Chapter 145: Sanlang

Nightmare.

Du Qiao'er felt as though she had lived through a nightmare.

She had just turned sixteen after the new year, born in Fanjia Valley in Yonghe County.

Her family did not farm; they were a well-known musician household in Xi County, their roots traceable back to the era before Prince of Xichuan was re-enfeoffed to Zezhou.

Though Fanjia Valley bore the Fan name, repeated droughts over the years had turned it into a mixed-surname village.

She had three brothers and two elder sisters. The eldest brother, second brother, and eldest sister were all married. Three days ago, the second sister, through the matchmaking of the eldest sister-in-law, had become a concubine to the old Xiucai master in the neighboring village.

Though it was only as a concubine, the whole family was overjoyed. That old master had once tutored a great merchant of Xi Prefecture and was a man of considerable means. With his help, the family could get through this spring, and Du Qiao'er could even be sent to Xi Prefecture to play the pipa.

That old Xiucai master, though advanced in years, was not a bad man. He told the eldest and second brothers that Du Qiao'er was born with fine features and should not rush into marriage — in times like these, marrying into an ordinary family meant a life impossible to endure.

Wait a while longer, he said. When some gentry in Xi Prefecture lost his wife, they could try sending a matchmaker to see about arranging a second marriage.

Just like that, Du Qiao'er, because of this vague and distant prospect of a second marriage, became the hope of her family.

The family could finally see a way forward. Despite their poverty, they scraped together some grain, bought wine and food, and invited a dozen or so relatives and friends, setting two tables to celebrate the happy occasion. Even the second sister came back, wearing her robe with floral-patterned sleeves.

The poorer people are, the more they need such celebrations — how else could they struggle on through a life of bitter misery?

The almanac said that day was an auspicious day, a good day for handling affairs.

Hard as the times were, as a musician household of the estate, the relatives and friends who came at the invitation all wore smiling faces.

The eldest brother said it was because they were musicians — others were always happy to be invited by them.

Du Qiao'er knew it was not because they were musicians, but because every household would see death sooner or later, and her eldest brother was a suona player.

People laughed and made merry. Those old lechers pointed at Du Qiao'er's eldest sister, who was serving water and tea, and remarked that her belly had grown again. Someone who had barely drunk any wine started acting wild.

They were musicians, after all — long accustomed to mockery and ridicule. No one minded, and no one got angry.

As long as everyone was happy, then it truly was an auspicious day.

Halfway through the feast, a great shout came from the north end of the village. The guests scrambled over each other to rush outside and saw a man with disheveled hair, one shoe lost in his flight, charging into the village like a whirlwind, screaming that troops were advancing from Zaowang Mountain to the north and were killing people.

In an instant, the village fell into chaos. Everyone fled home, shut their doors, closed their windows, and extinguished their lamps. Only the two dogs at the grain chief's house kept barking fiercely.

The eldest sister-in-law had married over from Zaowang Mountain, and hearing this she grew frantic with fear. The eldest brother grabbed a club and went out of the village to see. The second brother and the youngest brother wanted to follow, but the eldest brother said there were many womenfolk at home and someone needed to watch over them.

He was gone for two full shichen.

At midnight, the eldest brother returned.

Iron horseshoes hammered heavily on the village dirt road. Through the crack in the door, Du Qiao'er saw her eldest brother at the waist of a cavalryman holding a torch high.

Half his face was a sheet of blood, an eye missing — yet she could still pick out which of the three heads was her eldest brother's.

She did not scream. She only felt as if all the blood in her body had frozen solid.

The butcher, who had been drinking at their home that very evening, had just stepped out his door when an arrow pierced through his throat and nailed him to the door.

A knocking came at the door. The second brother told the women of the house to flee from the back courtyard down the mountain. He himself vaulted over the wall, shouting as he ran. Four or five breaths after he fled, a familiar scream rang out from the south.

They had just started running when the eldest sister's husband, who was ahead, said there were soldiers down the mountain too. They had no choice but to retreat back into the village, heading for the grain chief's house.

