Chapter Forty: Indulging the Heart’s Desire

Yang Dingrui, who was watching the chickens in the yard, said that Commander Zhang had only taken three meals’ worth of grain, out of consideration for Master Liu’s dignity.

“Each time an egg is laid, it’s taken away; each time an egg is laid, it’s taken away, so there are fewer and fewer chickens. Look, it’s unhappy, it thinks there’s something wrong with the coop.”

“It shouldn’t have thought so before. There was always food, but now there isn’t. Hungry, it can barely keep its eyes open, flapping its wings, trying to fly higher—out of the coop.”

Yang Dingrui’s mystical musings on the chickens’ conduct even drew Liu Chengzong, who was sharpening knives, into the conversation. He said, “If it were to eat meat, it’d kill chickens too, because it would think chickens are meant to be slaughtered anyway. Sooner or later they die, and if a chicken kills another, it’s not so wrong.”

Yang Dingrui stroked his beard and smiled, “A pupil worth teaching! Feed it well, then find it a couple of companions, and nature will take its course. It won’t try to leave the coop anymore…” But before he could finish, the smile froze on his face, for Liu Chengzong, speaking as he rose, tossed a small iron bowl to the ground with a clang, bent over, and pulled a hen from the coop, killing it with a single stroke.

He drained the blood cleanly and efficiently.

“Companions are hard to find. After all, people aren’t chickens. There’s no grain in Northern Shaanxi. Don’t bother, sir, let’s make stew instead—it’ll be delicious.”

Just as he said, Commander Zhang had eaten a meal on Black Dragon King Temple Hill, then set off north, eating and taking as he went.

It was an act of revenge, so Lu Bin, who had escaped from Old Temple Village, followed along, still wounded and serving only as a guide.

Having a guide pleased the government troops—they planned to attack at dawn.

Liu Chengzong watched the sky, estimating the pace of the garrison soldiers. They should still be on the road, not far from Old Temple Village, perhaps already having chosen a place to rest.

The battle would end by tomorrow evening at the latest, but no one knew what the outcome would be, nor whether it would bode well or ill for Xingpingli, which made him anxious for no reason.

So anxious he wanted something good to eat.

In the hall, Liu Xiangyu’s face was grave as water. Chengyun, seated at the end, was calculating: how much grain the clan possessed, how much the fields would yield this summer, whether the current stores would last until the summer tax was paid, and whether the remainder would hold until autumn’s levy.

To be precise, Chengyun was figuring out the best way to purchase grain.

Sixteen blood-drained chickens were sent for plucking. Liu Chengzong washed his hands and entered the hall, immediately recognizing by his cousin’s troubled expression that the clan’s finances were dire.

“The harvest won’t be enough. Our four hundred and twenty mu of land require forty-four shi of seed grain. Summer crops might yield three hundred shi at most. Regular tax and seed grain must reserve fifty-eight shi. That leaves two hundred and forty shi. With a dozen mouths and as many livestock, it’ll last just over half a year.”

This is the poverty of Northern Shaanxi’s land: even a household with a hundred acres can’t be considered wealthy, for a hundred mu here yield only what forty mu would in Guanzhong.

“But if Second Uncle wants to calculate rent from this, I think it’s impossible. The grain barely covers our own needs—what about government levies? Those are higher than the regular tax.”

The Ming dynasty’s regular tax was low, a tone set from its founding. The Taizu Emperor measured the land, and based basic tax on annual expenses—one thirtieth, never increased thereafter.

But in the early years, with fixed land numbers and no hidden acreage, the tax collected was just enough. Over time, as land decreased, the regular tax no longer covered expenses.

Then the clever court invented the ‘advance levy’: if there wasn’t enough money for big projects in one year, they’d incur deficit and make up for it with extra levies the next.

The ‘Triple Levy’ imposed for the war against Jianzhou and Later Jin was blended into the regular tax, and not high—just one fifteenth.

