Chapter 7: quarrel

This time, Fan Jing brought back more game from the mountains than last time.

Kang He followed Fan Jing out of the house, still holding a small bow meant for children to play with.

Earlier, he had tried a large longbow and nearly hit his forehead, so Fan Jing tossed him a smaller one.

Fan Jing lifted the tattered sackcloth, pulling out the mountain goods one by one from the basket.

One pheasant with colorful feathers, two gray-backed clumsy birds, and, most delightfully, a young mountain piglet.

The pheasant’s long legs were tightly bound, allowing it only to flap its wings.

Fan Jing untied the hemp string and told Zhen’er to take it to the pepper tree in the yard, scattering some chaff and husks for it to eat.

The clumsy birds were hit with a slingshot—one had an injured leg, the other a knocked head, both looking rather listless.

Together, they barely weighed a jin, with pointed beaks and slightly large eyes that didn’t seem too sharp.

No one knew their exact species; locals just called them “clumsy birds.”

Their stew was delicious, tender like pigeon meat and nourishing, loved by wealthy city folk, though hard to come by.

A regular customer had long instructed Fan Jing to bring any such goods to him, even giving him two copper coins as an incentive.

After eating, Fan Jing had to hurry to the city, hoping to fetch a good price while the clumsy birds were still alive.

The mountain piglet had some blood on it and was already dead.

Its eyes were still open when they came down the mountain that morning, but the bumpy journey likely did it in.

The whole family came to see this haul.

The live pheasant and rare clumsy birds were clearly destined for the city to be sold for money, so everyone’s eyes turned to the piglet.

But how big could a piglet be?

This one was barely twenty-some jin.

After removing the hair and innards, it would be just over ten jin.

Such a small size wouldn’t sell well—households missing an arm or leg wouldn’t want it, as it wasn’t suitable for roasting whole.

In the end, the only thing left for the family was the offal.

Sure enough, Fan Jing boiled water, skinned the pig, gutted it, and took out the innards.

He set the piglet aside, leaving only the offal.

In the war-torn years past, life had tightened for everyone.

Wealthy households that once favored mutton and rarely touched pork had started eating it too.

The price of cheap pork had risen a bit, and more villagers began raising pigs.

Chen Shi smacked her lips, troubled: “Wild pig is awfully gamey, especially the offal. How do we cook this?” She wasn’t picky—farmers couldn’t afford to be.

The pork offal sold at city stalls smelled divine.

Father Fan loved his liquor and, when he bought some, would occasionally spend a few coppers on cheap offal from food stalls to eat with his drink.

Chen Shi had tasted it and found it not gamey at all; Qiao’er loved it too.

Unfortunately, she lacked the stall vendors’ cooking skills.

After puzzling for a while, Chen Shi opened a jar in the cool corner of the room.

Pointing to last year’s pickled beans and greens, she planned to stew the offal with them, hoping the strong sourness would mask the gaminess.

While Chen Shi cooked in the kitchen, Father Fan, with wet feet in straw sandals, stepped into the stove room.

“Clear out the west storage room this afternoon.”

Chen Shi frowned: “Clear it for what? It’s a mess with all sorts of junk.”

“Where else is Kang Sanlang supposed to sleep? It’s his first day here—stick him in the same room as Big Brother right away?”

“They’ll end up in the same room eventually. Why fuss so much on his first day?”

Father Fan disagreed: “He’s marrying in properly. We’ll have to throw a feast and invite the neighbors for a lively ceremony.”

Hearing Father Fan’s intent to make it a big event, Chen Shi flung aside the sackcloth in her hand and argued with him.

“This year’s harvest was poor—grain’s barely enough for the family. I planned to sell a shi of grain for cash to cover daily expenses, but with another mouth to feed, we can’t afford to sell any. The village head’s been hounding us to pay taxes, and we haven’t even done that!”

Father Fan asked, “Didn’t Da Jing cover your taxes this year?”

Chen Shi didn’t hide it: “He gave five hundred coppers.”

“Is that enough for a liang of land tax?”

Father Fan fell silent for a moment, then said, “Whatever he can chip in helps. Five hundred coppers isn’t a small sum.”

Chen Shi’s eyes sharpened: “You don’t handle the money, so you talk big without worry. We gave five guan to the Kang family, wiping out every drop of oil we had. You’re obsessed with looking good by throwing a feast, but even just inviting close relatives and regulars would need ten tables of food and drink.”

“Even if we skimp, one table costs seventy or eighty coppers. Ten tables would run close to a guan. Are you, Fan Shoulin, rich enough to pay for it, or do you have the clout to get the meat and dishes on credit?”

Father Fan mumbled weakly, “A feast costs money, sure, but guests bring gifts. It balances out, doesn’t it?”

“Polite folks might give thirty-five coppers, but some thick-skinned ones show up with a basket of eggs and bring their whole family, taking up half a table.”

