Chapter 32 The Road Construction Begins

This time, the third branch didn’t interfere at all. Wang Zhu, young as he was, refused to learn and was punished by Old Wang to carry water for a month. Moreover, during this period, he had to set aside half of his supper at every meal to compensate Wang Ge. Only in this way could the boy learn not to do unto others what he would not have done to himself.

Though Yao’s outburst was out of concern for her son’s safety, her disrespect to her elders was undeniable.

Old Madam Jia gave Yao two choices: either return to her mother’s home to reflect on her behavior, making it known to the villagers that this new wife loved to stir up trouble and disrupt the household’s peace; or, she must solemnly apologize to the first and second branches and cook breakfast for her niece Ge for a whole month.

Convicted of disrespecting her elders, how could Yao dare accept such a charge? She immediately began weeping before Wang Dalang, slapping herself with each sob: “Please, elder brother, forgive me. It’s all my fault for failing to discipline my son. If he was hungry, he should have borne it, not stolen his cousin’s cake. It’s all my fault for turning a small matter over half a cake into a great scandal! All my fault, all my fault…”

Wang Dalang trembled in his anger—what kind of apology was this? She was clearly blaming Ge for making a big deal out of nothing!

Wang Ge wrapped her right arm around her little brother, her left hand gently resting on her father’s clenched fist, and said to Yao, “As a junior, I dare not argue with my aunt, but my father cannot be hurt without reason. There must be an explanation.”

“What—what kind of explanation do you want?” Yao sensed trouble.

“Twenty coins in compensation. I must buy medicine for my father.”

“Compensation…” Compensation? Yao’s face twisted in pain. If she’d known, she wouldn’t have purposely scratched the blind Wang.

When Wang Zhu heard they’d have to pay, he hurriedly pleaded, “Uncle, it’s all my fault, all of it…”

Yao snapped, “Shut up! What business is it of a brat like you when adults are speaking!” When she said “brat,” she glared at Wang Ge, knowing her niece’s temperament—once she brought up money, she would never let go!

“Fine, twenty coins it is.” She ground the words out between clenched teeth, no longer wasting words with the eldest branch, and looked to Wang Erlang. At a glance, her heart quailed: she truly hadn’t meant to scratch her second elder brother so hard—since when did his face look like it had been raked with a comb?

Little Jia and her son stood by, shooting daggers with their eyes.

“Second elder brother, sister-in-law, why don’t… you hit me back?” Yao realized slapping herself was pointless—better to leave it for Little Jia, lest she suffer twice.

Inspired by his niece, Wang Erlang—who had been rubbing his knees in agitation—immediately said, “Thirty coins! Thirty coins in compensation, I’ll buy medicine!”

Wang Ge thought… Second Uncle is honest after all!

Yao replied, “Fine, I’ll pay, I’ll pay! But what if outsiders see Second Elder Brother’s wounds?”

She turned in fear to Old Madam Jia, “Aunt, you must think of a way! If the villagers see Second Elder Brother’s face covered in wounds, who knows what wild rumors they’ll spread. It’ll disgrace the whole Wang household.”

Old Madam Jia slammed the table in fury: “Erlang’s face is scratched like a rake! How can we cover that up? Foolish woman—now you know shame? Now you know you’ve disgraced the whole family?!”

Yao hung her head and sobbed.

Wang Erlang spent his days farming or cutting bamboo in the hills. Even with his hat pulled low, word of his injuries spread through the village. But as the family head did not complain, the neighbors only joked for a few days, and the matter faded—after all, every household had its share of squabbles.

In June, when the crops were growing strong, the weather was odd—clearly not as hot as the previous year. Old Wang’s back ailment was entirely cured, and he returned to the terraced fields, leaving Yao and Little Jia with even fewer chances to be lazy.

The peddler’s collection day was set for one day between the fifteenth and twentieth of each month. On the thirteenth, Wang Ge finally completed her third product—a window mat, woven from alternating green and yellow bamboo strips.

At supper, Wang Shu said to Wang Ge, “Cousin, our village is really going to build a road.”

Wang Ge was startled, then quickly understood. “Has it already started?”

“Yes.” Wang Shu nodded happily. Their courtyard faced the east-west road, and a hundred steps away lay the north-south road. When the road was finished, not even rainy days would deter travel.