Before they could reach the grain chief's house, an old soldier in an iron helmet emerged from the shadows of a courtyard wall and raised his blade, blocking the eldest sister's husband.

It was as if he knew someone would come running this way — the blade came up neither early nor late, and the eldest sister's husband seemed to charge into it neck-first.

The second sister's husband charged forward, grappling with the old banner soldier. Even as his head was pressed into the dirt, he still shouted for them to run.

The second sister's husband was quickly killed as well. The eldest sister, heavy with child, could not run and fell to the ground. She knelt and begged for mercy, but the old banner soldier ignored her entirely, grabbing her by the arm to haul her up. The youngest brother lunged at him and was stabbed once — done.

The eldest sister could not break free. The old banner soldier kicked her, then dragged her backward by the hair.

Du Qiao'er's second sister went mad with terror. Suddenly shrieking, she bolted down the mountain, impossible to stop.

That robe with floral-patterned sleeves was especially conspicuous. Du Qiao'er ran a few steps after her but was ultimately too afraid. She could only watch as that splash of red tumbled down the hillside under the moonlight, falling into the firelight the soldiers below had kindled.

Du Qiao'er did not know where to run. She scrambled into a ditch beside the village and rolled in it, covering herself in filth. She dared not cry or call out. Whenever she heard footsteps approach, she tensed every muscle, her heart pounding wildly in her chest.

The chaotic sounds of the estate street mingled together — someone stepping on and shattering roof tiles, someone falling from a rooftop, someone shouting to capture people. There were cries, sobs, laughter, and screams.

She did not know how much time passed. Gradually, these sounds faded. Suddenly, not far away, someone called out in a low voice: "Qiao Niang?"

For a moment, the hairs on her body stood on end. A short while later, the voice called low again: "Qiao Niang?"

Du Qiao'er timidly raised her head to look, and only then did she breathe a sigh of relief.

It was the neighbor's son from the estate, a few years older than her.

They had often played together as children. He always rode a wooden horse and made people call him General, but later, when he grew up, he apprenticed with his father as a carpenter.

The year before last, when drought struck, he went to Ningwu Pass to earn his keep as a soldier.

Du Qiao'er's impression of him had faded. She only remembered that he loved to laugh.

He laughed at good things and laughed at bad things too. When he laughed, his eyes curved like crescent moons.

She heard from neighbors that before he left home to join the army, he had waited outside her house for a whole day. But, as it happened, that day was the winter solstice, and she had gone with her parents to Xi Prefecture to welcome the gods and play wind and drum music for the festival. By the time she returned, this brother had already gone off to war.

Du Qiao'er was, however, very familiar with his mother — a kindly old woman who, despite her poverty, was happy to help others and had no flaw aside from a fondness for boasting.

The old woman was always very proud when she gave grain to the widows and orphans of the estate.

She always said that her Sanlang had killed the northern caitiff Tartars beyond the pass, and the imperial court would reward him with silver. She had to accumulate virtue so that her son could become a general.

Were the northern caitiff Tartars so easy to kill? She was always boasting.

When the old woman passed away, Du Qiao'er wept and thought to herself: she was always boasting.

If it were not boasting, why would the old doctor of the estate say she had starved to death?

The imperial court would not fail to give reward silver to a hero who killed the northern caitiff Tartars.

Before the new year this year, her son came back. But the people of the estate did not welcome him, and he did not welcome them either. He stayed in his empty house and always wore a sullen face when he went out — if he was not off buying wine, he was drunk.

Du Qiao'er was, from the bottom of her heart, terrified of drunk people.

Especially this man, whose left hand, the one that held the wine pot, had only two fingers.

Some in the estate said his fingers had been crushed under a horse's hoof, that he had followed the Regional Commander into Juyong Pass to reinforce the capital and fight the eastern caitiffs — one of the finest heroes in all of Shanxi.

But others said he was a deserter, that the matter had spread all across Xi Prefecture: the Shanxi troops who went to the capital to reinforce the emperor had all mutinied — every last one of them a deserter.

They said he must have turned bandit — where else would the money come from to buy wine every day?

Talk was talk. The old folks in the village had watched him grow up; even if they thought he'd turned bandit, no one went to report him to the officials.

