Chapter Fifty-Three: Midnight

When playing the game of “pop mud,” some children couldn’t even be bothered to fetch water. They simply mixed the mud with their own urine, perhaps giving rise to the term “playing with urination mud.” Among the children before him, Han Li could not tell whose mud was mixed with urine, but as he drew near, a sharp odor greeted him. Mud covered their hands, faces, and bodies, yet nothing could dampen their delight. Han Li watched from a distance for a while, recalled his own childhood days playing pop mud, and reassured himself that he had never used urine for mixing. Only then did he secretly breathe a sigh of relief, stepping homeward with a gait that felt like a return to childhood, ready to stew chicken.

As he reached his doorstep, he saw Hao Hongmin and several other girls coming back from outside. Their baskets held only vegetables, a sign they had been bartering with villagers for fresh produce. “Han Li, doesn’t your family still have plenty of firewood? Why did you go out to gather more?” she asked.

“I had nothing to do, so I wandered outside. The winters here are long and bitterly cold, so the more firewood the better. This time of year, you can easily pick up firewood nearby, but after the autumn harvest, when all the villagers head to the mountain to gather, you’ll have to travel much farther. Whether you plan to barter with villagers or gather it yourselves, it’s best to get ahead,” Han Li replied.

Hao Hongmin said, “Tomorrow we’ll find someone to help gather firewood. No matter what, we need to fill the shed.”

After a brief exchange, Han Li shouldered his bundle and headed home to cook. Dusk had fallen, and every household kindled their fires, smoke curling peacefully into the evening air. It was tranquil and serene.

Inside, the house was already dark. Han Li lit the lantern first. He took out a basin, added cold water and salt, then retrieved chicken blood from his storage space and poured it in. Luckily, time inside that space did not change; the blood was as fresh as when he had slaughtered the chicken, not a trace of coagulation. He stirred it gently with chopsticks and set it aside to let it solidify.

On the kerosene stove, he steamed rice in a clay pot, while the large iron pan on the hearth simmered the chicken over a gentle flame. When the chicken was nearly done, he would add the blood cake and vegetables, letting everything stew until fully cooked.

Next door, several girls caught the aroma. Yun Jingjing, with her fine, prominent nose, inhaled deeply. “That’s definitely the smell of stewed chicken, and it’s coming from Han Li’s place. We tried bartering last time, but no one was willing to trade—so where did he get a chicken?”

Yang Xiuying said, “Villagers keep chickens for their eggs, so they’re reluctant to barter them away. We thought about raising chickens ourselves, but there aren’t any hens in the village willing to brood.”

He Mi remarked, “Han Li’s chicken must have been caught in the mountains. Back home, some people do that, but few ever succeed.”

Hao Hongmin speculated, “Han Li practices martial arts every day, so that must be why he can catch wild chickens.”

Yun Yingying exclaimed, “Ah... I want chicken, too. Should we try to barter some from him?”

No one answered her. Each had built her own house, their family conditions laid bare for all to see. Apart from lacking meat, grain, and oil, none lacked the things she mentioned. They fell silent, thinking that if they visited him, they’d surely get to taste chicken, but to accept his food meant owing him—a poor bargain in the end.

Meanwhile, as Han Li waited for his stew, he sorted the wild vegetables he had dug up that day. After dinner, he’d blanch and dry them, so they could be stored for a long time.

When the meal was ready, Han Li carried the table into the courtyard—not to save lamp oil, but to dine beneath the beautiful night sky. On the table was a large basin of fragrant stewed chicken, and in his bowl, soft, glistening rice—though it was only leftover rice.

Dining under the stars, Han Li felt fullness and a faint sense of melancholy. He savored a bite of tender chicken blood, gnawed at pieces of chicken falling off the bone, and hummed contentedly. The only shortcoming was the lack of steamed buns; though the rice was delicious, as a northerner he always felt something missing after long stretches without bread. Making buns was troublesome, and he had forgotten to stick a few cornbread cakes to the side of the pot while stewing the chicken.

Just as Han Li finished blanching his wild vegetables, he heard the distant sound of drumming from the village. In the darkness, what could be happening? He wiped his hands and went to investigate, but before he got far, Liang Laosi from the village stopped him, refusing to let him pass.

Han Li’s curiosity only grew. He circled around and bypassed the street corner, following the sound until he arrived at a courtyard—Liang’s family, of course, explaining why Liang Laosi had blocked the road. Their fence was made of wooden planks, which didn’t obstruct Han Li’s view of the inside.

Especially at night, with the lights on and the doors and windows open, Han Li could see everything clearly.

Inside, there were five colored flags—red, yellow, blue, green, and purple—planted in the ground. On the table were things he couldn’t make out. Two people stood in the center, singing and responding to each other, gesturing and dancing. One held a ritual drum and waist bells, making them jingle noisily.

At this moment, the phrase “spirit dance” flashed through Han Li’s mind. Though there had been targeted campaigns in previous years, some deeply rooted customs remained stubbornly persistent. Even though everyone knew such events risked being reported, many older villagers, when faced with trouble, thought first of these rituals. The village authorities turned a blind eye, and many residents helped cover for them.

Their main concern was the presence of Han Li and the other youth volunteers, outsiders in the village. Many youth volunteers had participated in previous purges, which was why the villagers guarded against them.

Han Li watched, listening as the singing began:

The sun sets behind the western hills, darkness falls.
Every household bolts its doors.
Travelers hurry to the inn,
Birds return to the forest, tigers to the mountain.
Birds find refuge in the woods,
Tigers must return to their mountain for peace...
Surname Hu, given name Tianying.

Han Li watched until the ritual ended, and the two people inside stopped. After that, he knew it was inappropriate to linger, so he quietly returned home.

He was simply observing local folk customs, not about to engage in the petty business of reporting others. In fact, he hoped to witness more such events; after all, these authentic traditions were becoming rarer. Once commercialized, many things lose their essence—beautiful, yes, but reduced to mere performance, bereft of the feeling he experienced now.

The stars shone on, and the night passed in silence. Han Li slept soundly until he woke naturally.