Fan Jing slept fitfully, plagued by a series of dreams throughout the night.
He dreamt of his mother, still alive, teaching him to thread a needle and sew by the window in the spring moonlight.
They laughed and chatted, and his mother praised the clothes he made for his father.
Then he dreamt of the day his mother, in agonizing pain, gave birth to Zhener after a full day of labor.
His grandparents, hoping for a grandson, were visibly disappointed when they saw it was a girl.
He also dreamt of Zhener at two years old, the night his mother passed away.
There was no doctor in the village, and his father, frantic, ran to the county to fetch one, losing a shoe along the way.
He returned too late to see her one last time.
Fragments of the past swirled together, leaving his mind heavy and muddled.
He wanted to wake and end the nightmares, but his body felt weighed down, unable to move.
After what felt like an eternity, the dim, misty dawn broke, and he saw a figure—both unfamiliar and familiar—waving to him.
“Ajing, come here quick!”
“Look at Dafu, he learned to write your name after just two lessons! Oh, oh, little Fu, be good, don’t grab Daddy’s ear…”
Fan Jing strained to see who was holding the child at the table, but before he could get close enough to make out the face, he woke up.
The wooden cabin was dim, like a cave.
He thought it was still early, but a chilly breeze made him realize it was raining outside.
He pulled back the curtain and got out of bed, noticing that Kang He wasn’t in the cabin.
The stove was cold, suggesting he’d left without lighting a fire.
Fan Jing washed his face with cold water and chewed a willow twig to clean his teeth, clearing his mind a little.
He started a fire to warm up the leftover taro root tofu and coarse rice from the night before.
The fire brought some warmth to the cold cabin.
Sitting by the stove, his head still throbbed faintly, likely from the restless night.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a bulging oilpaper packet.
Soon, the door creaked open.
“You’re awake,” Kang He said.
He shed his rain-soaked straw coat in the yard, took off his muddy cloth shoes, and slipped into a pair of straw sandals before entering the cabin.
“Mm,” Fan Jing replied, glancing at Kang He, who carried the chill of the rain.
“It’s raining. Where’d you go?”
Kang He warmed his stiff hands by the stove, standing close to Fan Jing.
He caught a faint sweet scent—candied winter melon. Surprised, he glanced at Fan Jing.
“Hungry?”
Fan Jing found the question odd.
“No.”
Kang He looked at the man sitting cross-legged on a small stool, his face calm as usual, with little expression.
Back where Kang He came from, they’d call this personality “aloof.”
But this aloof guy… liked sweets~
Kang He’s eyes glinted with amusement, though he didn’t let on.
His mood lifted.
“Wait here, I’ve got something good to show you.”
He stepped outside, rummaged briefly, and returned with a wooden bucket.
Water sloshed inside, and Fan Jing peered in to see four green fish—small ones over a jin, the largest maybe three jin.
There were also five or six finger-length green shrimp and a turtle tucked into its shell.
Fan Jing was surprised.
Where had Kang He gotten these?
“Told you I’d get you fish eventually,” Kang He said.
“The other day, I made a fish trap, used earthworms as bait, and set it in a deep, dark part of the stream. Been busy with taro tofu these past couple days, didn’t check it. Turns out, it caught something.”
The fish, once in the trap, couldn’t escape.
They’d eaten all the bait, leaving fish waste floating in the cage.
Kang He hadn’t expected the stream to yield shrimp and a turtle too.
The trap worked well.
After collecting the catch, he dug more earthworms and reset the trap, planning to make more cages with bamboo.
Fan Jing thought Kang He’s hands were clever, skilled at such things.
“Stream fish fetch a better price than pond fish. Take them to the county.”
Kang He shook his head.
“It’s a long way to the county, and fish need water. They’d die on the trip, and dead fish don’t sell well. No need for the hassle.”
He’d already planned it out.
“We’ll eat the two smaller ones. The bigger ones we’ll keep in a tank, and when we head down the mountain, we’ll bring them back for the family to enjoy.”
Kang He knew Fan Jing had been eating better lately, but it only made him miss home more.
Including Fan Jing’s family in his plans might ease his mind.
Fan Jing’s brow twitched.
“Why worry about my family?”
Kang He paused, then smiled.
“I’ve been eating your family’s rice. Can’t just freeload.”
Fan Jing went quiet, saying nothing.
After breakfast, Kang He braved the drizzle to chop bamboo.
With the rain making it hard to go out, he stayed in the cabin, splitting bamboo strips to weave baskets.
Fan Jing didn’t go out either.
He sat by the fire for warmth, twisting wild hemp saved from summer into thread.
Kang He pestered him to teach local dialect, and since he was eating Fan Jing’s food, Fan Jing obliged.
The rain pattered outside, carrying a wintry chill.
The fire in the cabin kept the cold at bay.
Kang He hadn’t brought thick clothes, just two thin autumn layers.
Though men ran warm, the mountain cold was biting.
Sitting still too long, his feet grew cold, then his body stiffened.
He stomped his feet a couple times.
On the third, a pieced-together mink pelt was tossed into his lap.
Kang He looked up at Fan Jing, who didn’t meet his eyes.
Smiling faintly, Kang He accepted it.
The afternoon passed easily, and the rain stopped.
Fan Jing wanted to patrol the mountain, so Kang He grabbed three finished traps, and they went out together.
While patrolling, they set two traps in the bushes and one in the stream.
They spotted heavy footprints, likely from Sun Dasheng the day before, but saw no sign of him.
