Volume One: Song of the Frontier

Chapter One: Flourishing Age (Part 1)

Autumn had already arrived, yet the weather remained as scorching as midsummer. Shopkeeper Michael Bolton dragged out a small stool and sat in front of his little restaurant, watching the sunset while sticking out his tongue to catch the cool breeze.

This damn weather is just as unbearable as these damn days. The heat seeped right into his bones, and even the air he breathed felt sticky and damp, greasy like the grime by the stove. On the main road, the dust kicked up by passing travelers floated in the air, and before he knew it, it had turned the upside-down "Slotted spoon" (Note 1) hanging on the restaurant wall into a lump of mud. Black and reeking with a faint sour stench, it made his nose wrinkle and his appetite vanish.

In earlier years, Michael Bolton would have been in the mood to fetch a bucket of well water and wipe clean both the "Slotted spoon" on the wall and the smoke-blackened signboard above his head. In the Shanggu and Hejian regions, the "Slotted spoon" symbolized restaurants and taverns, just like the clerical script signboard above the door—it was the face of the owner. Back then, his restaurant had just opened, and he’d caught the good fortune of the Renshou years. Every day, he’d bring in over a dozen "meat coins" (Note 2), and on a lucky day with a big customer, he might even earn half a bolt of silk. The concubine in Michael Bolton's household and the fifty mu of land by the Yishui River were all acquired during those days.

At that time, Michael Bolton remembered he was eager to wipe the signboard reading "Youjian Inn" three times a day. That signboard had cost Michael Bolton three sheep as a calligraphy fee, to have Old Master Smith from the Yixian school write it. Old Master Smith had once served as a clerk for Lord Yang Su, Duke of Yue. If not for his fondness for the honest folk of the frontier, he would never have settled in Shanggu Commandery. Though the signboard he drunkenly wrote didn’t sound as auspicious as "Ruyi" or "Lin Feng," it was fitting and natural. Imagine a traveler on the endless main road, suddenly seeing the four characters "Youjian Inn"—hunger and thirst would instantly arise, and it was only natural to come in, stay the night, eat two bowls of wheat porridge, and drink a few cups of cloudy wine.

Unfortunately, good times didn’t last. The Renshou era soon ended, and the reign title changed to Daye. After the wise and mighty new emperor ascended the throne, he first built the Great Wall, then opened the Grand Canal, squandering all the savings in the treasury. You’d think he’d stop after ruining his own family fortune, but no—at the start of this year, he somehow heard the saying "the benevolent lord ascends, all nations pay tribute," and invited all the khans of foreign lands to gather in Luoyang. He ordered every region along the way to wash the streets with clean water, lay down yellow earth, and in all the markets and taverns, any foreigner eating or drinking was not to be charged.

People say the Son of Heaven is wise, that he sees everything with "double pupils," meaning he sees twice as clearly as ordinary folk. But this wise emperor didn’t understand the simple logic of paying for food. Shanggu Commandery was near the border, with frequent visits from the Xi, Khitan, and Turkic peoples. After so much mingling, no one could tell who was a foreigner and who was Han. Once the emperor’s preferential order was issued, foreigners swarmed in from all directions. Real or fake, imposters in droves swept along the main road like locusts, as if the locals owed them from a past life. After all this chaos, who knows what benefit the emperor got, but Michael Bolton knew his own tavern had to let go of the cook, dismiss the staff, and even pawn off half of the fifty mu of land by the Yishui River. The concubine who used to sweet-talk him every day now wore a cold face, wishing he’d just sleep on a bench in the tavern’s front yard.

Without money to hire a cook or keep diligent staff, the tavern grew more and more deserted. Where once Michael Bolton was busy from dawn to dusk, now he had leisure, able to sit on his stool and wait for sunset after noon. At sunset, when the neighbors returned home after a day’s work, if any of them bought half a jin of cloudy wine, it would fulfill his last hope of earning something for the day.

Business was slow, but the taxes at the yamen still had to be paid. A few days ago, Second-in-command Harris, a runner under Mr. Thompson of the Yixian household registry (Note 3), came by in person to remind him that this year "Youjian Inn" had to pay an extra five raw cowhides. Michael Bolton pleaded and begged, and only after giving two jars of sesame oil and a cask of aged huadiao wine did Second-in-command Harris agree to reduce the number of hides from five to two, but insisted they must be delivered to the county before winter, or else Michael Bolton would bear all consequences.

As the saying goes, "A county magistrate can ruin a family, a prefect can skin you alive." Michael Bolton knew what would happen if he couldn’t pay the taxes. Several of his peers in the county were now "guests" at the yamen’s inn (the county jail). It was said they got two meals a day there, always bamboo shoots stir-fried with pork. Every so often, someone bloodied and battered would be carried out the back door and tossed into the wild to feed the dogs. But the authorities forbade the people from slaughtering cattle, and sick or crippled cows were always in short supply. Even if he tried to use donkey hides as a substitute, he’d have to find a place to get a donkey first.

Travelers on both sides of the main road gradually increased. The servants of wealthy families carried wooden shovels and led livestock to their masters’ homes to work. These people wouldn’t buy Michael Bolton’s watered-down wine, so he didn’t bother to greet them. He just stared fixedly at the end of the road, longing for a merchant returning from beyond the frontier. Only they had quality hides, and only they could give Michael Bolton hope to keep going.

"Uncle Baosheng, business is good today!" A young man on horseback by the roadside raised his whip in greeting.

"Little Wu, thanks to your elder brother’s blessing, I had three groups of customers today—the kitchen didn’t go cold!" Michael Bolton pounded his numb legs and stood up, replying loudly.