Chapter 10

During the twelfth month, everyone prepared for the new year, cleaning and stocking up. The first month was New Year, visiting relatives and friends. Winter month was comparatively quiet.

Grain was already stored, and there was no intense farm work—just caring for animals and simple field chores.

Not exactly leisure, though. Farming families always had something to keep them busy; unlike urban households, true idleness was rare.

After breakfast, Qin Xiaoman chopped the pig grass and cooked feed while Du Heng roasted chestnuts nearby.

“There’s quite a lot of chestnuts. Once roasted, we can send some to Second Uncle,” Qin Xiaoman suggested.

Du Heng scooped up the now-crisp shells.

“Good idea,” Qin Xiaoman agreed. “You can deliver them. I’m heading up the hill.”

Du Heng lowered his eyes, looking at him from the stove. “Up the hill again today?”

“Yes. I noticed lots of firewood on our hill yesterday. The trees struck by lightning in summer have dried up. I’m bringing it back before someone else takes it.”

In winter, people often scoured the hills for firewood. Public hills were limited, and everyone wanted wood for warmth. If there wasn’t enough on the hill, they’d look for private plots.

Qin Xiaoman had always thought private hills were safe, yet his wood had been stolen multiple times. Observant neighbors checked for unused wood on others’ plots and took it at night.

Du Heng had only ever heard of people stealing grain or vegetables, but never of stealing firewood.

“You were a young master before, so you wouldn’t have known these things,” Qin Xiaoman said.

“Even though firewood isn’t rare—you see it everywhere—every hill or plot of land has an owner. You can’t just take it because you spot it. Cooking and boiling water needs firewood daily, and in winter, it’s used for heating too. A single bundle could sell for over ten coins in town.”

“Valuable things attract attention. Our Qin family is one of the largest in the village, so we have a private hill. Without that, just relying on public hills, there wouldn’t even be enough for cooking.”

“Not every family in the village has a private hill. Newly settled families or refugees have none. If they don’t have enough, they have to buy it—but that costs money. Poor families can’t afford it, so at night, they sneak onto other people’s hills to take firewood.”

Du Heng listened intently. He had heard of poor people in this era not even having a piece of land to be buried in, forced to live among other people’s mountains and rivers. It was enough to make one sigh at the hopelessness of the poor.

“We have plenty of firewood stored. I’ll gather what’s on our hill too. If someone wants to buy, we can sell it cheaper to neighbors. If not, I’ll just take it to the county town,” Qin Xiaoman said.

“Then I’ll use the money to buy two fish for soup. Our salt is running low too; I’ll get some of that,” he added.

Du Heng thought it would be hard work, but at least there was a way to earn some money—a better option than nothing.

He also wanted to earn money—not just for his foot treatment but also because he felt awkward constantly relying on Qin Xiaoman’s resources. But for now, there weren’t many options.

“I was going to have you show me the fields today. If the house runs out of vegetables, I can pick some myself,” Du Heng said.

Qin Xiaoman relaxed. “Alright, then. When I head out, you come with me. I’ll show you around before I go up the hill. The fields are that way—no need to take a roundabout path.”

“Okay.”

Du Heng packed half a basket of chestnuts for Qin Xiaoman, along with the two large sweet potatoes Qin Xiaoman had hidden in the stove, and wrapped them up in the basket for lunch on the hill.

The two first brought the chestnuts to Qin Xiong’s house. Qin Xiaoman was quick and light on his feet, while Du Heng, with his limp, moved slowly. Qin Xiaoman would often turn back to wait for him. What should have been a half-minute walk took them a full minute.

With fair weather, people usually left their courtyard gates open. Qin Xiong’s family had many members, including three grown men working outside, so Li Wanjü and Qin Xiaozhu were relatively idle. Most of the time, they lingered around the house rather than working in the fields.

“Second Uncle, I’m here.”

Qin Xiaoman entered the yard directly. Someone came out upon hearing his voice.

“Your uncle isn’t home,” said his second aunt.

Qin Xiaoman closed his mouth, not wanting to argue and waste time. She didn’t bother him either.

“Oh, the lame one is here too.”

Li Wanjü saw the young man following Qin Xiaoman. Noticing his limp, she smirked. She’d wanted to see Du Heng before but never went to his house herself. This was her first time seeing him.

Looking at his height and face, she pursed her lips. Her husband said he was decent-looking, but he was much more handsome than the village scholar. It irritated her slightly. She thought Qin Xiaoman’s temper matched a lame, ugly man—but then reconsidered: even if he was lucky enough to pair with someone good-looking, in a village, appearances weren’t everything; practical living mattered more.

