Chapter Fifty: The Village Household

The next morning, the first rays of sunlight bathed the Cool Mountain of Yan’an Prefecture. At the mountain’s summit, the pagoda’s crown shone with dazzling brilliance. Below, in the city of Fushi at the mountain’s foot, makeshift shelters crowded with hungry refugees surged like waves. County yamen constables, hands on hilts, held back the masses as laborers pushed carts laden with millet to the city gates, delivering grain to the porridge shelters.

Zhang Pan, the registration scribe, said, “The distribution in the southern quarter falls to me. It’s been six months now since the end of last year, hasn’t it? Every day I oversee grain deliveries and porridge distribution, and I witness the depths of human suffering.”

He looked up. “Now the granaries are empty. If no rain falls by June, we won’t even have bran to send to the kitchens. There are twenty-seven households. How many people can you take with you?”

“All the land and grain I bought was scraped together with great effort. I truly can’t support more than I already do, Registrar. The fewer, the better,” Liu Chengzong replied.

Before he could finish, Zhang Pan raised a hand to cut him off, casting him a sidelong glance. “Don’t flatter me. I’m just a minor clerk. If I started calling you ‘Master Liu’ this and ‘Master Liu’ that, would you grow anxious?”

“It’s nearly the end of April. After harvesting beans and flax, it’s time to sow millet. Without enough hands, how can you cultivate all two thousand seven hundred mu of land? I’ll let you take a hundred people, all seasoned farmhands without children.”

“A hundred? Please, show some mercy and let me take just twenty-seven households of single men. I can find a way to keep them alive,” Liu Chengzong said. “Otherwise, they’ll only return in half a month, and by then, even if they eat all my grain, I won’t be able to keep them alive.”

If he had enough grain, bringing a hundred people back to build up Liu Village would be fine. If there’s any rain in June, the millet could still be sown—three months of hard work would secure enough for winter.

But with insufficient grain, the advantage of having able-bodied laborers vanished, and the disadvantage of their consumption became glaringly obvious.

“Second Liu, I have no intention of harming you. If I could, I’d gladly forgo sending anyone with you—it would cost me nothing. But the prefecture’s orders are absolute. Eighty people, twenty-seven households: you must take eighty, not one less.”

It was not Zhang Pan being harsh. In these times, households were typically large, akin to a modern household registry, often with more than ten members. For example, Liu Chengzong’s own family, lacking elders, was considered small in Yan’an, with just six people. If both Liu brothers had married, there would be at least ten by now.

Even among refugees, it was rare to find a household with only three.

“But I truly cannot support eighty people. And not everyone can be a farmer. Old Temple Village was destroyed by bandits—there are no roofs to sleep under and no tools. We’ll need stonemasons, carpenters, and blacksmiths as well.”

“Craftsmen are not hard to find,” Zhang Pan mused.

“Stonemasons may be difficult. The prefecture is using relief labor to build a glazed tile pagoda in Yanchang County. Any skilled stonemason among the refugees has already been sent there. Other craftsmen can be found, but the numbers must not be reduced.”

Zhang Pan pondered a moment, then said, “Whether you call it Old Temple Village or Liu Village, you’ll start paying the regular taxes next summer. The amount will depend on the harvest. If it rains in June, you pay the autumn tax; if not, you’re exempt.”

“If you find yourself in difficulty, you still have Fourth Master. Better off than most. Three million people across Shaanxi are enduring this drought. Survive one trial at a time, Second Liu. Don’t refuse. Let us weather this together.”

With the conversation reaching this point, even though the numbers exceeded his expectations, Liu Chengzong’s requests had been largely met. Knowing he had no reason to refuse, he relaxed his brows, cupped his hands, and said, “Then I must trouble you to draw up the land contracts and select eighty refugees from twenty-seven households for me to take.”

Zhang Pan’s expression eased. “I was waiting for your agreement. Come!”

Leaving a constable at the external porridge factory to oversee things, he led Liu Chengzong back to the county office, his steps light. The drafting of the land contract went smoothly, as did the process of selecting refugees from the registration records.

Fushi County had done its work thoroughly. Each of the four city gates had a porridge kitchen, where clerks registered refugees and issued wooden tokens for daily porridge collection. This allowed for precise calculation of daily grain usage, minimized corruption and waste, simplified the resettlement process, and helped maintain order among the refugees.

With the records, it took Zhang Pan only moments to draft an official document in triplicate, handing one to Liu Chengzong. He then called a constable: “Find Magistrate Wang’s son-in-law, and have him select the people for Second Liu. Meet me outside the West Gate in an hour.”

Liu Chengzong rose to leave, but Zhang Pan detained him, rubbing his hands. “No rush. I’ve picked out a few carpenters and blacksmiths for you. The refugees are spread across the quarters; it’ll take a good half hour to gather them. It’s cold outside. There’s no urgent business in the registry—sit and wait.”

“The registry isn’t warm either. The prefect said that since Wang Zuogua is making trouble in the south, all clerks must be thrifty, and even the office’s firewood has been taken away…”

Zhang Pan shook his head helplessly, struggling to keep from cursing, and spread his hands. “The prefect’s orders are clear: even if we buy our own firewood, we can’t burn it in the office.”

Liu Chengzong listened politely, smiling. Such matters were easily understood. Human nature is foolish and selfish; lenience for oneself and severity for others is common practice. Equality above, hierarchy below—it’s only natural.

With the prefect’s decree, mid-level officials, wishing to avoid trouble from their subordinates, simply ensured no one lit fires. As for the affairs of others’ offices, only those within knew the true warmth or cold.

Liu Chengzong saw no need to chime in—he simply nodded and smiled.

“You’re a quiet one, Second Liu, much like Fourth Master. Since he transferred here from Mizhi, he’s always stern-faced. If the constables fail in their duties, a single frown from him frightens them half to death—so imposing, just like my uncle.”

Liu Chengzong thought to himself that this was their first meeting, hardly close enough to share family anecdotes. Discussing official business was normal, but once the work was done, Zhang Pan’s conversation turned rambling and aimless, leaving Liu Chengzong unsure how to respond. He considered getting up but thought it impolite, so he could only stare at Zhang Pan.

He had a vague feeling the scribe was speaking in hints.

Noticing his silence, Zhang Pan smiled, stood, and took from the records a folded document, spreading it out on the table. “You, too, have an uncle.”

It was a wanted notice sent to Yan’an Prefecture. There was no portrait, but it listed Cai Zhongpan’s features and accent.

The crime was stated: the murder of eight government soldiers and the theft of two hundred taels of silver—a heinous offense.

Villages and local militia were ordered to be vigilant; informants would be rewarded five mace of silver.

Once Liu Chengzong finished reading, Zhang Pan pushed the document toward him. “Take it. There’s no brazier here, and the stationmaster at Jinming Horse Post is family; Yan’an Prefecture will never receive this notice.”

“But I have a favor to ask of your uncle. I hope you’ll introduce me.”

—

Note: The population figures are based on the “Shaanxi Gazetteer” (Jiajing Year 20), which records an average of 12.9 people per household in Yan’an Prefecture.