Chapter Five: Swallows Build a New Home with Mud in Their Beaks

It was nearly impossible to find even the smallest shelter from wind and rain in the city of Tokyo. Every object here belonged to someone. Even a broken branch that had accidentally fallen outside a courtyard wall—if Wang Rouhua so much as reached for it, someone would immediately come out to stop her, snatch the branch from her hand with a fierce glare, and leave in a huff. Everything in this place came at a price.

Wang Rouhua wandered the market for half a day, yet returned empty-handed; not even a job mending or laundering clothes could be found. She bought two flatbreads to stave off her hunger. Yesterday, two of these cakes had cost only two copper coins, but today, the same vendor demanded three. Unable to spend her money recklessly, Wang Rouhua had, upon waking, hidden all her remaining coins in a small hole, and with a determined sigh, even tucked the little fox inside to keep watch before heading to the market with her son on her back.

Passing by the slave market, Wang Rouhua nearly ran away. She had never witnessed people being treated like livestock, their mouths pried open to check their teeth and determine their age before being sold. Many young women, clad only in thin gauze, stood inside tents, allowing gaudily dressed madams or pot-bellied men to select among them. Long ago, Wang Rouhua had known that trafficking in people was an offense pursued by the officials in the Song Dynasty, but here, it seemed, no one cared to intervene. Remembering how she had nearly lost her head for merely resting in a corner wall the previous night, she felt nothing but contempt for those officials in their fine robes.

When she passed a funeral clothing shop, tears streamed down Wang Rouhua’s face. There would be no way to recover her Seventh Brother’s body; still, she could not allow him to become a wandering soul with neither grave nor shroud. When she left the shop, she carried a bundle of white linen in her arms and tucked a white silk flower into her hair in mourning for her Seventh Brother. As for the shroud, she would sew it herself upon returning to the city wall.

The boy, Tie Xinyuan, wore a white mourning cap hastily sewn by his mother in the shop—she wanted her brother to know that, even in death, he was remembered. The white linen was of the finest quality, and though expensive, Wang Rouhua did not even frown at the thirty coppers she spent, nor did she bargain as was her habit. This alone raised Tie Xinyuan’s opinion of his mother to new heights.

To Tie Xinyuan, Tokyo’s famed prosperity was unremarkable, save perhaps for the classical style of its buildings. The city looked very different from the famous painting “Along the River During the Qingming Festival;” perhaps Zhang Zeduan, the artist, had deliberately omitted the ramshackle huts, dirty beggars, and scattered trash. The roads were pitted and uneven, though traces of yellow earth laid for the Emperor’s parade could still be seen—until he noticed an old man sweeping it away, and realized why so little remained.

The population in Tokyo made everything precious; nothing was wasted. The food stalls stretching from one end of the street to the other held no appeal for Tie Xinyuan. Swarms of flies bred atop every morsel, swiftly dispelling any notion he might have had of eating outside food. He was convinced that, apart from his mother’s milk, nothing else could keep him alive long enough to marry and honor his mother.

After buying some grain and an iron pot, Wang Rouhua purchased a small piece of osmanthus cake, wrapped it carefully in a handkerchief to chew and feed to her son later. With her son hanging in a sling before her, the iron pot in hand, a small sack of grain on her back, and four bamboo poles tucked under her arm, she hurried home, worried for the money she had hidden away.

Only when she reached the foot of the imperial city did she breathe a sigh of relief. The road ten paces from the palace walls bustled with people, yet beneath the walls themselves, there was not a soul—not even a stray dog. No wonder, for armored guards lined the walls, and at the corner stood a massive bow mounted on a frame. Their home was right by the wall; not only did others dare not approach, even Wang Rouhua herself was uneasy each time she passed. The arrows on that great bow were as thick as eggs, their sharp tips glinting coldly in the sunlight—unmistakably lethal weapons.

She crept anxiously toward the corner, but the guards, familiar with her, only watched without threatening her with their weapons. Only then was she sure that, from this day forward, this corner truly belonged to her and her son.

The little fox whimpered pitifully behind the iron bars at the mouth of the hole, but Wang Rouhua only glanced at it before placing her son in the washbasin and breaking off some flatbread to leave at the entrance. As for water, there was some inside the hole.

