My Sect Is Down to Seven People

Chapter 274: One Sack per Household

The firewood went out of the shed bundle by bundle.

Huo Qing carried one bundle in his left hand, came out of the firewood shed, rounded the kitchen wall, and stacked it under the back eaves. He did not walk fast. His right arm hung at his side, motionless under the sleeve. Shi Po hugged two bundles at a time, one trip covering what took Huo Qing a trip and a half. He made a dozen or so trips without his shoulders swaying or his breath quickening. By the time the sun climbed over the roof ridge, the firewood shed was empty. A layer of splinters and chaff remained on the ground. A He swept it out with a broom and dumped it at the kitchen door. Dry hay was carried in and spread down—hay that had dried under the back eaves a few days before. It still held a little damp. A foot sank into it soft, and when lifted, it slowly sprang back.

The nineteenth day of the Eleventh Month, Dragon hour. People in the east room of the Main Hall had slept lightly through the night and were all up by dawn. The old man rolled up his quilt and stood it against the wall. Two women carried basins to the kitchen to ask for hot water. The door of the west room pushed open—empty inside. Wind passed through the main hall, spinning grass scraps across the floor. Jiang Wan swept it clean. Qian Duoduo brought in an armful of dry hay, crouched down, and spread it layer by layer, pressing the edges flat with his hands.

A woman carrying a quilt approached Jiang Wan and asked where on the mountain she could air it. Jiang Wan said along the base of the west wall in the Front Courtyard—it got sun by midday, but it had to be taken in after the Horse hour. The woman thanked her and carried the quilt away.

A child squatted outside the threshold watching the firewood being moved. A Sui went over, picked up a twig from the ground, and handed it to him. The two children squatted on the steps and drew for a while.

Xiao Ling crouched at the east room door, her wind hood still up, the brim pressed to her eyebrows so only the lower half of her face showed. The child who had coughed in the night sat on the hay. She turned him around and pressed her ear to his back, listening. Each time he coughed, her shoulders paused with it.

"Worse at night, better in the day." She straightened and spoke to his mother. "Have him drink it again tonight. I'll look again tomorrow."

She pushed the hood brim up a little, then pressed it back down, and went off to the Medicine Hall.

In the Medicine Hall, Cheng Banshan was rolling up the herbs that had been spread out the day before, sorting them by date into a row. He looked up as she came in. "How is the child?"

"Coughing badly at night," Xiao Ling said. "A little yellow in the phlegm."

"Add one more ingredient to that prescription." Cheng Banshan pointed at the wooden box on the corner of the table. "The stock in that box is running low. The old herb garden won't put out new growth until spring. Nothing fresh to be found right now."

Xiao Ling brought the wooden box to the table and went through it ingredient by ingredient. At the bottom she found a few short ones and set them aside.

At the Horse hour, the kitchen. A He crouched by the stove mouth feeding firewood. Water sounded in the pot. Xu Yan pushed aside the curtain and came in, standing by the water vat. Qian Duoduo stirred the pot with a ladle and glanced back at him.

"Starting tomorrow, we're not putting the stall out," Xu Yan said.

The ladle stopped midair. "Not even one pot?"

"Not even one pot," Xu Yan said. "The spirit rice we made up on the fifteenth of the Eleventh Month goes into the big pot today. The Qi-Gathering Powder stays off the stall too—keep it on the mountain, stored in the Medicine Hall."

"Then the kitchen's down to nothing but coarse grain."

"Right now we have to reckon on coarse grain."

Qian Duoduo set the spoon on the pot rim. "Twenty-four mouths on the mountain."

"Reckon on twenty-four for now," Xu Yan said. "How many days a sack of coarse grain will feed them—I've got it in the ledger."

Qian Duoduo said nothing. He went to the corner of the kitchen and pulled off the cloth covering something beneath. Under the cloth was a pot—the spirit rice made up on the fifteenth, every grain whole. He carried it to the big pot, steadied it with one hand, and tipped it in. The rice fell into the water with a dull sound. White steam rose and fogged half the room. When it was empty he shook the pot twice to clean it out and set it back where it belonged.

"Spirit rice is used up," he said.

"Tomorrow at market we'll buy a sack," Xu Yan said. "Coarse grain."

