It was the first month of the new year, and in Wenpu County, in the mountainous southwest, people were still caught up in the festive mood of the Lunar New Year.
As a small county town in a remote corner of the southwest that had already entered the mountains, Wenpu had never had much of a rich cultural life in the past. Though the town’s supplies had always been somewhat better than those of the surrounding villages, and occasionally a traveling opera or acrobatics troupe would pass through, such entertainment had, in the end, only ever been enjoyed by the town’s few wealthy households.
It had been more than two years since the Huaxia Army unified the southwest, and only this year had an arts troupe—grown out of what had once been called Zhuji—finally made its way to this area. Around the New Year, a troupe toured Wenpu County town and the nearby villages, performing. Their almost entirely free, ticketless performances ignited the enthusiasm of the townspeople and villagers alike; crowds followed the troupe from place to place, watching the packed, bustling shows for several days running. As this kind of public entertainment activity spread, households near the county town that had a bit of spare money spent more freely than before. In past years, most families would simply shut their doors and eat a few New Year’s meals quietly at home; this year, the sound of firecrackers going off was several times louder than usual.
It was not yet the Lantern Festival, and most of the town’s productive work had not yet resumed. Snot-nosed children ran wild through the streets, shouting lines they’d picked up from the opera over the past few days—things like “Zonghan, your day has come too!” or “I’ll strike you down with my Heaven-Toppling Seal!”—while local residents with larger extended families continued going door to door paying New Year’s visits. Only a portion of the work involved in maintaining people’s livelihoods paused briefly on New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day, before resuming its usual routine.
The night-soil women still rose before dawn every day as always, collecting the night-soil buckets from each household before daybreak. And at the night-soil collection station registered under the “Huaxia Army’s No. 223 Agricultural Research Institute,” Tang Minjie was there every single morning without fail, collecting a full cart of night soil.
Around the New Year, the No. 223 Agricultural Research Institute had actually given its staff several days of winter holiday. But even without any research tasks to attend to, the operation of the night-soil station still had to keep running in order to maintain the town’s normal functioning. So Tang Minjie had applied and become the last member of the institute to remain at his post. Although the director, Chen Cirang, had told him, “If no one collects the night soil, the night-soil women will just dump it in the river as usual—the water will carry it away, no harm done,” Tang Minjie simply couldn’t sit still, and besides, staying on let the night-soil women earn a few more days’ worth of income from selling their night soil.
Overall, the workload had certainly gone down.
In his free time, he went along with the crowds to watch a few of the opera performances. The Huaxia Army was short-handed, and the troupe sent to a small place like Wenpu was clearly made up of newcomers, not particularly polished in the conventions and structure of opera performance. Having once been the pampered young son of a landowning family near Daming Prefecture, Tang Minjie could see the flaws easily enough. But the ordinary audience didn’t care about any of that. People laughed and beamed with joy at the gathering, and in the rising firelight, amid the crackle of firecrackers, everyone’s face carried an indescribable sense of festivity—even the beggar huddled in his coat, shivering off to one side, bared his half-toothless grin as he took part in the celebration.
It all felt like something from another lifetime.
The last time a New Year had come around, he had still been in the north, watching countless Han slaves and captives suffering from cold and hunger, worrying even about firewood to get through the winter, while the Jurchen who occupied hill after hill wouldn’t even let others pick wild grass from the mountainside.
And Wanyan Xiyin had had the nerve to say to him: “…I originally wanted the Han slaves to live a bit better.”
His only regret was that he hadn’t been able to personally carve up every last Jurchen in the north.
And now, in the blink of an eye, he was back in the south.
The scene unfolding before him in this out-of-the-way little county town, the smiles on people’s faces—even in the bustling, prosperous Daming Prefecture of his past, he had never once seen anything like it.
The swallows that once nested beneath the eaves of the great noble houses now flew into the homes of ordinary commoners.
Though some of the coarser lines in the opera carried a bit of playful mockery aimed at teachers, for most people who “understood opera,” the overly colloquial lyrics were something he could grasp the moment he heard them. He even found something moving and powerful in the hoarse, straining performances of those young actors—something far greater, in its own way, than refined lyrics or practiced choreography ever could be.
