Chapter Thirty-Two: The Child Without a Home

Zhen Qian wasn’t sure whether he was angry at his present self or at his past self. On reflection, he realized he had been too harsh with Chrysanthemum—though she was wild and free-spirited, her heart was not bad. Back when he was ill, she had traveled around a dozen counties, praying and burning incense for his recovery. Whether it helped or not was uncertain, but her devotion was unquestionable.

“All right, my words were too harsh just now. Don’t take them to heart,” he said.

Chrysanthemum, who had followed behind ready to flare up, was startled by Zhen Qian’s apology. She could hardly believe her ears. “What did you just say?”

“Forget it, I didn’t say anything,” he replied.

But Chrysanthemum’s face brightened with delight. “No way! I heard it clearly. You said it yourself, you can’t take it back!”

Faced with such a woman, Zhen Qian truly had no recourse. He waved his hand, “Do as you please.”

Little Bamboo and Little Plum hobbled over, expecting another quarrel between Zhen Qian and Chrysanthemum. To their surprise, the pair had reconciled. Four wide eyes exchanged confused glances, unable to make sense of what had just happened.

“By the way, where are we staying tonight?” Zhen Qian asked.

The three women looked at each other, none able to answer. Suddenly, Chrysanthemum recalled, “I saw the stable hands pitching a few tents at the village entrance. Surely we won’t have to sleep in those?”

Zhen Qian thought that was quite possible. The village was so dilapidated that it hardly seemed fit to host guests. He headed toward the entrance to investigate.

Before he reached the village gate, a figure leapt down from a roadside tree, blocking their path.

“It’s you!” Zhen Qian recognized Qin Meng, who, for some reason, barred their way. Before Zhen Qian could ask, Qin Meng inquired, “Where are you going?”

“Looking for a place to rest,” Zhen Qian replied offhandedly.

“Then come with me,” Qin Meng said with a smile, turning back toward the village.

The four followed, surprised that the Qin family had prepared lodgings for them. On second thought, it made sense—they were guests, after all, and surely the Qin family understood hospitality.

Qin Meng led them to a row of bamboo cottages and pointed, “These houses are for you. They have daily necessities. If you need anything, let me know. Later, you’ll be invited to supper. I’ll leave you now.”

“Wait,” Zhen Qian called out, “Do you have any herbs for treating foot injuries? My maids walked a long mountain path today and have blisters. If untreated, walking tomorrow will be even harder.”

“No problem. Wait here,” Qin Meng replied briskly.

Looking at the bamboo cottages, Zhen Qian thought, “Better than sleeping in a tent.”

He pushed open a door. Seeing the interior, Chrysanthemum cried, “We’re staying here tonight?”

Having seen the chief Qin Hao’s house, Zhen Qian was no longer surprised by the furnishings. “The conditions here are tough. The chief’s house is much the same. Don’t make a fuss. It’s only for one night—any bed is the same.”

“You make it sound so easy!” Chrysanthemum pouted, stomping her foot. “I refuse to sleep in this place!”

Zhen Qian felt nothing of it. He had enjoyed presidential suites in five-star hotels and had lain on the ground beneath the sky on country excursions—such freedom was something he missed.

“Sit down, you two. Don’t run around with injured feet, or you’ll worsen the wounds,” Zhen Qian said, guiding the two girls to the bed. He removed their shoes and socks. The blisters on their feet had been punctured earlier, but after walking more mountain roads, their wounds stuck to the socks. Pulling off the socks peeled away a layer of skin.

“Does it hurt?” he asked.

“No,” both replied in unison.

Little Bamboo bit her lip, unsure if her discomfort was from pain or shyness, her face flushed alluringly as she hung her head. Little Plum gritted her teeth and endured—the sight of this usually delicate girl persevering touched Zhen Qian’s heart.

Just then, Qin Meng entered with a wooden basin. “Master Zhen, here’s the medicine. We run through these mountains often, so such injuries are common. Soak your feet for an hour and the wounds will heal enough for you to hunt tomorrow.”

“Thank you!” Zhen Qian trusted Qin Meng’s word—these were everyday injuries for mountain folk, which was why he’d asked him for medicine.

“No worries!” Qin Meng smiled, noticing the two girls with bare feet on the bed. He didn’t linger, setting down the basin and departing.

“Soak your feet, and I’ll massage your veins. It will help circulation and speed recovery,” said Zhen Qian.

