This year, the Ge family pressed more oil, producing more leftover cakes. Seeing the ready supply of fertilizer, Du Heng persuaded Qin Xiaoman to buy cakes to enrich all the family’s fields.
In a few days, rice seedlings would need transplanting. Fertilizing early was necessary to ensure proper growth. Even families with better resources were now spreading manure in their fields.
Qin Xiaoman, unable to resist Du Heng’s persistence, agreed readily. He had good character and didn’t back out; he even haggled at Uncle Ge’s, securing a slight discount for bulk baskets.
So, in mid-April, while most villagers guarded their small supplies of manure, Du Heng could be seen daily, walking through his fields and spreading pressed cakes.
“Du Heng, you’re diligent! In the fields every day. But can these cakes really fertilize the soil? You crush and scatter them constantly,” a neighbor asked.
“They can,” Du Heng replied patiently. “Uncle, you use bark and leaves as fertilizer, right? This is the same principle.”
“I water my fields with manure slurry. How can this dry cake be the same?” the neighbor said.
Du Heng just smiled, knowing it was hard to explain.
Villagers greeted him politely, but in private, they called him a foolish young master. Traditionally, young masters didn’t farm, wasting money on nonsense. Only Qin Xiaoman let him work freely.
Even so, the villagers appreciated his diligence. From March to April, he could be seen daily in the fields. A hardworking landowner was better than a lazy one lying at home.
So while they didn’t approve of using pressed cakes as fertilizer, they still admired his industriousness. Qin Xiaoman had agreed to let Du Heng experiment, and he didn’t care what the villagers thought.
By late April, the corn seeds in their home fields had sprouted, growing three or four leaves each. Each morning, a single dewdrop glistened at the center of every seedling.
This year, the seedlings grew strong and healthy, and Qin Xiaoman was very satisfied.
In the blink of an eye, it was time to transplant the seedlings. Overwhelmed with work, he had no choice but to call back the villagers who had helped earlier. Once one task was done, the rice seedlings needed transplanting—during the spring planting season, there was no time to rest.
After fertilizing the land, Du Heng sowed the soybeans and sorghum and busied himself with transplanting his own rapeseed. The whole of March and April passed in a blur of work.
By early May, the rice seedlings had all been transplanted, and nearly every household in the village had finished their rice fields. Qin Xiaoman and his wife finally relaxed, and the villagers collectively breathed a sigh of relief.
The countryside was lush and green, with clear skies and the faint warmth of early summer. Days were getting longer, nights later, and sunlight stretched across the land.
It was at this moment that Qin Xiong came by, announcing that his eldest son’s marriage had been scheduled and that the wedding would be held on May twenty-sixth.
Qin Xiaoman was unsurprised; the family had been in contact since last winter. Now that the spring work was mostly done, households planning events naturally needed time to prepare.
When Qin Xiaoman got married, his second uncle and two cousins had helped with errands. Naturally, now that his eldest cousin was marrying, they needed to assist again. Qin Xiaoman promised to lend the ox cart to his uncle. Though the household already had one, traveling to town and borrowing tables and benches required both carts for convenience.
“Du Heng, you’ll come and keep the accounts for me, act as the ledger clerk,” Qin Xiaoman said.
Du Heng smiled, first congratulating Qin Xiong, then agreeing readily. This was no small responsibility; in the village, few would be allowed such a role. He was fortunate to have a connection in the family.
After the wedding talk, Qin Xiong cheerfully left, likely to notify other households in turn.
“Our uncle gave half a pig for our wedding feast. The meat on the table was all his gift, and he and my aunt quarreled plenty over it,” Qin Xiaoman thought.
Now, with his eldest cousin marrying, a proper gift would be necessary—a substantial expense. Modern weddings among relatives required significant social spending.
Du Heng agreed. “You’re right. No need to worry about meat; your uncle will handle that.” He stroked his chin. “In a couple of days, we should go to the county town to see what else would be appropriate for a household gift.”