When a commoner’s annual income was three hundred shi of grain, thirty-five or thirty-six shi of tax wouldn’t crush him. What crushed people was, when their income dropped to fifty shi, they still had to pay six.

Because there was already not enough to eat.

And there was another important tax: corvée.

Transporting silver and grain, repairing city walls and government offices, hiring people to strike gongs and patrol—all are corvée, and all are legal obligations for citizens of the Ming Empire.

If you farm but don’t wish to serve, you must pay silver or grain to hire replacements.

Calculated, it costs far more than the regular tax and comes in many forms.

The old master, experienced in tax collection, understood well and waved it aside: “Don’t worry about the levies for now. Calculate rent based on regular tax. We’ll find a way to handle levies later. Didn’t Dalang and Shizi bring back grain?”

Then Liu Xiangyu remembered that those dozens of shi must be reserved for the garrison in the village, and tapped his fingers worriedly on the desk: “Sell as much as you can to your father-in-law. Prepare to buy grain.”

Chengyun nodded, “That’s what I thought. We have to buy, but the grain price in the prefectural city is soaring—it’s expensive. Rice and wheat won’t go for less than four or five taels.”

Chengyun not only raised the issue, he suggested a solution: “Why not cross the river into Shanxi? My father-in-law has written a petition for the city’s rice merchants—his godson. Prices are higher there, but not as bad as two or three coins per dou.”

“The same amount of silver can buy twenty shi here, fifty shi there. My brother’s goods are valuable—if pawned, they’ll cover the principal. Maybe he’ll even turn a profit.”

Yang Dingrui, who had followed Liu Chengzong into the hall, listened intently and couldn’t help but interject: “It’s four hundred li to Shanxi. On the way back, there’s the rebel King Hun in Yanchuan. Dozens of shi could easily be robbed.”

“But you’d need twenty or thirty guards even to the city, and it’s expensive. Even if you hire porters in Shanxi, it’s only one shi plus eight coins for carrying.”

Chengyun was not too sure about the price, chewing on the brush handle. The old master, seated at the head, said worriedly, “Even if you offer one tael per shi, people might not want to travel from Jin to Qin right now.”

Chengyun thought boldly and clapped his hands: “If it won’t work, we’ll try both ways. I’ll go to Shanxi, draw a map of the city for Shizi, let him seek out merchants and buy grain. If anyone tries to rob him, fight them!”

Liu Chengzong, sitting at the end, gazed out into the yard, listening to the family’s calculations. The talk of money and grain stirred a nameless anger in him, his fists clenching tightly on his knees.

Everyone calculated and recalculated, but no good solution emerged. In a year of disaster, after laboriously building irrigation and fighting drought, farming for half a year, in the end there wasn’t enough to feed their own family?

“If our family is like this, how can others survive?”

Liu Chengzong couldn’t hold back, interrupting everyone’s thoughts, shaking his head: “Don’t talk about bringing grain from Yanchuan. Even if someone brought a hundred or two hundred shi from Black Dragon Mountain, Master, Sir, Brother, do you think he could get it out?”

“Would Commander Zhang let someone take grain away? Would Brother Cao let someone take grain away? No one can move grain from here. If we go out to buy grain, the troops, bandits, villages we encounter are all enemies. Grain is life. Money alone won’t buy it anymore.”

Cao Yao’s words echoed in Liu Chengzong’s mind.

‘The world will only get worse. If you, like that courier brother Li Hongji, still dream of being a law-abiding citizen, you’ll starve to death.’

‘If you wait until you’re too weak from hunger to think of anything else, you deserve your fate. While you still have strength, you ought to plunder others.’

Liu Chengzong said no more. He went out and told Sixteen to fetch his newly forged knife from the blacksmith.

He knew, people are like chickens: whether you indulge yourself or not, sooner or later you’ll die.

But must one really become a thief and rob just to survive?