Xiaoman’s excitement immediately deflated, much like Du Heng had looked when he first heard about the land tax. After all the hard work managing the fields, sweating and laboring to bring in and dry the harvest, having a significant portion taken away felt like a cold bucket of water on a boiling heart.
Xiaoman sat down and quickly calculated thirty percent of the yield for taxes. “Over ten shi… gone to the county!”
Upon realizing the number, he slumped face-first onto the table. Du Heng quickly put his hand under Xiaoman to cushion him. Xiaoman whimpered and rubbed against Du Heng’s palm, but before he could make a sound, a commotion arose outside, followed by the village head’s voice.
“Little Du, Xiaoman, you’re home? I hear your harvest this year is quite good!”
Xiaoman tilted his head. “The grain is barely in the granary and already being discussed.”
Du Heng patted his back. “It’ll happen—no use hiding from it.”
Year after year, there were taxes and corvée labor. Some villagers tried to evade them, but strict regulations made it nearly impossible. And if caught, it was considered a serious crime, often resulting in confiscation of property.
The village head, responsible for keeping the official records, spent most of his time inspecting local fields rather than tending his own. Every spring, the number of sown fields and the type of crops were meticulously recorded. Officials occasionally inspected them, and any underreporting could bring severe consequences. Most villagers dared not defy the rules.
“The village head is here,” Du Heng said, quickly pouring some water.
Earlier that month, the village chief had been scolded by the county soldiers and had been eager to complete the registration quickly, hoping life would go more smoothly. The villagers struggled, but the head had to satisfy the county’s expectations while keeping the people from crying over lost crops—a no-win situation.
“Don’t worry about tea; I still have a few households to check,” the village head said politely to Du Heng and Xiaoman, holding his ledger. Qin’s family, being prominent landowners with good harvests and a record of timely registration and payments, earned his favor.
“Have you stored all your grain?” he asked.
“We’re just tallying it with Xiaoman; didn’t expect you to arrive so soon.”
Du Heng reported the year’s harvest while leading him toward the granary. The head wrote down the numbers as Du Heng spoke: “Thirty shi of corn, nineteen shi of rice, totaling—”
“You say thirty shi of corn, nineteen shi of rice?!”
Hearing the numbers aloud, the head paused, flipping through the spring planting records to double-check. Papers rustled as he confirmed the figures. He looked up at Du Heng. “Twenty mu of corn, ten mu of rice… forty-nine shi of grain!”
Xiaoman hadn’t expected the village head to come by and had no intention of speaking. Just hearing about the taxes was enough to dampen the excitement. But now, seeing the head’s reaction, a rare pride welled up in him, like a peasant finally seeing the world beyond his village.
The granary door opened, revealing the small space filled to the brim with golden corn and rice.
“Really harvested this much,” Xiaoman said, standing proudly in the center.
Even though it wasn’t technically “his,” any farmer would admire such a bounty. The village head quickly stepped forward, scooped up a handful of dried rice, and admired it.
“I heard from your workers that your harvest was good this year, but didn’t expect it to be so abundant.”
After carefully putting the grains back, he patted Xiaoman’s shoulder. “Keep cultivating your fields every year. With such yields, it’s a waste to leave the land fallow!”
Xiaoman raised an eyebrow. If the grain tax were only ten percent, he would gladly farm every plot, even some wasteland.
Though cautious about what to say, he knew which words were appropriate. The village head’s praise reflected the abundant harvest; if all village fields were like Qin’s, he wouldn’t need to repeatedly press villagers for taxes.
Xiaoman replied, “The weather was favorable this year, a good harvest indeed. I’m sure our neighbors did well too, so you can report satisfactory results to the county.”
Hearing this, the village head’s worry eased, and he felt inclined to have some tea. They returned to the main hall, where he set down his ledger and chatted further.
“Before coming here, I just visited the Zhao family. They have fewer fields than you—only thirty mu, ten less than yours. But twenty of theirs are fertile land…”
Twenty acres of fertile farmland rarely yielded poor results. Every year, Qin Xiaoman liked to visit the Zhao family first, as a customary gesture of goodwill—but this year, the Zhao family’s harvest was far from optimistic.
