Chapter 257 — Bida
That evening, the group invited Li Benqing and his nephew to join them for dinner. Wang Aoya had sent over a generous supply of food and rice wine—perfect for entertaining guests. As cups were filled and refilled, Xiong Buyou deftly steered the conversation toward the inner workings of the stockade.
It transpired that after the previous chief of Zhen Dui Stockade had passed away, his son remained too young to rule. Governance had therefore fallen to the four Oyas, who collectively decided all matters great and small. Their leader was surnamed Wang—the same elder who had first come to invite them. Wang Aoya was also the young chief's uncle, binding them by blood. As for the energetic young man who had been so active outside their quarters, he was the son of another Oya named Zhen Huan—a renowned hunter who commanded considerable prestige among the stockade's youth.
The upland rice wine loosened Li Benqing's tongue. Cheeks flushed, he revealed that the woman condemned as the "Curse Mother" was none other than Zhen Huan's lover from the Gui Long—a girl named Bida. During the ritual, Zhen Huan had turned hostile on the spot, nearly slaughtering the Daogong, but the united opposition of the other Oyas had suppressed him.
"Zhen Oya's days have not been easy," Li Benqing said, shaking his head. "Everyone whispers that his son instructed Bida to place a Jin curse on the Chief."
"Why would he do that?"
"The earliest chiefs of Zhen Dui Stockade were from the Zhen family." Li Benqing drank deeply. "The Zhen clan has ruled here for ten generations—"
"That long?" Fang Jinghan sounded skeptical.
"Don't interrupt," Mu Min chided. "Let Li Baya finish."
Li Benqing beamed at being addressed as Baya—the respectful term the Li people used for their elders.
"Perhaps four or five generations ago?" He wasn't certain of the exact years. "Wang Chief's ancestors migrated here with their entire household. Originally Han, the genealogy claims they descended from some great general in the distant north—on the mainland. At that time, our stockade was at war with the neighboring Shuishen Stockade, and the Zhen family suffered terrible losses. The Wang disciples all knew martial arts. They led everyone in a decisive strike that wiped out Shuishen in a single campaign. From that day forward, the Wang family became the chiefs."
"So the Wang family is actually Han?" Xiong Buyou asked. "But why would a general move his entire household to live in a Li stockade?"
Fang Jinghan scribbled in his notebook. "As for 'general,' they were probably inflating their own status. More likely fugitive military households from the local garrisons."
Li Benqing continued: ever since then, two major factions had formed within the stockade. One was the Wang family; the other, the Zhen. Though the Zhens no longer held the chieftaincy, their roots ran deep—at least one of the four Oyas was always from their lineage.
Now, with the Wang chief still young and the Zhen family producing a charismatic heir like Zhen Huan, the balance of power was clearly tipping.
"Zhen Huan commands not only the respect of the young warriors but is wildly popular in the Gui Long." Li Benqing's nose had turned crimson from the drink. "At night, he need only stand before any Gui Long, and the door opens for him. No courtship required—no songs, no words. Tsk, tsk. But Bida is his favorite."
"This sounds like a mountain-stronghold version of palace intrigue," Mu Min mused. "Could Zhen Oya's son be seizing his chance to rise? Is that why he obstructed our treatment of the Chief?" Her eyes widened. "Perhaps he was the one who planted that bamboo splinter!"
"You've read too many novels," Cui Yunhong dismissed. "Even if true, it's none of our concern."
Mu Min sighed with theatrical regret. In those few minutes, her imagination had already sketched the outline of a palace intrigue novel worthy of publication on Jinjiang.[^1]
Over the next two days and nights, the young chief's fever persisted. He Ping checked his temperature every two hours, administered sulfonamides every six, and changed the dressing regularly. By the morning of the third day, the boy's temperature had dropped to normal. His consciousness cleared markedly, and he began asking for food. When He Ping inspected the wound, he found no fresh traces of pus or blood on the drainage strip—at last, it could be properly bandaged.
Word spread quickly: the Chief was cured. Just as the exploration team was congratulating itself on a job well done, illnesses erupted throughout the stockade like bamboo shoots after spring rain. Fever, toothache, stomach pain, infected wounds—the complaints were endless. He Ping was, after all, only a half-trained health worker; confronted with such a rich "internship opportunity," he found himself overwhelmed. His medical kit held precious few drugs.
