On a fine afternoon in mid-spring, Han Zheng got off the hired barge in a pothole that an overzealous bureaucrat called a town. The Ravenous River, though still swollen with the melt-water, lapped peacefully against the wooden docks. Other than that, all he could hear was silence.
"Freedom, at last," he whispered and immediately gagged. Last time he checked, freedom did not stink like burning garbage. The stink, something agriculture-related, was just one more thing Zheng had to put up with for his father's sake.
Sure, if it involved dressing up in finery and going to the sumptuous palaces, that fell to his brothers. But when his dearest Sire needed a money chest lugged across the vales and dales of the Empire... His father's dry, hoarse voice echoed in his mind. "Zheng, I place an honorable task---"
He futilely waved his hand in front of his face, but the horrid smell persisted. Ancestors, a bit more honor, and I'll tear up... or puke.
A small troop of the guardsmen pushed past Zheng onto the docks, carrying his father's blessed chest. They dumped the load unceremoniously by his feet, narrowly missing his toes because life was glorious. The silver coins inside the chest jingled, the wood creaked, and Zheng just could not stand another minute of it, "You dolts! Dare you pretend it weighs you down?!"
All the suffering, all the responsibility was his. His father mocked him, his brothers mocked him, his guards mocked him, even the abominable chest mocked him with every step they took to reach the far, way too far-away province of Shantong. Ancestors, he even dreamed the other night of it jumping up on its lion-carved legs and squishing him like a bug. With his luck, it was prophetic too.
Zheng stared back at his black-lacquered tormentor. He was not rid of it yet. "On my way home, I'll be accompanied by two... no! Three concubines!" He kicked the chest, carefully avoiding the metal beasts circling the massive lock with his soft-toed slippers. "And you're going to pay for it, wretch!" And let the guards snicker into their sleeves, he will laugh louder in the end.
There was a small matter of reaching an understanding with the provincial gentry, the Zhenshi family, about liberating some of the funds before handing it over, but phew, he could handle a few sheepherders. Just a little bit farther, just a little bit longer... Zheng dabbed at his eyes with a scented handkerchief and took in the view.
The town of Thrice Blessed Landing, however odorous, stretched before him, ready to offer up its provincial pleasures. After the great cities of Sutao and Xichon where Zheng had resided his entire life, calling Thrice-Blessed Landing a village would have been a compliment. To give it a pompous name on top of it bordered on comical. However, the sleepy place did have a charm worthy of some recluse-painter.
Low hills crowded the huts and the orchards towards the river picturesquely. Beyond the still-bare trees, Han Zheng picked out the stupas of a faery monastery. This sign of civilization lifted his spirits up. There were plenty of places in the Empire where the superstitious peasants refused the faeries' presence. Once they chased the priestesses away, they gave the abandoned sites a wide berth, claiming the land was cursed. But here the stupas looked in a good repair, so there was hope of company more sophisticated than sheepherders.
Despite its embracement of the faeries, the hamlet was not civilized enough for the officials to greet Zheng on arrival. He sent a messenger ahead, but in this backwater, the letter must have failed to make it up the chain of command in time. With a martyred sigh Han Zheng picked out the biggest house he could see from the dockside and pointed his guards towards it, towards a bath and a meal.
The guards hefted the blessed chest up and one of them quipped, "They are fortunate! A pretty bride and with a dowry!"
Zheng did not find the chest particularly beautiful, but he laughed along for the sake of keeping their spirits up. Motivated by his show of good cheer, the guards set out throwing coy glances at him for some reason and grinning from ear to ear.
At the first street corner, the rancid smoke smell got worth and a man hurried towards them, smiling and waving his arms. Zheng slowed down. Perhaps Zhenshi did send someone to meet him after all?
The newcomer bowed to Zheng with the uttermost respect, the vest stretching across his fat back. Five or so years ago, he loved that crane pattern when it first came out in Xichon. At least the garment looked clean, so the man was not a beggar. "My lord! My lord! Would you like to buy wood for a funeral pyre? We have imported cedar."
Zheng felt his eyes widen. "Ah... Thank you, my good man. But, ah... no, I am not in the market for cedar."
"Pine maybe?" the man searched his face hopefully. 'It is excellent for burning the smaller deceased."
"No, thank you," Zheng cut him off. He decided not to add that if the man did not shut up, he'd start his pyre. Those merchants, they'd die to make a sale. The merchant continued to bar his path, gaping like a coy in a pond, so Zheng murmured 'Excuse me, my good man' and stepped around. The guards picked up the chest, and on they went.
Thrice-Blessed Landing had more to offer a tired traveler. Three steps down, a kindly old lady emerged from a hut, exclaiming in delight over his good looks. He tried to come up with something positive to say about the woman's prune-like face and crumpled tunic, but before inspiration had struck him, the old dear interrupted her own flowery compliments with, "Young Lord, what I am doing, keeping you waiting with my silly chatter! Come in, come in, take a look at our funerary scrolls! You won't find finer work in all of Shantong!"
Han Zheng turned on his heels and marched on, his small retinue struggling to keep up.
Next, he dodged a seller of shrine flowers with a basket full of his silk products. Alas, he was so distracted by the imbeciles, that he fell right into the clutches of a poet. The clingy bard refused to take it on faith that Zheng had no graves to adorn with pious verses.
Trying to lose the poet, Zheng sped up to a gallop. The no-longer grinning guards panted heavily trying to keep pace, until he dashed inside the teahouse, shut the door into the poet's face, and leaned against the door completely exhausted, breathing in the smell of fried dough and onions. Ancestors, he'd made it!
A round-faced, plump girl with a kettle and a tray of bowls dashed to his rescue. Blushing a delightful shade of crimson from her hairline all the way down to her neckline, the girl got him settled in with tea and buns. She was as fresh and as unsophisticated as the food she had served him.
Mollified, Zheng invited the girl to join him after she made sure his men had been fed. She nodded gladly and whispered solicitously, "Who did you lose My Lord? It must have been someone close for you to travel from the capital all the way to Shantong for the funeral! We can provide catering at a very reasonable cost."
Han Zheng nearly hit her with the tray. "I've had it with the morbid cottage industries! I need to see the Magistrate, send for him, Mistress, and fast!"