On one acre of rich land, the yield barely reached two dan of grain. Early in the summer, the rice had yellowed and suffered from disease, and the situation had not been properly managed. Of two acres, nearly one had failed to produce any rice, and the other had at least half its crop with empty grains.
The village headman waved his hand dismissively: “The Zhao family’s corn harvest is still decent. Twelve acres of good land produced twenty-five dan of corn. Their eight acres of paddy fields only yielded twelve dan. This year, it’s far below your household’s output.”
He then played the role of mediator, speaking to Qin Xiaoman: “I heard that both your families’ rice suffered yellowing leaves this year. Yours were saved, the Zhao family’s weren’t. You’re from the same village—help each other out when you can. After all, you’re not dealing with outsiders, right?”
Qin Xiaoman found this a little odd. “Help out? The Zhao family has more people than us—both labor and land. What could Du Heng and I possibly do to help?”
The village headman chuckled. “Ah, it’s not that you actually need to do the work. If a neighbor’s field suffers, just give them some guidance—pass along the solution.”
Qin Xiaoman said, “Zhao’s wife is so troublesome, you don’t know. Their fields were in trouble, and I had to chase after her to tell her how to manage them.”
“That’s unnecessary. They’re neighbors; a simple explanation is enough.”
Du Heng, listening, understood roughly: “Headman, we’re not petty. As you said, we’re all from the same village. Protecting a few acres of crops isn’t easy. If someone comes asking for advice, we wouldn’t hide it—but the Zhao family never asked us anything.”
“If we rush over to tell them, Zhao’s wife might take it the wrong way, thinking we’re showing off.”
The village headman raised his eyebrows at this and cursed under his breath: “That Zhao woman!”
She had come crying about being denied advice on how to deal with yellowing rice, yet it turned out she was simply using it as an excuse for this year’s poor harvest.
Though the headman felt a little vexed, he refrained from saying it outright, knowing it might inflame tensions between the two families.
Du Heng, however, being observant, guessed Zhao’s temperament correctly.
“This year, the Zhao family’s luck is indeed poor. Zhao Qi was injured, and during the autumn harvest, he could barely help. Fortunately, they have a capable daughter-in-law, but their grain yield is low. Naturally, they’ll have grievances. Don’t take it personally—if anything happens, I’ll handle it.”
He then returned the conversation to the crops.
“If every household harvested as well as you two, I wouldn’t be scolded by the county magistrate every year.”
He sighed. “I don’t expect our village to surpass others or to be praised by the magistrate. I just want to meet the county’s standard—deliver the grain, no more, no less.”
Qin Xiaoman and Du Heng smiled.
“You two worked hard this year.”
Qin Xiaoman joked, “Not hard—just unlucky.”
After the headman left, nearly fifteen dan of grain were taken from their storage.
Seeing the granary almost empty, Qin Xiaoman felt a heavy emptiness in her heart.
The headman, however, was cheerful—this family alone had paid more grain than several households with poor yields combined, filling the shortfall for the village. How could he not be pleased?
Qin Xiaoman leaned against the granary, sighing: “Xiaoman can’t complain anymore.”
Du Heng, recording in his ledger, laughed.
He closed the book and patted the boy, who was half-collapsed on the corn like a lump of dough: “Good thing we still have over forty dan left. Now the work eases a bit. Sweet potatoes don’t need to be dug yet, so we can also sell some of the grain for silver.”
A full granary was pleasing to the eye, but having so much meant restless nights. During the autumn harvest, the work was exhausting, and they had to constantly keep an eye on the crops.
Selling the surplus grain made it easier to manage than keeping huge stacks in the house.
Qin Xiaoman quickly climbed out of the corn barrels. In previous years, their grain was scarce—most was kept for consumption or feeding livestock, leaving little for sale.
This year, being able to sell grain at the merchant was invigorating.
On the day of the county market, the couple drove their ox cart to the county town.
Since the busy autumn harvest began, nearly two months had passed without visiting the county.