“What lame? He just hurt his foot!”

Qin Xiaoman bristled at his aunt’s sharp words. Seeing her appraising Du Heng made him angrier. He snatched the chestnuts from Du Heng and shoved them into Li Wanjü’s arms.

“These are my husband’s chestnuts, for Second Uncle. Want them?”

Li Wanjü glanced at the chestnuts. Qin Xiaoman’s tone was fierce—anyone else might refuse, but she wasn’t about to waste free food, so she accepted them.

Seeing that his second uncle wasn’t home, Qin Xiaoman didn’t linger. He pulled Du Heng away.

Throughout, Du Heng hadn’t said a word. He was surprised at how close Qin Xiaoman was with his uncle yet so at odds with his aunt.

“Has Xiaoman come?”

Qin Xiaozhu had slept late. Hearing the commotion, he slowly got up, curious because Qin Xiaoman’s man was there. He peeked over the fence and saw the pair leaving—the young man walking with a pronounced limp but a straight posture and tall frame.

Qin Xiaoman slipped, but Du Heng quickly caught him. Qin Xiaozhu’s heart skipped a beat—he had never seen such a handsome man.

“Come, eat these chestnuts. They’re still warm and soft.”

Li Wanjü saw her son gawking, straining his neck at the fence. She stepped closer. “What’s wrong?”

Qin Xiaozhu didn’t hide it. “Xiaoman’s man… he’s really handsome.”

“You kids only notice appearances. Being good-looking won’t feed you. And with a limp like that, what could he do? Don’t be foolish,” Li Wanjü tapped his head. “Better to marry someone capable who can provide, like your father.”

“My father? Always hitting people… what’s good about that?” Qin Xiaozhu retracted his gaze. “No wonder Xiaoman’s willing to take a lame guy—he must have some merit after all.”

Li Wanquan snorted, “That man has a pretty face, too bad. Lame is one thing, but if he ever got better, he’d probably just dump Qin Xiaoman immediately.”

Qin Xiaoman and Du Heng didn’t hear the mother and son’s comments. They walked along the dirt road, passing by many villagers, each of whom couldn’t resist staring at Du Heng.

“Oh, Xiaoman, so this is your live-in husband?”
“Ah, we’d heard people talk about him, but didn’t believe it until now.”
“When’s the wedding? Don’t forget to invite your uncle.”

Qin Xiaoman groaned inwardly. Every encounter meant a few obligatory words. It slowed down their work, but he didn’t want Du Heng to feel uncomfortable. A few polite words to the neighbors, knowing Qin Xiaoman’s sharp tongue and domineering temper, were enough to keep everyone from saying anything rude.

“See, you just have to come out,” Du Heng said after hearing the complaints. “Living in a village means you’ll meet people sooner or later. They’ll get over the novelty. You can’t stay inside just to avoid others.”

Qin Xiaoman observed that Du Heng, aside from being a bit delicate in daily habits, was quite astute in dealing with people. “They really mean well. Their intentions aren’t bad. After living here a while, they’ll treat you like one of their own.”

Du Heng nodded.

“Look, the fields ahead are ours.”

The Qin family owned thirty acres of farmland, plus another twenty acres of paddy fields—fifty acres in total—a relatively large holding for the village.

Du Heng understood that being a major family in the village meant the Qin family had deep roots, wide connections, and some local influence. Owning that much land wasn’t surprising.

Average families had ten to thirty acres. Any more than thirty marked a family as comparatively wealthy. After paying grain taxes and avoiding natural disasters, they would have enough to eat.

But even among land-rich families, there were differences. Fields varied between thin soil and fertile soil. One acre of fertile land could yield as much as two or three acres of poor land. Qin Xiaoman’s holdings were mostly thin soil, with only ten acres being decent. That was the main source of his harvest.

Du Heng followed Qin Xiaoman around. The family’s land wasn’t all in one place; like other villagers, it was scattered—two plots east, three west. A few plots still had winter vegetables; the rest, harvested in autumn, lay empty.

“Once I clear the hill, I’ll gradually till the land. This year I’ll plant two extra acres of grain,” Qin Xiaoman said. “You won’t go hungry.”

Du Heng smiled. “Mm.”

Qin Xiaoman grinned. “Remember the way back. You can go home yourself; I’ll head up the hill.”

“Okay.”

Du Heng watched him leave and then turned to the winter vegetables in the field, finding work for himself.