Chapter 2616: Seeing Injustice on the Road

"Auntie, where can I buy silkworm papers nearby?"

"There's the Jiujiang Great Market. Silkworm paper shops usually rent space there. Some seed vendors also carry their wares on shoulder poles or travel by boat, moving between the township markets to set up stalls and sell directly."

"I see. How many silkworm papers should one typically buy per crop?"

"That depends on how many mulberry leaves your family's land can produce. Most people book more papers than they need, though. Young silkworm larvae don't eat much. If the yield looks unpromising, you can always discard the excess. But if demand for raw silk is high, you can buy additional mulberry leaves at the Mulberry Market rather than relying solely on your own trees. Booking extra papers also protects against total failure if floods or disease strike."

After learning about silkworm seeds, Zhao Hening rose and asked, "Auntie, would it be convenient to see your silkworms?"

Huang Shi stood quickly. "Of course, of course. I only worry my humble home might offend your eyes."

"What are you saying, Auntie? I come from a poor family myself."

Lifting the door curtain, Zhao Hening found the silkworm room's layout quite different from those in Jiangnan. Small windows had been cut into the mud walls, with additional holes at the corners—apparently for ventilation—though all were covered with thick paper and hemp cloth, likely to keep out flies and insects. Silkworm rooms were most vulnerable to high temperatures and humidity. The thatched roof would help with airflow, and mud walls blocked moisture well enough, but the floor sat directly on the dike soil. During the rainy season, dampness would seep up easily.

"Auntie, why not build a separate silkworm room?" Zhao Hening couldn't help asking.

Huang Shi's expression grew pained. "You jest, Sister. We're far too poor to afford another building."

Zhao Hening shook her head. Having humans and silkworms share the same room meant noise, excess human qi, and unsanitary conditions—all detrimental to the silkworms' health. "Forgive me for speaking plainly, Auntie. I've observed other families raising silkworms, and when they share living quarters, the silkworms fall ill more easily. You should find a way to build a separate room if you can."

"You're right, Sister. I'm hoping to raise a few more crops and save enough to hire someone to put up a thatched hut."

"When will this crop 'Go Up the Mountain'?"

"'Go Up the Mountain'? What does that mean?"

"Cocooning." In Jiangnan, silkworms climbing onto their trays to spin cocoons was called "Going Up the Mountain." Huang Shi clearly hadn't heard the term.

"Ah, I understand. Tomorrow is the Third Sleep—that takes just one day. Three days later comes another sleep, the 'Great Sleep,' also lasting one day. Four or five days after that, they cocoon. We call it 'Going Up the Tray' (Shang Bo)."

Zhao Hening was interested in the regional differences. "May I see your silkworm trays?"

Huang Shi led her to another room where a pile of rectangular bamboo implements sat stacked in the corner. The trays measured about three chi and two cun long, with bamboo strips forming a skeleton like lanes in a swimming pool. Atop this frame, thinner bamboo strips had been bent into oval shapes—each about one cun long and half a cun wide—creating small compartments for the silkworms to spin their cocoons. They were distinctly different from the "Straw Dragons" commonly used in Jiangnan.

"Your trays are quite different from ours. Is there a particular reason?"

"So you're from Jiangnan—that explains it." Huang Shi nodded. "Jiujiang's climate is humid and muggy. These trays allow better ventilation and moisture control. Before the silkworms go up, we roast the trays over fire to burn off any remaining silk from the previous crop's cocoon extraction. Then, a day or two after they've cocooned, we perform 'Cocoon Baking' (Bei Jian). We stand the trays opposite each other in an inverted V shape—like the character '人'—spreading out about twenty sheets and wrapping them tightly with straw mats and thick paper. A small hole at the top corner lets the moisture escape. We place a fire basin between every eight trays. After baking for about one and a half double-hours (Shichen), we flip the trays and bake them again. This kills all the pupae so we can safely collect the dried cocoons."

"The humid climate must make the baking necessary to prevent mold and rot," Zhao Hening observed. Of course, beyond this, baking also killed parasites like fly larvae that might attach to the pupae, fixing the cocoons in their optimal state for reeling.

"You catch on quickly, Sister." Huang Shi smiled. "The only trouble is the extra expense."

"How much does it cost?"

"Every six sheets requires three jin of charcoal, about two fen of silver."

To Zhao Hening, this seemed trivial, but for poor farmers, every extra li mattered. She let the topic go and asked, "Do you reel the silk yourselves after collecting the cocoons?"

The question arose from memory: when Zhao Yingong had established his filature in Hangzhou, he'd struggled with cocoon acquisition. Silkworm farmers who had labored so hard were generally unwilling to sell their cocoons outright—the profit was too meager. In this medieval agricultural society, labor held little monetary value, and exchanging enormous effort for negligible cash was common. Jiangnan farmers typically produced their own silk for sale, creating a substantial cottage industry.

Moreover, a Silk Cocoon Guild monopolized what few cocoons were sold directly. Zhao Yingong couldn't purchase from farmers himself; he could only buy through the Guild. After much deliberation, he'd decided to start from scratch—controlling cocoon production directly at the source through a small producer cooperative model similar to the Leizhou Agricultural Cooperative.