Anyway… anyway, even if they did report him, the yamen offered no reward silver.

Du Qiao'er straightened up from the ditch, bent at the waist, looking at this childhood playmate both familiar and strange. Under the moonlight, he was covered in blood with a blade in his hand, and she dared not answer him.

"Who's there!"

Someone came running at the sound. She heard the snap of a bowstring; the neighbor's elder brother raised his blade and slashed the arrow aside, then charged into the alley with his saber.

In a few moments, several screams rang out. He turned and came back out, blade in hand, even more blood on him now, looking left and right as he called in a low voice, "Qiaoniang?"

Du Qiao'er was stunned. The old woman hadn't been boasting.

Her son really could kill the northern Tartar caitiffs.

Du Qiao'er climbed out of the water channel and timidly called, "Brother."

Sanlang was first startled that she'd been right there in the channel beside him, then his face broke into a relieved smile. Immediately after, he warily scanned his surroundings before saying, "Follow me!"

They climbed the wall into the old woman's home. The courtyard was utterly dilapidated, piled high with empty wine jars.

Sanlang lowered her into the well, telling her not to be afraid. "I knew thieves would come sooner or later. I dug a hole in the well — there's water and food. Don't make a sound. If I don't call you, don't come out."

Du Qiao'er clutched the well rope tightly, terrified of falling. "What about you?"

"I'll be fine. Hurry down."

The windlass creaked and turned; the well rope dropped foot by foot. The moonlight overhead grew farther and farther away. Du Qiao'er entered the bottomless well.

Not far down, the rope stopped descending. From above came Sanlang's hollow, echoing warning: "Feel along the wall. Climb in carefully."

Du Qiao'er groped along the well wall and soon found that some bricks had been removed, revealing a small cavity just big enough to hide a person. Inside were several frontier-army leather waterskins and a few parcels wrapped tight as bricks.

Thinking of her elder brother, elder sister, and little brother, an unstoppable sorrow welled up in her heart. It made her slowly shift her body to the opening, tilting her head back to stare at the sky above the well with wide eyes.

She shouldn't have looked. The moment she did, she heard the intermittent screams and sobbing drifting in from outside the well, and the sorrow only deepened.

She thought of this and that — of the neighbor's old mother, of all those relatives and friends who'd attended that humble feast, and of the pipa she'd left at home.

She thought, and thought about why the neighbor's elder brother had gone out from the house.

Thought of the words he'd wanted to say to her but never did, the day he left to join the army.

She unwrapped one of the brick parcels and tasted it. Mm — not bricks, but fried-flour bricks. Mixed with tears, the saltiness was just right.

That night, startled and terrified and weary and exhausted, Qiaoniang fell asleep clutching several bricks.

She didn't know how long she slept. In her dream it was the Lantern Festival, the fifteenth of the first month: common folk draped in red and hung with colors carried the god statues through the great streets and small lanes. Her eldest brother blew the suona, her eldest sister beat the gongs and drums, and someone called her to play the pipa for the magistrate.

Suddenly the sound changed, jolting her awake. From above the well, the neighbor's Sanlang was calling: "Qiaoniang, Qiaoniang, climb up now."

When she looked up again, the sky outside the well had already brightened.

The well rope turned with far more effort than it had in the night. Qiaoniang wanted to pull herself up too, but she couldn't climb. In the end, it was the rope that hauled her back into the light of day.

The village had fallen silent. Black ash from the burning drifted on the wind; the air was thick with the clinging stench of scorched flesh that could not escape.

There was another corpse in the courtyard, face-up, killed by a blade. The neighbor's Sanlang sat slumped by the well, head bowed, blood from his body running onto the ground. The bloodstains had already dried, dragging several long trails across the courtyard all the way into the house.

"Brother, where are you hurt?"

He raised his head. A broken-off arrow was lodged in his collarbone; the chest of his clothes had been slashed open. Pressing his pale lips together, he shook his head, then used his waist saber as a staff to stand again, swaying before he steadied himself.

He walked toward the house, and Du Qiao'er followed.

