Chapter 20: The Peasant Uprising Loomed Close
Chapter 20: The Peasant Uprising Loomed Close
Brother Wang walked at the forefront, and his two buckets filled first.
He threaded a carrying pole through both buckets, hoisted them onto his shoulders, then leveraged his strength to turn around slowly. He had to rotate carefully to avoid spilling the precious water—in this drought, every wasted drop caused heartache for ages.
But as he turned, he froze utterly at the sight behind him.
Unbeknownst to him, a strange little mound made of white round balls had silently formed at his back.
Brother Wang’s jaw dropped, gaping for a long moment. The buckets slid from his shoulders and clattered to the ground, spilling every last drop.
A villager nearby gasped in dismay: “Brother Wang, how could you drop the buckets? Such wasted water…” He nearly fell to his knees, desperate to scoop up the mud-stained puddles.
Brother Wang stiffly mumbled: “Everyone… look… behind…”
The villagers by the pond turned one by one.
Each who turned froze on the spot!
One after another, they stood petrified!
In a flash, the entire group stood motionless like statues, staring dumbfounded at the mound of little balls.
A villager opened his mouth to cry out. Brother Wang leaped forward, clamping a hand over his lips.
The others snapped to their senses: they were in Gaojia Village, stealing water. They couldn’t make noise—getting caught here would bring unbearable shame.
Brother Wang strode to the mound, plucked a ball, sniffed it, and whispered: “Flour? Is this flour? It smells like flour… but why such big clumps? Did moisture clump it into balls?”
Another nodded: “Must be. I was wondering why I suddenly smelled flour earlier. Thought hunger gave me illusions.”
Brother Wang frowned: “How’d they get here?”
“I didn’t see anything!”
“Neither did I.”
“I was drawing water.”
Gritting his teeth, Brother Wang declared: “The Gaojia Village folk must’ve snuck the flour balls behind us while we weren’t looking. There’s no other way.”
The villagers exchanged bewildered glances.
“The Gaojia villagers are this kind?”
“Where’d they get so much flour?”
“Why shape them into balls?”
“Why would they just hand over flour for nothing?”
“And secretly place it behind us late at night? It…”
Brother Wang scanned left, right, front, and back—no one in sight. He tossed a flour ball into his mouth and chewed. He nearly sneezed—raw flour tasted wretched. He whispered: “It’s definitely flour! Must’ve been left for us. They saw us steal water but spared our dignity. This flour’s their pity gift.”
The villagers didn’t believe this explanation for a heartbeat, yet absurd as it was, no other possibility made sense.
Brother Wang ordered quietly: “Pour your water back into the pond. Empty your buckets to fill them with flour balls. Take all you can carry. Wasting any means I’ll whip you myself.”
The others grimaced: “Brother Wang, no need. If anyone spills flour, we’ll thrash ourselves.”
They hastily emptied their buckets into the pond!
Wet buckets couldn’t hold flour—they’d become clumped paste. So they waved the buckets wildly in the air, letting the wind dry them. Only once bone dry did they rush the flour mound.
They filled two buckets heaping, hoisted them with utmost care, then shuffled in tiny steps.
Gentler than holding their newborn infants, they carried them. One clumsy shake—if a flour ball tumbled into the sand—would break every heart.
As they filed out of the village, Brother Wang set down his load. Clenching his fists, he bowed deeply toward Gaojia Village: “I, Wang Er, remember this generosity. One day, I’ll repay it.”
He hadn’t seen who delivered the flour, but it must have been some noble soul. Today he was a thief, unwelcome to show himself. Someday he’d return publicly and give thanks publicly.
Hearing this, Li Daoxuan finally learned his name—Wang Er!
The name struck a familiar chord. A thought sparked… Quickly, Li Daoxuan searched the late Ming historical files he’d studied. At last, he discovered Wang Er’s name in “The Deer Woodcutter’s Memoirs”:
In the inaugural year of Chongzhen, Shaanxi suffered devastating famine. The land lay barren for a thousand miles. Wang Er of Baishui painted his men’s faces black and stormed Chengcheng, murdering the magistrate.
“The Small Records of the Emperor’s Martyrdom” added vividly:
In the Tianqi era’s dingmao year, a great drought plagued Shaanxi. Zhang Yaocai, Magistrate of Chengcheng, extorted taxes with cruelty beyond endurance. A man named Wang Er secretly united hundreds who gathered on a mountain; each smeared their faces with ink. Wang Er roared: “Who dares slay Zhang Yaocai?” The crowd answered thrice: “I dare!” Then they breached the city gate—the guards held no defense—charged into the county office, and killed Zhang. Thereafter they encamped in the mountains.
Historians defined Wang Er’s uprising as “the starting point of late Ming Peasant Wars.” Thus the man who ignited the peasant war to overthrow the Ming Dynasty stood before him. Future rebels like Li Zicheng and Zhang Xianzhong were mere followers.
Silently, Li Daoxuan closed his documents. His gaze returned to the scene below in the scenic box.
Wang Er and his men had already vanished beyond the miniature world’s edges.
Left behind were footprints… and a patch of land scraped naked where the flour mound had been.
Li Daoxuan sighed softly: “Since history marks you as the spark… open war will flare to Gaojia Village soon. We’ll meet again.”
His eyes swept over the village’s tumbledown huts. Once rebellion erupted, Gaojia Village would be engulfed. Guarding the scenic box, he could sweep enemies aside with a flick of his fingers, shielding the villagers.
But if he slept or stepped out… they’d lie defenseless.
The Hakka roundhouse needed another month to finish… yet Wang Er’s uprising loomed as urgent as tomorrow.
He couldn’t gamble solely on the roundhouse. They needed protection now.
His eyes scoured the room. On the coatrack, a patch of rusted iron sheet curled upward.
Li Daoxuan’s gaze brightened: Scrap iron! He’d forge the villagers armor.
Yet these villagers were unskilled fighters. Clad in iron, they still might fall to bandits or officials. They needed stronger shields.
His eyes landed on the Lego bricks piled beside his desk.
He smiled wryly. Until the Hakka roundhouse rose… this toy would have to serve as their rampart.