Zhao Ger brought up the canal matter again.
Although everyone hated officials, Zhao Ger had a steamed‑bun face, big eyes, and a gentle manner. He answered every question asked earlier without any airs of an official's fulang—very approachable.
Tieda pointed at the big rocky mountain not far away. The lime had been sprinkled all the way from the foot of that mountain.
"Is Lord Fang planning to bring water from behind the big rocky mountain?"
Zhao Ger counted out silver while nodding. "Mm."
Before Tieda could say anything, the onlookers spoke first.
"How is that even possible!"
If it could be done, they'd have done it long ago.
That mountain was all rock—hard as iron, impossible to chisel or pry. One swing of the hoe would leave your hands numb from the shock, but the rock wouldn't even show a mark.
That method wouldn't work.
Everyone tried to persuade him. Zhao Ger said it would work, but no one believed him. He just smiled and said nothing more.
He trusted his husband.
Seeing that, everyone dropped the subject.
Good advice is wasted on those doomed to die.
That young prefect was full of whims—probably didn't know anything. Once they couldn't dig through the mountain and couldn't bring the water over, they'd likely have to return the silver.
Sigh. All this back and forth—in the end, it's still us ordinary folks who end up suffering!
Some fields, once irrigated, could become good farmland; others couldn't, and would have to be counted as medium or low‑grade.
This area was in the south. Word was that in Anping County, rice could be harvested twice a year. If they moved quickly, Anhe County might even get one rice crop. Even if not—once the water came and the land was no longer parched—the sweet potatoes would grow bigger too.
Now the whole Hezhou was under Fang Zichen's jurisdiction. He would never exploit the people. Autumn taxes wouldn't take half the harvest. With increased yields, then throughout Anhe County, no one should starve to death this year.
At that thought, Zhao Ger felt full of drive.
News from Xiaping Village spread quickly.
The government was taking land to build a canal?
They were going to bring water from the Jing River all the way here—wasn't that a joke?
How could they divert water like that?
The big rocky mountain stood in the way—was this prefect so powerful that with a single shout, the water would just flow over the mountains by itself?
Still, it was decent of them. Most of Anhe County's land was low‑ or medium‑grade, but they weren't calculating it that way—they paid based on whether it could become good farmland after irrigation. If they'd just uniformly paid medium‑grade rates and later the land did become good, the villagers couldn't have complained. But this prefect was honest—he didn't cheat them.
Some said Hezhou was about to turn a corner. An old man nearby snorted at that.
"Don't get your hopes up. He just got here and wants to make some political achievement so he can get promoted or transferred back. Once he finds out it won't work and he can't leave, he'll go back to doing what all the others did—nothing. The ones before him were just the same."
In the end, it was always the same—none of these officials were any good. If the water couldn't be brought over, it would all be for nothing.
Zhao Ger ran around with Zhang Quan for two days. Seeing how slow it was, he thought for a moment, then called Yang Ger over and split them into two teams.
Zhang Quan's people didn't know how to evaluate land—they couldn't tell good from bad. But Yang Ger did, since he came from a village and had been working the land for over thirty years.
They were still a bit short‑handed, so Guaizai was called in too.
He followed Zhao Ger and did Zhang Quan's old job—carrying a satchel every day and writing non‑stop once they reached a village.
The villagers looked at him with envy!
That little boy had been there since morning—only three shichen (6 hours) had passed—and he'd already eaten five fluffy white buns.
Unbelievable. What an appetite!
He was lucky to be born into the prefect's household. If he had been born in a village, he would probably have died young, and by now the grass on his grave would have been cut down five or six times over.
Everyone was drooling with craving.
Those buns were as precious as meat to the villagers. They only got to eat them once in a while, usually during the New Year celebrations.
The first few villages went smoothly. Although some were reluctant to sell their land, common folk didn't dare fight officials.
Then they reached Ronghe Village, where trouble arose. An old man absolutely refused to sell.
He'd probably seen that Zhao Ger's group hadn't used force in the previous villages, so he wasn't afraid. He sat right down on the ground and cursed Fang Zichen.
Villagers' curses were always the same few lines—either "may you lack great virtue" or "may your children have no anus," or various body parts in the local dialect.
Zhao Ger couldn't understand much of the dialect either. The old man didn't name anyone directly—just yelled that this prefect was inhuman, that he'd taken his son away when taxes couldn't be paid, and now he was taking his land too—he couldn't go on living, and if he died he'd come back as a ghost to haunt him.
If the old man had cursed Zhao Ger himself, he could have pretended not to hear. But cursing Fang Zichen—and saying his son would have no anus—Zhao Ger wouldn't stand for it.
He gently nudged Guaizai. Guaizai turned to look at him. Zhao Ger gave him a meaningful look. Father and son shared the same thought—Guaizai figured he knew what his father wanted. Without a single word, he reached over and drew the sword from the waist of one of the imperial guards.
The sword flashed as it left the sheath, gleaming so harshly it hurt to look at.
Zhang Quan and his lot treated that sword like their own wife—every day they'd go home and polish it carefully with a cloth. So now the longsword was gleaming bright and sharp as Guaizai drove it straight at the old man.
He was too fast. No one around could react in time, and not a single person managed to stop him.
Everyone held their breath without thinking.
Some even screamed as if about to faint, their hearts pounding wildly.
It was as if everything had frozen.
Everyone had always known that young masters from wealthy families had bad tempers, quick to curse and beat people. But Guaizai looked so soft and sweet—just moments ago, when Lao Wang came over, he'd even called him "grandpa" in that sugary voice.
Everyone had thought he was one of the good ones...
The old man froze, too terrified to move, certain that Guaizai was about to run him clean through. But Guaizai only stopped the sword right at his crotch—one inch closer, and the old man could have gone to the palace to swear brotherhood with Eunuch Huang.
Guaizai scrunched up his little brows, fished a steamed bun out of his satchel, took a bite to cool his temper, and asked: "What did you say just now? Say it again?"
The barefoot fear nothing from the shod, and the fierce fear nothing from the fearless.
"I—I..." The old man's face went pale, cold sweat pouring down.
Guaizai: "You insulted my father, didn't you?"
"Never again, never again! Spare me, young master!" The old man begged desperately.
Guaizai said loudly: "Cursing is wrong. Next time you insult my father, Guaizai will stab you—and don't you dare cry! If we dig the canal and bring the water over, everyone can grow big, huge sweet potatoes and have full bellies. Father has been running around for this so much his balls nearly shattered, and now he can't even get out of bed at home. Yet you still won't cooperate—you're asking for a beating."
No comments:
Post a Comment