Once Third was asleep, Cí went back to work in the failing light, sifting through the rubble in search of the red chest. Eventually he gave up, exhausted. Someone must have stolen it.
He collapsed next to his sister with the impossible problem of money on his mind: If it had taken his father six years to save up 100,000 qián, how on earth would he get together the 400,000 that the magistrate was demanding?
7
Before the night was through, Cí was cursing the storm gods again. Woken by a fresh downpour, he checked to make sure Third was staying dry and then ran to try and save what he’d salvaged, hoping he could sell it. Once he’d put it all under the shelter, he considered the assortment of objects: his father’s books, a stone pillow, a couple of iron cooking pots, some singed woolen blankets, a few pieces of clothing, two sickles with charred handles, and a chipped scythe. The whole lot probably wouldn’t fetch more than 2,000 qián at the market. There was Third’s medicine, too. Plus, a sack of rice, another of tea, a jar of salt, and some smoked ham, all of which his mother had bought for Feng’s stay and were probably worth more than the rest put together. These basics would help them survive while he got organized. He’d found 400 qián in coins and an exchange note worth another 5,000; added to the possessions, it might have been worth a little more than 7,000 qián—about the same as a family of eight would earn in two months. He still couldn’t figure out where the savings had gone.
As the sun came up, he had one last search around. He went through the pieces of wood again, pulled aside the pillars, and looked under a bamboo bed base. Nothing. He laughed in desperation.
Until he found Shang’s body, all he’d had to worry about was getting up early; he’d sulked about having to go out plowing again and spent his time yearning to be back at university. But he’d had a roof over his head and his family around him. Now he had only Third and a few bits of loose change. He kicked a beam and thought about his parents. He hadn’t been able to understand his father recently—always an upright man, possibly a little severe, but honest and far more fair than most people. Cí couldn’t help but feel guilty for having been rebellious and for not returning that night.
Finally, after turning over a nest of cockroaches, he gave up on the search and woke Third. She’d barely opened her eyes when she started asking for their mother. While cutting her a strip of the ham, Cí reminded her about their parents’ long journey.
“They’re still watching over you, so you have to make sure you’re good.”
“But where are they?”
“Up behind those clouds,” he said, looking off into the distance. “Quickly, eat up. Otherwise they’ll get angry. You know what father’s like when he gets angry.”
She nodded and took the meat to chew. “The house is still broken,” she said.
“It was such an old house. The one I’ll build will be new and big. But you’ll have to help me, OK?”
Third swallowed, nodding. As Cí buttoned her jacket, she sang the song their mother had sung every morning.
“Five buttons represent the five virtues that a child should aspire to: sweetness, a good heart, respect, thriftiness, and obedience.”
“That wasn’t mother saying that, was it?” asked Cí.
“She just whispered it in my ear,” said Third.
He smiled and kissed her on the cheek. His thoughts turned to the Rice Man, who he thought might hold the answer to their problems.
Raising 400,000 qián wouldn’t be easy, but during the night Cí had come up with an idea that he thought just might work.
Before heading out, he took the copy of the penal code he’d rescued from the debris and consulted the chapters on capital punishment and the commuting of sentences. Once he understood, he made an offering to his parents—a strip of the ham on an improvised altar. When he finished praying for them, he picked up Third and walked with her on his hip to the Rice Man’s ranch. The Rice Man owned the vast majority of the land around the village.
A well-built man covered in tattoos stood at the entrance to the ranch. He looked distinctly unwelcoming, but when Cí told him what he’d come for, the man led them through the gardens and up to a small pavilion that looked out over the rice fields on the mountainside. An old man was resting on a couch, being fanned by a concubine. He looked at Cí disdainfully, but his attitude changed when the guard announced Cí’s intentions.
“Here to sell Lu’s lands? Well, in that case!” The Rice Man offered Cí a seat on the floor. “I am sorry about your family. But you have to understand, that doesn’t change the facts. This is still a difficult time to be doing business.”
Especially for someone in my position.
Cí bowed in response before sending Third off to feed the ducks. Then he sat, careful to appear relaxed. He was prepared.
“Many people speak of your intelligence,” Cí told the Rice Man. “And I have also heard about your head for business.” The old man nodded vainly in agreement. Cí continued, “Doubtless, you think my situation obliges me to undersell my brother’s properties. But I haven’t come to give anything away for free; I know what I have is valuable.”
The old man leaned back. Would he hear Cí out, or send him for a flogging? Eventually he gestured for Cí to carry on.
“I happen to know that Bao-Pao was trying to make a deal with my brother,” Cí lied. “He has been interested in Lu’s property since long before my brother came to own it.”
“I don’t see how this could be of interest to me,” the old man said with contempt. “I’ve got plenty of land as it is—I’d need to make slaves of the people of ten villages to cultivate what I already have.”
“Clearly. And that’s why I’m here, rather than speaking to Bao-Pao.”
“Boy, get to the point, or I’ll have you thrown out.”
“You have far more land than Bao-Pao. You are richer, but he is still more powerful than you. He’s the sergeant. You, sir, with all due respect, are only a landowner.”
The old man grunted. Cí, sensing he was on the right track, went on.
“Everyone in the village knows of Bao-Pao’s interest in the lands. And that Lu refused to sell, time and again, because of a family enmity.”
“Your brother won the lands one night at the tables. Do you think I don’t know this?”
“And my brother refused to sell them for the same reason as the previous owner: the creek passes through his borders, so there’s irrigation even when there isn’t much rain. You own the lower lands, which are supplied by water from the river, but Bao-Pao’s lands are on the higher slopes, so he has to use the pedal pumps for irrigation.”
“Which he can’t use because they pass through my property. And? I have all my land and plenty of access to water, too. Why would I be interested in your miserable little plot?”
“To stop me from selling to Bao-Pao.”
The Rice Man was silent.
“Think about it. The power he already has, plus how much he’d be able to grow if he had access to Lu’s stream…”
The Rice Man seemed to be trying to think of a comeback. He knew Cí was right. How much it was going to cost him was another matter.
“That property is worth nothing to me, boy. If Bao-Pao wants it, he can be my guest.”
He’s bluffing. Keep going.