The couple discussed briefly and agreed: the exact gift was less important than first earning the money needed to cover the social obligations. Since the start of the year, half a year had passed without any income, though spring planting had required considerable expenditure.
Though some savings remained, spending without replenishment could not continue indefinitely—especially with Du Heng needing funds for his studies. Qin Xiaoman focused his thoughts on their forest.
“I’ve been busy with the fields, and now that the seedlings are transplanted, there’s no need to hoe weeds for a few days. I plan to go up the mountain to dig bamboo shoots.”
Last winter, they hadn’t harvested many winter shoots, but the spring shoots were abundant. Any shoot with an eye could be dug.
“In April, when it rained, I went up the mountain. Many shoots had already sprouted, but I’ve been too busy with the fields to patrol the forest. I don’t know if anyone has been stealing shoots.”
“I’ll go with you to check,” Du Heng said.
Qin Xiaoman didn’t refuse; he wanted Du Heng’s company. The mountain was quiet and lonely; even if Du Heng didn’t work, he could talk with him to pass the time.
For breakfast, they boiled four eggs and steamed two large pieces of pumpkin to bring with them. After the meal, they carried their baskets, along with hoes and knives, and climbed the mountain before the sun fully rose.
After a year, the wild grass had replaced the vines killed by winter snow, covering the hills in lush green. During the busy spring planting, fewer people went up the mountain, and the narrow paths were overgrown with weeds.
Qin Xiaoman had Du Heng walk behind him, protecting his shoes and pants from dew. Using a long sickle, he cut the dew-laden weeds along the path as they climbed.
“There’s so much grass up here; tomorrow I’ll cut some for the ox.”
That day, their big ox had been lent to the villagers helping with fieldwork, and Qin Xiaoman felt its absence keenly.
When they reached the mountain, the sun had just risen, casting gentle light through the tall bamboo. The deep brown, plump spring shoots varied in height, drinking in the morning dew.
“Spring shoots grow the fastest. When I last came, only a few had emerged. Now some are taller than you, and the smaller ones are three or four inches high,” Du Heng said, setting down his basket and surveying the grove.
“This year, there are many shoots. We should dig plenty; otherwise, too many shoots will deplete the soil, and the bamboo won’t grow well.”
“They must be harvested every year,” Qin Xiaoman said, circling the bamboo grove. Noticing turned soil along the edges, he guessed someone had dug their shoots before. As long as the digging wasn’t everywhere, he didn’t mind much.
Du Heng, impatient to start, selected a medium-sized shoot, brushed off the dew, and swung his hoe to dig.
He had dug bamboo shoots before at his grandmother’s house, though these nan bamboo shoots were a different variety—far more interesting than ordinary digging.
By late morning, they had dug a mountain-high pile of shoots, likely one or two hundred pounds. The spring shoots were large, some over ten pounds each, wrapped in their protective sheaths.
The two of them moved the bamboo shoots to a flat, open area. Qin Xiaoman went down the mountain to bring back the borrowed ox, hitched it to the cart, and carried the shoots down the main path.
Their family bamboo grove wasn’t very large, so by the end of the day most of the harvestable shoots had been collected. The remaining shoots were strong and left to grow into full bamboo stalks. They would keep an eye on the grove over the coming days—if any new shoots appeared, they could harvest those too. Shoots that emerged too late usually didn’t develop into proper bamboo; leaving them unharvested meant they would wither in the ground.
By the time they brought the shoots home, evening was falling. After unloading, Du Heng prepared dinner while Qin Xiaoman checked on the ox in the yard. He made sure the animal had no injuries or issues; others wouldn’t treat it as carefully as he did.
After dinner, they peeled some shoots and cut a portion to give to Qin Xiong’s household and the nearest neighbors. They agreed to leave some unpeeled for the next day to sell fresh bamboo shoots in the county town. Some damaged or imperfect shoots were boiled that night; one particularly tender shoot was soaked in water to be eaten the next day.