Qian Duoduo acknowledged and lifted the vat lid to glance inside. He put the lid back, turned, and went back to stirring his pot.

At lamp-lighting on the nineteenth, Xu Yan cut ten labels in the Accounts Room and wrote "Qingya" on them, with "Eleventh Month, Twentieth Day" below. He took them to the Medicine Hall and pressed them under the ten empty bottles on the table.

At Mao hour on the twentieth, four people went out through the Mountain Gate. The sky was still dark. Frost on the mountain path had not melted; feet crunched with every step. Xu Yan walked in front, Shao Ming and Qi Qi followed, and Qian Duoduo brought up the rear with an empty burlap sack over his shoulder.

By Dragon hour they reached the town. The market street was more crowded than last time. A row of strangers squatted along the base of the wall—bundles by their feet, two small children huddled in their parents' arms, eyes open. The old flatbread vendor had set up his table against the inner wall, a few hard flatbreads at the corner. Seeing them approach, he lifted his chin. "On today's market, there's more people squatting than buying."

"How many flatbreads are left?" Xu Yan asked.

"They'll keep. Even frozen hard, they'll sell," the old man said. "You want one?"

Xu Yan asked for half. Qian Duoduo counted out the coins. Xu Yan broke it in two and gave half to each of the two children squatting by the wall. The two little ones took the pieces without a word and huddled together eating.

The market opened. Shao Ming hung the scale hook on the wall peg. Xu Yan wiped the counter and laid out the market ledger. Qi Qi moved consignment goods, crate by crate, onto the shelves. Two or three rogue cultivators stood at the consignment counter—half as many as last time. One shelf space sat empty; the dust at the bottom had not been swept.

A regular rogue cultivator came in carrying an empty bottle and glanced at the spot where the stall usually stood. "No spirit meal today?"

"The stall's closed," Xu Yan said.

"Not even one bottle of Qi-Gathering Powder?"

"Not that either. The powder stays on the mountain."

The rogue cultivator turned the empty bottle half a circle in his hand. "And after this?"

"There are more people on the mountain, and the market only lets us buy one sack of rice per market," Xu Yan said. "We're keeping it for meals."

The rogue cultivator gave a small "oh," turned to go, took two steps, then came back. "The pills are still here, right?"

"They are."

The Qi-Gathering Pills came out of the cloth bundle. Ten small porcelain vials lined up in a row, labels facing the door.

"How much?" the first one asked.

"Eight each," Xu Yan said.

Before the first man finished counting out his money, the people behind were already pressing in. Someone asked which day this batch had been made. Xu Yan said, "The eighteenth of the Eleventh Month." The ten pills sold out before the Snake hour with no break in the line. The money went into Qingya's coin pouch, and Xu Yan entered a line in the market ledger.

Qi Qi looked up from the counter and blew on his hands. "A woman on the market street asked me if the mountain was still taking people in."

"What did you say?" Xu Yan asked.

"I said it wasn't mine to decide," Qi Qi said. "She said her family wants to come up too."

Xu Yan straightened the empty bottle in his hand. "We'll speak of it tomorrow."

Among the consigned goods at the corner of the counter was a lot of alchemy materials. Xu Yan bought one furnace's worth at the price written on the wooden label—twenty for the lot. He counted it out into the market box and noted the seller's name below that line in the market ledger. The rogue cultivator selling the materials took back his wooden label and pushed the bundle across the counter. "The tenth of the Eighth Month. I'll come."

At the same Dragon hour on the mountain, the lid came off the charcoal stove in the Medicine Hall. Du Xiaochuan lined ten small porcelain vials on the table and filled them one by one. He pulled last night's labels from beneath the bottles and pressed one onto each. Cheng Banshan poured the little left after bottling onto a prescription paper and wrapped it into a small packet, wrote "Eleventh Month, Twentieth Day" on it, and set it at the end of the retained samples stack on the shelf. The ten vials went into the wooden chest in the corner of the Medicine Hall. They would not go down the mountain.

A new wooden sign stood in front of the grain shop, three lines written in charcoal: Spirit rice, thirty per sack. Coarse grain, fifteen per sack. One sack per household per market day.

