Chapter 65: Wei Jiefang Sets the Village Ablaze

Wei Ming didn’t like riding in secret; after all, he was Wei Jiefang’s son, and his nature ran in the blood.

But there was no choice—he’d returned after dark and had to travel by night, so he turned on his headlight.

The first person he met entering the village was his father, which wasn’t surprising, since the road from the county to the village passed through the southern end, and their house sat right at the village’s southern edge.

Yet he never expected his father’s first words upon seeing him to be: “Turn off that light!”

“What’s going on, Dad? Have you learned to bide your time?” Was this really the Wei Jiefang he knew—so low-key?

Wei Ming turned off the light, planted his long legs on the ground, and steadied himself.

Wei Jiefang got straight to the point: “Did you write that thing called ‘The Duck Knows the Warmth of Spring Water’?”

“Yeah, you know about it already?” Wei Ming was surprised.

Wei Jiefang asked again: “Did you get into trouble because of that novel?”

“No, well, there was some controversy, but it’s all settled now.”

“Ah, it’s over?”

Wei Ming guessed the reason—he nodded: “Yeah, settled.”

Wei Jiefang’s hunched back straightened instantly, his face lighting up with a flurry of expressions, as if he’d already prepared for battle.

Wei Ming asked: “Can I turn the light on now?”

“Wait a minute,” Wei Jiefang asked again: “Where did you get this motorcycle?”

“Ugh, don’t even ask.”

Wei Ming said: “The train was an hour late arriving in Hengzhou. The bus back to Ping’an County had already left. Luckily, I flagged down a tractor hauling fertilizer from Ping’an to Hengzhou halfway, and rode it back to the county. By then it was pitch black, so I thought I’d go to Liu Rulong’s place and borrow a bicycle from his grandpa. Turns out the old man had just bought a motorcycle—so I just rode it back.”

“Hey, is this Yang old man really that well-off? A motorcycle costs a fortune!” Wei Jiefang exclaimed.

After all, their brigade didn’t own a single motorcycle; the entire commune had maybe one or two, all domestic brands. But the one Wei Ming was riding? A Suzuki—genuine imported!

Wei Ming smiled: “The old man saved up his manuscript fees for over a year just to afford it.”

Back then, drawing comic strips was incredibly profitable. Famous artists like Yang Songqiao earned ten yuan per page, sometimes even more.

“Wait—he earned enough in a year to buy a motorcycle?!” Wei Jiefang was stunned, then his gaze shifted from the motorcycle to his son, his eyes burning with eagerness: “Then you—?”

Wei Ming blinked: “You want a motorcycle too? If I’d known, I wouldn’t have bought you that radio—I could’ve saved the money for wheels instead.”

“What? You bought me a radio?! Where is it? Where?!” Wei Jiefang only then noticed the large bundle tied to his son’s back.

Wei Ming: “We’ll see when we get home—there’s too much stuff.”

“What’s all this stuff?”

“Everything I brought for you—all the good eats and fun things.” He started pushing the bike toward the yard.

But Wei Jiefang stopped him—how could such a big pile of gifts be seen only by their own family?

“Don’t go home yet, and don’t turn on the lights,” Wei Jiefang began organizing: “Here’s what you do—circle around to the northern end of the village, then enter from there.”

That way, he’d cross the entire Gouzi Village and pass by the brigade office and Zhao Chunlai’s house.

Wei Ming laughed bitterly: “Dad, I came back from the county—why would I enter from the north? That makes no sense.”

“In the Heng River region, it makes perfect sense!” Wei Jiefang explained. “You’ve returned in glory—aren’t you supposed to visit your grandfather’s, grandmother’s, and second grandmother’s graves?”

Return in glory? I’ve only been gone a month!

Still, to make his long-repressed father happy, Wei Ming turned the bike around and rode out of the village, planning to detour to the northern graves. It was late at night—this old man didn’t even care if his son got scared.

As soon as Wei Ming left, Wei Jiefang rushed inside. His wife called out: “Come sit and eat—who was that outside just now?”

Wei Jiefang exclaimed excitedly: “My son’s back!”

“Ah!” Xu Shufen and Wei Hong both cried out together.

Wei Jiefang beamed: “And he’s returned in glory!”

They both moved to rush out, but Wei Jiefang held them back.

“He won’t be back for a while.”

“Why not?”

Wei Jiefang: “He says he has something to say to his grandfather.”

Wei Hong grabbed the flashlight and headed out: “My brother must’ve brought luggage—I’ll go meet him!”

