Chapter 30: Jiangchuan Hàozi

Two horses harnessed to the cart, their bridles tied with red tassels, hooves shod with brand-new iron, snorted loudly "xī lǜ lǜ," their hooves striking the blue stone pavement with a "zhēng zhēng" sound.

The driver was an old hand long employed by the county yamen, wearing a Fan Yang hat, a blue cloth belt at his waist, his long whip never lightly cracked—it was the dignity of the magistrate; galloping through town and startling the people would never do.

Normally, for official business, there would be runners clearing the way, but this trip wasn't formal, so everything was kept simple: only four attendants in black official robes, carrying batons and broadswords, accompanied them.

Though few in number, first, peace had lasted many years, and bandits were virtually impossible in the Sichuan Basin; second, these men had all trained with Li Pan on the northwestern frontlines—their combat reliability was solid.

In short, in Shu, they were more than sufficiently imposing.

Along the road out of Hejiang County, common folk seeing the black lacquered carriage and the officers' uniforms stepped aside; gentry who spotted them from afar would straighten their robes and bow respectfully.

Lu Beigu sat inside the carriage, listening to the hooves clatter outside and the officers shout—suddenly, he truly understood: this was power made manifest, even if merely the tiniest end of the Song bureaucracy.

Beyond Hejiang County, the official road stretched endlessly along the southern bank of the Yangtze.

Outside the county, Fahwang Temple was now bustling with market laborers① in short shirts, preparing the temple—built in the Former Tang, rebuilt after multiple wars into even more dazzling gold and splendor.

Dozens climbed two rows of ladders to hang a forest of colorful banners, embroidered with Buddhist sutras or auspicious patterns, all made of silk—evidence of Fahwang Temple's wealth.

"It must be nearing Buddha Bathing Festival," Lu Beigu heard someone say outside.

Beyond Fahwang Temple lay the wilds; due to the mingling of Han and Yi peoples, bamboo houses by the water were common, their roofs thickly thatched, eaves hung with cornelian cherries and dried river fish.

Sometimes barefoot women walked along the river, bamboo baskets on their backs filled with freshly gathered wild greens; seeing the official carriage pass, they bowed their heads to yield, yet couldn't help stealing a glance, awed by its grandeur.

Now in late spring, the mountain peach blossoms along the road had mostly faded, scattered pink-white petals clinging to damp moss.

As the cart passed the boundary marker of Hejiang County, it encountered a group of tea traders resting by the roadside, wrapped in oil-treated straw capes, their bamboo packs stacked higher than a man, steaming with a bitter, fragrant aroma.

"Qingming tea—"

The lead tea trader, unafraid of the armed officers, flung his sweat-soaked towel and shouted toward the carriage: "Officer, want some fresh buds?"

Li Pan naturally ignored him; Lu Beigu politely lifted the carriage curtain and waved his hand.

Soon, the carriage and horses rattled on, wheels rolling over the deep ruts in the blue stone, fading into the distance.

Toward Luzhou, the Yangtze branched into many midstream islands; the southern road grew uneven, mountains rising in vast stretches; from the carriage, figures of woodcutters often appeared and vanished in the mist, the clanging of axes mingling with the cries of cuckoos.

The next afternoon, they finally reached the ferry on the southern bank of Luzhou's prefectural city.

Here, they would board a large boat to carry the carriage across to the northern bank, then continue along the official road toward Chengdu Prefecture.

Li Pan watched Lu Beigu, absorbed in reading the borrowed copy of "Li Ji Ju Yu," and said.

"Put the book down for now, get some fresh air—the ferry won't arrive from the other side for a while."

"Yes."

Lu Beigu, immersed in his book, suddenly realized: they had already arrived in Luzhou.

The group gathered at a tea stall by the ferry.

Several women were leading children to pick mulberry leaves; among the tender green leaves, occasional red-jade-like mulberries appeared, making the children tiptoe to reach them.

Lu Beigu took the green dumpling handed to him by the officer, bit through the glutinous skin, and tasted the scent of the wilds—it was rice flour kneaded with juice from tender mugwort gathered just before Qingming, wrapped around toasted walnuts and wild honey.

He had thought such food was unique to Jiangnan; he hadn't expected Sichuan to have it too.

But then again, it made sense—green dumplings originated as one of the cold dishes of the Cold Food Festival in the Former Tang; Bai Juyi had once written in Chang'an: "Cold Food green dumpling shop, spring low on willow branches."

Given how often Tang emperors fled to Shu, it was natural they brought green dumplings with them.

"Hey—zuo! Hey—zuo!"

"What's that?"

Amid the ferry's clamor, the deep, powerful chant pierced the river wind, drawing Lu Beigu's gaze as he bit into his dumpling.

By the riverbank, a wooden boat laden with salt sacks was slowly pulling away from shore.

The hull sat deep in the water, bow cutting through waves, stern helmsman gripping the rudder, while a dozen or more haulers lined the sides, bare-chested and bent low, coarse hemp ropes deeply gouging into their shoulder flesh, leaving dark red scars on their bronze skin.

The lead chanter was a lean old man, voice hoarse yet piercing.

"Rain falls from heaven, ground turns slick—hey zuo!"

"Feet on pebbles, hands claw sand—hey zuo!"

Each time he called, the haulers answered in unison, their steps pounding heavily on the slippery pebble beach.

The chant's words were crude and direct, the haulers' voices uneven, even hoarse and off-key—but their sheer grit struck Lu Beigu to the core.

He saw one man slip and kneel into the shallows, instantly hauled up by a companion's single hand; another's shoulder raw from the rope, spat on the wound, rubbed in mud, and pushed forward again.

"Rope cuts through backbone—hey zuo!"

"Wife and kids wait for rice in the pot—hey zuo!"

River wind, spattered with spray, hit Lu Beigu's face—he suddenly realized the deeper rhythm in the chant wasn't the measured meter of scholar poetry, but the wild surge of the river itself.

The lead chanter stretched his notes, then cut them short; the haulers' responses rose and fell with him, perfectly synced to the rhythm of hauling.

"What did you hear?" Li Pan, also biting into his dumpling, asked vaguely.

Lu Beigu said seriously: "When the long note sounds, they're tensing the rope; the short shout, they're all pushing off the ground at once; at the sudden pause, the rope 'wēng' trembles—and the boat surges forward several feet."

At that moment, the large ferry to carry their cart across arrived.

A one-eyed old boatman from the tea stall came over to urge them aboard; he wasn't in a hurry, first asked for a bowl of tea, then spat out a mouthful of dregs, grinning at Lu Beigu.

"Young man, you caught the rhythm? That's the 'Jiangchuan Hàozi'—the waters upstream from Luzhou are full of hidden reefs; you've got to keep this breath alive just to push forward!"

As he spoke, a whirlpool suddenly surged by the riverbank, and the wooden boat lurched violently.

The ropes snapped taut as straight lines—about to snap!

"Dragon King pulls the sail rope—" the old man's chant rose sharply, nearly breaking.

"Brothers, stake your lives—hey zuo!!!"

The haulers all twisted sideways, bracing against the riverbank rocks, toes digging into crevices, neck veins bulging like earthworms.

The boat rocked violently in the raging waves, then with a "gā zhī" groan, broke free of the whirlpool.

Someone's shoulder had been scraped raw by the rope, blood droplets flung onto the pebbles—moments later, the rising river swallowed them.

——————

A temporary laborer hired in the city.

(End of this chapter)