Chapter Four: The Li Family Ancestral Hall

Before dawn, Li Yanqing used a camphor wood box as a table, leaning over a flickering rapeseed oil lamp as he wrote feverishly. He was composing the tale of Sun Wukong’s fierce battle with the Red Boy. He had already recited this story twice to Qing’er and knew it by heart, so the words flowed effortlessly from his brush.

The grain jar was nearly empty, and the money pouch had only two holes left. Their family was destitute; relying on his father to earn money was impossible now. He had to depend on himself.

The story of the Tang Monk’s pilgrimage had already been passed down in various versions during the Song and Yuan dynasties. Wu Cheng’en’s Journey to the West was merely the most celebrated compilation. Li Yanqing distilled some of the classic storylines from later generations and wove them into his writing, making the Sun Wukong versus Red Boy tale even more fantastical and gripping, full of twists and suspense that left readers unable to put the book down.

He had been writing this vernacular supernatural novel for ten days, filling nearly fifty thousand characters. It was nearing completion. He needed to leave a major cliffhanger to entice the bookstore owner to seek him out.

At that moment, his father’s coughing came from the kang bed. The medicinal salve Aunt Hu brought was very effective; in just three days, his father’s wounds had begun to heal. Yet his body remained weak. Aunt Hu had also stewed an old hen to nourish him. Li Yanqing silently treasured this kindness deeply in his heart.

“Qing’er, what time is it now?” Li Daqi asked weakly from the kang.

“It’s still early,” Li Yanqing replied.

Having finished the last line, he set down his brush, carefully packed the manuscript, then ladled a bowl of chicken soup from the pot and brought it to his father. Helping him sit up, he smiled, “Father, drink this chicken soup before resting.”

Li Daqi sipped the soup and glanced toward the doorway; outside was still pitch-black. He frowned. “Qing’er, why are you up so early?”

“I was practicing calligraphy!” Li Yanqing gave a casual excuse.

Seeing his son’s diligence, Li Daqi was greatly comforted. Nodding, he admonished, “The Sage of Poetry once said, wealth and honor come from hard work. A man must read five cartloads of books. Qing’er, with your diligence, you will surely top the imperial exam one day.”

His father’s talk about the civil service exams grated harshly on Li Yanqing’s ears. After serving his father the soup and helping him lie down again, he headed out into the courtyard.

“Qing’er, where are you going?”

“I’m going to chop firewood. I need to deliver some to Ninth Uncle’s house early.”

Chopping firewood was a job arranged by their neighbor, Uncle Hu. The father and son were so poor they barely had enough to eat. Li Yanqing chopped firewood for the villagers to exchange for some grain to survive.

Li Daqi’s eyes moistened, a mix of shame and relief swelling in his heart. Looking up at the dark roof, he murmured, “Yun Niang, look at our child. He’s only six years old, yet so sensible.”

As dawn broke, Li Yanqing worked vigorously in the yard, chopping wood. Whether his manuscript would earn money remained uncertain, and even if it did, it would be at least ten to fifteen days before any news came. That distant hope was no remedy for their immediate hunger; their grain jar was already empty.

With a low shout, Li Yanqing’s blade flashed like lightning, cleaving a thick log in two.

He casually tossed two sticks of firewood, which landed precisely on the woodpile ten feet away. He didn’t quite understand how he had such skill. Though a simple boy in many ways, he possessed an extraordinary talent in others.

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Li Yanqing set another log upright and struck it with one chop. “Bang!” A piece of firewood flew out, nearly hitting Li Daqi who had just reached the door.

“Father, why are you up?”

“A very important matter came to mind,” Li Daqi said.

“What important matter?”

Clearing his throat, Li Daqi said, “Qing’er, I’m taking you to the ancestral hall to offer incense shortly.”

“I won’t go!” Li Yanqing’s face darkened instantly as he fiercely split the log in two.

He harbored no affection for the so-called Li family ancestral hall. He had never seen a single family member help them. Especially since Liu Chenghong, the steward of the Li clan head’s household, was the very man who had grievously injured his father. This bred deep resentment—almost hostility—toward the clan.