Eggs were worth what—one copper buys two.

Some villagers were just there to mooch a meal.

“And that’s not all. The bridal room needs fixing up. Da Jing’s bed can’t fit two people. What about furniture? No wardrobe or vanity? Not even two bolts of cloth for the newlyweds?”

A feast could be skipped, but a proper household needed basic furnishings.

Without them, it wasn’t a home.

“You only care about face, not substance.”

Father Fan stayed silent.

In the past, villagers gossiped that their family had no sons, calling them a dead-end household.

Now, with talk of lavish dowries, their one son and two daughters might all stay home forever.

Now that Da Jing was betrothed, he wanted the village to see.

He hadn’t calculated the costs so closely.

Rubbing his temples, he felt overwhelmed by the trivialities: “My head’s aching. It’s cold and windy today—I’ll go…”

Chen Shi yanked him back: “You old fool, playing sick whenever trouble comes. Can I conjure coppers to fix this by you pretending?”

Father Fan coughed, embarrassed at being called out.

“How much money do we have?”

Chen Shi snorted, “A guan or so. Don’t get ideas—it’s for taxes.”

“That’s it?”

Seeing Father Fan’s disbelief, Chen Shi’s voice shot up, ready to list every expense: “All year, we rely on a few mu of poor land. You act like I’m hiding money. Since I married in, when have we not scraped by? Don’t you know if we’ve ever had surplus? If you had any skill, I wouldn’t need to stretch every copper!”

The two girls in the kitchen froze, not daring to breathe as their parents argued.

Qiao’er set down her vegetable basket and slipped out quietly.

“Your tongue’s too sharp. No wonder my parents called you a shrew,” Father Fan said, losing face and bringing up his parents.

Chen Shi wasn’t fazed by the in-laws card: “You’re the one yelling about a feast! Tell me where the money’s coming from. If we spend every copper now, we’ll be drinking the northwest wind after. If you’re so set on it, go borrow the money yourself—you’ve got plenty of drinking buddies!”

Father Fan’s chest heaved, glaring at Chen Shi.

He opened his mouth to argue but caught sight of Fan Jing entering, face cold.

He shut up, hands behind his back, and slunk off to the main room.

Chen Shi quieted too, picking up a spatula to stir the pot aimlessly.

Fan Jing’s expression softened.

Kang He sensed the tension in the kitchen.

Seeing Fan Jing come out, he asked, “…Fighting?”

Fan Jing shook his head, signaling it was no big deal.

Kang He didn’t press.

Even if Fan Jing explained, he might not understand.

He didn’t need to ask to know that poor families’ quarrels, three times a day or nine, always boiled down to money.

He’d seen it plenty growing up.

Before coming to the Fan family, he saw the matchmaker give his mother five guan, likely from the Fans.

His father wanted to give him the money, but his mother refused, and they fought behind closed doors.

Before he left, his father secretly tucked two strings of cash into his bundle, telling him to keep it safe.

On the oxcart, with nothing to do, Kang He counted it: two hundred twenty coppers.

It wasn’t much, but it wasn’t nothing.

For a village household, it was decent savings, but for someone alone, it was tight.

Along the way, Kang He saw straw huts and thatched roofs across the villages, with tiled houses rare and proper homes even rarer.

Life wasn’t easy for most folks—poverty was the norm.

With times tough and the world unsteady, making a living was hard.

Kang He made new plans.

First, he needed to learn the local dialect; without clear speech, nothing else mattered.

Then, he’d save up some money.

If he left the Fan family later, he’d at least repay the five guan of betrothal money.

Lunch was late.

Chen Shi made five dishes: a pot of pickled vegetable and offal stew, a plate of cured meat fried with bottle gourd, meat broth with greens, a basket of steamed leek buns, and a dish of mixed cucumber and lettuce.

The square table had four benches.

The Fan family of five usually sat with the two girls by the door, Father Fan facing north, Chen Shi on his left, and Fan Jing on his right.

Zhen’er and Qiao’er set the table, but with an extra person today, they had one extra pair of chopsticks and a bowl.

Zhen’er hesitated, unsure where to place them.

Qiao’er took them from her and set them next to her big brother.

The girls exchanged a glance and giggled.

Even Mid-Autumn meals weren’t this good.

As the family sat, their earlier frustrations faded, stomachs eager.

Chen Shi urged Kang He to eat.

The wild pig offal was gamey, and last year’s sour pickles couldn’t mask it.

Most avoided the dish, except Father Fan, who ate heartily—meat was meat.

After the meal, Fan Jing was off to the county to sell the game.

Chen Shi told him to take Kang He along.

It was a good call.

That afternoon, while she and the girls cleared the west storage room, several women and husbands dropped by, curious about the new son-in-law.

Seeing the lively yard, Fan Shoushan was inevitably asked about the wedding feast.

Chen Shi refused to host one, and he, tired of the questions, slipped out the back door to escape the chatter.