Chapter 35: Coffins

Though barely three days had passed since he left home, the village atmosphere had changed completely.

On the small mountain path into the village, local braves had set up a checkpoint with spears, lances, and repeating crossbows.

Asked what had happened, no one could say exactly — they only knew that outsiders had entered the village yesterday, and Liu Laoye had sent them to establish several sentry posts on the mountain paths and ridges.

After dropping Yang Dingrui off at home, Liu Chengzong found the place empty — neither his parents nor his elder brother were there. Checking the house and the stable, he saw his brother's armor and warhorse were gone too, which made his heart give a sudden jolt.

He hurriedly settled Yang Dingrui's family into the side rooms, then heard someone stumbling and rushing in through the gate. Going out to look, he saw the little bald kid Shiliu barreling inside with his head down. Liu Chengzong grabbed him by the collar and lifted him up, the short little legs still churning in midair.

"What are you charging off to do in such a rush?"

The little bald kid seemed to wake from a dream only after being lifted. His jujube-shaped eyes narrowed. "Brother Lion's back! The old master's gotten into a shouting match with someone — sent me to get his tobacco pipe."

Get the tobacco pipe?

Liu Chengzong knew his father had a bronze tobacco pipe.

This area was different from the lands north and south of the Wei River. Those parts were prosperous and could afford such novel items; Jingyang was the largest tobacco-cutting and distribution hub in Qin, so people there had access to it.

Northern Shaanxi had thin, poor soil, barely enough for crops. Years ago, tobacco had indeed been widely planted here. At that time, tobacco had just entered the Central Plains, and people believed it had cold-resisting properties, so they sold it to the border garrisons of Yansui, Guyuan, and Gansu.

But since the pay stoppages began a few years back, the soldiers had no money, and tobacco gradually vanished from northern Shaanxi. You could still buy it now, but far less of it.

The old man had no smoking habit. In fact, at this time, most people in northern Shaanxi — including Cao Yao — had no addiction to smoking. At most, it was just a prop.

Hearing that the old man had sent little Shiliu back for his pipe, Liu Chengzong laughed. Setting him down, he asked, "Where's the argument happening?"

Shiliu said, "At Uncle Liu's place. A whole crowd's gathered."

Uncle Liu?

In this village of seventy or eighty households at the foot of Black Dragon King Temple Mountain, everyone was surnamed Liu. Liu Chengzong pressed his lips together, swallowing the frustration of being choked by that answer, and asked, "And what trade does this Uncle Liu ply?"

"His house is full of coffins."

Understood — the coffin-maker's house in Xingping Village.

A coffin-maker, like a pig-slaughterer, bricklayer, traveling physician, matchmaker, oil-presser, weaver, veterinarian, spirit medium, theater troupe, peddler, or tofu-maker, was an essential role in villages and the countryside.

In some places, the coffin-maker's role was filled by a carpenter, but in Xingping Village, because the carpenter had been conscripted for distant labor years ago, there was a separate coffin-maker.

The village elders typically began preparing their own coffins from the age of forty — sooner or later. The ultimate ideal in life was to have a decent house in which to sleep for ten thousand years when their life's road reached its end.

Once purchased, if the family had space, the coffin stayed at home; if not, it was temporarily stored at the coffin-maker's, who maintained and lacquered it every year.

So a household with many coffins was certainly the coffin-maker's.

Hearing that his father was arguing with the coffin-maker, Liu Chengzong stopped worrying. He asked instead, "And my brother? Is he there arguing too?"

"Squad Leader Liu went to find Squad Leader Cao yesterday. Right!"

The little bald kid suddenly remembered something as he spoke and hurriedly added, "The squad leader said, when Brother Lion gets back, go to the ancestral hall. There's an injured outsider at the hall — said you'd know what's going on the moment you see him."

So if Liu Chengzu hadn't been mentioned, Shiliu would have completely forgotten this matter.

