breathless pace.
He was a man of about thirty, with unremarkable looks and a short stature, bundled in a filthy, thick jacket so caked with dust its original color was lost, but his body was broad and robust beneath the rags—a man who looked as though he had seen hard training.
After seeing so many famine refugees and starved peasants, a man who was built bigger than the rest was instantly dangerous in the eyes of others.
Liu Chengzong didn’t know what was happening, but the sight of this figure made his back prickle; instinctively, he gripped his sword and stepped back, putting distance between himself and the bailiff, his entire body taut.
As the man drew near, he suddenly dropped to his knees in the middle of the road and kowtowed.

With three loud knocks of his forehead against the ground, he left Liu Chengzong stunned and startled the bailiff into scrambling to his feet, blocking the way as he shouted, "Guo Zhashi, have you lost your mind? You dare act up in front of an officer—do you want to die?"
But the man ignored the bailiff’s panic. Lifting his head, eyes bloodshot, he spoke rapidly, his voice raw with agitation.
"A handful of rice. All I want is a handful of rice."
Liu Chengzong said nothing, nor did he draw his sword. He led his horse back a step, glancing at the bailiff with a questioning look.
He’d heard the bailiff call the man ‘Guo Zhashi’—Zhashi was a nickname, not a given name, and certainly not one a parent would bestow.
Since the bailiff knew his nickname, they must be familiar.
The bailiff, loyal enough, though his words drove Guo Zhashi away, kept himself half in front of Liu Chengzong—not, Liu Chengzong suspected, out of fear that Guo Zhashi would hurt him.
The boning knife in Guo Zhashi’s hand posed little threat to a man armored and armed as Liu Chengzong was; it seemed more likely the bailiff feared Liu Chengzong might kill Guo Zhashi.
"Guo Zhashi, Old Qi went into town to do business for the officer. The officer promised him flatbread, with scallions and oil. Hurry up and kowtow, apologize to the officer."
The bailiff spoke in a rush, then turned to Liu Chengzong, bowing and scraping. "Sir, he’s the village pig butcher from Ansai. There are no more pigs in town."
"The pig butcher?"
Liu Chengzong looked Guo Zhashi up and down—his forearms were as solid as clubs, his whole body broad as a door, his cheeks full and round.
Pig butcher was not the same as a market butcher; every village had one, even the smallest settlements. Like coffin-makers, they were men of standing, their trade passed down through generations.
They usually enjoyed strong ties within the village, living better than most. When someone needed a pig slaughtered, they called the butcher, paid him a little money, fed him a meal, and sometimes let him keep the feet.
When neighbors needed to put something in writing, these butchers would often be called to witness.
In years past, it took four or five strong men to hold down a fat pig for slaughter. But now, the profession had lost its meaning—people themselves were starving, the chickens in Heilongwang Temple Hill so weak they could barely open their eyes, let alone the pigs.
The mention of scallion flatbread seemed to catch Guo Zhashi’s attention. He grasped his kneeling child by the hand and stared mutely at Liu Chengzong.
"If I give you a piece of bread today, what will you do tomorrow?"
It wasn’t that Liu Chengzong begrudged him a piece of bread—he didn’t. But he disliked this armed begging, and above all, he saw no point in it.
Giving him a piece of bread would mean nothing, to Guo Zhashi or to Liu Chengzong.

What meaning could there be?
Could a single unsatisfying meal be called a life-changing favor? At best, this was targeted charity; after today, father and son would still starve, would still turn to banditry if it came to that.
Each man has his own fate, yet Liu Chengzong wanted to test something.
Guo Zhashi was not lost—his purpose was clear. "All I ask is a meal. I’ll never bother the officer again."
In that instant, Liu Chengzong’s mind spun with thoughts. Just then, the other bailiff returned from town, hauling a cart on which sat a terrified woman and three small children. Liu Chengzong looked at the cart and asked, "Can you drive a wagon?"
"Hmm?"
Pig butchers were no fools; they’d seen more of the world than most peasants. He didn’t understand at first, but quickly replied, "Yes, ox carts, horse carts, all of them."
"Anyone else in your family?"
"No one left. Just my boy. He doesn’t eat much—just a little is enough to keep him alive."
"Drive the cart for me. I’ll feed you two meals a day—not enough to fill you, but enough to keep you going. Will you do it?"
Guo Zhashi nodded furiously, threw his knife to the ground, and not only kowtowed himself but pulled his son down with him. After three bows, tears poured from him, wracking his body with sobs.
The weeping came so suddenly that Liu Chengzong was at a loss.
No one wants to die—least of all to starve to death. For the chance to live a day longer, a few kowtows were easy to understand.
But this was a man of thirty, and no grown man cries like a child for a job such as this, especially before strangers.
He said it was his first time begging. Four generations of his family had been pig butchers in Ansai, the trade passed from father to son, and he had never endured such a thing.
There were no pigs left in Ansai.
The world had collapsed, the great house fallen; he had become the most useless man alive.