The next day, both of them woke up early in the morning.
It was bright outside today, and the weather looked quite pleasant.
They warmed up the leftover porridge from the previous day to eat, and Fan Jing planned to take Kang He for a walk in the mountains, checking the traps they had set to see if there was any catch.
With his right hand injured, Fan Jing couldn’t draw a bowstring, so he was relying on the traps to yield something.
Otherwise, this trip up the mountain might end empty-handed.
The morning air in the forest was crisp and cool, slightly stinging to the nose, but it made one’s mind exceptionally clear.
As the saying goes, “One autumn rain brings a chill.”
Though the weather had cleared up today, Kang He still felt it was a bit colder than when they had arrived.
He somewhat regretted not wearing an extra layer of clothing.
Seeing Fan Jing dressed lightly, despite his broader build and thicker clothing, Kang He felt that adding more layers might make him seem too frail.
But after about half an hour of walking, Kang He was glad he hadn’t worn more.
The mountain paths were uneven, requiring climbing up and down, relying not just on leg strength but also, in overgrown areas, cutting a path through.
With Fan Jing’s hand wrapped up, Kang He couldn’t let him clear the way, so he took on the task of chopping grass and vines.
Who would’ve thought that the machete, which in Fan Jing’s hands on the way up the mountain had been sharp enough to cut through iron, felt as dull as an unsharpened blade in Kang He’s hands?
Soon, sweat soaked his back, and he no longer felt the cold.
“There’s something!” Fan Jing, who had been craning his neck to look around, called out and quickly moved ahead of Kang He.
Curious, Kang He hurriedly followed.
Next to a cluster of red wild berries the size of fingertips, there was a pit about half a zhang deep.
The pit was covered with brittle branches, layered with decayed leaves and a few clumps of muddy grass, making the trap look like flat ground.
Fan Jing had sensed something because the carefully disguised pit cover had been disturbed.
But when Kang He caught up, he saw no catch at the bottom of the pit, which was lined with sharp bamboo and tree branches—just a few long feathers.
“Did it escape?” Kang He asked.
Fan Jing’s sharp eyes scanned the surroundings.
“Maybe it escaped, or maybe someone took it,” he said calmly, as if such things happened often.
Kang He wondered, “Are there other hunters in these mountains?”
Fan Jing gave him a look as if he were a simpleton.
“With these mountains stretching for a hundred li, how could I be the only one hunting?” He then crouched down and began resetting the trap.
Kang He noticed a strip of cloth tied to a tree and asked, “Is that a marker to remember the trap’s location?”
“When you’ve been roaming these mountains for years, you don’t forget where you set your traps. This is to warn passersby so they don’t fall in.”
Kang He said, “But doesn’t that mean other hunters will know there’s a trap here too?” He thought it made it too easy for others to take advantage.
Fan Jing stood up.
“Even so, you can’t risk someone’s life. That’s a rule the old hunters taught me when I was learning.”
Kang He felt a surge of respect.
“Does your master still hunt in these woods?”
“He died years ago,” Fan Jing replied.
Surprised, Kang He asked, “What happened?”
“One winter, he went into the mountains and never came back. Two years later, his bones were found at the bottom of a cliff.” Such incidents were common in the mountains, but Fan Jing’s tone carried a hint of heaviness.
Caught off guard by the story, Kang He fell silent.
The two moved on, continuing deeper into the forest.
They checked four more traps along the way.
Two showed signs of animals passing through but had no catch, and the other two were untouched.
The morning passed without any gains.
They did come across two gray, chirping birds in a tree, which Fan Jing called “big dumb birds.”
He said they tasted good and could fetch fifty coins each in the county.
These birds rarely came to the ground and almost never fell into traps.
Normally, Fan Jing would shoot them with his bow, but with his injury, he could only lament the missed opportunity.
At noon, they reached a cliff and climbed onto a flat boulder to rest and eat some coarse-grain steamed buns in the sunlight.
The cliff’s edge was sunny, with lush grass and trees, offering a view that stretched far into the distance.
