The man was only twenty-seven or twenty-eight, and the woman was two years younger than him, yet they looked deeply wrinkled, already resembling middle-aged or elderly folk. Their backs, bent and frail, could never straighten; their voices were hoarse to the point of grating. These were the physical impressions they bore, and the same physical impressions they saw and touched in everyone around them. Yet they were considered fortunate—at least they had land to till and a nest to sleep in, rather than perishing easily in the autumn winds like the savages. They were profoundly grateful to be born serfs rather than savages or fugitive slaves; it was truly a blessing cultivated over three lifetimes, just as they frequently chanted in thanksgiving.
Today, they were to decide a major matter—a matter worth two and a half buckets of bean seeds. They were going to marry off their eleven-year-old daughter to the cripple in the village. Though he was a cripple and somewhat advanced in age, he was at least a craftsman. Even if he was only the village's lowest-ranking rope-binding craftsman, a craftsman was still a craftsman. Aside from paying half a percent less tax on their slave plot, he received half a bucket of slightly moldy beans or chaff from the steward every month. Either choice offered prime, edible sustenance. Should they encounter the Lord's birthday or the rituals of the immortals' mountain gate, he might even be fortunate enough to receive a few chunks of grass-cakes or ch…
Chapter 354