He could only treat the cases he could confidently diagnose, one by one. He performed seven or eight minor surgeries in succession; by now, He Ping wielded the scalpel with smooth confidence, even daring to lance styes that had previously left him helpless. However, he was careful not to dispense antibiotics indiscriminately, wary of disrupting the local microbial environment. For ailments with obscure causes—stomachaches and the like—he simply mixed rice flour with honey provided by the stockade, shaped it into pills, and distributed them. Surprisingly, many patients claimed to feel better after swallowing them. The power of placebos was formidable indeed.
Thus the Shilu Iron Mine Exploration Team earned the reputation of "divine doctors." Each day, gifts from the stockade's households arrived without end. When the villagers noticed that these healers cared little for pork or beef but seemed to adore chicken, not a single live bird remained in the entire settlement. Cui Yunhong surveyed the growing pile of offerings in Li Benqing's courtyard with a mixture of distress and wonder: wild game, live poultry, rice wine, leather, kapok cloth, kudzu cloth, and all manner of rattan wares—clearly the finest produce the area could offer. Then he noticed a steady stream of villagers leading cattle to the doorway and tethering them there.
"What's all this for?" he asked Assistant Wang.
"Payment for your medical services." The guide was in high spirits—these boat peddlers' success was lifting all boats. In recent days, he had privately accepted many dinner invitations, enjoying wine and meat at every meal. "The Li people have no silver. Only mountain goods and cattle."
Cui Yunhong thought Wu Nanhai would certainly be pleased by the prospect of local cattle—but how were they supposed to drive them back to Changhua Fort? That was skilled work.
While he stood deliberating, the Oyas sent word inviting them to a banquet.
At the feast, all four Oyas were present, taking turns proposing toasts to the exploration team. The young chief, still weak from illness, could neither eat nor drink much; he simply sat at the head of the table accompanied by his mother, observing this group of strange merchants with undisguised curiosity.
After several rounds of rice wine, Wang Aoya, leader of the four, clapped his hands. A servant immediately brought out a tray. Cui Yunhong looked and saw it was filled with broken silver and copper coins—white and green glinting together. It appeared substantial, but in truth amounted to little more than ten taels of silver and a thousand copper coins. The Li people placed scant importance on currency; trade was conducted through barter, and they did not hoard precious metals. That they could produce even this meant they had practically turned the stockade upside down.
"These are but modest tokens," Wang Aoya said. "Additionally, we gift fifty head of cattle as thanks."
The Li cherished their cattle; herds were large, and livestock often served as payment. Still, fifty head was an extraordinary sum.
The number startled everyone. Setting aside everything else, how could they possibly drive so many animals back to Changhua Fort? And the fort itself lacked grazing land—every beast would have to be shipped back to Lingao for the Agricultural Committee. The thought of weeks spent feeding cattle and shoveling dung was enough to make the entire team glare at their leaders, silently demanding an immediate refusal.
Mu Min leaned toward Cui Yunhong. "We cannot accept this. Fifty head is probably half the stockade's herd. If they give them all away, how will they farm?"
Cui Yunhong's thoughts were less noble—he simply dreaded becoming a cowboy. Though their motivations differed, their conclusion was the same, and he politely but firmly declined: they had helped treat the Chief and the villagers purely out of goodwill; they could not possibly accept so heavy a gift.
Seeing their sincere refusal—so unlike the usual money-grubbing demeanor of peddlers—the Oyas regarded them with heightened respect.
"You have shown such great kindness to our stockade, yet you refuse our gratitude." Wang Aoya looked troubled. "How then can we repay you?"
Mu Min sensed her opportunity. The young woman condemned as the "Curse Mother" remained imprisoned in the stockade. Once the Chief fully recovered, she would be killed. And so Mu Min proposed: might they spare Bida? If the stockade feared she would bring harm, the team was willing to take her far away and never let her return.
Li Benqing translated reluctantly, his expression uneasy. The request made the seated headmen visibly uncomfortable. On one hand, removing a dangerous "Curse Mother" from their midst was clearly desirable. On the other, allowing Han outsiders to take away a woman of their tribe was difficult to justify. Yet these strangers had rendered the stockade an enormous service; refusing seemed inhospitable.
After a long pause, Wang Aoya spoke. "Bida is a Curse Mother. If you take her and she brings the curse upon you, how could we bear the responsibility? Better to end matters here."
Mu Min pleaded again, but Wang Aoya would not relent. Then, unexpectedly, Zhen Oya spoke:
"She is a scourge. Even if we kill her here, she will harm us as a ghost. The Bahas possess great powers. Perhaps they can suppress her."
The Chief, who had remained silent throughout, nodded. "Let the Bahas take her. After all, the Daogong in the stockade cannot contain her either."
