Chapter 86: What County Magistrate?

"Ah, isn’t that the truth," the old man sighed. Unconsciously, he had begun to head toward the edge of his own field, and equally unconsciously, he had started chatting with Di Ying.

"That plot over there belongs to the village chief. His family has many sons, so they’re not in a hurry to harvest. By tomorrow, they’ll have finished cutting it all. Now, young man, look over there.

The wheat on that patch has been flattened even more by the wind. What a pity. Han Maolin and his wife are in poor health; they only manage to farm two acres, and even those aren’t well tended. In the past, their only son would herd sheep when he had free time and help with the fields when busy. With help from the villagers here and there, nothing like this ever happened. But now, since Lixing passed away and his wife threw herself into the river, only Maolin and his wife are left, struggling with two children no taller than a table. Look at that—the grain is just lying there in the field, wasted.

Tomorrow, I’ll have my boys go help them harvest it. By the way, young man, you know how to read the weather? Is it really going to rain the day after tomorrow? Do you know what time it’ll start?"

"I can read it a little, not much. I reckon the rain will come after supper the day after tomorrow," Di Ying replied modestly.

The old man glanced at him, gave a thumbs-up, and said, "To be able to say it so precisely, you must know what you’re talking about. When it comes to matters of the fields or the home, it’s you educated folks who are really useful. But all the ones who’ve studied have gone off to be officials. Once they become officials, who wants to bother with fieldwork anymore? They don’t care for the land, nor do they care for the people. Even when Lixing was killed, no one wanted to take care of it."

Di Ying asked, "From the way you’re speaking, sir, was Han Lixing a good man?"

The old man nodded. "Of course he was. He was an only child, but whenever someone in the village had trouble, he’d always lend a hand. If one of his sheep met with misfortune, he never kept it all to himself—he’d share the meat with those in the village who were having a hard time. These past two years, though, he’s stopped giving it away and just let it go to waste. What a shame, especially now that sheep have become so expensive. There are always city folk, wealthy families like yours, coming to buy live sheep. His family was living well, but he wasn’t after money. Whenever he made some, he’d use it to fix roads and build bridges for the village.

So tell me, how could anyone be so wicked as to kill him? No conscience at all. And now the authorities won’t even investigate. Who knows which wretch will get their just deserts someday? Meanwhile, the rest of us live in constant fear."

Di Ying agreed, "The officials are indeed useless. Sir, according to you, Han Lixing didn’t have any enemies? Never fought or quarreled with any other shepherds?"

"What would there be to quarrel about?" the old man said, pointing to the mountains on both sides not far away. "Sheep are expensive—how many people can afford to raise lambs? In our village, only Lixing and Han Ming herd sheep. See all these mountains? Each goes their own way; how could they quarrel? Only after Lixing died did Han Ming start grazing on his land, trying to find out who killed him. Dangerous business, wouldn’t you say?"

"Father! You’re rambling on again. It took you half the day to bring us water—we’re parched!" At this moment, Di Ying and the old man had reached the edge of the field. From a distance, seeing the group approach, someone—clearly the old man’s son—came over, breaking up the conversation.

Song Wen stepped forward, handing over the water jug and basket, and, pulling the man aside, started chatting about helping them harvest the wheat. In just a few words, he had struck up a warm rapport, making it difficult for the man to refuse. Soon, after borrowing some sickles, everyone set to work in the field together.

The old man, delighted, headed home to prepare a meal for them.

Di Ying took off his outer robe, rolled up his sleeves and trousers, and wielded the sickle with swift, practiced strokes. The wheat was fully ripe; one had to grasp, cut, and set it down gently, lest the grains fall to the ground. Lost wheat heads could be picked up, but spilled grain was nearly impossible to recover.

Watching these noble-looking folks work so adeptly, the old man’s four sons grew puzzled. At first, they thought these gentry had come just to pose for appearances, like the officials always did—just enough to go back and boast of their efforts. But the more they watched, the less it seemed the case. Unable to resist, they began inquiring about the group’s identity.

The ten guards, all of humble origin, along with Song Wen’s easy rapport, quickly dispelled their doubts. Meanwhile, the locals in the surrounding fields, equally curious, watched and speculated.

Di Ying didn’t join in their casual chatter about village life. As he harvested, he kept a close eye on the soil and occasionally rubbed a few grains between his fingers, inspecting the kernels before tossing them into his mouth instead of discarding them.

Song Wen followed his example, chewing heartily, finding it surprisingly satisfying.

"You must be hungry. Why don’t you stop working and come to my house for a hot meal?" Han’s eldest son, seeing their actions, couldn’t help but speak up.

Di Ying smiled and shook his head as he stacked the sheaves, asking, "You’ve tended this field well. The wheat heads are plump and the grains fragrant."

"Ah! You can tell that?" Han’s eldest son was surprised, then broke into a wide, simple grin, the very image of an honest farmer.

"Our county magistrate is a good man. He often comes to the village to teach us about farming. Ever since he took office, our yields have improved. He doesn’t levy extra taxes either—people say our lives here are better than in other counties."

"But he’s a bit slow-witted," piped up Han’s youngest, a boy of about twelve.

He was immediately cuffed on the head by his older brother.

"What nonsense! He’s the magistrate—how could he be slow? If he were, would he be able to teach us how to farm? He’s just not very good at solving cases, that’s all."

"How’s that not slow? If he can’t solve cases, what kind of official is he? When our family had nothing to eat, it was Lixing who gave us grain. But now he’s dead and the magistrate still can’t find the killer—useless, if you ask me," the youngest retorted.

This angered the eldest, who scolded, "Magistrate Zhang is our benefactor. Whether or not he can solve cases, he’s never oppressed us and makes sure we have enough to eat. That makes him a good man. Say another word, and I’ll give you a thrashing."

The youngest fell silent.

Di Ying took the opportunity to turn to the eldest. "Why does everyone say the magistrate can’t solve cases?"

The eldest scratched his head, looking troubled for a while before answering, "When Lixing died, the magistrate didn’t catch the culprit. In fact, there have been quite a few people who died mysteriously, and Magistrate Zhang never found the killers. So everyone just..."