Kang He spotted a river in the distance.
“Is that the stream you mentioned with the wild duck nests? Are there fish in it?”
Fan Jing, chewing his bun, nodded.
Confident, Kang He said, “Then let’s head to the stream later. I’ll catch a couple of fish, and tonight I’ll make you fish soup.”
A faint, skeptical smile flashed in Fan Jing’s eyes, but his tone remained even.
“If you want to try, we’ll head that way on the way back.”
Kang He agreed.
A breeze blew across the cliff, warmed by the midday sun, no longer as biting as the morning chill.
Suddenly, Kang He put down his bun and took a deep breath.
“Do you smell that? It’s so fragrant.”
Fan Jing glanced at him.
“It’s the scent of orchids,” Kang He said, standing up.
“Mountain orchids are especially fragrant. Let’s find where they’re growing.”
Following the scent, Kang He wandered along the cliff’s edge and soon returned with two orchid plants, roots and soil intact.
The delicate orchids had a strong fragrance, with just one bloom emitting a clear, pleasant aroma.
“They’ll buy these at the flower and bird market,” Fan Jing said.
“How much are they worth?” Kang He asked.
“Maybe a dozen or so coins.”
Kang He brushed the dirt off his sleeves and grinned.
“Then today wasn’t a total loss.”
He wrapped the orchids carefully in wild taro leaves.
In the afternoon, they headed back along the stream.
The mountain stream was clear, some of it bubbling from rocks, some flowing down from higher ground.
In the deeper, calmer parts, they could see a few green fish lingering together, the smaller ones about two inches long, the larger ones nearly the size of a grown man’s hand.
As they approached, several long-legged gray herons foraging nearby flapped their wings and flew off.
Fan Jing looked at the sizable herons with some regret.
It was odd—when he could use his bow, he might roam the mountains all day without seeing these birds, but now that he couldn’t, they seemed to appear in droves.
If he could have caught all the dumb birds and herons they’d seen, this trip wouldn’t have been in vain.
Splash.
A sound snapped Fan Jing out of his thoughts.
Kang He, unable to hold back, had rolled up his pant legs and waded into the stream.
He grabbed a sharp stone and lunged at a fish lurking in the water.
Water droplets splashed onto his face like icy pebbles.
Kang He was certain of his aim, but when he lifted the stone, he’d missed.
Stunned, he said, “That shouldn’t have happened.” He’d accounted for the sunlight’s refraction.
Back in the village, he was skilled at catching fish.
He focused and tried a few more times, but each attempt was a miss.
Frustrated, he grumbled, “Must be the stone’s fault.”
Fan Jing said nothing, went to the stream’s edge, cut a bamboo pole, sharpened the tip, and handed it to him.
Kang He tried again with the bamboo pole, but after several failed attempts, the tip dulled, and the water became so murky that the fish vanished.
Sweating and parched, he smacked his lips in frustration.
Fan Jing, who had been sitting until his backside was numb, finally said, “Herons and wild ducks are common here. Those fish have been trained to be as cunning as spirits. You’re not going to spear them.”
“Why didn’t you say so earlier?” Kang He tossed the pole aside and climbed out of the stream, his toes wrinkled from the water.
Fan Jing stood up and started walking back.
“If you’d gotten lucky, maybe we’d be eating fish tonight.”
Feeling mocked, Kang He shouted at Fan Jing’s back, “Just you wait! I’ll make sure you eat that fish one day!”
Fan Jing didn’t respond, sparing him some dignity.
By the time they returned to the cabin, the sun had set.
They came back nearly empty-handed.
Fan Jing went to the back of the yard to sharpen his machete on a whetstone.
Seeing his left hand was inconvenient, Kang He offered to help, but Fan Jing refused.
After the war, iron prices had risen year after year. In tough times, many poor villagers sold their hoes and plows to city smiths for cash.
During the Fan family’s hardest days, Fan Jing’s father had even sold the iron pot they’d received for his wedding.
Even now, iron goods remained expensive.
A well-made machete could fetch a hundred coins in the iron market.
