Chapter 1379 - Rice Riots

On an early August day in 1633, the land outside the walls of Lin'an County, Hangzhou Prefecture, lay lifeless and desolate. No livestock cried. No children laughed. By daylight, every village stood silent and empty. Occasionally an old person or a child appeared—all with the pallid, greenish complexion of the malnourished, all listless. Men and women toiled under the scorching sun from dawn to dusk, yet still had to carry baskets into the hillsides to forage for wild vegetables. But even those were growing scarce, picked nearly clean.

Summer grain was about to come to market, yet every household's reserves had long been exhausted. Prices rose by the day. Farming families who had barely survived last year's drought now struggled once more for survival.

The government relief grain had all been eaten. The plummeting prices of raw silk and cocoons in spring had destroyed whatever slim hope sericulture households still harbored. With summer grain not yet arrived and starvation looming, even selling young crops couldn't close the gap. They sold land, houses, sons, daughters—everything a desperate person could sell had been sold. Though this year's weather seemed favorable enough, the shadow of famine pressed ever heavier upon them. In many households, food had already run out. Tenant farmers abandoning their land to flee famine and crowd into the city's porridge sheds grew more numerous by the day. Corpses accumulated along the roadsides.

In front of the rice shop in Dongguan Town, just outside the county seat, ragged villagers crowded together. On the doorframe hung a water board displaying prices for rice and various coarse grains, marked and re-marked many times over. From three mace per dou at the start of spring, prices had dipped briefly, then climbed steadily since summer's arrival. Now they stood at three mace eight candareens.

The teahouses and wine shops remained full. Soaring grain prices struck the common people like a thunderbolt from clear sky, but the wealthy felt nothing—many had even profited from this catastrophe. Some acquired land and houses through usury. Some purchased servants at bargain prices. The sounds of drinking games and smug, obscure laughter drifted from shop windows into the street, mingling with the begging cries of the starving and the wails of families being torn apart after selling themselves into slavery.

Each villager gathered at the rice shop door carried a small bag. Faces turned greenish from too many wild vegetables were etched with sorrow. Bins heaped with rice and coarse grains sent a stinging, burning sensation through their long-empty stomachs.

Though they dreamed night and day of eating rice, they had come to trade away their last precious grains for coarser fare.

"There's really no living like this." One man hesitated for a long moment before handing over a small bag of rice. The clerk rolled his eyes impatiently. "You old thing—do you think we're beggars? What do we want with your single sheng of rice?"

"Please show mercy!" The man bowed and pleaded until the clerk finally consented to accept his rice and exchange it for a bag of coarse grain.

"This exchange rate is too harsh..." someone muttered.

"If it's too harsh, don't exchange." The clerk glared with bulging eyes. "Our shopkeeper only agreed to take your rice out of kindness. Exchange or don't—just stop blocking the door and hindering our business."

The crowd murmured among themselves, but this was the only shop nearby willing to accept their meager handfuls of unpolished rice. Other shops wouldn't even look at such small quantities.

With no other choice, the villagers accepted the rice shop's "grace" one by one, taking their bags of coarse grain while silently cursing the shopkeeper's greed.

When it came to the last person, it was a middle-aged woman in ragged clothes. But looking closely, she wasn't old—long-term malnutrition and exhausting labor had simply left her skin grey and slack.

She clutched a wooden walking stick like a beggar's staff. From the way she panted every few steps, she probably couldn't have made it here without it.

Too weak to push forward, she reached the counter last. With trembling hands, she produced a small torn cloth bundle from her bosom.

The rice inside was perhaps half a he at most. The clerk refused even to accept it, curling his lip into a sneer. "Look at this, everyone—not even a full he, and she wants to exchange it for coarse grain. Though our shop does good deeds, there are limits. Big sister, you'd better take this rice home to feed your chickens."

"I beg the shopkeeper for mercy—" The woman pleaded, explaining that creditors had just seized her family's land and house. They now lived in a ruined temple. Her husband was dead, leaving only the elderly and children, all too weak from hunger to rise. This was all the rice she could bring for exchange...

The clerk refused. The woman wept and begged, finally dropping to her knees. As onlookers gathered, the clerk grew irritated, raised his hand, and flung the bag of rice from the counter.

It wasn't really a bag—just a rag wrapped around rice. Hitting the ground, it burst open. White grains scattered across the dirt.

The woman let out a hoarse scream and scrambled, half-crawling, to gather the rice. But there had been so little to begin with; now it was splattered everywhere. She clawed at the dirt, stuffing grains into her bosom while weeping, tears mixing with dust, looking like a madwoman. The bystanders could hardly bear to watch.