Xu Shufen looked at the food on the table. It was Mid-Autumn Festival, and there were mooncakes, but the meal was still too plain, too meager.

But they couldn’t afford better—the family had received twenty yuan from Wei Ming, yet Wei Jiefang had spent another twenty himself. In the countryside then, money didn’t guarantee food or meat.

Fortunately, they’d raised a few chickens. The eggs were meant for market sale, but Xu Shufen decisively pulled out the eggs she’d saved for days, planning to add a dish for her son.

Had it not been so late, the chicken itself—not just the eggs—would’ve been the added dish.

Wei Ming had reached the northern end of the village. He stared at the graveyard ahead, hesitated, then pulled out the desk lamp he’d bought for Xiao Hong, got off the bike, and walked over. The engine stayed running; from afar, the grave looked like it was emitting blue smoke, and the lamp glowed like a spectral ghostfire.

Soon, Wei Ming found the Wei family graves.

His great-grandfather Wei Jiang had three children: two sons and one daughter. His grandfather, Wei Senhao, was the youngest, born in 1920, with the tombstone marking his death in 1953.

Wei Ming stood before his grandfather Wei Senhao’s grave, his heart churning. What kind of man were you? Will we ever meet again?

After a moment, Wei Ming bowed three times and left.

Though night had fallen and the village had no electricity, the moon hung high—large, round, and brilliant.

Back in the village, many villagers still worked by moonlight—stacking straw, or squatting by their doors, bowls in hand, chatting with neighbors as they ate.

Then Wei Ming arrived on his motorcycle, a creature from another world—and everyone froze.

“Wei Ming?”

Someone shouted first, uncertain.

!

“Hey, Auntie, busy?” Wei Ming slowed the bike, and immediately people swarmed around him, voices chattering nonstop.

“Holy cow, you’re riding a motorcycle now?!”

“This bike’s way prettier than the commune’s!”

“Is this your bike?”

Wei Ming: “No, I borrowed it.”

Hearing it was borrowed, many sighed in relief.

“We heard you got arrested?” someone asked, ill-timed.

Wei Ming smiled back: “Let whoever said that come and arrest me—see if they dare.”

“You’re really okay?”

“What trouble could I have?” Wei Ming countered, glancing at his left wrist. “Oh no, it’s late—my parents are waiting for me to come home for dinner.”

In the night, that watch gleamed brightly in the villagers’ eyes.

He rode further, trailed by a few children. By the time he reached the brigade office, the crowd had grown larger.

“Uncle Chaoyang,” “Auntie Guihua,” “Brother Song”…

Wei Ming greeted familiar faces until he spotted Qi Kexiu.

“Oh, Uncle Qi, you’re here too.”

“Xiao Ming,” Qi Kexiu sprang to his feet at the sight of Wei Ming on the motorcycle, still fixated on the question—he blurted out: “Did you really write ‘The Duck Knows the Warmth of Spring Water’?”

“Yes,” Wei Ming admitted openly.

“But you’re from the north—how do you know so much about Shanghai?” Even now, hearing the author confirm it, Qi Kexiu still couldn’t believe it.

Wei Ming smiled: “Because I went to Shanghai recently.”

“What? You went to Shanghai? You’ve actually been to Shanghai?!”

Not just Qi Kexiu—Jia the accountant, Zhao Chunlai’s wife, his sister-in-law, and others were all stunned.

Shanghai was a city equal in stature to Beijing. Some villagers had been to Beijing, but Shanghai? Too far away—no one had ever gone. They’d only heard it was even more prosperous than Beijing, and everyone there was cosmopolitan.

Qi Kexiu wanted to ask more, but Wei Hong arrived, flashlight swinging.

“Brother! Brother!” Wei Hong’s voice brimmed with delight.

She’d known her brother had returned—but never imagined he’d come back on a motorcycle.

“Xiao Hong,” Wei Ming now wore a genuine smile: “Hop on—I’ll give you a ride home.”

He got off, adjusted the luggage bag, and had Wei Hong hold on tightly as she sat behind him.

“Brother, what’s this? So square and boxy,” Wei Hong called out.

“A radio for Dad—or maybe just a liquor box. Hold on tight,” Wei Ming revved the engine and sped off in a cloud of dust.

Of the crowd, only Qi Kexiu and Jia the accountant hurried after him, eager to visit Wei Jiefang’s home.

As Wei Ming and Wei Hong neared their house, they suddenly heard banging and shouting: “Fire! Fire!”

The direction? Their house!

Wei Ming thought: Dad, are you serious? To lure the villagers, you set fire to your own home?

(End of Chapter)