And so, while the surging crowd watched the great performances, Tang Minjie sat off at a distance, whether in the daytime crackle of firecrackers or the swaying firelight of night, quietly watching the bustling joy displayed on face after face.
To him, this was what it meant to celebrate the New Year.
On the fourth day of the new year, amid an evening crowd as thick as a market fair, he ran into a few of Wenpu’s night-soil women. Among them was the young widow, He Qing, whom they had once wanted to introduce to him—she had brought her child along as well.
Generally speaking, the temperaments of night-soil women tended toward two extremes: either unusually withdrawn and self-conscious, or unusually lively and outgoing. Among the group he ran into this time, there were naturally some of the outgoing sort, and they teased and pushed Tang Minjie and He Qing to “spend some time together.” The two of them, with no real way to refuse, ended up walking a stretch through the crowd together, each holding one of the children’s hands. After finding the child a good spot near the front to watch the show, the woman—who didn’t have much to say, but clearly didn’t dislike Tang Minjie—took the initiative to ask him about the land distribution.
“I heard… they’re giving land out to people who have none, out there.”
“Mm, that’s right. Eventually everyone should get some.”
“I heard… even people without husbands get some too.”
“Mm, the newspaper said so—as long as you’re registered, you’ll get some.”
“I heard… there’s an exam you have to take…”
“Don’t worry, it shouldn’t be difficult.”
“I’ve never taken a test before. My kid hasn’t either… I can’t read, and neither can he…”
“When the time comes, someone will teach you in advance, give you lessons.”
“But if… if we study, and still don’t pass, what then? Tang—Brother Tang, have you… have you gone to school? Do you know what they’ll be teaching?”
News about the land reform policy had been the central focus of the Huaxia Army’s work since before the New Year, and there had been a good deal of coverage in the newspapers. But it hadn’t yet reached Wenpu County, and most people who’d heard about it felt uneasy, half-believing and half-doubting. Tang Minjie gradually understood what He Qing was trying to say.
“I don’t know the details of what the land reform work team will be teaching just yet, but I can more or less guess. I’ll have to go find out more specifically.”
“Then could you… when you have time… could you teach us? Even if it’s just me, that’s fine too… once I’ve learned, I’ll teach it to my kid…”
Among the many night-soil women, twenty-seven-year-old He Qing was considered fairly good-looking. As she said this, something about the way she spoke carried a particular, deliberate weight, as though she were thinking of something else entirely. Tang Minjie, long practiced in reading people, naturally understood what lay behind her words. He wasn’t bothered by it—he simply thought it over seriously.
“Let me consider it.”
She assumed he was turning her down.
He spent several days thinking it over carefully.
A few days later, another outgoing night-soil woman asked him about the Huaxia Army’s land distribution. The whole matter sounded like something out of a fairy tale to people in this small, out-of-the-way place—but who among them didn’t harbor at least some small hope in their heart?
A few more days passed, and once the institute officially resumed work, Director Chen Cirang arranged to discuss work matters with Tang Minjie. Tang Minjie brought up the idea that had been on his mind, and it startled Chen Cirang badly. Among all the various institutions of the Huaxia Army, the No. 223 Institute was an especially obscure posting. Aside from Chen Cirang himself, who had once been something of a scholar, most of the others there—though some had come down from the battlefield—were essentially in a state of “retirement,” the place kept running by a handful of core staff while everyone else simply passed the days without much ambition.
Even in an environment like this, among all the jobs at the institute, collecting night soil remained the lowliest task of all. And so, although Chen Cirang had long suspected that Tang Minjie might have some background behind him, he never would have guessed that a man in such a position would want to do something so out of the ordinary.
Chen Cirang naturally offered words of encouragement, and chatted with Tang Minjie about a great deal of unrelated things, but found he couldn’t get a single meaningful clue out of him. Afterward, he privately had someone look into Tang Minjie’s background: how could such a resourceful young man possibly have been assigned to a post like his?
This wasn’t the first time he’d made such inquiries. And, of course, he still came up with nothing.
