Chapter 53

Old Feng’s eyelids trembled at his son-in-law’s wailing, his bark-like face flushing crimson.

Human joy and sorrow do not communicate with each other.

For a moment, Lu Beigu felt that though his own family was poor, at least they were all perfectly normal.

He thought it inappropriate to stay any longer as an outsider, and was just about to take his leave when footsteps sounded outside the courtyard, followed by a loud THUD as the door was kicked violently open.

A thin, small figure stumbled in.

“I came to borrow money—what are you doing here wailing like a funeral?”

The woman snatched up a live, wriggling fish from the vat by the door, flicked her wrist, and hurled it out—the butcher ducked, and the fish shot past his head, thudding into the fish basket in the corner.

Lu Beigu clearly saw the fish roll its eyes as it landed—whether from the fall or fright, he couldn’t tell.

“Still crying? I’ll take you to Shudao Mountain!”

The butcher couldn’t cry anymore; he sprang up like a chicken with its throat cut, snot bubbles dangling: “Wife, let me explain!”

“Explain your damn shovel!”

The woman lunged forward, tiptoed, grabbed his ear, and twisted it into a knot.

She suddenly spotted the lamb mince on the table, her almond eyes widening: “Oh? Learned to eat on credit now?”

Old Feng quickly intervened: “Daughter, don’t be angry—this is Young Master Lu’s gift to me.”

“I see!”

The woman turned to study Lu Beigu, then released her husband and crossed her arms with a sneer: “So that’s who it is—the land duck my father fished out of the river that day!”

She jabbed a fingernail stained with balsam pear juice into her husband’s forehead: “See? This is someone who knows how to repay kindness!”

Lu Beigu was holding his tea bowl when this Sichuan chili suddenly leaned in.

The woman looked about thirty, wore no veil despite being out in public, and as sunlight slanted through the window, he could see a few light brown freckles dusting her nose, bouncing with every word: “Hey, scholar, can you write?”

“Yes.”

“Perfect!”

She pulled a crumpled sheet of paper from her sleeve as if by magic and slapped it on the table: “Write me an IOU—this money isn’t a gift; once the butcher shop makes profit, I’ll pay it back!”

The butcher crouched in the corner muttering: “The shop’s just a bit small now—it’s not like we absolutely need to move.”

“Shut up!”

The woman barked, then instantly beamed at Lu Beigu, her expression shifting faster than a book’s page turn: “Young Master, do me a favor.”

“Don’t write for her!”

“Feng Jinhua,” Old Feng straightened his back, “unless you sell this shop first, we won’t lend you a single copper.”

“Where am I supposed to find a buyer for this shop right now?”

Hearing this, Lu Beigu’s mind stirred.

If he wanted to buy land to register his household and open a food stall for his sister-in-law, the butcher’s current shop location would do—though not especially large, it was a proper shop, capable of holding pigs and sheep, easily over a third of an acre.

But he had no such funds on hand, so he merely filed the information away for now.

“Then I don’t care,” Old Feng huffed.

The family parted in bad spirits.

Having expressed his gratitude and exchanged a few words with Old Feng, Lu Beigu rose to take his leave.

Old Feng felt uneasy—Lu Beigu had given him too much.

So he insisted on seeing him to the door, muttering all the while: “Young Master, if you ever want fish, just come to Old Man—I’ll pick you the freshest!”

Leaving the fisherman’s home, Lu Beigu walked along the cobblestone road toward the county school.

It was nearly dusk; street vendors were packing up. A man pushing a wheelbarrow of steamed buns passed him, the wheels creaking.

Nearby, children chased each other at the alley’s mouth, clutching newly bought sugar cakes, their laughter bright.

Sunlight bathed the tiled eaves; evening smoke curled upward, wrapping the small town in warm hues.

But when Lu Beigu reached the county school gate, he found someone unexpected waiting for him.

“Young Master Lu.”