Fan Jing cherished the few sharp tools he had.
Seeing this, Kang He gave up and told him to grind slowly to avoid hurting his right hand.
He went inside to prepare dinner.
The mountain’s cool climate allowed food to last longer, but it could still go bad if kept too long.
There were still plenty of bones Kang He had brought back the previous day, and he planned to cook some each day until they were gone.
Better to eat them than let them spoil.
He washed two pork shoulder bones, tossed them into a pot with peppercorns and old ginger, and started simmering a broth.
If he had cinnamon, bay leaves, grass fruit, star anise, or galangal, the bone broth would be even tastier.
With those spices, anything—braised meat or vegetables—would be endlessly fragrant.
He kneaded a portion of dough for two, covered it with a clean cloth, and let it rest.
Poking his head out, he called to Fan Jing, “I’m making noodles tonight.”
Fan Jing, puzzled for a moment, peeked in and saw Kang He preparing hand-pulled noodles.
He had no objections—when he was alone in the mountains, he wasn’t picky.
Most days, he ate the flatbreads or steamed buns he brought from home.
On rare occasions, he might cook porridge, but he never stir-fried vegetables or kneaded dough.
“Mm,” Fan Jing replied, already smelling the simmering bone broth.
“Do you prefer wide or thin noodles?” Kang He asked.
“Either’s fine.”
“‘Either’ doesn’t cut it. Tell me—wide or thin?”
Fan Jing paused his sharpening and looked at Kang He, who was peeking out, clearly determined to get an answer.
“Thin,” he said.
“There we go.”
The sun had set, and the evening chill set in with the rising ground mist.
The firewood in the stove roared, and the simmering bones filled the cabin with a meaty aroma, white steam drifting through half the room.
The scent of dinner and the glow of the fire brought a unique sense of comfort, no matter where one was.
After sharpening his knife, Fan Jing came inside, sat on a small stool by the stove, and watched the fire.
Kang He wasn’t pulling noodles yet. Instead, he planted the two orchids in the small yard, then went to cut some green bamboo nearby.
He bustled in and out, never idle.
That was fine, but he had to comment on everything.
“Why do you like thin noodles? Want some fresh greens in them?”
“I’ll take such good care of these orchids, they’ll still be blooming when we head down the mountain.”
“The bamboo in these deep mountains grows so well; the bark’s got to be tough.”
Fan Jing’s ears buzzed, as if he weren’t in the quiet mountains but back in a lively kitchen at home.
He couldn’t fathom how one person could talk so much and make so much noise.
At dusk, Kang He finally stayed put.
He washed his hands, pulled the noodles, and tossed them into the pot.
Just before they were done, he added a handful of wild greens he’d dug up while cutting bamboo.
Freshly kneaded noodles, served in a bowl of rich, oily bone broth, sprinkled with finely chopped wild scallions.
When the large ceramic bowl was placed in front of Fan Jing, the aroma made his stomach growl.
The dish looked as good as anything from a county stall.
Fan Jing blew on the scallions, sipped the broth, and thought Kang He must know his way around a kitchen.
The Fan family ate noodles often, but they’d never used bone broth for hand-pulled noodles. Even plain noodles were a treat for the whole family.
With the howling wind outside, they sat in the snug cabin, comfortably eating their big bowls of noodles, drinking every drop of the broth.
After dinner, there was no need to change Fan Jing’s bandages.
Kang He fetched a bucket of hot water for him to soak his feet.
Once his feet were red from soaking, Fan Jing wiped them and went to bed.
In the past, he might have gone out to check for nocturnal animals, but with his bow unusable, he wasn’t taking the risk.
Whether it was his injured arm making him sleepier or something else, Fan Jing’s breathing steadied soon after lying down.
In his dreams, he felt an unusual warmth, with a soft yellow firelight glowing beyond the curtain for a long time.
Kang He didn’t rush to sleep.
He worked on the bamboo he’d cut, turning it into strips.
The fire in the stove was fed six or seven more times before it finally died down.
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