Du Heng sliced half a shoot into sections for pickling, while most were cut into long strips and spread out on a bamboo tray to dry. The stove fire was banked at night, and the tray was placed over the stove to roast the shoots, creating dried bamboo shoots that could be stored long-term. When needed, they could be soaked in water and used for stewing with cured meat or stir-frying. Dried shoots sold in the town shops fetched a higher price than fresh ones.
The next day, just before dawn, Du Heng got up to make breakfast, planning for both of them to head to the county town afterward.
Qin Xiaoman, however, stayed in bed, reluctant to move. Last night, he and Du Heng had spent some time in bed together. Since their first experience, practice had improved their technique.
After the long day of spring work, both were exhausted. Even lying in bed, they quickly fell asleep without overthinking. Du Heng reflected on how he had once thought Qin Xiaoman’s suggestion to “get it done before farm work began” was reckless—but now he understood it was based on experience.
Yesterday’s mountain labor had been tiring, but today, going to the county town felt comparatively easy. Qin Xiaoman didn’t waste the chance to be affectionate.
“Sleep a little longer. Let’s go to the county town for breakfast,” he murmured.
“On market days, so many vendors sell noodles, buns, wontons, and steamed bread. Anything would be good to eat,” he added, his voice still soft and half-asleep.
Du Heng, listening to the soft, drowsy voice, felt himself relax and snuggled back under the covers. He kissed Qin Xiaoman’s ear.
“Then we’ll sleep a little longer,” he whispered.
Though Du Heng was fully awake, he had grown accustomed to early mornings during busy farming months. Yet the warmth and softness of Qin Xiaoman in bed made it hard to leave. He rested his head on the pillow, watching his half-asleep companion.
Qin Xiaoman, hair tousled, looked peaceful and harmless in sleep. His skin, a healthy wheat tone, radiated vitality. His single eyelids and youthful appearance made him seem even younger.
Du Heng couldn’t resist, and Qin Xiaoman, half-awake, didn’t shy away. Trusting him completely, he nuzzled Du Heng’s hand like a small cat.
Moved, Du Heng drew him into his arms, holding him for a while.
When Qin Xiaoman finally woke, stretching, he noticed the daylight streaming through the window. He dug through his wardrobe for something decent to wear and teased, “It’s all your fault for keeping me up so long last night.”
Du Heng, already dressed, sat waiting. He found Qin Xiaoman’s words slightly unfair. After months of marriage, even someone as shy as him could defend himself.
“Whose fault is it for talking nonsense outside so many times?” he countered.
Qin Xiaoman huffed, recalling past moments of naivety. Now, he found Du Heng less easily teased and simply dressed, running off.
By the time they set out for the county town, it was already late. At the village entrance, there were no other villagers heading to town. Qin Xiaoman had hoped to gather some people to earn extra coins, but they were already halfway along the main road.
Once in town, they stopped at a noodle stall by the city gate. Qin Xiaoman ordered a bowl, costing six wen—a price that hadn’t risen but with smaller portions than before. Two bowls were needed to feel full.
Slurping the noodles, he recalled childhood visits to town when the noodles had seemed especially delicious. He wondered whether he had grown up or whether the noodle vendor’s skill had declined.
“If it weren’t for the pork-bone broth, these noodles wouldn’t even be as good as yours,” he remarked.
He handed the vendor twelve wen after counting twice, feeling the meal wasn’t worth more.
Du Heng calmly finished his noodles. “From now on, eat mine—I’ll make the broth for you.” He took a handkerchief from his sleeve and wiped Qin Xiaoman’s mouth.
Nearby, a young girl watching them seemed a little disappointed and turned her head.
Qin Xiaoman said, “Better yet, make wontons. I love the ones you fill.”
“All right. If the bamboo shoots sell well today, I’ll make wontons with fresh bamboo and meat filling when we get home.”
Hearing this, Qin Xiaoman’s mouth watered, and he urged Du Heng to quickly get onto the ox cart to sell the shoots in town.