"This is bullying people too far..."

Finally, someone couldn't hold back the muttered words.

"Bullying? Who said that?" The clerk's eyes widened. "Got the guts to stand out instead of hiding in back like a turtle?"

The rice shop's owner was a local tyrant—the only person in town dared to run a rice shop. His clerks were accustomed to throwing their weight around. Under that glare, none of the idle onlookers dared say another word.

An old man stepped forward to mediate. "Shopkeeper Liu, show some mercy. For the sake of her being a widow with orphans, exchange some coarse grain. It's not charity, after all—"

The shopkeeper himself had been picking his teeth with a cold smirk. Perhaps finding the commotion at his door unsightly, he rose impatiently, retrieved a few bran cakes from beneath the counter, and tossed them out.

"Bran cakes..." Dissatisfied voices rippled through the crowd.

"What's wrong with bran cakes?" The shopkeeper glared. "Presumably you're all too rich and refined, eating rice and white flour daily, to lower yourselves to bran cakes?"

The woman hastily scooped up the cakes one by one and stuffed them into her basket.

The shopkeeper laughed. "See? You despise bran cakes, but she doesn't. Now that's what proper begging looks like. If we weren't from the same village, I'd have kept those cakes to feed my pigs."

"What 'same village'—quit spouting nonsense!" A deep voice rang out from the crowd. "You're just a bastard who eats people without spitting out the bones!"

The shopkeeper stiffened, his mouth falling open in shock. All these years he had lorded over the town, monopolizing the rice trade, lending at usurious rates, bullying men and seizing women, committing every variety of evil—yet no one had ever dared utter a word against him. Everyone in the county, except for the gentry masters he couldn't afford to offend, treated him with deference. Even yamen runners and squad leaders spoke to him politely, let alone dared to curse him to his face.

"What thing are you? Get out here and let me see!"

The crowd parted, but one man stepped forward. He was perhaps twenty-seven or twenty-eight, tall with pale skin, slightly stooped with bow-legs—the posture of someone who spent long hours sitting before a silk loom. An ordinary-looking weaver. His face was calm, his manner steady.

"Who are you, daring to be so insolent to Master Liu!" The shop clerks had recovered from their surprise and now shouted.

"Hao Yuan." The man spoke evenly, with no apparent intention of causing trouble.

A clerk suddenly vaulted over the counter. On his face, thick with brutal features, a deep scar ran sideways from the right corner of his forehead to his left cheek—a memento from the days when he had helped Shopkeeper Liu "establish territory" here. Though called a clerk, he was in truth the shopkeeper's enforcer.

He sized up his opponent, seemingly calculating the man's weight. Without a word, he swung a punch straight at Hao Yuan's chest.

Hao Yuan was hurled ten paces back, crashing onto a table in the tea shop across the street.

The clerks in the rice shop erupted in laughter. "Well hit! Let him learn his weight!"

The enforcer crossed his arms triumphantly, lounging in the shop's hall, a twisted smile on his scarred face as he admired his handiwork.

Then Hao Yuan swayed and struggled to his feet. His face was cut by shards of teacups, blood trickling from the scratches. The crowd fell silent. In that silence came the crack of a firecracker. A strange atmosphere descended over the scene. Many people shared the same intuition: this wasn't over.

Footsteps on the street grew louder, more urgent—as though many people were rushing this way. Within moments, the rice shop entrance was surrounded by a pressing mob.

Hao Yuan turned and stepped onto the bench in front of the tea shop. Facing the gathered crowd below, he shouted:

"Everyone saw it! We poor people have no way to live—even a bastard selling rice wants us dead! Those who don't want to watch their families starve, follow me!"

He raised his arm:

"Those who don't want to die—grab the rice!"

Hao Yuan's shout struck like a thunderbolt from a clear sky, jolting the dazed crowd awake. These were all common folk living at the bottom of society. Years of disaster had made their already difficult lives unbearable. They had survived only by selling off everything they possessed, piece by piece. By now, they had reached the point where even bitter pleading on their knees couldn't obtain a scrap of so-called "grace."

And now someone had awakened them: Since begging on your knees doesn't work, use your fists to take what you need.

Several men who looked like weavers shouted in unison.

The crowd erupted instantly. "Those who don't want to die—grab the rice!" One voice became ten, ten became a hundred. Everyone roared the words as if possessed.

(End of this chapter)