Ji Yun sprang up from the corner, still in his loose robes, a green gourd tied at his waist.

Ji Yun was much younger than Lu Beigu—perhaps only fourteen or fifteen, like a middle-schooler today: short, childlike, not yet grown into his features.

When he sprang up, he looked like a lively little monkey.

“I’ve come to chase you for your manuscript.”

Lu Beigu’s expression froze.

Honestly, the remaining eleven chapters of “Flickering Lives of Jiangzuo” hadn’t even reached the “new folder” stage.

Why now, of all times, was Ji Yun chasing him for a manuscript? Where was he supposed to get one?

So Lu Beigu swiftly changed the subject: “What brings you here?”

“The prefectural school is on break.”

Ji Yun grinned: “The Buddha Bathing Festival at Hejiang’s Fawang Temple is the grandest in Luzhou, so I came with two friends to see it—and remembered you’re at the Hejiang County School, so I came to find you. Young Master, you haven’t written the manuscript yet, have you?”

“Of course not!”

Lu Beigu kept his face calm: “I’m already drafting it—writing one or two chapters will take no time at all.”

“Good, good.”

Ji Yun hadn’t come specifically to chase the manuscript—he was just passing by—so he didn’t press, instead asking: “Just back from the county school?”

“Yes. I accompanied my superior to Chengdu on official business.”

Lu Beigu said: “May I put my things away first?”

Ji Yun had no objection.

Soon, Lu Beigu returned to his dormitory at the county school, locked the door, and stepped out to find Ji Yun.

“Where to?”

“My two friends are resting at a teahouse—come along, I’ll introduce you.”

Lu Beigu nodded and followed Ji Yun.

He wasn’t familiar with Hejiang County town—his predecessor had been reclusive, disliked wandering, and had no friends to drag him out, so he knew only the area around the school; everywhere else was unknown.

They walked two streets south, and Ji Yun led him to a teahouse on Linjie.

Lu Beigu lifted the bamboo curtain; a warm, tea-scented gust hit his face.

The teahouse held only four or five elmwood tables; in the corner, a charcoal stove simmered a coarse clay kettle, its contents bubbling white steam.

At one table sat a man and woman; seeing Ji Yun arrive with a stranger, they exchanged a glance of surprise.

Ji Yun stomped the mud off his boots on the worn mat by the door, then noticed an old man behind the counter, wearing a blue cloth headband, using a bamboo ladle to scoop tea leaves into a ceramic jar.

“What would you sirs like to drink?”

“We have various pre-rain loose-leaf teas, and this year’s newly made perilla drink.”

Ji Yun leaned forward curiously: “Perilla drink? Like sour plum soup?”

The old man grinned, his missing teeth showing: “Precisely! Made from perilla leaves, mulberry bark, green peel, schisandra, apricot kernels, and aged tangerine peel, usually mixed with plum juice—tart, sweet, and refreshing.”

“Then one bowl—I don’t like tea.”

Ji Yun turned: “What about you, Young Master Lu?”

“I’ll have loose-leaf tea.”

The old man nodded, lifted the lid of the ceramic jar, scooped several ladles of amber liquid into a large bowl—the scent of sweet-tartness surged forth—then went to the cellar and retrieved two small chunks of stored ice.

In the Song era, ice was preserved mainly by two methods: one, in winter, cutting ice from river surfaces, letting it float to freeze further until it reached three feet thick, then transporting it to pre-dug cellars with insulation, placing sawdust between each block to preserve it through summer; the other, discovered in the Tang, using saltpeter dissolved in water to freeze it directly.

But places like teahouses always used the first method.

Because they bordered the Yangtze River and Anle Creek—during the coldest winter days, the water near the banks of Anle Creek would freeze.

Compared to saltpeter, which cost money, this ice was free—only requiring effort to chisel.

Moreover, customers who drank beverages didn’t much like saltpeter ice—they believed it harmed the body (though it really didn’t).

(End of chapter)