The next day, shortly after Qin Xiaoman left, Wang Zhuzi came by to see Du Heng.
“How did you know Xiaoman wasn’t home today?”
Du Heng, helped by the boy to stand under the eaves, was expecting Doctor Cui to come check his foot and change the dressing to see if the bone was growing normally.
“Xiaoman passed by our house this morning. He said he was heading into the county and told me to come watch over you. He even promised to bring me a meat bun when he came back.”
Du Heng’s brow twitched slightly, then he turned his head to Zhuzi and smiled.
Zhuzi was particularly pleased, picking up a stick to write on the ground. “Look, do my characters look better now?”
Du Heng looked at the writing. “Much neater. Soon you’ll be able to write your own name.”
Zhuzi nodded. “In a couple of years, I want to go find work in the county. Our family doesn’t have much land, and my brothers have their share. Knowing a few characters gives me more options in the city.”
“That’s the right way to think.”
Before long, a woman appeared in the yard—Li Wanju, frowning as she came straight to the tool shed and grabbed a hoe.
“The hoe at home is broken. I need to borrow one.”
Du Heng said nothing. Li Wanju glared at him. “What, you’re not willing?”
“You always take something whenever you go to the county. You’re calculating.”
After muttering a few words, she took the hoe and left.
Zhuzi made a face toward her as she left. “She talks too much, doesn’t she?”
Du Heng didn’t take it to heart but noted the inconvenience. “If only we had a cow. Not only would we be independent, it’d make life easier.”
“Of course it would,” Zhuzi said. “A cart pulled by a cow makes trips into town, hauling, plowing in spring, all much simpler. But livestock is rare, and few families can afford a donkey or cow. The prices are sky-high.”
“When families marry off a child, giving a goat or donkey as part of the dowry earns praise far and wide,” Zhuzi joked at Du Heng. “You, Heng-ge, won’t need to worry about gifts for marriage at all.”
Du Heng lightly tapped Zhuzi on the forehead. “You little rascal.”
Zhuzi laughed and ran off, leaving Du Heng with no argument.
“How much does a cow cost anyway?”
“At least ten taels of silver. Why, Heng-ge, are you really thinking of buying one?” Zhuzi said, grinning. “I imagine Xiaoman has the money. You should just ask him. If you do, he’ll probably agree.”
Du Heng just smiled, saying nothing.
“Zhuzi, New Year’s coming. Want to earn a little money for treats?”
Zhuzi’s eyes lit up. He hurried over. “Heng-ge, do you have an idea?”
Du Heng only smiled without answering.
By the afternoon, Qin Xiaoman returned. Zhuzi had his meat bun and went home happily.
Du Heng looked at Qin Xiaoman, sweaty from his journey. “Why are you back so late?”
“I walked back, so I’m a little behind schedule.”
Qin Xiaoman noticed the fresh bandage on Du Heng’s foot. “How’s your foot? What did Doctor Cui say?”
“The doctor said it’s healing well. The bone’s aligned.”
“That’s good.” Qin Xiaoman, pleased with the progress, helped Du Heng inside, smiling as he pulled out his money pouch, now fuller than before.
“I earned today,” he said, sipping warm water. “I went to the Hongyun Tavern. They took everything without a word. I even overheard a customer asking specifically for our chili sauce.”
Sitting at the table, he patted the money pouch. “Two hundred ten wen again. At this rate, we could open our own little shop.”
Du Heng smiled. “It’s not that simple.”
“I’m just indulging the thought,” Qin Xiaoman said, gazing outside. “Shops in town are expensive, need careful management. Selling at taverns like this is more efficient. Even so, our earnings already surpass many families.”
Du Heng nodded in response. Winter was a slow season, and income at home was always modest. For a farming family, the main profit came from a little over an acre of land; anyone who could pocket over a hundred wen was extremely rare. No wonder Xiaoman always wore a smile on his face.