The two girls, surprised and embarrassed, never expected Zhen Qian to give them a massage. Embarrassed yet excited, they shyly placed their feet in the basin. The instant their wounds touched the medicated water, their bodies shuddered, but they stifled any cry of pain. As Zhen Qian handled their feet, they hardly knew how to describe their feelings.

“Bear with it. You’ll get used to it soon,” Zhen Qian said, oblivious to their fluster, intent on tending their injuries.

Watching Zhen Qian’s focus, the two girls’ eyes grew misty, a crystal tear flickering in their lashes. They bit their lips, noses stinging with the urge to sob, yet they held back, unwilling to break the rare tenderness of the moment.

After about half an hour, Zhen Qian gently released their feet, stood, and rubbed his back. “Keep soaking. Don’t get out of bed tonight. I’ll bring you dinner. Remember, no stubbornness.” He finished by flicking their noses.

The bamboo cottage seemed long uninhabited, carrying a faint musty smell. Zhen Qian opened a window, letting fresh air dispel the chill. Outside, a lush bamboo forest shimmered, the mountain breeze stirring a whispering sound through the sea of green, the cottage and bamboo grove tranquil and ethereal, soothing the soul.

“It’s beautiful here!” Little Plum exclaimed.

Zhen Qian replied, “When I’m old, living here would be a delight.”

Little Bamboo smiled dreamily, “You’re not old, but your heart is.”

“Yes,” Zhen Qian thought to himself—after so many years of struggle, he truly felt weary. He’d imagined that living out his days in the Tang dynasty would be peaceful, but fate had other plans. Trouble followed trouble, and a storm was about to shake the flourishing Tang, with himself caught in the middle.

Night fell swiftly in the mountain village, nestled in a hollow. As the last rays of sunlight disappeared behind distant peaks, blazing fires were kindled in the village square. Wang Qun visited every three or four months, and for this semi-isolated village, it was a rare chance to connect with the outside and a cause for celebration.

Zhen Qian hadn’t expected Wang Qun’s arrival to enliven the village. As the guest of honor, he was warmly invited to join the festivities, surprised by the festival-like atmosphere.

Little Bamboo and Little Plum, hoping for a quiet rest, wouldn’t miss the excitement and followed him. Watching the dancers twirl in the square, they longed to join but their injured feet wouldn’t cooperate.

A wild boar weighing two or three hundred pounds was gutted and coated with spices, roasting over the fire, soon filling the air with a tantalizing aroma.

Qin Hao brought out homemade fruit wine for the guests. A girl with feathers in her hair poured drinks for everyone. Two strong men wrestled for the boar’s tusks, Wang Qun and Qin Hao whispered together, while Wang Iron Pillar argued with Chrysanthemum, who wanted to join the contests. All was harmonious.

Qin Meng suddenly appeared, setting half a pheasant before Zhen Qian. “I hunted this golden pheasant today, Master Zhen—try my roast!”

Zhen Qian looked at the charred bird, suppressing a wave of nausea, and smiled at Qin Meng, “You hunted this yourself?”

Qin Meng wiped his lips, still smudged with soot, seemingly proud of his handiwork. “They say I’m too young to hunt, so I sneaked off alone. Luck was good today. Last time, I bagged a roe deer—the taste was excellent…”

Seeing Qin Meng’s precocious manner, Zhen Qian suddenly asked, “How old are you this year?”

“Fourteen!” Qin Meng replied.

“Fourteen!”—the age for junior high in later times. Qin Meng was remarkably bold, venturing alone into the deep woods. At that age, Zhen Qian was still buried in books. “Aren’t your parents worried?”

Qin Meng’s animated expression dimmed. He spoke calmly, as if it hardly concerned him. “They died when I was little…”

“Do you miss them?” Zhen Qian asked.

Qin Meng shook his head, no sadness in his eyes. “I’ve never met them. Others say they fell into a valley during a storm. I don’t even know what they looked like. What’s the point of missing them?”

“A child of misfortune,” Zhen Qian thought, patting the wooden block beside him for Qin Meng to sit. “How have you managed all these years?”

“Everyone here treats me well. They give me food and clothes. I grew up without realizing it. It’s nothing.”

Qin Meng clearly didn’t know how to answer Zhen Qian’s question. His simple, sincere words left Zhen Qian speechless, the unadorned honesty evoking a pang of sorrow. He thought of Little Bamboo and Little Plum, whose fates were equally hard.