Chapter 105 - A Change of Course

“Xin Nachun is Xin Nari’s younger sister. A real firecracker, that one. She’ll slaughter a pig with her own hands, and not a single young man in the village is a match for her.”

“I see,” Liu Si murmured. “Tell me everything. The village, the people, their business.”

“And what’s all this for?” the widow Zhou teased, her eyes glinting with a practiced charm. “Still trying to win favor with those two lady officials? A grown man, dancing to the tune of two women. For shame.”

“They’re my superiors. They sign my pay. Even an official must bow to the Empress Dowager. And besides,” Liu Si pulled the woman into his arms, his hands finding their way under her clothes, “those two are built like mares. What interest could your Brother Si possibly have—” He whispered into her ear, “My dear, you tell your Brother Si everything you know, and I’ll make sure you’re rewarded tonight…”

Liu Si’s talent for mixing business with pleasure had, ironically, made him the most valuable asset on the team. From the widow Zhou, he gleaned a wealth of information about the village, particularly the recent activities of the bandits’ families. This was vital intelligence, and he wasted no time. That evening, upon returning from the widow’s embrace, he relayed all he had learned.

“It seems this band of miscreants hasn’t scattered for good,” Dong Weiwei observed.

Du Wen’s jaw tightened. “Then we need a firm hand. A severe crackdown.” She paused, her mind racing. “The troublemakers… are they landlords? Rich peasants?”

“Landlords? Rich peasants?” The question caught Liu Si off guard. He’d had a crash course in class divisions at the Peasant Movement Training Institute, but he hadn’t anticipated this line of inquiry. “I… I don’t believe so.”

Dong Weiwei, weary of Du Wen’s ideological fixations, intervened. “Let’s forget about landlords and peasants for a moment. Liu Si, stick to the important matters.” She fixed her gaze on him. “What is the general sentiment of the common folk towards us? The bandits’ families are still acting with such impunity. Why is no one willing to form a militia for their own defense?”

“The villagers are paralyzed by three fears,” Liu Si explained. “First, they fear being held accountable for ‘collaborating with the bandits.’”

The Thirteen Villages had long been a bandit sanctuary. Few families were entirely untangled from their web, having at least provided them with grain or fodder, to say nothing of those who had joined their ranks for a share of the spoils. A proper investigation would implicate nearly everyone as a “bandit collaborator,” a crime from which they would be fortunate to escape with their lives.

“Second, they fear retaliation. They worry that if the work team leaves, the bandits will return with a vengeance. Their methods are brutal. The memory of the massacre Dang Namen’s gang carried out when he first seized power still haunts them. Nearly every family with a grudge against him lost someone. Some were wiped out completely; others fled with nothing but the clothes on their backs.”

“The third fear,” Liu Si concluded in his halting Mandarin, “is of the fight itself. They’re afraid that if they join a militia, they’ll be sent into battle.”

Dong Weiwei frowned. “I recall the security battalion being formed a few months ago. The Thirteen Villages were to contribute men. I don’t remember any talk of fear then.”

“They sent men, yes. The villagers say Dang Namen himself declared the ‘transmigrators’ were not to be trifled with, so they sent a few souls to satisfy the quota. Each village offered up its bachelors and outsiders.”

“I can’t believe their cowardice,” Du Wen said, disheartened. “Afraid to fight bandits? What’s the purpose of a militia, then?”

“You can’t see it that way,” Dong Weiwei countered. “They’ve been beaten and terrorized into submission. If they have three fears, our first task is to grant them courage. Only then can they act.”

“Until we capture Xin Nari and make a public spectacle of him, the people of this village will never feel safe. Our plan to control the Thirteen Villages by establishing a militia will remain a fantasy.”

The daily radio dispatches were not encouraging. Xin Nari had vanished as if into thin air. Not a single bandit suppression team had reported his capture or death.

Intelligence gathered from the other trainees painted a similar picture: a village shrouded in indifference. The few individuals they had managed to sway offered only scraps of information. Beneath the veneer of calm, a storm was brewing. The fall of Dang Namen’s gang was a stone cast into a stagnant pond. The families of the slain bandits thirsted for revenge, while those who had suffered under their reign saw an opportunity to settle old scores. Hatred fermented in the close quarters of the village, a violent tempest on the horizon that Du Wen and Dong Weiwei had tragically underestimated.

After Liu Si departed, the two women fell into another argument, this time over the fate of the bandits’ families. Du Wen advocated for their immediate arrest to “shatter their arrogance.” Dong Weiwei demurred, arguing that such a rash move, based on a few lines from Liu Si’s report, was foolish.

“And who do we arrest?” Dong Weiwei pressed. “The entire family? Just the men? And what becomes of them then?”

Du Wen had to concede the point. The arrest was the easy part; the aftermath was a different matter entirely.

