Chapter Thirty-Five: The Coffin

Although it had only been three days since he left home, the atmosphere in the village was markedly different.

On the narrow mountain path leading into the village, there were checkpoints manned by local militia armed with spears and crossbows. When asked what had happened, no one could give a clear answer; all they knew was that an outsider had come to the village the previous day, and Master Liu had ordered several watch posts to be set up along the mountain path and ridges.

After settling Yang Dingrui at his home, Liu Chengzong found the place empty; neither his parents nor his elder brother were there. He checked the house and the stable—his brother’s armor and horse were gone as well, which made his heart pound with anxiety.

He hurriedly arranged for Yang Dingrui’s family to stay in the side room. Just then, he heard someone stumbling in from outside. When he went out, he saw Shiliu, the little bald-headed boy, running inside with his head down, only to be caught by Liu Chengzong by the collar and lifted off the ground, his short legs still kicking in the air.

“What are you rushing around for?”

It was only after being lifted up that the little bald boy seemed to come to his senses, his small eyes narrowing, “Lion Brother, you’re back! Master got into an argument and sent me to fetch the tobacco pipe.”

The tobacco pipe?

Liu Chengzong knew his father had a brass smoking pipe.

Here, unlike across the Wei River to the north and south, people were more prosperous and could afford such novelties. Jingyang was the largest tobacco cutting and distribution center in Qin territory, so people there were familiar with it.

In northern Shaanxi, the land was poor and barely enough for crops; years ago, tobacco was widely grown when it first entered the Central Plains. People believed it warded off the cold and would sell it to the border troops of Yansui, Guyuan, and Gansu. But in recent years, with pay in arrears, the soldiers had no money, and tobacco gradually disappeared from northern Shaanxi. Now, though it was still available, it was much rarer.

For the old man, smoking was not a habit. In fact, most people in northern Shaanxi at this time, including Cao Yao, were not addicted to smoking; at most, it was a prop.

Hearing that his father had sent Shiliu back for the tobacco pipe, Liu Chengzong was amused. He put the boy down and asked, “Where are they arguing?”

“At Grandpa Liu’s house. There are a lot of people there.”

Grandpa Liu?

In this village at the foot of the Black Dragon King Temple, nearly eighty households all bore the surname Liu. Liu Chengzong paused, almost choked by his own words, and asked, “What does Grandpa Liu do for a living?”

“He has a lot of coffins at home.”

He understood now: it was the coffin maker’s family in Xingpingli.

Coffin makers, like butchers, masons, itinerant doctors, matchmakers, oil pressers, weavers, veterinarians, shamans, opera troupes, peddlers, and tofu makers, were essential figures in rural communities. In some places, carpenters doubled as coffin makers, but in Xingpingli, since the carpenters had been conscripted years ago, the role fell to a dedicated coffin maker.

The elderly in the village typically began preparing their own coffins from the age of forty. Sooner or later, their ultimate desire was to have a fine house to rest in forever at life’s end. If their homes were spacious, they’d keep the coffins there; otherwise, they’d store them at the coffin maker’s, who would maintain and repaint them each year.

So, a house full of coffins surely belonged to the coffin maker.

Learning his father was arguing with the coffin maker, Liu Chengzong was in no hurry and instead asked, “What about my brother? Is he there too?”

“Captain Liu went to see Captain Cao yesterday. Oh, right!” The little bald boy suddenly remembered and added, “Captain said, when Lion Brother comes back, he should go to the ancestral hall. There’s an injured outsider there, and you’ll know everything once you see him.”

If Liu Chengzu hadn’t been mentioned, Shiliu would have forgotten the matter altogether.

Liu Chengzong turned to leave, but after a few steps, he waved his hand and said, “Alright, you go take the tobacco pipe to Grandpa for me. I’ll stop by the coffin maker’s house first, then head to the ancestral hall.”

Xingpingli wasn’t large; a few turns out the door and he could see the coffin maker’s house. Even from a distance, Liu Chengzong saw a crowd gathered at the door, mostly elderly villagers.

Here, ‘elderly’ meant more than just age; in the Ming dynasty, these elders had important responsibilities. The village chief changed every year, but the council of elders chosen by the villagers remained. In Ming rural society, as long as an offense was not murder or treason, all matters, from land and marriage disputes to brawls, would be settled by the local elders—they bore great responsibility.

Before he could squeeze into the crowd, Liu Chengzong heard his father in heated debate with others. In fact, it wasn’t an argument with the coffin maker but a dispute with the elders.

“Where can we possibly get timber these days? The bandits are already in the north—we don’t know when they’ll strike. If you’re killed by bandits, do you think they’ll bother putting you in coffins?”

Liu Chengzong realized his father was trying to persuade the village elders to give up their coffins, which made him frown.

To the elderly, coffins were of profound significance. The older one grew, the more indifferent one became to life and death—except for the plot of land and the coffin to rest in after death.

For the past two months, the Liu clan had been building fortifications on the hills, felling trees and quarrying stone. By rights, there shouldn’t be a major shortage of timber. If they kept to their routine, they’d have earthen walls up on the hilltops by autumn.

As far as Liu Chengzong knew, the situation wasn’t yet dire enough to require the elders to surrender their coffins.

Especially since the elders agreed to give up coffins for those under fifty, arguing that those over fifty might need them at any time. His father, however, insisted that all coffins must be handed over.

Clad in armor, Liu Chengzong squeezed into the center of the crowd, apologizing as he went, for any of these elders was easily twice his age.

When he reached the center, he asked Liu Xiangyu, “Uncle, what’s happened?”

Upon seeing his son, Liu Xiangyu’s face lit up with joy. “You’re just in time. Laomiao Village to the north was overrun by bandits. You’ve been there—tell the elders what the place is like, how many people live there.”

Laomiao Village was overrun by bandits?

Liu Chengzong had no time for further thought. He cupped his hands and said to the elders, “Elders, I went north last month. Laomiao Village has seventy or eighty households, managed by two brothers surnamed Lu, who have a feud with Dingjia Zhan. So they built stockade walls, and all able-bodied men had weapons.”

“I’ve just returned from Ansei City. On the way, I saw a severed hand in the river at Panlongchuan—something must have happened upstream. I was planning to take a couple of horses north to check, but I didn’t expect this.”

“Yes, it was Dingjia Zhan.” Liu Xiangyu continued, “Lu Bin from Laomiao Village barely escaped with his life. The people of Dingjia Zhan joined the bandit king Zuo Gua and slaughtered Laomiao Village.”

“If seventy or eighty households in Laomiao Village couldn’t withstand the bandits, how can Xingpingli hope to? We must hurry to finish the earthen walls on the hills—never mind the coffins, even if we have to take down our doors, it’s worth it.”

Someone said, “Then let’s go to the prefectural city and request the government troops. If we can’t hold, why bother building walls?”

“We can certainly ask the garrison; the Yan’an garrison officers are familiar with us and probably won’t demand too much food. But Xingpingli would have to provide for them—at least a hundred mouths to feed. And if the troops come, the bandits won’t attack. Are we to keep supporting them forever? How much grain and wealth does Xingpingli really have left?”

“In the end, we must rely on ourselves.”