LW CHAPTER 5

 

Zhou Yuan drove the cart steadily and unhurriedly. In the back were the supplies he had brought from town to repair his house.

Since Chen Qing wasn’t much of a talker, Aunt Sun started chatting with Zhou Yuan instead.
“Will you be starting construction soon? How many rooms are you planning to build?”

Zhou Yuan answered, “Three or four rooms—a kitchen, two bedrooms, a main room, and a toilet.”

Aunt Sun nodded. “That should be enough for you alone. Did you buy this cart yourself?”

Zhou Yuan answered her questions, telling her more than he ever had in front of Aunt Hua.
“Yes, I thought it’d be easier to have a cart for going out and doing farm work.”

While they talked, Chen Qing listened quietly. Eventually, he fell asleep on Aunt Sun’s shoulder, rocked by the motion of the cart.

Zhou Yuan turned to look at him, then quickly looked away.

Aunt Sun said, “Our Qing is a bit withdrawn. If he does something wrong, please be patient with him.”

She knew Chen Qing’s temperament well—he was quiet and reserved. He was painfully shy during big gatherings and often couldn’t read the mood.

Zhou Yuan glanced at Chen Qing again. The young man was fast asleep.
“It’s fine. We’re all from the same village.”

Since she believed they had all returned from the battlefield, Aunt Sun naturally wanted to know more about Meng Tao.

Although Zhou Yuan had told the village chief that Meng Tao had asked him to look after his widowed mother, they had only served in the same army. Zhou Yuan had been assigned to the vanguard camp, while Meng Tao had been in the infantry. Their paths hardly crossed, and Zhou Yuan didn’t really know Meng Tao. He’d said that to reassure them.

The men from the same villages were deliberately assigned to different units to prevent the formation of cliques. Zhou Yuan only helped collect Meng Tao’s body after the battlefield had been cleared. The situation was so chaotic that fallen soldiers could only be buried where they died. Meng Tao was fortunate to have his remains intact. Many others weren’t even that lucky.

However, he couldn’t bring himself to tell Meng Tao’s mother all this.
“We were in the same camp,” he said simply. “But we didn’t interact much during the day.”

Aunt Sun looked at him earnestly, hoping to hear anything about her son from this young man.

“He died bravely in the Battle of Guping Pass two years ago,” Zhou Yuan continued. “That battle was fierce. Both sides suffered heavy losses. Their infantry battalion bought us a lot of time and laid the foundation for our later victory.”

Aunt Sun wiped her tears and whispered, “My son was a brave man.”

Chen Qing felt her shoulder tremble. When he woke up, he saw her dabbing her eyes. He took out a handkerchief he had embroidered himself with the family’s wild goose pattern.

He looked at Zhou Yuan cautiously and moved his lips. Aunt Sun sniffed and explained, “Zhou Yuan told me a little about Taozi in the army.”

Chen Qing carefully lowered his gaze. After a moment, he lifted it again and looked at Zhou Yuan, a hopeful light in his eyes. Even though he’d never met Meng Tao, he still wanted to know more about him.

But Zhou Yuan only glanced at him, then fell silent and focused on the road ahead. Chen Qing waited for a while. When he realized Zhou Yuan didn’t intend to say anything else, he let out a quiet sigh.

On the way back to the village, Chen Qing and Aunt Sun noticed that Zhou Yuan’s planned rebuild was just down the road from their house—so close that they’d practically be neighbors.

Aunt Sun paused, then smiled faintly.
“So we’ll be neighbors in the future.”

Zhou Yuan nodded.
“Yes, by the way, when will the funeral be? As Meng Tao’s comrade-in-arms, I would like to come offer incense.”

“You should, you should.” Aunt Sun had a good impression of Zhou Yuan. He was tall and handsome, and he still carried the sharp aura of the battlefield. She thought that if Taozi had come back alive, he would look much the same.

March 27th was chosen as the proper date for the funeral.

Aunt Sun had already informed the villagers. She wasn’t doing it for the pension money; she only wanted Meng Tao to leave this world with dignity.

The helpers from the neighboring village arrived early. After inspecting the supplies they had prepared, they quickly decided on the size of the funeral feast: one table with three cold dishes, four hot dishes, and a soup—enough to show respect without being excessive. They also prepared a simpler option just in case.

Along with the cooks came hired workers who specialized in funerals. They knew all the rites and customs.

Since the yard was small, they set up the borrowed tables, chairs, and benches along the path outside the gate—five tables in all.

All the women Aunt Sun knew came to help, each bringing something—eggs, white cloth, or whatever else they could spare.

More people would arrive by noon, but the coffin would be buried in the morning.

As Meng Tao’s widow, Chen Qing could decide whether to wear mourning clothes.

According to Luohe Village tradition, widows and surviving husbands could choose whether to wear mourning clothes, as doing so for a deceased spouse might offend any future suitors if they remarried.

Aunt Sun was the only woman in Luohe who had worn mourning clothes for her late husband. Because of that choice, she’d had a huge falling-out with her family and hadn’t spoken to them in years.

Aunt Sun remembered her conversation with Chen Qing the night before as she looked at the mourning robe and headscarf he’d prepared, along with the hemp rope he’d twisted himself.

She tried to stop him.
“Ah Qing, you don’t have to do this. Listen to me. Don’t wear the mourning clothes. You never even met Taozi. There’s no need.”

Chen Qing shook his head.
“I have to, Mother. I think of you as my real mother. If I don’t wear mourning for him, should I ask you to? He won’t rest in peace if he passes like this.”

Aunt Sun tried to persuade him for a long time, but in the end, she had no choice but to let him be. That day, Chen Qing wore plain white mourning garments, a white scarf tied over his hair, and a hemp rope around his waist. He helped the gatekeepers with the funeral preparations.

