Chapter Seven: My "Hong Village"

A few months later, Ma Sufeng arrived in the northwest of Zhejiang, returning to the very place where our story began.

Hong Village is my ancestral home; I am a native of Hong Village. So these stories I know well, and understand deeply. My great-grandfather was said to be from Anhui, his ancestral roots traced to Anqing in Anhui Province, and for generations before him, our forebears had also been Taoist priests.

My great-grandfather, however, was not a disciple of any grand sect. He was a rustic Taoist, without a formal title, let alone a temple to his name. By day, he worked the fields; during the idle seasons, he would read feng shui or tell fortunes for the villagers. Occasionally, when there was a funeral or some ritual to perform in the village, he would be called upon to conduct the rites.

It is said that the earliest ancestor who became a Taoist priest did so simply to have a skill for survival. In those days, being a Taoist was considered part of the “three teachings and nine ranks of society.”

The so-called nine ranks are: first, the emperor; second, officials; third, monks; fourth, Taoist priests; fifth, physicians; sixth, craftsmen; seventh, artisans; eighth, prostitutes; ninth, scholars; and tenth, beggars.

From this, we see that, at least in that era, Taoist priests ranked even above physicians, and their social status was not so low. The Chinese have always revered the arts of yin and yang, and the practice of feng shui, so it was not unusual for one to be a Taoist by trade. But my great-grandfather was, at most, a part-time Taoist; his primary occupation was farming.

By modern standards, my great-grandfather was a shrewd man. In those days, lacking the support of science, the words of a Taoist were seldom questioned by ordinary folk. If pressed for an explanation, he needed only to say, “Heaven’s secrets must not be revealed,” and the matter would be settled.

He was most renowned, it is said, for his skill in reading burial sites—where the dragons lay, where the phoenixes perched, and where digging into the earth would strike water. With these talents, our ancestors fared rather well in the late Qing era—neither wealthy nor poor—farming their land, raising livestock, and occasionally earning a little extra from their craft.

At the end of the late Qing, the land was in turmoil, plagued by the “Long-Hairs,” that is, the Taiping Heavenly Kingdom. The Taiping rebels forbade shaving the front of the head and wearing the Manchu queue, in direct defiance of Qing law, which mandated it for all men. Thus, the Qing government dubbed them “Long-Hairs.”

In the early days, the Taiping army, under the banner of restoring the Ming and opposing the Qing, attracted many followers. But as the Qing regained the upper hand, the Taiping cause faltered. Discipline broke down; supplies ran short. The petty commanders, desperate for provisions, began allowing their men to pillage villages, claiming to rob the rich to feed the poor, but committing acts of banditry in truth.

To sow terror, they swept from town to village, sword and musket in hand, leaving destruction in their wake. And so it was that my great-grandfather and great-grandmother, with their whole family, began their flight from the Long-Hairs.

Their flight brought them to the northwest of Zhejiang, at the border of present-day Zhejiang and Anhui—a mountainous region dotted with a few villages of unknown antiquity. By the time my great-grandparents arrived, the original inhabitants had either perished or fled, leaving the villages deserted.

With houses and farmland ready for the taking, and even farming tools left behind, my great-grandfather and many other refugees chose to settle there.

In the years that followed, more refugees arrived, each family taking an empty house or a few acres. Gradually, the village grew, and by now it counted over two hundred households. At the entrance stood a memorial arch inscribed with the words “Hong Village,” and so we became known as the people of Hong Village.

My great-grandmother, it is said, was a lady of noble birth and striking beauty. In those days, with no night-time amusements, people went to bed as soon as darkness fell. Sharing a bed, there was little to do but what comes naturally. My great-grandparents, it seems, were well-matched in affection, for my great-grandmother bore eight sons.

My grandfather, my father’s father, was the third of these eight. According to my father, all eight brothers were over six feet tall, broad of shoulder and powerful in build, with astonishing strength.

In those times, a family’s prosperity depended on its labor force. All were newcomers, and social standing was earned by strength alone. The Xia family’s eight brothers, each a giant, could consume over twenty pounds of cornmeal at a single meal.

