Chapter Fifty-Four: The Earth of Guanyin

The front line, swept by arrows and bullets, was littered with the wounded, their cries and writhing bodies scattered across the field. Liu Chengzong charged out of the smoke and chaos, managing to cut down a few enemies before the fighting abruptly ended.

There were indeed many bandits, yet in truth, not even a third were as skilled as those under the White Hawk. The bandits fled faster than he could pursue; by the time he led his cavalry from the haze, those who could be shot had already fallen, and the rest had scattered in all directions. Their speed was astonishing—one would never guess they were on the verge of starvation.

He could only curse his parents for not giving him four extra wheels and an engine.

The bandit chief had already fled before the others; if not for stumbling over a ridge between the fields, Liu Chengzong would have lost him entirely. It was hard to imagine someone in full armor darting away like a rabbit. That very stumble, however, saved the bandit from Liu Chengzong’s armor-piercing arrow. Yet, for that trivial mistake, the honor of the kill was snatched by a comrade.

Red Banner.

A few of the chief’s remaining men were already being hunted down by Gao Xian and the others. Liu Chengzong was preparing to cross the ridge with his mount and capture the chief alive. Unexpectedly, the bandit chief had fallen hard and rose slowly; as he staggered to his feet to flee, Red Banner trampled him to death in a single stride. The horseshoe struck the back of his skull, crushing half his head into the earth. The sight, when Liu Chengzong retrieved the helmet, was enough to make him retch.

Yet the helmet itself was excellent; the man had died, but the helmet was intact, only bearing the imprint of a horseshoe at the back. While stripping the helmet and armor, Liu Chengzong also seized a captive—a young man in a scholar’s robe, collapsed with fear, unable to move his legs. He had no weapon, only waving a huqin and screaming incoherently.

He posed no threat, so Liu Chengzong simply threw a cloak over him and bound him up.

Worried that the bandits might regroup after dispersing, Liu Chengzu led the village militia and able women, armed with spears and crossbows, in a sweep through the valley, driving the bandits out of the mountains with as little killing as possible.

The battle itself was brief, but the aftermath—the cleaning of the field—took until dusk to complete.

On his way back with the captive, Liu Chengzong encountered Little Sixteen. The bald child had come out at some point and was squatting beside the fat corpse, poking the stiff belly with a small stick. The boy smiled and said, "Brother Lion, have you seen a belly like this? My father’s was the same—he was very powerful."

The innocent words stung Liu Chengzong. He knew this kind of belly—it was common among famine victims.

It was the aftereffect of eating too much clay.

There was a vast distance between eating food and eating earth, a distance wide enough to let a person destined to starve live for several more months.

Kaolin, known as Guanyin Clay, was plentiful in northern Shaanxi. The name was not meant as irony; it wasn’t about eating dirt to see Guanyin sooner. When grain ran out, people would do anything to fill their stomachs—gathering wild greens, stripping bark, and when nothing else was left, mixing clay with chopped greens and bark, shaping it into cakes, and steaming them over the fire.

People ate it not because they wished to die, but because, for a while, it could keep them alive.

But kaolin was indigestible. In small amounts, it could be expelled with effort, but eat too much and it would block the bowels—resulting in bellies like this.

These starving refugees had stormed Heilong Mountain, cutting unripe millet with sickles and stuffing it in their mouths—they had long since lost their reason to hunger.

The village militia had won easily, and the gloom of the massacre at Laomiao Village should have lifted. But the bloodstained field gave them no joy.

Tenant Shi Wanzhong sat on the ridge, covered in blood, eyes glazed. His wife ran from the village after the fight, collapsed in the ruined millet field, sobbing into her hands and cursing the heavens, crying she’d rather be dead.

The millet in the field would have ripened in another month, but now it never would. The rents were lost. The summer tax, too, was lost.

At home, Liu Chengzong’s father sat grim and silent in the hall, interrogating the captive kneeling on the floor.

The prisoner's name was Song Shouzhen, a native of Yijun to the south, not a scholar but a musician. This band was not the same that had slaughtered Laomiao Village; they had come from the south, subordinates of King Wang Er of Baishui. Not long ago, Wang Er had been killed by government troops at Shangluo, and thousands of his followers scattered. This group continued fleeing north, gathering hundreds along the way. Two days before, they reached Yan’an, heard amid the refugees about the 2,700 acres bought on Heilong Mountain by a dismissed official, and decided to rob the estate.

Liu Xiangyu felt a wave of dizziness and, steadying himself, said bitterly, “Your ancestors were loyal and virtuous. Why have you done this… ah!”

“Loyal and virtuous? If I were truly of loyal descent, the only way I’d be allowed to wear a long—ow!” Song Shouzhen hadn’t finished before Liu Chengzong kicked him to the ground. “Talk back again and you’ll die.”

Worried for his father, Liu Chengzong ordered Guo Zhasi, who carried an iron hook, to guard the captive. He then helped Liu Xiangyu up. “Father, you’ve worked all day—go inside and rest. Let me question him.”

He knew Song Shouzhen’s lineage well—everyone did. In Shaanxi and Shanxi, the musicians all descended from loyalists who had supported the Jianwen Emperor during the Yongle Emperor’s usurpation. Relegated to the lowest social register, forbidden to take the imperial exams, condemned for generations to prostitution and servitude, they were never to rise again.

Liu Xiangyu looked truly exhausted. He offered no argument, allowing his son to support him into the inner chamber, where he sat by the couch and sighed heavily.

Liu Chengzong was about to leave when he heard his father call softly, “Chengzong…” Turning, he saw his father hesitate, words unsaid.

Liu Chengzong nodded. “Don’t worry, Father, get some rest—I know what to do.”

He read deep worry in his father’s face.

From May to August the summer tax would be due, but Heilong Mountain’s harvest was ruined. This crisis would be hard to overcome.

Leaving the inner rooms, he found his elder brother Chengzu and cousin Chengyun in the hall; Cao Yao, Gao Xian, and the other border guards were outside cleaning their armor and washing their faces.

“Is Father all right?”

Liu Chengzong shook his head. “He’s fine. There’s too much on Heilong Mountain—I was afraid he’d faint. From here, it’s up to us brothers. Were there casualties among the militia?”

Chengzu looked weary. “The coffin maker’s only son is dead—his line ends. Uncle Xiangliang’s youngest boy’s guts were spilled—I doubt he’ll live. A few more wounded, Master Yang is treating them.”

“Have the bandits’ bodies been cleared?”

“They’re being hauled up North Mountain—forty-six corpses. Two big pits will need digging until dark, then we’ll come back to wash off the blood and dig more.”

Chengzu sighed. “What now? I have no idea. I wanted to ask Father.”

“Don’t ask. Call all the women and children from the fields back to the village and keep them in at night. Leave the corpses by the pits, don’t bury them yet. Have two cartloads of lime brought from the brick kiln. Chengyun’s good with numbers—before dark, run through the fields and tally up each household’s losses.”

Liu Chengzong took a deep breath, turning to Cao Yao, Gao Xian, and Tian Shoujing, extending his hand. “Brothers, lend me your wrist-knives.”

Everyone understood what he meant.

Chengzu said, “Chengzong, they’re all starving peasants too—they don’t deserve to be left in pieces.”

“Not kin, not friends—enemies or allies, what difference does it make? Am I made of stone? If you ask me, they shouldn’t have died—but should we die instead?”

Accepting the wrist-knife from Cao Yao, Liu Chengzong said, “The living and the dead—which weighs more? I only know they were bandits. Their heads will fetch a reward at the county office. If there’s punishment from heaven, let the officials answer for it. I’ll take their heads myself.”