Meng Tao’s coffin rested in the main room. Chen Qing knelt on a futon. In front of him was a brazier where spirit money burned.

Family and friends were welcome to come burn more paper money and light incense before the procession up the mountain.

However, from morning until the coffin was carried out, no one came to pay their respects.

Chen Qing stared at the brazier and quietly added more paper money. Although they were only married on paper and had never met, he wondered whose grief was heavier—his or Meng Tao’s.

Thinking of it all, Chen Qing began to cry in silent sobs, not loudly. It felt like he was mourning both Meng Tao and himself.

This was the fourth funeral he’d ever arranged.

The first was for his father. The second was for his Little father. The third was for an old woman he’d never met. This had been two years after Chen Qing sold himself into bondage. The trafficker had taken him all over, but no one wanted to buy him. Then, an old woman agreed to take him in and said he would be a husband for her grandson.

She had paid the deposit and even given him a handmade purse. Just as he was about to leave with her, she suddenly fell ill and died.

His status was shameful. Later, he heard the story of that family. The old woman’s son had died young. Her daughter-in-law ran off with someone else, and her only grandson had been conscripted. The old woman hadn’t expected to live long enough to see the boy again, so she wanted to find him a spouse to keep the house.

Chen Qing never normally dared to ask for anything, but this time he begged the trafficker.
“I’ve already accepted her deposit. Can I stay long enough to see her properly buried?”

After weighing the pros and cons, the trafficker reluctantly agreed. Chen Qing spent a day finding her house. With the villagers’ help, he dug her grave and buried her. He spent all his meager savings on firecrackers to set off in front of her tomb.

Before leaving, he went into her small yard. There wasn’t much there—just a few pieces of clothing and some bedding. He didn’t throw them away. Instead, he folded everything and put it in the cupboard, imagining her grandson returning one day. Ultimately, he only took the small purse she had given him before he left with the trafficker.

Remembering all this, a shadow suddenly fell over him. Chen Qing looked up. Tears streamed down his cheeks, splashing onto his white mourning robe. A few drops hung from his chin.

He hadn’t made a sound while crying, but the tears fell endlessly, like beads slipping from a broken string. He saw Zhou Yuan step forward in dark clothing, pick up an incense stick, light it, bow three times, and place it in the censer. Then, he knelt beside Chen Qing and began burning paper money.

Chen Qing reached up to wipe the tears from his chin. Then, he sat up straight and bowed solemnly to Zhou Yuan.

Zhou Yuan’s gaze darkened. Only after burning the last of the spirit money did he quietly leave the hall.

When the auspicious hour arrived, the coffin was sealed. Chen Qing walked at the front of the procession, carrying Meng Tao’s spirit tablet and offerings.

It was a bright day, and somewhere on the mountain, a lone cricket chirped.

Meng Tao’s grave had already been chosen, not far from his father’s resting place. As Chen Qing stepped through the gate, he heard Aunt Sun begin to weep.

He tightened his grip on the tablet and offerings, then continued walking to the edge of the grave. Funeral laborers sang and chanted around him, sprinkling grains and seeds as they worked.

Finally, he watched the pallbearers lower the coffin into the ground and slowly cover it with dirt. One of the laborers beckoned him over to burn incense and paper money.

Afterward, another laborer told him to return by a different path than the one he’d come on. On the way back, he should pick a sprig of cypress and tuck it into his clothes.

Chen Qing was dazed for a moment. When the man urged him again, he finally rose and took an unfamiliar path. He found a cypress branch along the way and stuck it through his belt.

By the time he returned to the Meng family yard, many villagers had gathered. No one came empty-handed—some brought a coin or two, while others brought a few eggs. No one was shameless enough to eat without offering something in return.

Zhou Yuan sat among them, but he didn’t know anyone, and no one approached him. He stayed quietly off to the side.

His hearing, sharpened by years of war, easily picked up on the nearby women gossiping.

“Does Chen Qing really mean to mourn?”

“Yes, he even carried the tablet up the mountain. Does he plan to never remarry?”

“How pitiful. He never even met Meng Tao, did he?”

“Does he want to be like Sun Cui and be alone for the rest of his life?”

“It’s too sad.”

“What if he regrets it later?”

“If he’s in mourning, anyone who takes a liking to him will have to worry about that bad luck. I think it’ll be hard for him to find someone.”

“Besides, just look how short he is! You can tell at a glance that he’s not built to bear children. Why would anyone give up a young, innocent ger or a proper woman to marry a widower who is unlucky?”

Zhou Yuan listened expressionlessly, unaware that the ground beneath his feet was crumbling.

Poor Chen Qing came back, breathing hard. When Aunt Sun saw him, she took the cypress branch from his belt and gently brushed it over him again and again. He didn’t know why she did it, but he stood still and let her.

Somewhere in the mountains, firecrackers went off. Finally, Aunt Sun patted him and said, “Go tell everyone it’s time to eat.”

At the feast, everyone relaxed. They were people who lived off the land. No one would pass up a chance to fill their bellies, and before long, they were practically jostling for a place at the table.

Chen Qing sat on the edge of his seat, his chopsticks untouched. Starting today, he would observe mourning customs: no meat for three months, no colorful clothing for six months, and no long trips for a year.

Once the villagers had left, it was time to settle the accounts.

The coffin had been bought hastily and wasn’t expensive—three taels of silver for the thin wood. The four laborers each received 120 copper coins for their work. 300 coins went to the cooks, and two more taels were spent on meat and vegetables.

Altogether, the funeral cost nearly eight taels of silver.

Meng Tao’s pension had been ten taels.

However, Chen Qing could sense Aunt Sun’s relief, as if she had finally completed the most important task of her life.

Suddenly, Chen Qing felt a quiet panic rising in his chest.

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