As for Tang Minjie, he understood the director’s feelings well enough, but felt no need to concern himself with them. Having received tacit approval, on the morning of the tenth day of the first month, Tang Minjie spoke with the group of women at the night-soil station about the land reform, saying he could hold a small study session for everyone each morning. Any of the night-soil women could join, and if their families had adult members or children who hadn’t yet had any schooling, they were welcome to come too. He could offer them some basic literacy instruction, including how to recognize the numbers that would come up in the land distribution exam and how to write the names of the Huaxia Army and their own names, so that they’d be as well prepared as possible for the land reform process ahead.
Since unifying the southwest, Ning Yi had pushed hard for widespread basic education for children, as well as the Shanxue education program. But in just two or three years, there were naturally still countless people who hadn’t yet caught up with these developments—especially since the main focus of basic education had been placed on children, while the night schools and self-study programs meant for adults still hadn’t been properly established in many places. Needless to say, the families of these lowest-status night-soil women were among the last to be reached at all.
It was only after careful thought that Tang Minjie made this decision.
The group of night-soil women, young and old alike, were stunned into silence when they heard it. They asked over and over again to be sure. Once it was confirmed, some laughed and joked, “At our age, what could we possibly still learn…” Others—old women—sat right down on the ground, opened their toothless mouths, and wailed and wept.
And so it was that on the sixteenth day of that first month, in a place that many might consider “beneath dignity”—the night-soil station—perhaps for the first time in the entire history of the Huaxia Army, or perhaps for the first time in thousands of years of history altogether, a basic literacy class founded specifically for night-soil women came into being, in a corner of the small county town of Wenpu, pushed into existence by Tang Minjie.
Though none of their families were well-off, on the fifteenth day of the month, a group of women and old women who normally dealt with filth and refuse showed up at the night-soil station carrying all sorts of food, presenting it to Tang Minjie—supposedly as a “teacher’s gift,” in the old tradition. Even Tang Minjie, who had spent so many years working undercover behind enemy lines and had seen all manner of things, racked his brain and still couldn’t find a way to turn the offerings down.
In the end, he had no choice but to let the food become breakfast, in the days that followed, for the children of the several night-soil women’s families who attended the class.
Not long into this peaceful New Year season, Peng Yueyun came from outside, bringing along some food and supplies. Tang Minjie scolded him for it, then accepted half a bag of wedding candy from him. When Peng Yueyun heard about the study group Tang Minjie had started at the night-soil station, he was completely astonished by what his friend had done.
The young officer stayed the night in Wenpu, and the next morning went along with Tang Minjie to collect night soil, hiding off to the side afterward to eavesdrop on the brief morning class teaching numbers and names. On the way back to Little Ye Village, hauling the manure buckets, he ventured to say, “You could actually use this for propaganda purposes, you know.”
Tang Minjie replied seriously, “Don’t go stirring things up.”
Peng Yueyun nodded. “…Fine.”
“And you have to promise—don’t tell Lin Jingmei either.”
This time, Peng Yueyun was silent for a long while before finally nodding. “…All right.”
During the time since Tang Minjie had returned, Peng Yueyun had always wanted, in one way or another, to help him feel better. But it wasn’t until this trip—until they’d returned to Little Ye Village, finished dealing with the night soil, and Peng Yueyun was about to leave—that he finally tugged at Tang Minjie’s sleeve and said, “…Brother, I understand you now.”
“…” Tang Minjie looked at him.
“Now that we’ve taken the southwest, and Chengdu has grown so much, people get dazzled by all the flowers blooming before their eyes—some folks have changed from how they used to be. I’ve seen a lot of that too. But today, brother… I understand you. You and the teacher are the same kind of person. You two stand closest to each other. Don’t worry—whatever you say, I’ll do it.”
Holding onto Tang Minjie’s sleeve, this soldier—who, had he not married Lin Jingmei, might well have been promoted to major general before long—felt his eyes redden slightly. “But… someone like you, being like this… it hurts, in my heart…”
Tang Minjie hesitated for a moment, then reached out and put an arm around his shoulder, the way that cruel, murderous senior classmate of his once had, holding the junior comrade he had saved.
“It’s nothing. Don’t let it get to you…” he said. “Just live your life well, all of you.”