Usually, they were up at dawn to work the fields. Even though they hired laborers for the heavy work, the two of them still handled the daily chores themselves: moving grain to dry under the sun, watching the weather, bringing it in at sunset.
At home, grain was drying, and the corn stalks from the fields had to be cut and brought back for firewood and taxes. The remaining corn cobs and paddy stubble were yet to be harvested.
These tasks weren’t urgent; if there was enough firewood at home, there was no need to rush.
After harvest, the county town was bustling. The couple focused on the grain market, aware of this year’s prices, ignoring the general crowd.
On the street, they heard loud shouts: “Selling rice! One dan for one thousand wen!”
“Grain to the Changhong Grain House—more grain, higher price!”
The calls continued, and the streets were more crowded than usual, filled with ox carts and horse-drawn carts carrying large and small sacks, with lone animals transporting heavy bags, occupying the roads.
All this traffic was transporting grain.
Du Heng, overhearing, stopped the ox cart to ask two grain shops nearby. Prices varied slightly, roughly matching the street calls: one dan of grain ranged from nine hundred to one thousand wen.
The county market was in full swing. Everyone knew the autumn harvest was wrapping up—farmers selling grain, buyers collecting it—so the crowd was a chaotic mix.
Inside the grain shops, villagers came to check prices, while townspeople who didn’t farm came hoping to buy some fresh grain. The shops were packed.
Most of the grain in these smaller shops came from the larger grain merchants, bought in bulk and then sold in their own stores. During the autumn harvest, they would also buy some grain from farmers, but the volume was far smaller than that handled by the four major grain merchants in town.
Du Heng guided Qin Xiaoman out of a grain shop and went to check the situation at the larger grain merchants.
These merchant halls were much bigger, able to accommodate more people, and even busier than the smaller shops.
Through one large gate, people came and went, while a group of shirtless men carried heavy sacks into the hall. Each sack weighed a hundred jin (about fifty kilograms), and only broad-shouldered men with well-developed muscles could carry such a load.
Sweat glistened on their darkened skin, and their grunts of exertion echoed clearly.
It was Qin Xiaoman’s first time visiting a large grain merchant. He lingered to watch the shirtless laborers, thinking how even those without farmland in the county had to work just as hard to earn a living. Before he could comment, a long, slender hand suddenly covered his eyes.
“What are you doing?!”
He pushed Du Heng’s hand away, frowning. “So handsome, huh?”
Du Heng paused at the double entendre, then replied seriously: “There’s nothing much to see.”
His build was thin and wiry, nothing like the muscular men who looked like giant frogs under the weight of heavy sacks.
Qin Xiaoman chuckled, but before he could laugh fully, Du Heng pulled him into the merchant hall, covering his face.
“Are you here to buy grain or sell it?”
A clerk immediately approached them. Though the hall was crowded, they had more staff than a small shop.
“I’d like to check the grain prices—we plan to sell some of our autumn harvest.”
The clerk was polite. “Certainly. Our Yongfa Grain Merchant buys corn at eight hundred wen per dan and rice at one thousand wen per dan.”
Qin Xiaoman immediately frowned. “Last year, rice was twelve hundred wen per dan—why has it dropped so much this year?”
“Sir, each year differs. Grain prices change accordingly. Last year, heavy rains caused poor crop growth and low yields, so the price of rice was higher.”
“This year, rainfall is low, and the dry weather means the harvest isn’t especially good either.”
The clerk added: “How much grain are you planning to sell? If it’s a large quantity, I can speak to our manager about raising the price. Our merchant hall has operated in the county for many years, and our reputation is well-known. Other merchants won’t offer higher prices than ours.”
Du Heng understood. The major grain merchants might compete, but their owners had dealings with each other, so prices were controlled—no one would offer much more or less. If anyone did, the large merchants would send someone to handle it, just as they had done previously with other trades.
Du Heng gave the numbers: “Fifteen dan of corn and ten dan of rice.”
The clerk’s eyebrows shot up. He led them to the inner guest room, changed his demeanor, poured tea, and said: “Please wait a moment—I’ll call our manager.”