With so many mouths to feed, the family’s grain was never enough, so my great-grandfather divided the household among his eight sons. Thanks to their strength, and in those lawless days, the eight brothers became local bullies, often oppressing their neighbors and, at times, crossing the dense Tianmu Mountains into Anhui to plunder. But let bygones be bygones—any friends from Anhui, please hold no grudge.

My grandmother was among those they seized in a raid, just fifteen at the time, a landlord’s daughter by birth. The brothers drew lots, and my grandfather won; thus she became his wife.

Later, when the government cracked down on banditry, four of the brothers were executed, three conscripted into the army, and only my grandfather escaped, hiding in the mountains for seven days and nights, surviving on roots and stream water.

Seeing his sons come to such ruin, my great-grandfather decided my grandfather must learn a trade and abandon his lawless ways, so he passed on what little he knew of the Taoist arts. My grandfather learned but the bare essentials.

In time, my grandfather had my father, and my father, in turn, had me.

When my father came of age, the War of Resistance had broken out, and chaos reigned everywhere. Yet Hong Village, remote as it was, remained a haven of peace. It is said that the Japanese army once came as close as ten miles from the village, but perhaps the unbroken mountains dissuaded them; they never suspected a settlement could exist in such wilderness, and so Hong Village escaped disaster.

My father inherited my grandfather’s physique but not his trade. He called it superstition, and father and son were ever at odds. My grandmother died early, when my father was only nine.

My grandfather, having been a bandit and bully in his youth, had a temper to match, and neither father nor son would yield. By the time my father was twelve, he was already fending for himself.

Hong Village is rich in yellow clay, highly adhesive, which the locals use to build their homes—mudbrick houses. When my father came of age, my grandfather gave him a plot for a house. In those days, a father’s duty to his son was twofold: build a house and find a bride. My father insisted on handling both himself, working the fields by day and building by moonlight at night.

He was determined to distinguish himself. He would not settle for a mudbrick house; he wanted a house of brick and tile.

Back when my great-grandfather first arrived, there was indeed a beautiful house in Hong Village—a grand mansion with horse-head gables, a spacious courtyard, two stories, and three bays facing north and south. The imposing gate, studded with gleaming rivets like those of a magistrate’s yamen, was so tall a child had to be lifted to cross the threshold. Clearly it was once the home of a great landowner.

As one of the first to settle in Hong Village, my great-grandfather could have claimed the mansion—after all, the entire village was empty, and possession was simply a matter of taking. But he declined, choosing instead a humble mudbrick house, saying that mansion was cursed, and any who lived there would meet with misfortune.

Such a “mansion” left unclaimed was bound to attract envy. If you won’t take it, many others would! At the time, a family from Xianju, Zhejiang, had come to settle—a husband, wife, and three children. The man was a butcher by trade, fearless and burly, with a full beard.

In those lawless days, might made right. With eight sons, my great-grandfather’s family was the most powerful in the village. If he passed on the house, the butcher naturally coveted it.

The butcher thrust his bloodletting knife into the great door, set two meat cleavers on the threshold, and shouted, “This house is mine—Qi the Second! If anyone disagrees, come pull out the knives and reason with me inside!”

So Qi the Second, the butcher, moved in with his family. My great-grandfather only shook his head and said, “That family is living on borrowed time.”

One day, there was a wedding in the village, and everyone came to join the festivities. After a few too many cups of home-brewed liquor, someone asked my great-grandfather, “What’s wrong with that mansion, anyway?”

At the adjoining table sat Qi the Second, the butcher. Of all in the village, he alone felt some trepidation toward my great-grandfather, for the Xia family’s eight sons were infamous. Qi was merely a hard man, but the Xias were true rogues—if they said they would burn your house tonight, they would not wait until morning.

My great-grandfather was not one to meddle, but that day, tipsy with drink, he answered, “Anyone else who moves in there would be dead within three days. But him—he might last six months.”

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