Chapter 98: Jia Qin Falls into the Well

The pavilion guard came and went in haste, handing the heavy money pouch to Old Wang. He explained that this was the payment from the magistrate for craftsman Wang, specifying the amount, and offered early New Year’s greetings before galloping away.

The family exchanged glances, each wondering: was the four strings and five hundred coins the official had spoken of truly the same amount they had imagined?

Was this a dream?

Old Wang cradled the pouch and instructed Ah He to bolt the door, whispering, “Come here, all of you.”

The family followed the patriarch obediently. Only Wang Sanlang stood rooted to the spot, covering his face, unsure whether he should join them.

The main house door slammed shut. Wang Sanlang could only hang his head and slink back to the east wing. Was his niece really so capable? She had managed to trouble the magistrate himself to send a pavilion guard to deliver money to their home—such a sum, too! When Ah Zhu and his niece returned, should he speak with her, perhaps ask her to teach her craft to Ah Zhu?

Four strings of coins! Four strings and more! Wang Sanlang paced the room, unable to sit still, growing ever more restless as he wondered how much his father would allot to the third branch this time.

In the main house, candles were lit. Each time Old Wang pulled out a string of coins, exclamations erupted all around.

The elders counted one string, the second branch another, the eldest branch a third, and then the remainder.

Wang Peng peered over his grandfather’s shoulder, Wang Ai over his uncle’s.

Heavens! They could hardly keep count!

As they counted, the family heard shouts from outside—someone seemed to be calling about a person fallen into a well.

“Don’t move, I’ll go see,” Wang Erlang strode to the courtyard gate, listening carefully. It was indeed someone calling, “Someone’s fallen into the well, the one north of the village! The widower sent me—anyone who hears, hurry and help fish them out!”

The voice—wasn’t it Ah Zhu?

Wang Erlang unbolted the door, peered out through the crack, and sure enough, it was the boy! He hadn’t even moved, just stood outside their gate, shouting.

Wang Sanlang came out as well, timidly asking, “Second brother, is that Ah Zhu?”

“Yes.”

Someone falling into a well was no small matter. Wang Erlang, setting aside his anger, quickly urged, “Hurry, go with Ah Zhu to see what’s happened! Don’t just stand at our gate—rouse the neighbors, get everyone to help.”

“Understood. Second brother, you aren’t angry with me anymore? Father too…”

Wang Erlang stamped his foot in frustration. “Honestly! Now’s not the time for that—go!”

“Oh.”

When Ah Zhu saw his father emerge, he rushed into his embrace, sobbing out the story of Jia Qin’s fall into the well.

Wang Sanlang, thankfully, did not lose his wits. Listening to his son, he raised his voice to call for help. People began emerging from their homes, some bringing hemp ropes, others iron hooks.

Ah Zhu’s legs went weak at the sight of the iron hook. Wang Sanlang carried him on his back, comforting, “Don’t be afraid, don’t be afraid,” but Ah Zhu was more frightened, for his father, too, was trembling.

That iron hook—was it meant to haul a person out?

How had Jia Qin ended up in the well?

Earlier that afternoon, after Wang Sanlang left Ah Zhu, the boy waited and watched, hoping for Wang Peng or Wang Shu, but neither came, and he felt miserable. After dark, he prepared bedding for the widower, waited for him to fall asleep, then stepped out, sighing into the snowy night. He thought, surely even his father wouldn’t come now.

At that moment, the door behind him creaked. Ah Zhu knew it was Jia Qin, but still turned warily, instinctively backing away from the well.

“Why are you always afraid of me, brother Zhu?” Jia Qin asked.

Ah Zhu said nothing. For some reason, the more he agreed with Jia Qin’s words, the more he disliked him.

“In truth, we share the same plight. If even you despise me, there’s no one left in this vast world worth speaking to or caring for. Alas!” Jia Qin turned away in sorrow.

“Wait. Brother Qin, I’m not sick, nor are you—why say we share the same illness?”

“Heh. What I mean is…”

Jia Qin was about to explain when the widower called from inside, “Who’s out there? Ah Zhu? Is that you?”

Ah Zhu hurried back. “I’m here, Grandfather.”

“What was that noise just now? Woke me up.”

“Huh? I don’t know, what noise?”

“A thud, a crash.”

As the old man spoke, another “splash” sounded outside!

Ah Zhu hadn’t closed the door tightly when he came in, so he heard it clearly.

The widower, now wide awake, exclaimed in alarm, “Oh no! Someone’s fallen into the well! Oh, this is bad, bad…” As he repeated “quick, quick,” Jia Qin’s mother, Wei, began shouting.

“Qin? Qin, where are you? Heaven help me, where are you?”

When the widower and Ah Zhu emerged, Wei clutched Jia Qin’s bamboo scroll, the one he never parted with. Upon seeing Ah Zhu, her eyes widened in horror, fixed on the well’s rim.

The edge was too slippery; the widower dared not approach, nor let Ah Zhu near it. He anxiously urged Wei, “Quick! Throw the bucket down! Don’t just stand there—hurry!”

Wei screamed and crawled to the well, but it was pitch black inside; only the sound of splashing and indistinct cries could be heard. She flung the wooden bucket down and called, “Qin? Qin, are you in there? For heaven’s sake, are you in there? If you are, say something! Someone help! My son’s fallen into the well, help! Grandfather, what do we do?”

“Qin, grab the bucket, grab it! Mother will pull you up, grab the bucket, quick!”

As Wei frantically shook the rope, the widower instructed Ah Zhu to go summon the village neighbors, telling him to run the busiest path and call out to every house.

“Grandfather, help me! Please, help! Why won’t Qin grab the bucket, why? He’s not grabbing it…” Wei sobbed.

The widower, shrewd from age, knew not to approach the well with only himself and the woman present, no matter how anxious. “Shout to him, loudly, tell him to hold on, people will come soon.” Though he offered comfort, he knew well—Jia Qin was likely doomed.

The splashing from the well grew weaker. Wei’s frantic shaking of the rope did nothing; finally, she slipped and fell, beating at the well’s edge in despair.

The widower, helpless, walked off, his peachwood cane thumping urgently, inwardly blaming Ah Zhu—why hadn’t the boy brought help yet? “Help! Someone, quickly, someone’s fallen into the well…” he cried as loudly as he could.

In the icy water, Jia Qin was choking, mouthful after mouthful, his strength spent. He could hear shouting above, but what were they saying? He struggled but could not make it out.

He had been pushed in. As he fell, he glanced back and saw only the assailant’s lowered hat, his face obscured, before being shoved forcefully into the well.

Jia Qin reacted quickly, grasping desperately at the rim.

Regret! He shouldn’t have been so careless!

Everything had been calculated by the one who harmed him. He managed to touch the well’s rim, but pain shot through his wrists, and he tumbled headfirst into the darkness. It would seem he had merely injured his wrists himself.

As he fought to keep his head above water, his heavy winter clothing dragged him down, the slippery walls offered no hold, and he could not swim. Soon, he began to sink.

Gurgle…

He was drowning!

The bucket that might have saved him floated nearby, but his hands were powerless. The water’s chill stabbed him; his whole body trembled, his arms refused to obey.

Who had done this to him?

Was it the old scoundrel of the Jia family? Or that rascal Jia Feng? Could it be his father had not died of illness, but was murdered?

A narrow and deep well—a person was almost impossible to retrieve. There was no choice but to try with the iron hook, again and again.

When finally they hooked him and pulled him out, Jia Qin was already dead.

(End of this chapter)