“You must go!”

Raising his voice, Li Daqi was usually accommodating in many matters, but not about attending the ancestral rites. He spoke solemnly, “You survived a great calamity because the ancestors protected you. I have already made a vow before them on your behalf. You must fulfill this promise and thank our ancestors for their blessing.”

“Let’s wait until your health is fully restored,” Li Yanqing said, not wanting to argue with his father just after his illness.

Li Daqi understood his son’s reluctance and firmly shook his head. “I’m fine now. You cannot delay this any longer. You’ll have to go sooner or later. Better to settle it today.”

Thinking for a moment, Li Yanqing said, “Then I warn you now, I won’t kowtow!”

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The Li family was a large clan in Tangyin County, reputed descendants of notable ancestors. The clan mainly resided in Xiahe Township, divided into four branches named after their locations: Lushan, Qianshan, Wencun, and Songhe.

Their ancestral hall was built in Lushan Town, the main branch of the Li clan. Each clan head had come from the Lushan branch. The current head, Li Wenyou, was a famous local gentry. Li Daqi was indebted to him for horse care.

The ancestral hall stood isolated at the foot of Lushan Mountain, surrounded by lush pine and cypress forests. Though it was the season when most trees shed leaves, the pines remained verdant, lending solemn dignity to the hall.

Li Daqi washed his hands and face devoutly in a creek outside the hall. Li Yanqing, however, caught two small fish in the stream, planning to take them home for fish soup. Only after his father urged him several times did he reluctantly enter the hall.

Since the Han and Tang dynasties, ancestral halls had served as political, cultural, and spiritual centers for great clans, uniting the family. Even imperial families possessed their own ancestral temples.

Even the poorest households reserved a corner of their humble huts with a small altar to honor their ancestors. Though modest—a single incense stick and a memorial tablet—it held profound sacred meaning.

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Every year on the first day of the Lunar New Year, the Li clan held their annual ancestral ceremony. All members donned their finest clothes and gathered at the hall to worship their forebears. Even those who could not return in person performed rites from afar.

Besides the New Year, small ceremonies were held during Qingming and the Ghost Festival, and each branch observed separate memorials on their ancestors’ death anniversaries.

Ancestral worship was as essential to Song dynasty commoners as eating and sleeping. The greatest punishment for violating clan rules was revocation of ancestral rite privileges—an unending shame.

Signs showed a ceremony was imminent: carpets spread in the courtyard, red silk ribbons and lanterns hung from trees, and two life-sized bronze incense burners shaped like beast heads stood guard like loyal sentinels.

The Li ancestral hall covered about two acres, built of gray bricks. The front was the ceremonial courtyard, where, if many gathered, they stood during rituals. At its center grew an ancient locust tree, gnarled and cracked with age, likely over a century old.

A pentagonal main hall housed the ancestral tablets. Flanking it were side chambers: the left served as the elders’ council room for clan affairs, the right as the clan court for enforcing discipline and authority.

Below the county level, imperial law held no sway; clan law was supreme.

A corridor to the left led to a small rear courtyard with two rooms, likely housing the ancestral hall’s caretakers.

Li Daqi entered the courtyard with utmost reverence, kneeling to bow three times.

Though aware of the hall’s importance, Li Yanqing’s heart was not in it. His legs felt stiff as iron rods; bending them to kneel was nearly impossible.

Li Daqi sensed his son’s feelings but dared not let the ancestors know. He sighed quietly and did not force him to kneel.

“Qing’er, I’ll fetch two incense sticks from your Fourth Uncle. You start by paying respects to the ancestors; I’ll join you shortly.”

Li Daqi hurried to the rear courtyard to find the caretaker. Li Yanqing surveyed the courtyard, his interest caught only by the pair of bronze beast-head incense burners. Estimating their potential value, he then strolled toward the main hall.

The main door was ajar, and shadows moved inside. Peering through the crack, Li Yanqing saw a middle-aged man with graying hair furtively pouring wine from the offering table’s jug into a small gourd.

Li Yanqing froze in disbelief—someone was stealing wine from the main hall.