Zhang Mingyuan huddled on a creaking ox cart, staring blankly at the snowfields on either side of the official road. The leaden sky screen hung low overhead, and thick snow swept across the land. No cooking smoke rose from the distant village; only a few charred roof beams pointed toward the sky, remnants of the Tartar raid last month.
“Master, Ningjin County is just ahead,” the old man driving the cart called over his shoulder. His voice came in fits and starts through the wind and snow.
Zhang Mingyuan answered and tucked his hands farther into his sleeves. His coarse hemp shirt was far too thin to keep out the cold; the wind went straight through it. He glanced down at his straw sandals, full of holes. The big toe on his right foot had already turned purple with frost, and every jolt of the cart sent pain stabbing through it.
The seven copper coins in his arms dug into his chest. They were all he owned.
When he had set out from Baoding Prefecture three days ago, he still had two qian of silver on him. But along the way, he had to pay to rest at relay stations, to cross rivers at ferries, and even to get a bowl of hot water. By the time he reached Zhao Prefecture, his silver was gone. For the last thirty li, he had traded the respectable scholar's robe on his back to the old cart driver. The old man had refused at first, but seeing Zhang's lips turning purple from the cold, he had finally agreed.
“Ah, a scholar...” The old man sighed. “What a world this is.”