In the main hall piled with wine jars lay another corpse. Sanlang told her to go inside and change clothes — there were clothes he'd worn as a child, which the old woman had kept immaculately, washed spotlessly clean.

When she walked back out, Sanlang, seated on a wine jar, smiled. The corners of his curved eyes seemed to glow. "Pretty," he said.

On the table was a neatly tied blue cloth bundle. Sanlang told her to put it on her back. Qiaoniang didn't know what was inside; she only felt that it was very heavy.

So heavy she didn't much want to carry it, but Sanlang paid no mind, only slowly walking out.

The bandits in the village had already gone. The streets were strewn with corpses. Some houses had burned to ruins; others still had fires that hadn't gone out.

Passing an open doorway, she saw her eldest sister lying naked on the table in the main hall, her belly ripped open, entrails spilled.

Sanlang wouldn't let her look. He firmly pulled her along out of the village.

They walked toward the burial ground. Sanlang walked slower and slower; his clothes were dripping blood onto the ground again.

They walked all the way to the place where the villagers had helped bury the old woman after she died. The stench of scorched flesh in their nostrils was gone now, and the black ash in the air had vanished without a trace.

The wooden grave marker was long gone, but several wine urns had been placed beside it — it could still be recognized.

Sanlang knelt on the ground. Even bracing on his saber, he couldn't stand again, so he simply sat down and wiped the blade with his clothes, carefully studying the characters inscribed on the blade — "Made in the sixth year of Tianqi at Ningwu Pass" — before sheathing it.

Then he pushed the waist saber and the unstrung bow toward her together. As he dug into the grave mound with his bare hands, he said, "Put on the leather belt and wear the saber. This is a good bow, but you can't draw it or string it. Later, if you see — if you see someone who can use it, sell it."

Du Qiao'er's lips quivered. Her whole body had no strength left; her mind had been devoured by monsters. She could say nothing at all.

Sanlang kept digging, his hands covered in mud, until he unearthed a gold bangle from the grave mound, and silver ingots too.

He turned his head, holding out the gold bangle and silver ingots to her. Du Qiao'er instinctively stepped back, but then she saw an immense sorrow well up on his face. "Qiaoniang, I'm no deserter. I killed northern Tartar caitiffs for the court, and I killed eastern Tartar caitiffs for the court too. These are what they plundered. I — I wouldn't lie to you."

Du Qiao'er's vision blurred completely; she could see nothing at all. She could only nod forcefully, tears at the corners of her lips, each nod heavier than the last. "Qiaoniang knows. Qiaoniang knows Brother is no deserter."

The gold bangle and silver ingots were pressed into her hands. Sanlang's hand touched hers and withdrew instantly, as if she had burned him — yet she clearly felt that hand held not a trace of warmth; it should have been her who was frozen by it.

He instructed her: "In the bundle there's a change of clothes, and replacements if your shoes wear out. There's also a merit badge from the imperial reinforcement campaign — not much use, but… keep it."

Sanlang spoke slower and slower, yet more and more carefully: "Cut your hair short and bind it with a headscarf. When you go out, don't say you're a woman. If anyone tries to rob you, give them the bangle. If it really comes to it, you can give the silver ingots too."

"Also, hidden in the change of clothes is one tael of silver — it was the pay for last year's first month, issued by the Ministry of War in the twelfth month. I wanted to bring it back for Mother. I came back too late."

He could no longer sit upright. His body slowly leaned against the grave mound, and an unprecedented weakness showed on his face. Transparent tears trickled slowly from the corners of his eyes. He said, "Qiaoniang, I'm going to die."

Before Du Qiao'er could step forward and say anything, Sanlang covered his left hand — the one with the severed finger — with his right, and pleaded urgently and rapidly: "Go, quickly. I don't want you to watch me die. Go quickly now. I — I'm going to be with Mother."

Du Qiao'er didn't want to go. She walked forward step by step, but just then, Sanlang suddenly found strength from somewhere, quickly sitting upright, sitting very straight — it startled her.

"Qiaoniang, I… you…" Sanlang smiled once more, but in the end, he still stopped himself. "Live well."