“We’ll hold a public struggle session!” she finally declared, drawing another page from her land reform playbook.

“That’s unlikely to work,” Dong Weiwei said, shaking her head. “It’s one thing to round up the bandits’ families. But will their victims dare to step forward and denounce them? Most people here are mere spectators, and they’re still terrified of the bandits at large. We won’t be able to mobilize them.”

“Then what’s your brilliant solution?”

“We wait,” Dong Weiwei admitted, unable to produce a masterstroke of her own. “If we could capture Xin Nari and put him on public trial here, that would be the ideal scenario.”

“That’s as good as saying nothing at all!” Du Wen snapped, her anxiety mounting.

“Whatever we do, we must first understand the landscape,” Dong Weiwei insisted, her eyes suddenly bright. “We can make use of the foreigner in the back.”

“The foreigner? For what?” Du Wen harbored a deep-seated aversion to the man.

“We can use him for our own ends,” Dong Weiwei said smoothly. “He isn’t one of us. No one listens to his sermons, but that gives him a certain freedom of movement. He could be an invaluable asset for gathering intelligence and disseminating our propaganda.”

Though Du Wen was skeptical, the failure of the mass rally had planted a seed of doubt in her own infallibility. She did not object. They sent for Bai Duolu at once.

Bai Duolu emerged from the back with a long face. Since his arrival in Daolu Village, he had been reduced to Lu Ruohua’s glorified errand boy. He trailed the priest on his missionary rounds and was tasked with printing promotional materials. Before their departure, Lu Ruohua had commissioned a few tracts, paid for woodblock carvings at Zhou Dongtian’s print shop, and painstakingly transported them to the village.

When summoned to the second courtyard, his hands were stained with ink, which he was attempting to wipe clean with a scrap of paper. A wave of melancholy washed over him. The pamphlets he had so diligently printed were now being repurposed for every imaginable household use, including as toilet paper. His missionary work had devolved into a farce. A crowd would form, eager to snatch the pamphlets, though Bai Duolu knew they were illiterate and coveted only the paper itself. After hearing their proposal, he mulled it over. “This won’t be simple. Father Lu is singularly focused on his preaching, and it’s not going well. I doubt he’s in any mood to assist us.”

“Missionary work is simple,” Dong Weiwei countered, having witnessed the influence of underground churches in the countryside. “He drones on about Jesus, redemption, original sin… who wants to hear that? The key is to promise them what they want: Believe in Christ, and you’ll be free from sickness, the weather will be kind, and you’re guaranteed a son.”

Bai Duolu was aghast. “That’s… that’s superstition.”

“And what you’re peddling isn’t?” Du Wen scoffed.

“Religion and superstition are two distinct concepts,” Bai Duolu began, attempting to articulate the difference.

“Enough,” Dong Weiwei cut him off. “Do you honestly believe you’ll achieve anything by handing out flyers like a common peddler?”

Bai Duolu had to admit she had a point. And at this juncture, it seemed the only path to a breakthrough.

“Very well. I will speak to Father Lu.” The words felt heavy on his tongue, a sin in themselves. He wondered if he should seek confession.

Returning to his room, he found Lu Ruohua hunched over his desk, scribbling furiously with a homemade quill under the flickering oil lamp. Another sermon, no doubt.

“Father,” he began, interrupting the diligent Frenchman, “I have a thought regarding our missionary work.”

“What is it, my child?” Lu Ruohua asked, his expression one of profound humility.

“Perhaps… we should consider… a change in our methods?”

“Ah,” Father Lu’s interest was piqued. “You are finally willing to discuss this with me.”

“Yes, Father. I have some ideas.”

“Please, speak, my child.”

“The pamphlets… I don’t believe we should continue printing or distributing them. The people here are mostly illiterate; they cannot comprehend them. No matter how many we produce, they are destined for household use. I’m sure you’ve seen this yourself, Father.”

“I have,” Lu Ruohua conceded.

“The people you are preaching to are Chinese. And I, too, am Chinese. I understand how my people think,” Bai Duolu said. “The Chinese, you see, are an eminently practical people.”

He proceeded to lay out Dong Weiwei’s strategy. The ideas were not entirely foreign to him. Though he was not a frequent churchgoer, he was well aware of the pragmatic motivations that led many of his fellow believers to the baptismal font.

He spoke for a long time, Lu Ruohua listening in silence. When he had finished, the priest finally spoke. “My child, the Bible says…”

“Father,” Bai Duolu interjected with great humility, “we are not debating doctrine. We are discussing how best to expand the Lord’s flock. Is that not the Church’s purpose in coming to this land?”

Lu Ruohua nodded slowly. “I understand your heart, my child.” He closed his eyes, lost in thought, and Bai Duolu quietly slipped away.