Chapter 103: The “Sent-Down” People
The winter season for Mu Lantu and Xu Huazhang was anything but boring.
Though they couldn’t go out, there was still plenty to do. By New Year’s Eve, they had already watched nearly five TV dramas and five films.
The Dongfanghong Brigade spent a quiet New Year’s Eve. Two days before, heavy snow had begun to fall, piling up nearly to the knees. No one went outside.
Mu Lantu lived far from the village and couldn’t hear any commotion.
He and Xu Huazhang shut their doors and windows tight and cooked a feast for themselves.
The next day was the first day of the New Year. In the village, everyone had to rise early to pay visits.
It was still snowing, the roads were bad, and Mu Lantu thought no one would come by.
Even so, he and Xu Huazhang got up early. It was their first New Year in the Dongfanghong Brigade; no matter the conditions, they had to join the rounds of New Year greetings.
The educated youth first visited the homes of the brigade leader, the Party secretary, and the accountant, then went around to other villagers’ homes, standing or sitting for a short while in each place, exchanging a few words.
Well-off families would pour them a glass of sweetened water and give them a handful of sunflower seeds or some dried fruits gathered from the mountains. Poorer households might just offer a bowl of boiled water—still perfectly polite.
Back at their dormitory, they couldn’t rest yet, since villagers would also come calling.
Mu Lantu had miscalculated. Visiting on New Year’s Day was a long-standing custom, and locals were used to trudging through snow. Many came regardless. For them, difficult roads meant nothing.
He and Xu Huazhang greeted everyone warmly. They had little to give, but offered a big handful of sunflower seeds to each visitor.
Most villagers were embarrassed to take them, as seeds were considered part of the grain ration—nobody had surplus. Mu Lantu insisted, stuffing them into people’s pockets.
After the adults left, children came in groups, some older ones even carrying their two- or three-year-old siblings.
To older children, Mu Lantu handed out a handful of sunflower seeds and two fruit candies each. For the little ones, he avoided seeds and candy (in case they choked) and gave each a small packet of potato chips.
There was no New Year’s money. To give both food and money would attract too much attention.
After the first day passed, they went back to hibernating indoors.
By March, when the weather warmed and the ground thawed, the villagers resumed daily work.
Xu Huazhang had to take an assignment at the factory, and Mu Lantu accompanied him to the county. After dropping Xu Huazhang off at the machinery plant, he boarded a bus to the city.
Over the winter, many households had depleted their grain stores. The once-quiet black market revived.
This time, Mu Lantu brought out 10,000 jin of brown rice, 10,000 jin of cornmeal, and 10,000 jin of polished rice.
He earned money while also helping the people of this era.
But leaving the market, he sensed he was being tailed.
It wasn’t the first time. After several transactions, he knew the black market boss—or someone behind him—was deeply curious about his identity.
Even state grain stations couldn’t move such large batches at once. Whoever he was, they wanted to know—and wanted more.
In the city, Mu Lantu slipped away with twists, turns, and several disguises, shaking off his pursuers before returning smoothly to the county.
He and Xu Huazhang had only visited their county house twice that winter, to repair and clean it, and to deter burglars. But no thieves had come—perhaps they, too, were hiding from the cold.
After tidying up, he restocked supplies and lit a fire so smoke rose from the chimney, signaling to neighbors that the house would be occupied, warning off any mischief.
Leaving Xu Huazhang a note, Mu Lantu locked up and headed back to the brigade.
Many others were traveling the same road, returning from the county market with heavy loads on shoulders and backs.
At the front of the crowd was a familiar ox cart carrying five elders, each around sixty years old.
One lay unconscious, pale, blood seeping from a head wound, groaning faintly in pain. The other four, slumped and dispirited, lowered their heads under the stares of passersby. Their clothes were stained with rotten vegetables and eggs.
Mu Lantu’s usually calm face flickered with unease. Could these people be…?
He quickened his steps and saw that the cart driver was Zhang Weiguo, the brigade leader’s eldest son.
“Brother Zhang.”
Zhang Weiguo managed a faint smile despite his gloom. “Comrade Mu, hop on.”
Educated youth? And so close to the leader’s son?
The four conscious elders glanced at Mu Lantu quickly, then shifted to make space.