Talking about the road, Wang He was the most excited, for once not quarreling with Wang Ge. He picked up the topic: “You all never go out, you don’t know—a whole crowd of people have come! First, they measured the width, then dug ditches on both sides, piling the earth up into heaps that look like tall graves…”

Wang Erlang interrupted with a “tsk,” “Don’t talk nonsense, those are just earth mounds.”

Wang He continued, “There are lots of mounds! I heard the people digging ditches and mixing lime, those doing the heavy work, are called convict laborers—they’re all criminals. Only those driving carts and directing others are local militia. If only I could be in the militia—how grand that would be!”

No one took Wang He’s aspiration seriously.

In the Great Jin, local militia had to be sons of military households, a different status from self-sufficient farmers. The military household status was hereditary—generation after generation served as soldiers and were exempt from other corvée duties, receiving a small allotment of farmland from the court, untaxed.

This system was reformed in the reign of Emperor Cheng, neither as harsh as the original Jin “hereditary soldier system,” nor quite the “fu-bing” system of the Sui and Tang, but combining the advantages of both and discarding their flaws. Wang Ge sighed anew—if only Emperor Cheng had lived a little longer.

As the children talked excitedly, Yao was making a request of Old Madam Jia. “Zhang’s fourth son’s wife is returning to Shatun tomorrow. I have something to send to my mother’s house. Since she’s leaving late, may I go to the fields a bit later tomorrow?”

“Fine,” Old Madam Jia replied carelessly. With this lazy woman, early or late made little difference.

Yao considered, then added, “Or perhaps I could swap with Ge for tomorrow? Just for a day. If Sister Sun doesn’t leave till noon, it will look like I’m being lazy on purpose.”

“Discuss it with Ge yourself,” Old Madam Jia said.

The fields were indeed busy. The wheat was drying, the flax already harvested, the pods split open—every three days the threshing had to be done. The sheltering straw sheds needed reinforcement and repair; if it clouded over, the wheat and flax had to be rushed under cover. Wang Ge knew all this and agreed at once when Yao suggested the switch.

The next day, Yao had a headache and swayed as she walked. Wang Sanlang had to stay home to look after his wife and only head to the fields once she felt better.

As the others left, Old Madam Jia shook her head in disdain. “That lazy woman is always making trouble!”

Wang Ge, however, understood Yao’s old problem: every month, at the onset, she suffered headaches—a symptom of menstrual pain.

Wang Xing came running out. “Grandfather, Grandmother, I want to go with you! I want to see the roadworks.”

Old Wang, of course, agreed.

Wang Xing, his little face turned up, explained to Wang Ge, “Third Uncle told me he won’t go out till noon. He can look after Father and the little ones.”

“All right, I understand.” Wang Ge smiled, taking her brother’s hand.

Before long, a strange, unpleasant odor filled the air. The further west they went, the stronger it became. Soon, they saw heaps of earth, great cauldrons set over fires, clusters of crude straw huts, and countless workers moving between mounds, cauldrons, and shelters.

The convict laborers digging the ditches were drenched in sweat—they must have started before dawn. Donkeys and mules crowded the road, making traffic impossible. Villagers took a newly opened narrow path. Every passerby stared and gossiped, and even the militia sometimes had to use this narrow way, shouting constantly for people to clear the path.

Little Xing walked with his mouth half open, eyes wide with amazement. Wang He squeezed up beside Wang Ge with a look of “See? I told you so.”

Wang Ge was indeed impressed and paused to observe.

The cauldron—called a “huo”—was essentially a legless tripod, an ancient cooking vessel. There were nine in all, each enormous, easily capable of holding a whole ox. Each had two handles, with a thick iron rod suspended above, its ends resting on temporary scaffold-walls. Iron hooks dangled from each end, hooking onto the cauldron handles to suspend them over roaring fires. The outer side of the scaffold had steps; the inner, a curved surface to keep the flames from leaping up. The top was flat, allowing at least four people to stand there. The convict laborers climbed up the steps, wielding huge shovels to stir the black, viscous contents with great effort.

This work was even harder than ditch-digging.

The militia herded the onlookers away, and Wang Ge quickly dragged Xing along, asking in wonder, “Grandfather, what are they roasting in those cauldrons?”