Chapter Forty-Six: Where Was the Mistake

Chapter Forty-Six: What Was Wrong

“How could that be?!” Zhang Qian’s head was throbbing, agitated by Ren Quan’s twisted reasoning. He frowned deeply, instinctively protesting. “How could the tenants be as bad as you say? Everyone’s an adult; it’s impossible for all of them to be so heartless!”

“Master Zhang, please, hear me out! In good years, when people’s bellies are full and there’s surplus grain in the granary, of course everyone has a conscience!” Ren Quan, amused yet helpless by Zhang Qian’s innocence, clasped his hands repeatedly. “But the past two years, it’s been late spring chills or relentless rain. Every household’s granary is scraped clean. They struggle for every meal; who still has the leisure for conscience? Steward Cui, today, if he doesn’t kill the chicken to warn the monkeys, I can guarantee that not a single family will pay their outstanding rent. If you don’t believe me, ask Zi Juan!”

“Is it really that bad?” Zhang Qian quickly turned to Zi Juan, sweat beads on his brow glistening under the lamp.

“People must ensure their own family doesn’t starve before they can think of anything else,” Zi Juan stepped forward, tenderly raising her handkerchief to wipe his sweat, explaining carefully. “Your manor is close to the Feng River, with several hills nearby. The land is low-lying. These two years, spring’s been cold and summer’s been overly wet; the fields are waterlogged. Apart from sorghum, other crops can’t yield much. Unlike household servants, tenants have their own land, though not enough, so they lease your fields to farm. They must pay their taxes and corvée to the government on time. After paying taxes and rent, whatever’s left is for their own family. They dare not default on government taxes, but your rent, if their grain is running out, they’ll drag it as long as they can.”

“Are the taxes and corvée that high?” Despite Zi Juan’s gentle touch, Zhang Qian flinched as if the handkerchief pained him.

“If the government gave tenants their full allotment of permanent and household land, it wouldn’t be high.” Realizing Zhang Qian was fresh out of the mountains and knew little of Tang society, Ren Quan switched to a patient tone. “Each adult pays two shi of millet yearly, two and a half zhang of cloth, three jin of hemp for the corvée, and sixty feet of silk in lieu of service. But with the dense population near Chang’an, the government never grants the full land quotas. Yet taxes and corvée are never reduced.” (Note: Permanent and household land were Tang dynasty reforms; by Emperor Xuanzong, population growth and land consolidation made them unsustainable.)

He sighed, shaking his head. “In good years, a diligent tenant can pay taxes and still keep some grain. But with floods every year, there’s little left. If food runs short, they have to rent more land to farm. If even rented land doesn’t yield, some will try underhanded tricks.”

“You mean… the Wang family deliberately withheld rent to keep enough grain for themselves?!” Zhang Qian finally found a footing for his compassion and anger, gently pushing away Zi Juan’s hand and tentatively asking Ren Quan.

If that were so, the Wang family’s actions were understandable. Zhang Qian wasn’t desperate for a few dou of rent, while the Wang family needed grain to survive. Compared, he could afford to take a loss as an act of kindness—perhaps even earn the heavens’ favor and find a passage back to twenty-first-century China.

“It’s not just about keeping grain. The Wang family are former officials. They always hoped their son would earn honors and restore the family name. So, in spring they shamelessly rented twenty more mu, and in summer the men overworked themselves and fell ill. They borrowed grain and copper from the manor for emergencies. After autumn harvest, plus interest, they couldn’t repay. Steward Cui sent people to urge them many times, all to no avail. So, this afternoon he lost his temper…”

“Even so, he shouldn’t have taken their ox—and certainly not their daughter!” Zhang Qian stamped his foot, loudly interrupting, his voice betraying uncertainty.

Life for life, debt for debt—through China’s history, that’s always been true. If Ren Quan’s account was accurate, Steward Cui’s actions weren’t unreasonable. Yet if Zhang Qian admitted Cui was right, he’d soon become “the second Huang Shiren,” with nowhere to run.

In the opera “The White-Haired Girl,” Steward Cui pressures Yang Bailao for debts, and the logic stands: Huang Shiren lent at high interest, and the previous manor owner’s loans weren’t interest-free. Unable to repay, Yang Bailao’s daughter is taken. The Wang family owes Zhang Qian; Cui first thinks of taking their ox, then their daughter!

By Ren Quan’s logic, Steward Cui’s actions, though rough, are unobjectionable. By the same reasoning, the opera’s steward is blameless. If Yang Bailao kills himself over debts, that’s his own choice—not Huang Shiren’s fault.

The alcohol surged again, sweat pouring from Zhang Qian’s head, his ears buzzing with agitation.

Ren Quan’s logic was watertight—yet it clashed violently with the modern moral values ingrained in Zhang Qian for over twenty years.

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As the creditor, Zhang Qian ought to accept Ren Quan’s judgment and not punish Steward Cui, who was only defending his interests. But as a normal person from the twenty-first century, his heart and soul could not accept the logic behind Ren Quan’s words, however impeccable they seemed.

