Courtyard House: Rebirth of a Shopkeeper in 1937

After listening to the elders' words, the eldest brother's expression became even more solemn. He knew that the eulogy was the deceased's final act of respect and could not be delayed in the slightest. Without hesitation, he nodded heavily: "Uncles and elders, rest assured, I agree to this. I will definitely not let the heroes suffer any injustice." After saying this, he took the slips of paper containing anecdotes about the deceased's life from the elders' hands and followed them to the village's ceremonial hall.

Xingbao and Guixiang, filled with curiosity, tiptoed over and followed. The ceremonial room was an old house in the village, with several gleaming eight-immortal tables inside. On the tables were piles of writing brushes, ink, paper, and inkstones, as well as family directories sent by various families. Large sheets of paper were filled with densely packed names, making one's eyes dizzy. As soon as the eldest brother sat down, an elder came over and pointed to the directories, explaining in detail their family's kinship: "This is the child's uncle, half a generation higher than me, so he has to be listed earlier in the eulogy." "That's a distant cousin, although he's a distant relative, he came back specifically to pay his respects, so he has to be included too."

The eldest brother held a calligraphy brush, its tip hovering over the paper, listening attentively while occasionally jotting down notes on a draft paper. His brow was furrowed, and he muttered to himself, meticulously organizing the order of events. He was terrified of getting the generational order wrong, of misplacing kinship, offending the deceased, or chilling the hearts of the living. This task of clarifying kinship relationships was tedious and headache-inducing; just distinguishing who was the principal relative and who was the collateral relative, who should come first and who should come last, was enough to exhaust him. Xingbao and Guixiang hadn't stood there for long before feeling overwhelmed. They exchanged a knowing glance, both seeing the boredom in each other's eyes, and tacitly tiptoed out of the ceremony room to find their friends to collect firecrackers to play with. Fortunately, the subsequent matters of the chief officiant and reading of the eulogy were handled by the village elders, who were experienced and familiar with all the rituals; otherwise, the eldest brother probably wouldn't have even had a moment to catch his breath.

For the next two days, the eldest brother became the busiest person in the village, without exception. He was practically glued to the ceremonial room all day, never stepping out except to wash up or use the outhouse. His mother would have Xingbao or his second brother bring the food to the ceremonial room, and he would often just wolf down a few bites before burying himself back in his writing, the "swish" of the pen on the rice paper audible from afar. At night, he would set up a simple bed on the octagonal table in the ceremonial room, lay down a coarse cloth mattress, cover himself with a thin quilt, and barely take off his clothes before managing to sleep for a few hours, only to get up again before dawn to continue writing.

The mother, heartbroken for her eldest son, made a special trip to the ceremonial room to check on him several times. Each time she went in, she saw her elder brother with his head bowed, fine beads of sweat on his forehead, bloodshot eyes, and an undeniable look of exhaustion on his face. Several villagers were gathered around him, waiting to inquire about the progress of the memorial text and confirm the details. The mother didn't even have a chance to say a word of advice to him; she could only stand at the door for a while, sigh softly, and turn to leave, making sure to close the door gently as she did so, afraid of disturbing him.

It wasn't until the morning of the third day, just as dawn was breaking and the first hint of light appeared in the east, that the eldest brother, having finished reciting all the eulogies, dragged his weary body home. His face was as pale as a sheet, and he had heavy dark circles under his eyes, as if they were painted with ink. His steps were unsteady, and he walked with a limp. After entering the house, he didn't say a word, and without even taking off his jacket, he collapsed onto the kang (a heated brick bed). In a short while, he was snoring evenly, fast asleep.

Xingbao tiptoed to the bedside, looking at his older brother sleeping soundly, and wondered to himself: How did his brother manage to complete the memorial texts for all four families all by himself? In the past, when there was a funeral in the village, even for one family, at least two people would be hired to write the memorial texts, and more particular families would hire four people, each with their own responsibilities, just to keep things busy. His brother must have used a template-based method, right? First, he would set a uniform format and honorifics, and then fill in details such as the deceased's life story and the list of relatives according to each family's situation. Only in this way could he have written so many memorial texts for four families so thoroughly and in accordance with the rules in such a short time.

Before they knew it, it was noon. The shop had just seen off a few guests, and Mother and Second Brother were busy clearing the dishes, intending to take a break and have some water, when they heard several crisp "whoosh" calls from the doorway, followed by the sounds of many people getting off carriages—the sounds of horses' hooves, footsteps, and a few gentle conversations. Xingbao, who was helping his mother wipe the table, looked up at the noise and was immediately stunned—a group of special guests had entered; they were teachers and students from Sanmin Middle School.

The leading gentlemen wore crisp, starched blue robes with neatly ironed cuffs, not a single wrinkle on the cuffs. Their expressions were refined, exuding a scholarly air. Behind them, the students wore matching black Zhongshan suits and gleaming black leather shoes, polished to a shine. Each student stood tall and straight, their faces showing fatigue but unable to conceal their youthful pride and vigor. Most striking were the circular school badges pinned to their chests, blue with white lettering clearly displaying the six characters "Nanjing Sanmin Middle School," and the school motto "Public Spirit, Honesty, Perseverance, and Simplicity" embedded in the center, gleaming in the sunlight.

Xingbao gazed at the familiar uniforms and school badge, a strange sense of warmth welling up within him. In his previous life, he had only seen such records in the school history, never witnessing it firsthand. (The school history records that the Xiong brothers, Xiong Chong and Xiong Meng, initially moved Sanmin Middle School from Nanjing back to Shajingtou in Shaoyang, then to Renjiaping in Shaodong, and from Renjiaping to the Zeng Clan Ancestral Hall in Taiping, Liuzhe, Shaodong. Originally, they were not scheduled to move into the new school building at Ganzishan, two kilometers from Lianqiao Street, until 1938, but here, the school moved in a year earlier. The arduous journey of the predecessors in relocating the school is omitted here; please forgive us!)

Now, having traveled through time, he could truly see this group of teachers and students, as if the distance to his past life's memories had instantly been bridged. He subconsciously stopped what he was doing, his gaze following the group as he carefully observed them: there were twenty-five of them in total, accompanied by five carriages. The carriages were piled high with books, bundles tied tightly with rope, neatly stacked in the middle of the carriages. From the exposed corners of the books, he could see that some were foreign language books, the pages still quite new; a thick oilcloth covered the pile of books, presumably for rain protection, and several oil-paper umbrellas were placed beside the oilcloth. As soon as they entered, they carefully placed their suitcases one by one in the corner, moving them gently, as if afraid of damaging the contents.

Just then, his mother gently nudged his arm, and Xingbao snapped out of his reverie. He quickly turned to fetch a bowl and pour tea. Looking at the tea container in front of him, he hesitated—the spiritual spring water was good, but he couldn't easily reveal it. However, seeing the tired and weary faces of everyone, with faint dark circles under their eyes, clearly from a long journey without rest, he finally gritted his teeth and, when no one was looking, quickly dripped a drop of spiritual spring water into the tea container, hoping to alleviate their fatigue and improve their spirits.