Wang Aoya looked displeased but deferred to the Chief's will. And so the matter was settled. He insisted once more on giving them gifts. After a round of polite refusals, Cui Yunhong decided that further resistance would border on rudeness—and besides, the Agricultural Committee genuinely needed cattle. He agreed to accept ten head. Wang Aoya was delighted and immediately ordered ten robust animals prepared.
Cui Yunhong then remembered the soap bean forest outside the stockade and proposed taking back a few hundred catties.
"Of course!" Zhen Oya agreed readily, though he could not fathom why they wanted those bitter pods. He arranged for workers to harvest them at once. Both sides carved wooden tallies as a contract: the transmigrators would visit the Li stockade at least once a year to treat the sick; whenever they passed through Li territory on business, they could rest and lodge in the stockade upon presenting the tally. Meals and firewood would be provided, and in case of need, porters and cattle could be requisitioned to transport goods.
That night, guests and hosts parted in warm spirits. Early the next morning, the exploration team set off for Changhua Fort. After ten days of close quarters with Li Benqing, farewells carried genuine weight. Assistant Wang was elated; this expedition to the Li district had earned him rare white sugar as payment plus a wealth of gifts from grateful villagers. He had made a tidy profit.
The ten cattle were laden with baskets of soap beans and other local produce. With gifts overflowing, Cui Yunhong could only select one or two useful items from each household's offering, returning the rest. This gesture moved the entire stockade deeply, cementing their reputation for benevolence and righteousness.
Assistant Wang drove the cattle at the head of the column; the exploration team followed out through the stockade gate. The Oyas and many villagers lined the path in a warm send-off. Xiong Buyou muttered, "Now I know what it felt like to be the Eighth Route Army—"
"This," Mu Min agreed, "is the hearts of the people."
After walking three or four li, near a forest clearing, Zhen Oya and a handful of Li men stood waiting. A woman was tied to a tree, her hands bound behind her.
"This is Bida." Zhen Oya ordered the rope untied and handed the lead to Mu Min. "She is yours now. Take her as far away as possible. Never bring her back. It would be best to change her name as well."
"Understood. We will treat her well." Mu Min's voice was solemn.
A flicker of gratitude crossed Zhen Oya's habitually impassive face. "Bida is a pitiful child. You are good people. Look after her."
With that, he turned and departed without another word, his men following. The team was left with a strange sense of loss. Xiong Buyou broke the silence:
"Why do I get the feeling that this Zhen Oya doesn't truly believe she's a Curse Mother?"
"There are probably hidden circumstances we'll never know." Cui Yunhong shrugged. "It doesn't matter. We've saved a life. Let's go."
Mu Min approached the woman. Days of captivity had left her hair tangled and wild. She wore a low-collared short blouse and a blue tube skirt embroidered with white flowers. The fabric was stained and torn in places, her appearance bedraggled.
Bida shrank back, regarding them with terror. Only then did everyone notice that her face was not heavily tattooed like most Li women; only faint, delicate patterns traced the edges of her forehead and cheeks. With curved eyebrows and what appeared to be sixteen or seventeen years of age, her features were fine and soft. After so many days of seeing the elaborate traditional tattoos, the sight of her relatively unmarked face felt almost startlingly bright.
Mu Min was surprised. "Her face tattoos are so light?"
"This still counts as tattooed," Assistant Wang explained. Some women were unwilling to endure full facial tattooing and only accepted symbolic marks—after all, the love of beauty was universal.
The group resumed their journey with this unexpected addition. Mu Min moved to untie the rope binding her wrists, but Cui Yunhong stopped her: they had promised to take the girl away. If she slipped free and ran back to the stockade, it would endanger her life and make them look untrustworthy.
Bida proved obedient—walking when instructed, resting when told. But no matter who spoke to her, she remained utterly silent. Mu Min reasoned that at such a young age, branded with a fabricated crime and forced to follow a group of strange foreigners into the unknown, the anguish in her heart must be beyond words. Better not to press her.
They had traveled perhaps ten li when a sudden swish cut through the air, followed by a sharp, keening whistle.
Note: The following explanation is outside the 4,000-word count and is not charged.
Bida is a type of Li musical instrument, resembling panpipes. Using it as a woman's name seems appropriate. This instrument is actually a modern product; whether it existed during the Ming Dynasty is unknown.
[^1]: Jinjiang Literature City—a famous Chinese web novel site known for romance and court intrigue stories.
(End of Chapter)