Chapter Fifty-Two: Urinating and Playing with Mud—The Joy of Throwing Pop-Its

Pheasants are creatures with a tendency to gather in flocks, but the size of these groups is rather unpredictable. Generally, a single male pheasant forms the nucleus, accompanied by an indeterminate number of females. This seems to depend on the male’s allure and physical vigor. Yet, there is usually a minimum: one male to at least three females, so Han Li and his companions were not unlucky in this regard. Of course, reality differs drastically from the stories, where pheasants would fly into your face and rabbits hurl themselves at your feet. In truth, small animals such as pheasants are rare on the outskirts of the mountains, thanks largely to the people who live nearby.

Consider the villagers whose families have dwelled at the foot of these hills for generations—what man among them hasn’t set a snare or dug a pit trap? If they catch something, it means more meat for the family; if not, only a bit of time is lost. These days, every household lacks meat, but villagers certainly have time to spare. If Han Li could find the time to climb the mountain, the villagers had even more to spare. Thus, after years and years of steady hunting, almost all the small animals on the periphery had been wiped out. Small animals are not foolish, after all; their instinct to seek fortune and avoid danger is innate. Thus, it is rare to encounter them on the outskirts—each sighting is a stroke of luck. Of course, this only applies to the outer mountains; resources deep within remain abundant.

Tales of knocking down roe deer with a stick, scooping up fish with a ladle, or pheasants flying straight into the cooking pot—those belong to the 1950s. The first time such stories entered the public imagination was in an autumn of 1961, in a language textbook published as part of the third set of ten-year standard curriculum materials. In the seventh volume, the essay “Developing Yanwo Island” described: “Spring arrives, the ice and snow begin to melt, the island slowly dons its green attire, and all manner of birds and beasts begin to stir. This is the ‘kingdom’ of wild geese; two people out for a day can bring home thousands of goose eggs, each the size of a fist. Take a small boat out, and with little effort, you can fill it with goslings. Roe deer, wild boar, black bear, wolves with white eyes—all are there for the taking. The easiest to catch are fish; take a washbasin to the river, and you can scoop up a few while washing your face.”

But in most places, years of natural disasters followed, and such tales became legends, fueling endless yearning among ordinary folk. If one wished to eat one’s fill of meat, to feast until sated, one had to take risks and venture deep into the mountains—one could not live as an ordinary villager.

Han Li left a sparrow behind to keep watch while he wandered the area, gathering herbs, wood, and stones. To avoid startling the pheasants, he walked a good distance away before beginning his search. He didn’t spend long at it; in the end, he simply picked a large quantity of wild mountain grapes. These grapes grew on a sun-dappled slope beside some birch trees—a few vines climbed the trunks, but most crept along the ground. The grapes themselves were small; the green ones were especially tart, but once they turned a deep reddish-purple, their flavor was a delightful mix of sweet and sour. Han Li gathered them for his own enjoyment, but more importantly, he intended to make wine. When the long winter came, with snow swirling through the sky and the ground and mountains cloaked in white, he would sit on the warm kang, gaze at the world through the window, and sip a mug of that purple-red wine—a scene fit for a poet. Most crucially, even as wine, it would provide much-needed vitamins, making up for the lack of fruits and vegetables in winter.

Just as Han Li finished with the grapes, the sparrow flew in to report that the pheasants had returned. Han Li hurried back, and from a distance he could already hear their calls: “Coo-coo... chee-chee...” He gripped two short javelins, keeping the rest within easy reach, and crept forward with more caution than a hunting cat. When he judged the distance just right, he deliberately made a slight noise underfoot. The pheasant calls ahead fell silent at once, and two birds crept out, sly and suspicious, to investigate. Han Li hurled both javelins at once; whether they struck home, he had no time to check. Quickly, he seized two more javelins and finally glanced at the spots where the first two pheasants had stood. By then, both birds had already met their end, though their fate had startled the others hidden in the brush.

With a flurry of wings, the remaining pheasants burst from cover in a panicked rush. Han Li responded by flinging his javelins one after another. In a short time, with only a few lucky enough to escape, the entire flock was left behind.

Now, at last, Han Li allowed himself a satisfied smile as he went about retrieving his prizes, scattered across the area. When he counted them at last, there were seven pheasants in all. Though he hadn’t had time to count the flock before, the presence of so many females suggested the male had been exceptionally robust. It was a pity he hadn’t managed to bring down the male—its kidneys would surely have been a nutritious delicacy.

This time Han Li was well prepared; he promptly cleaned and dressed all the pheasants, storing them in his special space. Anything inedible he buried, wasting as little as possible, even saving the blood. The thought of gently simmered chicken blood in broth, tender and smooth, quickened his steps back down the mountain. Still, he gathered a large bundle of firewood to carry on his shoulder—he had to keep up appearances, after all. At the bottom of his basket, he placed only two pheasants and eight eggs, filling the rest with wild greens. Others might not know the truth, but Han Li was determined to look as if he returned loaded with bounty every time.

As he entered the village, he came upon a group of children—Iron Egg, Dog Left, and Black Boy—playing “mud poppers” by the roadside. Han Li paused to watch; he remembered playing the same game as a child. In some places it was called “mud bang,” in others “patching the pot,” but the rules were much the same. You kneaded a lump of well-mixed clay, shaping it into a bowl or an open-bottomed bucket. Holding it from beneath, you would raise it high, then flip your hand and smash it hard onto the ground. With a sharp “crack,” a hole would burst open in the bottom. The size of the hole determined how much clay your opponent had to use to patch it; if the piece split apart, you lost. This cycle would repeat until one player had won all the clay.

The game required skill: the clay had to be just the right consistency, the rim of the “bowl” slightly thick, the base broad and thin—only then could you break open the largest possible hole.