“Master, don’t be angry, please don’t be angry!” Sensing Zhang Qian’s unsettled expression, Zi Juan gave Ren Quan a secret signal, then raised her hand again, worriedly wiping Zhang Qian’s sweat. “The steward shouldn’t have taken the ox, and certainly not the daughter. He went too far, tarnishing your reputation. Dock his pay, but don’t let this ruin your health.”

“More than just too far—he almost made me infamous for generations!” Zhang Qian brushed aside the handkerchief, still growling under his breath. “And this was only because I happened to witness it. If I hadn’t, would he have actually brought someone else’s daughter into the manor? How would the neighbors view me as the manor lord? How would Elder He and Elder Zhang regard me? What if they wrote about this—how could I live in the Tang dynasty?”

Zi Juan dared not retort, backing away to wipe her tears. Ren Quan was dissatisfied but lowered his head, silent.

Seeing their reactions, Zhang Qian grew even more frustrated. He gulped down tea for sobriety, slammed the cup, and continued to growl: “Why are you crying? Don’t you think Wang Erya is pitiful? Her indenture was only returned to you a few days ago and you…”

Suddenly, he recalled that returning Zi Juan’s indenture was only his intention and not yet done. His anger dissipated, and he paced irritably, making his voice softer. “You can’t just focus on debt repayment—don’t you feel Wang Erya is pitiable?”

“She is! To her mother, she’s not even worth an ox!” Zi Juan looked at him through tearful eyes and nodded vigorously.

“Her mother is harsh, but it’s because Steward Cui left her no choice!” Their thoughts were on different tracks, and Zhang Qian, unable to vent his anger, rubbed his hands in frustration.

“She has an older brother. If he helped with the fields, their family wouldn’t be in this plight!” Zi Juan’s reply, though aggrieved, was still on a different wavelength.

“Forget her brother. If you were her, wouldn’t you want to perish with me?” Zhang Qian took a deep breath, forcing himself to appear less menacing.

If even Zi Juan couldn’t be convinced, it meant he was truly wrong. Then he should lift the steward up, comfort him, reward him heavily, and let him continue his work—quickly earning himself the reputation of Tang’s Huang Shiren, until the peasants rose up or the authorities came for his head to appease public anger.

“I’d hate my mother, my brother, Steward Cui, and everyone!” Zi Juan finally grasped his meaning, expressing herself through tears. Yet her next words left Zhang Qian both amused and exasperated. “But now I belong to you, Master. Of course I can’t think only of Wang Erya’s family! This manor is your foundation. Even if I risk your anger, I must protect it and not let outsiders take advantage!”

“You…” Zhang Qian was bitterly disappointed, wishing he could slap the girl awake. Yet seeing her timid face, he forced his arm down, his hand opening and closing uncontrollably.

“Master, I’m dull and don’t know how to handle this. It’s best to wait for my master to return!” Ren Quan, ever shrewd, realized that the more he spoke, the less Zhang Qian could calm down, and decided to delay.

By now, Ren Chong should soon return. He used to manage the manor’s affairs. Steward Cui was originally hired by the Ren family before being transferred to the Zhangs. Once Ren Chong returned, whatever Zhang Qian decided—whether to dismiss Cui or send him back to the Ren family—would be settled with a word. No matter right or wrong, Zhang Qian wouldn’t bear the blame, and the staff and tenants wouldn’t look down on their new manor lord, avoiding further trouble.

“Master, calm yourself. Old Zhang next door admires you greatly. His manor borders ours. If you’re unsure, why not ask him?” Zi Juan, not wanting to provoke Zhang Qian further, wiped her tears and gently suggested shifting the problem elsewhere.

She believed Zhang Qian wouldn’t heed her or Ren Quan because their words carried little weight. But if Old Zhang offered the same advice, it would be different. Her master was too involved, while Old Zhang could see things clearly from outside.

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“Yes, why am I so anxious to settle this?” As soon as Zi Juan spoke, Zhang Qian’s eyes brightened, and most of his frustration evaporated.

He lacked experience and found it hard to align his thinking with those around him. Old Zhang had none of these problems—and they’d felt an instant kinship. Why not seek advice from such a good teacher instead of fumbling alone?

The more he thought, the more Zi Juan’s suggestion seemed sensible and practical. If not for Old Zhang just leaving his house, he would have sent someone with a lantern to consult him immediately.

Yet recalling that Old Zhang had only just left, memories from the earlier banquet replayed in his mind.

Today, host and guests had spoken freely. Realizing he was new to the world, unfamiliar with Tang politics and customs, the three elders had discreetly guided him, even hinting at how to face the current situation.

But whether Sun Anzu, He Zhizhang, or Old Zhang, all had avoided the topic of Steward Cui’s debt collection, ox-seizing, and daughter-snatching, as if it were trivial.

“Could the elders be testing me, to see how a Mohist disciple handles such matters?” A wild thought flashed through Zhang Qian’s mind.

“Impossible!” He laughed, shaking his head. “They simply don’t want to meddle in my family affairs.”

Yet despite his denial, the idea—how a Mohist should handle this—took root, grew, and flourished in his heart, beyond his control.

Outside, only a few seconds had passed, but in his mind ages swept by.

The seed grew into a tree, blossomed, and bore fruit.

The fruit fell, burst open, becoming a bolt of lightning.

“Crack!” It was as if lightning streaked before his eyes, illuminating the world.

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