“Since you’ve already sold the goods, why not take the ox cart back? Look how exhausted you are. Even if you missed Second Uncle’s cart, you could’ve spent the two wen to ride.”
Qin Xiaoman waved it off. “I’m empty-handed going home anyway—might as well save a bit.”
Du Heng thought about how Xiaoman could spend without hesitation to buy food, yet fussed over every wen himself, and a strange mix of feelings stirred in his chest.
Frost had thickened in the fields as winter deepened. In the vegetable plots, it was a delicate white in the morning, spreading further each day. Frosted cabbages and greens tasted even sweeter, and more villagers came to buy firewood from the household.
Qin Xiaoman muttered under his breath. Selling firewood would have been easy, but some people came just to borrow it. If he refused, they’d sit in the yard half the day, blocking him from working or eating.
Making pickled vegetables had to wait until night, and that naturally annoyed him. Seeing families outside shivering and in need, he couldn’t simply turn them away. Thankfully, with Du Heng present, those who borrowed firewood had to leave an IOU, giving Qin Xiaoman some peace of mind.
He sighed. When he was fierce, no one dared come by; when he softened, more trouble followed.
December was always busy, preparing for New Year. Qin Xiaoman planned not to visit his Second Uncle’s house for the holiday and would need to stock up even more. When Second Uncle eventually slaughtered the household pig, half would be sold and half kept.
Second Uncle’s family came to help, so there was no need to hire neighbors. Qin Xiaoman even treated the Qin Xiong family to a meal of pork soup. After slaughtering, there was more work feeding pigs, and a little money from selling pork went into his pouch.
He arranged to reserve two piglets from a local family, planning to bring them home in spring. With a little free time, Qin Xiaoman and Du Heng began processing the half of the pig they kept.
“This animal ate so much, fed twice a day without fail, yet it only reached a little over a hundred jin after a year.”
After trimming, only fifty jin of pork remained.
Qin Xiaoman crouched by a wooden basin, salting the meat to prevent spoilage. “Half is sold, the rest barely fifty jin.”
“The meat’s lean, won’t fetch much,” Du Heng noted. He understood how much effort it took to raise even a single pig. Without proper feed, livestock rarely grew plump.
“Good thing we’ve already earned over seven hundred wen. Not wasted.”
Qin Xiaoman nodded. Though half the pork brought in slightly more than seven hundred wen, salting the remaining half required two jin of the expensive Chi salt, forty wen per jin—truly a luxury.
In past years, he hadn’t bothered curing much meat due to the high salt price. This year, with Du Heng around, some cured meat was necessary—for stews and cooking. Once salted, the meat went into a wooden basin to marinate, ready to be lightly smoked with cypress branches later and hung above the stove.
Du Heng said he could make sausages. Qin Xiaoman set aside a piece of prime meat for him—partly because he rarely had such treats, partly because winter income was good, and partly because sausages sold well in town.
After salting, they began making sausages. Fresh meat was cut into pieces, seasoned with salt and Sichuan pepper, and they made two flavors: one salty, one sweet.
Qin Xiaoman had only eaten the salty kind. The sweet one, with sugar inside, seemed outrageous—he thought it a sacrilege. Du Heng might make money, but he certainly had a knack for extravagance.
Once the sausages were stuffed into small, curved links—five of each flavor—Qin Xiaoman carefully hung them above the stove. Watching the smoke curl up, he warned, “Other households don’t dare go this far. We must guard them; if stolen, I’d be heartbroken.”
“I won’t leave the house; they’ll be safe,” Du Heng assured.
By the time they finished, evening had come. The wind outside cut like needles, and Qin Xiaoman felt the icy chill—surely it would snow soon. Strong winds in December always preceded snowfall.
“I need to go chop some cypress branches before it snows. It’ll be impossible afterward.”
Du Heng eyed the gray sky. “It’s already dark; going out now might be too late.”
“No problem. There are a few trees at the mountain’s base. I’ll trade a basket of pork liver for branches. Won’t take long.”