Seven or eight people lined up below the sign. Those at the front paid and carried off only one sack each. Qian Duoduo stood under the sign and watched for a while, then asked, "One sack per household per market day?"

"One sack per household per market day," the shopkeeper said. "The north road is cut. The town's population has doubled."

"How many days has it been cut?"

"A few days ago there were still carts coming up. These last two days, no carts." The shopkeeper glanced toward the end of the line. "Get in line. Don't cut ahead."

A man in the line carried two empty sacks and said his household had eight mouths, and begged the shopkeeper to sell him one more. The shopkeeper shook his head. "One per market day. There are people behind you." The man said nothing more and rolled up the extra sack, tucking it under his arm.

Qian Duoduo asked no further. He counted out fifteen and hoisted a sack of coarse grain onto his shoulder.

At the end of the Horse hour, two rogue cultivators still stood at the counter in the market, checking whether the spirit herbs were dry or damp. Seven people stood at the market gate, the mud on their clothes still wet. An old man stepped forward and asked if they could spend a night inside the market compound.

"Nobody stays overnight in the market compound," Xu Yan said. "It's in the lease."

The seven did not disperse. The old man looked back at the people behind him, then turned again. "Then at night… where can we curl up? Even under the eaves in town, people are squatting."

Xu Yan closed the market ledger in his hands. "Come up the mountain with us."

The seven exchanged glances. Someone called back down the street, but in the end the same seven followed.

Xu Yan and Qi Qi went to the wharf. A layer of charcoal ash covered the stone steps. The boatman counted with a bamboo pole. One and a half loads, fifteen. The two men split the load and carried it up the steps, one level at a time, feet finding spots free of ash.

By the Wei hour they left town. The seven followed behind, not far, silent. Once on the mountain path, the slope steepened, and the column slowly stretched out. Qian Duoduo walked last with the grain on his shoulder. When the people ahead rested, he rested too, shifting the sack to his other shoulder.

Halfway up, a woman carrying a child on her back stopped to hitch the child higher. After a few more steps her legs shook, and she stopped again. Shao Ming glanced back, walked over, and bent down. He took the child into his arms, settled him securely, and headed up the slope. The woman stood stunned for a moment, then followed alongside, one hand still hovering protectively over the child's back.

At the Monkey hour they reached the Mountain Gate. Nie Bo was sweeping, the broom going from one side to the other, stroke by stroke. When he saw people coming up, he stepped aside. At the gate, Xu Yan asked the old man where he was from. The old man said east of the pass, beyond the north. They had crossed the pass and come south. The town had no room, and people said Qingya Mountain was taking people in. On the road, they had also heard that a small sect in the north had been overrun. Xu Yan asked nothing more and told Jiang Wan to lead them in. Jiang Wan took the old people, the women, and the children—five in all—into the west room, where they spread their own quilts over the hay. The west room filled up. The two men went into the firewood shed, dropped their bundles on the hay, and squatted in the doorway without moving. A Sui came over from the kitchen carrying a bowl, stopped halfway to study these strangers, then continued on toward the low hut by the Mountain Gate with her bowl.

At lamp-lighting, two big pots were set out in front of the kitchen. The newcomers lined up at the door and held out their bowls one by one. Qian Duoduo ladled out portions with the scoop, scraping it against the rim of each bowl—half a bowl full in each. A He watched the fire nearby. Xiao Ling carried two bowls toward the Medicine Hall. A Sui first brought a bowl to the low hut by the Mountain Gate.

After the meal was served, Xu Yan carried a lamp back to the Accounts Room. He recorded the market day's accounts in the ledger: ten Qi-Gathering Pills, eighty, into Qingya's coin pouch; one furnace's worth of alchemy materials, twenty, into the market box, under the consignor's name; one and a half loads of charcoal, fifteen; one sack of coarse grain, fifteen. When he finished, he set the brush down and pushed the account book under the ledger rack, a foot away from the iron coin box.

In the kitchen, Qian Duoduo carried the sack of coarse grain to the base of the wall and set it down. He straightened his back.

He lifted the vat lid. Less than a sack remained inside. He looked for a while, put the lid back, crouched down, and untied the mouth of the burlap sack. He opened it, then tied it again—two knots this time.