By now, the sun was up. Once freed from the clouds, the May sun poured its heat down without restraint; soon, the city’s humidity rose like steam, and everyone felt as though they were inside a sauna, damp with sweat even without moving. The imperial city, situated on higher ground, remained relatively dry. A breeze blowing from Xiangguo Temple still carried the resonance of the morning bell—the monks’ prayers for the dead, wishing that the distant peals would carry their souls to heaven.

Kneeling, hands clasped, Wang Rouhua prayed fervently for her Seventh Brother, hoping his next life would not be so bitter, and that Yuan’er might grow up safe and healthy. With bamboo poles supporting an oilcloth, she erected a simple shelter—their only refuge in the world.

Content with their current situation, Wang Rouhua felt grateful. Having witnessed the fate of those trafficked in the slave market, she believed their lot was not so bad. If only she could find her clan and live together, things would be even better. The Sixth Uncle was a learned man; surely, he could teach Yuan’er well.

Days passed, each bringing some progress. Every day, Wang Rouhua returned with some building material, and gradually the crude shelter acquired a proper roof and even walls, made of wheat straw daubed with mud she had found. If she could not build a real house before the autumn winds rose, she and her son would not survive the winter. Tokyo’s summers were unbearably hot, but the winters could be equally bitter.

Living so close to the imperial city, no craftsman dared come to help build their house. Wang Rouhua knew this, but she valued their safety above all. A mother and child with neither kin nor husband’s protection faced extraordinary hardship to survive in the Song capital.

Lately, death was everywhere in the city. Boats carrying corpses plied the canals ceaselessly, for rumor had it that an epidemic had broken out. For the dead, suffering was over; but the living longed for the autumn winds, for only in the depths of winter would the reaper’s hand relent, and the survivors might live to see another year. The wealthy, seeing the floods recede, departed the city first, better understanding than the poor that where people crowded, sickness followed.

Wang Rouhua persevered with clenched teeth. She would not seek out her relatives until their own shelter was complete. Still, she spent five hundred coppers to bribe a clerk at the Kaifeng County office to transfer her and her son’s household registration from Xiangfu County, another outlying district, to Kaifeng itself. In this way, they became true residents of Tokyo. When the winter relief was distributed, their family would be included—thirty coppers a year might not be much, but for a lifetime in this city, the five hundred spent was well worth it.

In truth, Wang Rouhua had a deeper plan: once her son began to study, the county school in Kaifeng was the best in all Song.

Everything seemed well, save for one problem—Yuan’er refused to eat real food. Apart from breast milk, he would not touch anything, whether the sweet osmanthus cake or golden millet porridge. This worried her greatly. How could Yuan’er grow up to be a man if he would not eat?

Thankfully, Yuan’er was a well-behaved child. As long as he was fed, he never cried or made a fuss—even when he fell and bruised his forehead, he only pouted and reached out to be held. Surely, Heaven took pity on him, making him precocious to compensate for the loss of his father’s protection.

“Yuan’er, you mustn’t feed the osmanthus cake to the fox,” Wang Rouhua chided, snatching the morsel from her son’s hand—though a little too late, as she had to take it from the fox’s mouth instead. Sighing, she handed the cake back to the fox, which was circling her feet and whimpering.

Tie Xinyuan reached for the water bucket again, and his mother quickly pulled his hand out. This child loved nothing more than making mischief, especially with the water bucket, sometimes even tipping it over and, though he might fall, still enjoying himself immensely. Already, he could crawl with his head held high and even pull himself to his feet by holding onto things.

Wang Rouhua looked at the now-muddy water in the bucket and recalled that her son never touched hot water. Sometimes, hoping to teach her mischievous child a lesson, she would set aside a pot of scalding water, intending to let him touch it and learn to stop playing with water. Yet, every time the water was boiled, the boy would avoid it completely, not even reaching out when it was placed right before him.

Suddenly, Wang Rouhua looked at her son and asked, “Yuan’er, do you dislike the water because it’s dirty?”

Tie Xinyuan only laughed, pressing his wet little hands to his mother’s face, his large head butting against her chest in play.