Mu Lantu was about to climb up when Zhang Weiguo called,
“Comrade Mu, sit in front, there’s more room.”
Sitting beside him on the cart shaft, Mu Lantu asked softly, “These are the ones sent down to our brigade for re-education?”
Zhang nodded. “Bad elements. Best not get too close.”
He meant well, but Mu Lantu felt uneasy. Perhaps some were guilty, but most were educated, capable people.
“They look in terrible condition. One’s unconscious. Isn’t this dangerous?”
“Nothing I can do…” Zhang Weiguo shook his head. “They were already like this when handed over. No one said anything about treatment.” These people were too politically sensitive; he dared not say more.
Mu Lantu replied, “If they were truly guilty, they’d be in prison. Sent down here, their crimes can’t be capital. Better have the brigade leader call a doctor—if someone dies, our brigade could be implicated.”
That struck home. Zhang’s family had benefited since his father became brigade leader; if one of these people died, his father might lose his post.
“I’ll tell him. By the way, Comrade Mu, what took you to the county?”
Wary of probing too deeply, Zhang Weiguo shifted topics.
Mu Lantu answered casually, “Spring is coming, bamboo shoots and wild greens will be plentiful. I plan to go into the mountains. In case of injury, I traded for some basic medicines—both for external and internal use.”
The four elders exchanged glances. Was that meant for them? He could have just said “basic medicine.” Why so detailed?
At the mention of the mountains, Zhang Weiguo warned him, “Don’t go alone. Wait for Comrade Xu. Once it warms, beasts and snakes stir. Wild boars especially—starved all winter, they often come down in groups. Very dangerous!”
Mu Lantu waved it off. “Snakes are trouble, true. But wild boars? If they dare come down, I’ll take one with a punch.”
Zhang Weiguo swallowed hard. He didn’t doubt Mu Lantu’s strength. His family had eaten pork before New Year, but with so many mouths, each barely got a taste. He was already craving fat in his diet again.
“If wild boars do come, shall I call you?”
“Of course,” Mu Lantu agreed cheerfully.
The cart passed through a grove of poplars. Ahead lay the Dongfanghong Brigade.
Mu Lantu jumped down. “Brother Zhang, I’ll get off here. Don’t want anyone mistaking me for keeping company with ‘bad elements.’”
Zhang Weiguo grinned. “I was about to remind you myself. Fine, come visit sometime.”
“Sure. You go on ahead—my dog’s here to fetch me.”
As he said that, Wangcai the dog bounded up, barking. Mu Lantu patted its head and walked off into the trees with it.
The cart rumbled on, stopping by the cowshed at the village’s edge.
The stench made the four elders cough, quickly stifling the sound for fear of drawing blame.
A man smoking a dry pipe stood up—brigade leader Zhang Jianxin.
He eyed the frail newcomers grimly. More mouths to feed, no work to give—what use were they? Yet orders from above couldn’t be refused.
“Father,” Zhang Weiguo murmured, “they’re injured. Should we call Doctor Chen? If one dies, it’ll affect the brigade.”
Seeing these elders, older even than himself, Zhang Jianxin felt pity but dared not show it.
“Call him. Prescribe herbs from the mountains only. No trace left here.”
“Yes.”
That night, Mu Lantu slipped quietly to the cowshed.
Through cracks in the walls, the glow of a kerosene lamp shone.
He tapped lightly, set down two porcelain bottles at the door, and vanished into the dark.
Zheng Guofu opened the door, sniffed medicine, and looked down to see the bottles. Overjoyed, he picked them up and held them tightly.
Each had a crookedly written note, as if scrawled left-handed:
One read, “For internal injuries. One pill, three times daily. Stop after three days.”
The other: “For external wounds. Apply once daily. Stop after three days.”
Zheng Guofu instantly thought of the young man he’d seen that day. His eyes grew hot. He tilted his head back, swallowing the tears.
“Old Zheng, who is it?” someone called from inside.
“Just a minute.”
He glanced around to make sure no one was near, then shut the door tight.
Mu Lantu lingered in the dark until he was sure no one else would come out, then quietly left.
He had no intention of currying favor or getting involved further. Within his means, he’d done what he could—and nothing more.