"We do reel our own silk," Huang Shi replied, looking curious. "Do people in Jiangnan actually sell cocoons directly? That seems foolish. Besides, no one here buys them anyway."

Cocoon markets were products of the machine reeling industry. Without filatures creating massive demand, such markets couldn't form. Their revolutionary significance lay in separating silk reeling from sericulture entirely. The local silk industry must be less developed than Jiangnan's, Zhao Hening thought. No one collects scattered cocoons—a sign that the division of labor hasn't advanced enough.

"Is raw silk selling well?" she asked.

"Well enough. Local workshops and merchants buy it all."

Zhao Hening found this strange. "Since the Australians arrived, Frankish merchants have been increasing every year, and overseas trade keeps growing. Hasn't demand for raw silk risen substantially?"

"Not really—it's the same as always."

"But isn't there a saying: 'Guang yarn and gauze, Niu Lang Silk, Five-Thread, Eight-Thread, Cloud Satin, and bright satin are prized in the capital and beyond the ridges, and in the Eastern and Western Oceans'? Someone even wrote a Bamboo Branch Song: 'Foreign ships race to join the official merchants, Cross Gate opens toward two oceans. Five-thread Eight-thread Guang satin sells well, silver money piles high in Haopan Fang.'"

Huang Shi was merely a rural woman whose travels had never extended beyond the Jiujiang Great Market. She knew nothing of such matters and could only say so.

Zhao Hening shifted direction. "Is raw silk traded at the Silk Market?"

"Naturally."

Huang Shi then described the local Silk Market. Jiujiang hadn't yet developed a specialized exchange. Similar to the Mulberry Market, the Silk Market might consist of just one or two shops within existing marketplaces. These venues simply provided space for buyers and sellers to meet and negotiate, maintaining public scales and charging commission from both parties.

Both the Mulberry and Silk Markets also offered loans at roughly two percent monthly interest. When small farmers faced natural disasters or other crises and lacked the cash to continue production, they had no choice but to turn to these usurious rates.

Seeing how destitute Huang Shi and her son appeared, Zhao Hening couldn't help asking, "People say a family with ten mu of mulberry land can feed eight mouths raising silkworms. Why do you live in such poverty?"

Huang Shi let out a deep sigh, her face heavy with sorrow, but said nothing.

Seeing his mother's silence, Guan Zongbao explained: "We also have a medicine jar in the family—someone who takes medicine year-round, never works a day, and spends all his time drinking and smoking. Years of savings were squandered long ago. If we weren't extremely frugal, my mother and I would have been reduced to slaves by now."

Le Ziren, familiar with local conditions, added his own explanation for Zhao Hening: "Jiujiang's prosperity rests on fish, mulberry, silkworm, and silk. Even gentry clans involve themselves in the trade. From spring to winter, there's always work to be done. Those with capital can make profits from fish and silkworms that compound like turning wheels. Those without can still cut grass and pick mulberries to survive. The only danger is extravagance. In other regions, once autumn and winter arrive, grain goes into the barn and families pass the year in peace and plenty. But in Jiujiang, people worry about 'mulberry branch tail growing hard.' If you don't save during the silk and mulberry season, you'll have nothing to see you through winter. Widows who support themselves through their own labor often have surplus funds precisely because they live frugally. Hence the proverb: 'Widows have grain to sell.'"

Unlike farmers who grew rice, those who worked the mulberry dike fish ponds produced not grain but commodities—fish, raw silk, and mulberry leaves. Unable to achieve self-sufficiency like rice farmers, they depended on the market to exchange their goods for food. This made their circumstances far more precarious. The business model required substantial capital investment, and products had to be sold directly. When floods came, fish escaped and mulberry crops failed. Silkworms without mulberry leaves—or struck by disease—yielded nothing. A single failed crop could devastate the next season's production. Market fluctuations made stable lives impossible. And since what these farmers held after selling their products was currency rather than stored grain, they faced constant temptation from gambling and drink. To worry about "mulberry branch tail growing hard" meant fearing that heavy capital investment combined with careless spending would leave nothing for winter rice.

Zhao Hening was puzzled. "Who is this 'medicine jar' you mentioned?" she asked Guan Zongbao. "Your wife or child?"

"My father."

"Where is he? We haven't seen him."

Huang Shi's expression darkened. "He came by last night to make trouble. Demanded one tael of silver, claiming he needed it to do business in Guangzhou."

Hearing this, Zhao Hening's face filled with sympathy. She sighed. "How pitiful. What kind of father behaves that way?"

Guan Zongbao seized the moment. "Sister, if it's possible, I'd like to ask Officer Le to seek justice for my mother."

The sudden request caught Le Ziren off guard. He was just a minor resident police officer with no local roots—hardly in a position to meddle in domestic matters. He looked uncertainly toward Zhao Hening.

"There's nothing I hate more than injustice," Zhao Hening declared without hesitation. "Whatever wrong has been done to you, Auntie, speak freely. If we can help, we will." She turned to Le Ziren and Zhang Jiayu, her meaning clear.

(End of Chapter)