Relieved, Du Heng said, “Then go early and return soon.”
Qin Xiaoman nodded, slinging the basket over his back. Just at the door, he almost collided with a red-faced Wang Zhuzi, running full tilt. The pork liver nearly fell from his hands.
“Slow down, will you? Are you being chased by a ghost?” Qin Xiaoman scolded.
“Xiaoman-ge!” Zhuzi panted. “Is Heng-ge home?”
“He’s tending his foot. Where else would he be? What do you need him for?”
Zhuzi didn’t answer and dashed into the yard. Qin Xiaoman frowned but didn’t get angry. He called out, “We slaughtered the pig today. There’s some fresh blood. Heng-ge can give you a bowl to take home later.”
Hearing that, Zhuzi stopped, turned, and said, “Thanks, Xiaoman-ge!”
Without another word, Qin Xiaoman left, carrying his basket into the evening chill.
“I could hear your voice from afar—how was business today?”
Du Heng, sitting by the stove warming himself, asked as he saw Wang Zhuzi dash in.
Without a word, Zhuzi pulled out the small money pouch hidden in his waistband and handed it all to Du Heng. “Earned a total of one hundred and twenty wen.”
“Today, with everyone going to the county town for New Year, more people came to buy. Those who knew good work said it looked exquisite!”
Du Heng took the pouch, setting aside twenty wen for Zhuzi. “Here, this is your reward.”
Zhuzi held the coins carefully, counting each one, and with every coin, his excitement grew. At only twelve or thirteen, he was the youngest at home. His family had little in the way of livelihood; children his age rarely earned anything themselves.
At most, he would get a few wen for New Year’s visits to relatives, but the money always went to his mother, never staying with him.
Now, selling Du Heng’s carefully painted New Year scrolls in the county town—twelve wen a piece, ten sold at once—was a real windfall for him. Du Heng had promised two wen per scroll as a small reward. Individually it wasn’t much, but with so many sold, it added up.
Even adults would have been happy with this. Seeing Du Heng honor his word, Zhuzi tucked the twenty wen—fully his own—into his pouch, grinning ear to ear and fawning over Du Heng.
“When will you paint more, Heng-ge? With New Year crowds, we could sell a few more. If it weren’t for only having ten today, more people would’ve bought. Your brushwork is excellent; we can’t waste such skill.”
Du Heng chuckled, collecting the remaining money. “You sure know how to flatter.”
“I’m not,” Zhuzi replied.
The boy couldn’t read, but seeing someone literate impressed him. In town, those who could read praised the lines and strokes of Du Heng’s scrolls.
“Here, I’ve prepared twelve more for you to take.”
Du Heng advised, “After New Year, it won’t sell. This is the last chance before the festival. If buyers like it, raise the price next time.”
He added, “Ask eighteen wen a scroll. Let them haggle a little, but don’t sell below twelve.”
Zhuzi nodded eagerly. “Near New Year, everything in town is pricier—raising the price on our scrolls makes sense.”
Du Heng asked, concerned, “Spent the whole day in town—no one at home complain?”
“I’m free in December,” Zhuzi said. “Parents, brothers, and sisters busy. Usually I’m either in the mountains or wandering the village. Today I told my mother I was helping sell her eggs, but really, it was for the scrolls.”
Relieved, Du Heng nodded.
Zhuzi grinned, stepping closer. “Heng-ge, you didn’t tell Xiaoman-ge about this?”
“If I had, he’d take it straight to sell himself.”
Zhuzi quickly pledged loyalty. “Don’t worry, no one will know. Xiaoman-ge’s fierce. If you live with him, better have a little private money, or you’d be bowing all the time.”
Du Heng smiled, thinking his savings had their own purpose.
“Next time you sell scrolls, buy me some paper. This is the paper Qin-san used; borrowed, it must be returned.”
“Got it!” Zhuzi replied.