Qin Xiaoman glanced at the tea. The grain hall was wealthy; even their guest tea was far better than what was normally drunk in the village.
Before he could sip, a middle-aged man hurried in, clearly busy. “I heard from the clerk that you plan to sell a large quantity and aren’t satisfied with the current price. How about we add twenty-five wen per dan for both corn and rice?”
That meant eight hundred twenty-five for corn and one thousand twenty-five for rice.
Du Heng smiled slightly. “Let’s round it—fifty wen per dan for each? The grain is freshly harvested, carefully sorted, and contains no empty grains.”
The manager was silent for a moment, then asked: “Will you deliver the grain, or shall we send our people to collect it?”
Du Heng considered the cost. Their ox could carry one to one-and-a-half tons; their twenty-five dan of grain weighed about three thousand jin (1,500 kg). Transporting it would require two or three trips. He glanced at Qin Xiaoman: “Let your people handle the transport.”
“Agreed,” the manager said immediately. “We’ll record your address and schedule the pickup date. We require a thirty-wen deposit when our team comes, refunded upon collection.”
“Very well.”
The manager didn’t linger and returned to his duties.
Qin Xiaoman remarked, “I thought you might prefer we transport it ourselves—would save a hundred wen on shipping.”
Qin Xiaoman replied, “Saving a hundred wen is nice, but transporting it ourselves is inconvenient. The village isn’t very far from the county, but not very close either. If anything goes wrong en route, it’s safer to have the merchant handle it. We won’t bear responsibility for accidents along the way.”
Du Heng nodded. He also preferred the merchant transport—it was autumn harvest season, and thieves and troublemakers were not uncommon.
Farmers with poor harvests would try anything to pay taxes, making transporting grain themselves risky.
Before long, a clerk came back, and Du Heng and Qin Xiaoman completed the registration. They agreed that the grain would be collected from their village two days later if the weather was clear, or postponed day by day until the skies cleared.
Since it was a rare trip to the county, once they left the grain hall, Du Heng asked Xiaoman, “Want to eat something? I can buy it and cook it at home.”
“Of course meat!” Qin Xiaoman’s mouth already watered at the thought. “Let’s buy a pig’s trotter. Last year, when you made pork trotters, they were so delicious. I didn’t get to eat any before because of my leg injury.”
Du Heng chuckled, then took Xiaoman’s hand, squatted slightly, and said, “It’s only right that I make them for you. Too bad we didn’t come to the county earlier. This time, I’ll use the yellow beans from home to stew the trotters—soft, tender, and as tasty as winter bamboo pork trotter soup.”
Xiaoman nodded happily, and the two went to the meat market. Today, their second uncle wasn’t selling at his stall; he had gone to another village to slaughter pigs. So they bought a trotter from a different stall.
Pig trotters have more bone than meat and aren’t as satisfying as fatty cuts, so they aren’t usually the first choice for a family. Luckily, since they arrived late, trotters were still available. At twenty wen per jin, a single trotter weighing just over a jin cost sixty wen for the two they bought, totaling just over three jin.
Carrying the trotters, they cheerfully climbed onto the ox cart, planning to save their money and head home.
Qin Xiaoman guided the ox at a leisurely pace. In the county, livestock moved about as fast as a walking person, so he wasn’t in a hurry. “The wine brewed in July should be ready by now. Yesterday, I saw the mash was already soft.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll handle it when we get back—you’ll definitely help.”
Xiaoman handed the reins to Du Heng and reclined on the cart, gazing at the wide, pale blue sky, calculating the money they would receive.
Fifteen dan of corn at 825 wen each and ten dan of rice at 1,050 wen each totaled 23 liang 250 wen. After spending 1,100 wen to hire help for harvesting and another 100 wen for transport, they’d have 22 liang left—just enough to cover the splurge on pig trotters.
Qin Xiaoman thought this year’s harvest had been quite profitable, though the hard work was undeniable. After paying the taxes, he could finally consider sending Du Heng to the academy.
He also planned to visit his uncle to inquire about tuition and fees for joining the private school.