Chapter 77: Chinese Do Not Eat Their Own (Part Two)

The Way of Five Bushels of Rice was not new to the act of eating human flesh; in the past, they had captured members of noble families and hacked them into minced meat to make porridge. In the chaos of history, instances of cannibalism are countless, though the official chronicles often shrouded such truths in secrecy, unwilling to record them.

The followers of the Way of Five Bushels of Rice were once all refugees—what hardship had they not endured? After joining the sect, most spent their days hiding deep in the mountains. Zhang Chi and Santong had both visited their holy lands: the periphery was all villages, and the common adherents cultivated their own crops for sustenance. Meat was a luxury beyond reach for these followers.

Moreover, their hatred of the aristocratic officials was bone-deep; those nobles, perched high above, fed upon the flesh and blood of the common people. Thus, consuming the flesh of these aristocrats seemed only just to them.

(In the classic tales of Water Margin, several heroes are mentioned who have eaten human flesh. In truth, such acts were not mere fiction but echoes from history.)

But this time, it was their first act of consuming the flesh of ordinary folk.

The officiant, though reluctant, dared not defy the wrath of the High Priest Yan Yicao. Left with no choice, he gathered a group of loyal sect members armed with blades and spears, and set out to seize villagers.

Religions built upon sinister doctrines often wield a whole arsenal of theories to deceive hearts. The so-called loyal followers are those most deeply entranced. For them, the dream was to forge a world of universal harmony; once achieved, the elderly would be cared for, the young nurtured—a true blessing for all under heaven.

And now, in pursuit of this grand vision, sacrificing a handful of ignorant souls to preserve the flame of this “world of harmony” seemed perfectly reasonable.

The village was small, its population dwindled by the turmoil of the times; a hundred households at most, three or four hundred souls altogether. They would not consume them all—life is but a matter of eating and drinking, and even in famine, people remain picky when food is available. The sect members tasked with capturing villagers thus sought only young women.

It was not out of lust that they targeted the young women. In times of upheaval, hunger is the only desire; only when warmth comes does lust arise, and that saying holds true. Now, their bellies gnawed by hunger, no base thoughts plagued them. Their reasoning was simple: young women, with tender skin, would surely taste better.

As for men and elderly women, most were killed outright, for secrecy was essential.

In the span of a single tea’s brewing, the village was strewn with corpses, cries of anguish pierced the heavens—a scene akin to hell on earth, too dreadful to behold.

The dead, of course, uttered no cries. The wailing came from the young women seized, bound hand and foot like livestock, carried on the shoulders of the sect members, and brought back to the army’s camp.

By now, the Way of Five Bushels of Rice had pitched their camp atop the mountain ridge. Santong, though accustomed to strange happenings, had never witnessed such as today. Seeing the army resting on the windy heights, he curiously asked the woman beside him, “Why not camp in the village ahead? Or, if not in the village, why not find a sheltered spot, instead of leaving everyone exposed to the wind on this ridge?”

Though it was late spring and the southeast climate was pleasant and mild, the mountain ridge, being near the sea, was swept by strong winds that made garments billow and flap noisily.

The woman smiled, “In the far northern wilderness, there is a kind of deer. Do you know where it usually rests?”

Santong shook his head, clueless.

“Of course you wouldn’t know—you're not from the north. It’s a thing all northern hunters know.” She smiled to herself, her gaze turning somber, then continued, “In the far north, the mountains teem with wild beasts. The strong prey upon the weak; those with fangs and claws rule the forests, yet these ferocious beasts do not live the longest.”

“If the beasts with fangs and claws don’t live long, then who does? Surely not rabbits?” Santong asked, intrigued.

The woman found Santong amusing, her somber mood shifting to a radiant smile. “It’s the deer, of course. Haven’t you heard the legends—deer are said to have longevity, the thousand-year-old are called ‘gray deer,’ and the two-thousand-year-old ‘mystic deer’?”

The cult of immortals flourished in the Wei and Jin dynasties; such tales were familiar to Zhang Chi, who nodded. The woman pressed on, “Deer have neither fangs nor claws—so why do they live so long?”

The question stumped Santong. He pondered for a while, then shook his head. “Good sister, just tell me outright.”

She explained, “There’s a saying: ‘Deer crouch, cranes walk’—meaning, like a deer, one should crouch in vigilance, like a crane, move warily. Deer are just so: while most animals seek sheltered places to rest, deer are different. They always lie on the exposed ridges of mountains, where the wind is strongest—especially in the far north, where the wind bites and chills to the bone. Yet deer always choose these spots, because the view is wide open. If danger approaches, they can spot it at once. If they rest in the sheltered places of the forest, by the time they sense peril, wolves and tigers are already upon them, and it’s too late to flee.”

So that was the reason. The more Santong thought on it, the more sense it made. “I never expected you to possess such learning, sister. You’re just like my brother Zhang—he always understands the reason behind everything.”

“Who is this brother Zhang?” the woman asked, surprised.

Santong realized he’d let slip and chuckled awkwardly. “No one special—just my brother. Everyone who knows him admires his knowledge, and I respect him greatly. He’s the one I admire most in this life.”

The woman had assumed Santong to be a member of the sect, and so his brother Zhang must be as well. “I never thought we would have such learned men in our Heavenly Master’s sect. If there’s a chance, you must introduce him to me.”

Santong scratched his head, embarrassed. “An introduction would be fine, but don’t involve him in those rituals of union.”

He meant the ritual of men and women joining during sacrifices. The woman, seeing his jealousy, burst out laughing. “Very well, then! Next time there’s such a ritual, I’ll call on you instead—is that agreeable?”

Santong’s eyes lit up with delight. Just as he was about to reply, he saw ahead a vast cauldron being set up. He wondered: when they left the shade of the mountain, he hadn’t seen anyone carrying grain—what could such a huge pot be for?

Looking around, he realized it wasn’t just one; the followers of the Way of Five Bushels of Rice were unloading a dozen or so giant cauldrons from a wagon, setting them all up in moments.

“Are we about to eat?” Santong asked, curiosity piqued.

“Looks like we’re eating meat again,” the woman sighed.

Meat again? Could the Way of Five Bushels of Rice regularly enjoy meat? That sounded like a good life, Santong mused. Why sigh over meat? He’d only ever heard of those who wouldn’t eat coarse grains, never of anyone who refused meat and drink. “Having meat is a good thing—why sigh? Don’t you like meat?”

Santong felt his reasoning was sound, but the woman was surprised. “Do you really like meat, brother?”

Of course—who doesn’t like meat? He couldn’t fathom her surprise, scratched his head in puzzlement, then nodded. “Yes, I like meat.”