Liu Chengzong turned and started walking, stopped after two steps, and waved his hand. "Alright, you go get my father's pipe. I'll head to the coffin-maker's first and go to the ancestral hall later."

Xingping Village wasn't large. A few turns past the gate and the coffin-maker's house came into view. From a distance, Liu Chengzong could see quite a crowd gathered at the door — all elders of the village.

"Elders" here referred not only to age. In the Ming dynasty, they had further responsibilities. The village chief changed every year; what remained constant were the elected village elders.

In Ming-dynasty villages, as long as it wasn't a major crime like murder or rebellion, all minor matters — household disputes, marriage issues, land conflicts, brawls — did not need to be taken all the way to the county seat. They were adjudicated by the local village elders, a weighty responsibility.

Before he even squeezed into the crowd, Liu Chengzong could already hear his father arguing with someone. In truth, this was not a quarrel with the coffin-maker, but a dispute with the village elders.

"At this very moment, where else can we go to cut timber? The bandits are to the north, and we don't know when they might strike. If the bandits kill them, do you think they'll stuff us into coffins?"

Liu Chengzong understood — his father was trying to persuade the village elders to give up their coffins. This made him furrow his brow.

Coffins held immense significance for the elderly. The older a person grew, the more indifferent they became to life and death, caring only about that plot of grave land and that one square coffin after death.

For the past two months, they had been building fortifications on Liujiabian Ridge. The clan brothers had been felling forests for timber and quarrying stone from the mountain. By all accounts, the timber shortage wasn't severe. If they continued this method step by step, by autumn they would have an earthen rampart on the ridge.

From what he understood, the situation had not yet grown so urgent as to require the clan elders to surrender their coffins.

The village elder, leaning on his cane, had already agreed to give up the coffins belonging to those under fifty — since elders over fifty might need their coffins at any time. But his father still refused, insisting that all coffins must be surrendered.

Liu Chengzong, clad in full armor, squeezed his way toward the center of the crowd. Any one of these old men, picked at random, was two and a half times his age. He could only apologize profusely as he pushed through.

Once he reached the center, he asked Liu Xiangyu, "Father, what's happened?"

Liu Xiangyu's face lit up with joy at the sight of his son. He said urgently, "You've come at the perfect time. Old Temple Village to the north has been overrun by bandits. You've been to Old Temple Village — tell the elders here how many people it had and what kind of village it was."

Old Temple Village overrun by bandits?

Liu Chengzong had no time to think carefully. He cupped his hands to the elders around him and said, "Respected elders, I traveled north last month. Old Temple Village had seventy or eighty households, managed by two brothers surnamed Lu. They had a feud with Ding Family Station, so they'd built a stockade wall, and all the able-bodied men had weapons."

"This junior has just returned from Ansai City. On the road at Panlong Creek, I saw severed hands in the river and suspected something had happened upstream. I'd meant to come back, get two horses, and head north to look — I never expected something like this."

"Yes, Ding Family Station, exactly."

Liu Xiangyu took over. "Lu Bin of Old Temple Village escaped with his life. The people of Ding Family Station joined the great bandit Wang Zuogua and massacred Old Temple Village."

"If Old Temple Village, with seventy or eighty households, couldn't stop the bandits, can Xingping Village stop them? We must finish the earthen rampart on the ridge as fast as possible. Forget coffins — I wouldn't hesitate even if we had to tear down our door planks."

Someone said, "Then let's go to the prefectural city and request government troops. If we can't stop them, why build a rampart at all?"

"Requesting government troops is no problem. The officers at Yan'an Garrison are acquaintances, and I expect they won't make supplying grain difficult. But Xingping Village would have to provide for their food, clothing, and expenses — at least a hundred households' worth of men and horses. What's more, if the government troops come and the bandits don't attack, are we supposed to keep supporting them indefinitely? How much surplus grain and fodder does Xingping Village even have?"

"In the final analysis, we must still rely on ourselves."