Chapter Forty-Two: The Damnable Huang Shiren

Chapter Forty-Two: The Damnable Huang Shiren

"Young friend, do you know how to refine medicine?" He Zhizhang, unwilling to let Lu Zangyong's narrow-mindedness dampen everyone's spirits, decisively shifted the topic.

"I've only learned a little from my master, and recently, with nothing else to do, I made some medicine." Having overheard how He Zhizhang and Zhang Ruoxu had previously defended him, Zhang Qian felt not only admiration but also a newfound closeness to these two venerable elders. He explained with a smile, making a promise as he spoke, "This medicine is called Universal Balm, excellent for relieving the intense itchiness from mosquito bites. If you two elders are not in a hurry, perhaps you could walk a bit slower. I’ll have someone fetch some Universal Balm for you to try."

With that, he quickly turned to Ren Quan, instructing him to run back and get the medicine, giving He Zhizhang and Zhang Ruoxu no chance to refuse.

Both He Zhizhang and Zhang Ruoxu had already heard more than once from Sun Anzu about the wonders of the Secret Wind Oil refined by Zhang Qian's master. Now, hearing that Universal Balm was closely related to Wind Oil, able to relieve itching, dissipate bruises, and drive away mosquitoes, and having personally witnessed the effect on Lu Zangyong—whose body odor vanished instantly after application—they felt the medicine was even more precious. Hearing Zhang Qian offer it for free, they were overjoyed and, after a token polite refusal, decided to accept with a smile.

Ren Quan immediately borrowed a mount from Sun Anzu’s attendant and sped back to the estate for the medicine. Zhang Qian, along with He Zhizhang, Zhang Ruoxu, and Sun Anzu, continued their leisurely walk, chatting as they headed out of the hills.

Along the way, the three elders inevitably asked questions about Zhang Qian’s master and lineage. Zhang Qian was well prepared, answering every query flawlessly.

Taking advantage of this rare opportunity, Zhang Qian earnestly sought advice from the three elders about the Tang dynasty’s current institutions, customs, territory, and neighboring countries. He Zhizhang, Zhang Ruoxu, and Sun Anzu appreciated his eagerness to learn and patiently guided him.

Of course, the topic they discussed most, and found greatest common ground in, was their interpretation of Confucian texts.

In terms of deep research into Confucian learning, Zhang Qian could study another twenty years and still not catch up to He Zhizhang and Zhang Ruoxu. But in breadth of experience and vision, the three elders—unscarred by twenty-first century cramming and internet distractions—could never hope to match Zhang Qian.

So, despite their age differences and vastly different backgrounds, the four conversed with remarkable rapport. Unconsciously, they walked out of the hills and onto the plains.

The road beneath their feet gradually widened. Farmhouses dotted the landscape, and the barking of dogs was heard here and there.

As it was already early September by the lunar calendar, all the crops had been harvested, leaving only the yellowed stubble. Near the farmhouses, patches of radishes, chives, and mustard greens still flourished in green profusion.

Looking at the distance to the landlord’s estate where he lived, Zhang Qian realized it was not far. He began to wonder if he might be too forward in inviting He Zhizhang and Zhang Ruoxu to his home for tea on their first meeting. Of course, if they were pleased and casually inscribed a few words, it would be even better—whether he framed them for posterity or passed them down to his descendants, they would be rare treasures.

Just as he hesitated, a cry rang out ahead: "Steward Cui, Steward Cui, I beg you, please don’t take the ox, don’t take our ox! The child’s father is ill and can’t work the fields. We rely on that ox to get by..."

"Stop your wailing, as if we’re bullying you. Ask the villagers—how much grain debt have you borrowed from the estate since spring?" A cold, hard voice followed, as biting as a winter wind. "We offered to let you farm fewer acres in spring, but you refused..."

"Steward Cui, please, please, grant us mercy! Please give us just five more days, no, three days—within three days, we’ll deliver all the rent to the master’s granary!"

"Three days? How many three-day extensions since the harvest? Do you think I don’t know your tricks? The government forbids slaughtering draft oxen, and even selling them requires official registration. So you drag out your debts and unpaid rent, thinking no one can touch you! Let me tell you, I’ve already spoken to the village head..."

"No, it’s a misunderstanding, steward! We’ll pay, we will, just don’t take the ox. If you take the ox, our whole family won’t be able to farm!"

"Where’s your eldest son? Why not have him work the fields? A three-year-old steer can pull eighteen men, and your son’s nearly eighteen himself..."

"He wants to study..."

"Look at you—can’t afford food, but still send your son to school. If every family borrowed grain and didn’t repay, and refused to pay rent, what would the master eat?"

"Our ox, our ox!"

"Let go, let go! If you don’t let go, you'll taste the whip!"

...

Because they were still some distance away, the cries and curses came in fragments. But Zhang Qian could clearly tell it was a wicked steward from a landlord’s house, coming to collect debts and planning to take the tenant’s ox as payment.

"Damn it!" The scene from the opera "The White-Haired Girl" flashed before his eyes, where Xi’er was taken away by Huang Shiren’s steward and thugs. Zhang Qian cursed quietly and strode quickly toward the commotion.

Young people naturally have a sense of justice, and especially now, standing beside two literary giants he admired, Zhang Qian was determined to intervene, even at the risk of offending neighbors.

With a fire burning in his chest, he walked swiftly, soon arriving at the scene. From outside the crowd, he heard a peasant woman sobbing: "Steward Cui, Steward Cui, please have mercy! My child’s father is still sick in bed! If you take our ox, our family will have no way to live next year!"

"Without an ox, have your eldest son pull the plow. The master lets you rent his land—that’s already a great kindness. You refuse to pay rent, refuse to repay debts, and still expect sympathy? If everyone did as you do, the master might as well let the land lie fallow!" The steward’s voice was as sharp as a knife, each word stabbing into her heart. "If others followed your example, why would the master rent land at all?"

"Steward, please don’t take our ox—I’ll kneel to you, kneel to you!" A childish voice pleaded from the crowd, even younger than Ziju, full of fear and despair.

"Let go, girl, or I’ll drag you off to pay the debt!" The steward threatened, with no hint of humanity.

"Steward, mercy, please! Don’t take our ox, I beg you, I beg you! I—I’ll let Er Ya go with you!" The peasant woman, driven to desperation, pleaded and then, catching the steward’s words, continued resolutely, "Don’t take our ox—I’ll give Er Ya to the master. She’s already fourteen, knows how to do everything. Take her now if you wish, let her be a servant from now on, her fate in the master’s hands!"