He’d been wandering the woods last night—who knows if a wild animal got him.
If it did, he had only himself to blame.
If he hadn’t been up to no good, he’d have stayed safe at his lodging.
Neither of them was saintly enough to check on him.
Rain made the mountain animals sluggish, less alert than on clear days.
Fan Jing’s trap caught a fox.
His face showed little, but you could tell he was in a decent mood.
They’d been up here for days.
Without some gains, how could he feel at ease?
That evening, Kang He cleaned two green fish.
One would be stewed for soup, the other boiled with leftover greens and wild vegetables—ស
System: vegetables—a spicy, flavorful dish perfect with rice.
Fish can be tricky to cook due to its natural odor.
Kang He used old ginger slices and peppercorns to mask the smell.
The stewed fish was nearly odor-free, and with proper cooking, the fishy taste could be further reduced.
For the fish soup, it needed to be marinated beforehand to avoid any fishy flavor in the broth.
He eyed the wine gourd Fan Jing kept under the bed, asking for some to marinate the fish.
Fan Jing had never heard of using wine for cooking.
It sounded as absurd as his father claiming he’d sprained his ankle and needed wine to rub on it after drinking all of his own.
“Don’t be stingy,” Kang He teased.
“I saw some wild cherry trees by the big rock. Come spring, when they bear fruit, I’ll pick some and brew wine to pay you back.”
Fan Jing raised an eyebrow.
“By the time cherries ripen, won’t you have saved up your five guan?”
“What, you in such a rush to kick me out?”
Fan Jing didn’t respond to that, just tossed him the gourd.
Kang He caught it and drawled, “Or do you think I’m too useless to make money?”
“Whether you can make money or not’s got nothing to do with me,” Fan Jing said flatly.
Kang He, seeing his reaction, uncorked the gourd and poured a generous amount into the basin, muttering that if Fan Jing wasn’t going to appreciate the wine, he might as well use it all.
Then he asked, “Fine, forget me. What do you think a man’s gotta earn to satisfy you?”
“Why ask that?”
Kang He stirred the basin.
“Just wanna know how a guy like you thinks, get a sense of it. So when I’m out there, I can gauge if I’m good enough to settle down.”
Fan Jing didn’t look at him, tossing wood into the stove.
“Never thought about it.”
Kang He pressed, “Well, think about it for me now.”
“Why should I? Thinking about it won’t make it happen. It’s just asking for disappointment and resentment. I don’t entertain notions of depending on others.”
Kang He fell silent, thinking, That’s just like him. Seeing Fan Jing was about to get annoyed, he dropped the subject.
That night, Kang He cooked the pan-fried fish into a creamy white stew.
On a cold, rainy mountain night, a bowl of it warmed you from stomach to toes.
He served Fan Jing a bowl.
The other pot, with fish cooked in spicy cornel broth, stayed simmering on the stove.
They ate it hot with wild greens, keeping the fish from going cold and fishy.
The stream fish, raised in clear spring water and always swimming to find food or evade herons, had firm, tender flesh with a faint, fresh sweetness.
Kang He noticed Fan Jing picking at the greens with his coarse rice, clearly enjoying the salty-spicy fish soup.
He reached over, picked a large piece of fish belly meat, deboned it, soaked it in hot broth, and slid the bowl to Fan Jing.
“Why do you like fussing over people so much?” Fan Jing asked.
Kang He laughed, exasperated.
“Why’s everything I do sound wrong coming from you? Don’t you know a cook’s happiest seeing folks eat their food?”
Fan Jing took a bite of the fish.
It tasted better than the greens, naturally.
Wild greens always carried a stronger earthy flavor than garden-grown ones, but Kang He’s spicy fish broth balanced it perfectly.
Cooking fish tests a chef’s skill.
Fan Jing’s stepmother, Chen, wasn’t great in the kitchen, so even on feast days, they rarely bought fish.
It was hard to cook well, and though green fish weren’t pricey, they weren’t as satisfying as pork.
The Fan family seldom ate fish, only getting a good taste at someone else’s banquet.
The two of them polished off both fish.
Kang He saved the leftover soup to make noodles the next day.
That evening, Kang He changed Fan Jing’s bandages.
His body was strong, healing well—the big wound had already closed up.
It was mending faster than Kang He expected, no real issues left.
Fan Jing had been feeling an itch at the wound, a sign of new flesh growing.
When the gauze came off, he was surprised at how quickly it had healed this time.
In the past, even shallower cuts took ten days or more to mend.
But Kang He had bandaged him well and kept him from overexerting.
Pleased with his recovery, Fan Jing got busy the next day.
Besides patrolling the mountain, he gathered firewood now that his arm was better.
The mountain weather was turning cold, and though it was milder down below, winter would still bite.
In winter, village households relied on firewood, and those in the county who couldn’t afford charcoal bought it too.
Two bundles could fetch a dozen or so coins.
Idle villagers would haul wood to sell, though it was grueling work.
In the Fan family’s poorest days, when Fan Jing couldn’t hunt, he and his father, Fan Shoulin, had chopped wood to sell.
They’d labor to cut it, while Zhener and Qiaoer carried it down the mountain trip after trip.
Then Fan’s father and Chen would haul it to the county.
It was exhausting for little profit.
Things had improved the past couple years, so they sold less wood, but they still stockpiled some for winter.
Kang He wasn’t idle either.
He grabbed a hoe and a basket and headed out.