Chapter 18: The Village Dog Lays an Egg

Although taxes and levies had grown heavier these days, the local magistrate was at least somewhat considerate of the people, and the past few years had seen abundant harvests. Every household had a bit of surplus grain, so there was no trouble feeding the hungry mouths at home.

The waters of the Cool Spring Pond brimmed clear and full, and after the rain, the scene resembled a lovely, graceful maiden. A few boys, not yet grown, plunged into the water with wild abandon, sending up splashes that made the eyes of the younger children watching from the shore shine with envy.

Qin Chuan, only twelve, had somehow become the ringleader of the children in Crooked Jujube Village. He was the most mischievous, always coming up with clever schemes, and whenever he caused trouble, he could smooth things over with his quick tongue.

Perhaps exhausted from the fun, the boys clambered out of the water, shaking droplets from their ears and hair, their bare torsos prompting a startled exclamation from a girl peeking from the side. They only laughed heartily and paid it no mind.

“Look at this one in my hand! At least two catties, I’d say. Now the old man at home can’t say I lounge around doing nothing all day, eh?” A sturdy boy about Qin Chuan’s age wiped his nose and grinned foolishly, eyes shining as he looked at the grass carp in his hand.

The boys lined up straight, each with a catch to show for the day. They stunned the fish on flat stones, tucked them into their arms, slung their shirts over their shoulders, and, seeing the day growing late, swaggered home singing bawdy songs that would make anyone’s face flush.

At the edge of the village, Qin Chuan deliberately slowed his steps, nudging the boy lagging at the rear with a dejected face.

Why was everyone cheerful but one troubled?

The answer was clear at a glance: all the others carried fish, but Dazhuang had come back empty-handed, no wonder he couldn’t be happy.

“Catch!” Qin Chuan called. “The Qin family can’t eat all this—we’re not big eaters. Take this one, it’s yours!”

Maybe it was all his years of rough-and-tumble mischief, but he was more nimble than most. Catching two fish was no great feat, so he handed the smaller carp to Dazhuang and hurried to catch up with the others.

“Oh, and this isn’t for free. My grandpa’s been wanting to taste the old wine you keep locked in your cellar. Tomorrow, make sure to bring me a couple of taels!”

Qin Chuan was about to leave when he reconsidered, glanced at Dazhuang—whose face had turned an indeterminate color—and thought, “Just as I expected,” before making his proposal.

“Don’t worry, Chuan! No need to wait for tomorrow, I’ll settle the score today,” Dazhuang replied.

At that age, boys are most sensitive. Even though the villagers of Crooked Jujube were honest folk with little guile, none could bear to accept a handout for nothing.

“I’ve got a fish! Ha ha!” Dazhuang howled, triumphant as a general returning from victory, and dragged Qin Chuan with him as they dashed into the village.

By the time they stopped, both were panting like oxen.

“Why… why’d you run so fast?” Qin Chuan set the fish gently aside and dropped to sit, his freshly washed hair now a sweaty, tangled mess.

Dazhuang, always frail, set the fish carefully in a nearby puddle, then flopped onto his back, pale-faced and sprawled, too breathless to speak, just gasping for air. After gulping a few cool breaths and exhaling the heat, he looked a sorry sight, but his eyes sparkled as if they held a skyful of stars—who knew if it was for the fish or something else.

Dazhuang’s family name was Xu, and he wasn’t originally from Crooked Jujube Village.

His story was a sad one: born prematurely, his mother died in childbirth, and from the start he was sickly, with a frail hold on life.

The Xu family had once been wealthy in Ruyang County, but in seeking a cure for Dazhuang, they sold off their restaurant, their ancestral lands, and their home, until they ended up settling in Crooked Jujube Village, fallen from grace.

It was said their ancestors had once received a blessing from the Qing Mountain Immortal Sect; perhaps out of divine mercy, an immortal passing by, recalling old debts, pointed father and son toward this very village.

Perhaps there truly was some spiritual blessing in this humble place, for the village doctor soon cured Dazhuang’s longstanding ailments with only a few common herbs.

Even so, father and son dared not leave Crooked Jujube. They bought three acres of land with what little they had left and lived quiet, steady lives.

Perhaps Xu’s father was a man of deep feeling, for in all these years he’d never remarried.

Having seen the world, Xu’s father had earned the scholar’s degree in his youth and was well respected in the village. Many a young woman had sent him embroidered handkerchiefs in secret, but all ended up hung on the withered bamboo at the edge of the village. No one ever took them back, and after all these years there were nearly fifty, fluttering in the wind like a host of faded butterflies.

The women had suffered enough, but it was the men’s turn as well. Each year, a delicate fragrance would waft through the village, outshining even the colors of fireworks in the sky.

It lasted only a few days, but during that time, petitioners for wine came in droves, wearing out the doorstep with their comings and goings.

Yet Xu’s father was reluctant to use up the last of the ancestral wine—perhaps to remember those he’d lost, or to dream again of former glory. Who could say?

Maybe expecting one day a thief would come for the wine, the Xu household had built a half-man-high clay wall around their home.

Sure enough, plump birds still perched on the wall, glaring down at the two boys scratching their heads below.

Dazhuang was honest but not stupid. Marching in the front gate, they’d certainly be caught. But climbing the wall—given their condition, who knew what commotion they’d make?

“I’ve got it, Chuan! Come with me!” Dazhuang slapped his forehead, grabbed the half-dead fish, and hurried to the other side of the yard.

Qin Chuan was surprised. Dazhuang was always slow and steady, a bit dull but nothing more. What had gotten into him today? Had catching a fish truly gone to his head?

“Look, Chuan!” Dazhuang exclaimed, excitement shining in his eyes.

Qin Chuan followed his pointing finger and his own eyes lit up.

“In early spring this year, Zhang Huai’s old ox must’ve been in heat and gored our wall, caving in a small section!”

“Zhang Huai was terrified, thought the ox had gone mad, and cried his eyes out hiding in a tree hollow, scared the beast would gore him too!”

Qin Chuan couldn’t help but burst out laughing, picturing the bold Zhang Huai cowering in fear.

After their laughter, the boys grew serious again.

“Don’t worry, Chuan! I’m skinny enough to squeeze through if I hold in my belly!”

Despite his nickname, Dazhuang wasn’t big or strong—his father just kept calling him that, and the name stuck, much like Qin Chuan’s own nickname from before he was born.

He stripped off his clean shirt, unwrapped the carp, and carefully slid it through the gap, making sure not to crush it when he crawled through.

Seeing Dazhuang’s thin frame, Qin Chuan couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. Dazhuang was the most earnest among them, quiet and reserved, yet always smiling, making it impossible for anyone to dislike him.

“Maybe… we shouldn’t,” Qin Chuan hesitated. The hole left by the ox was far from smooth. The mud-brick wall could leave muddy marks at best, bloody scrapes at worst.

Facing the sky, Dazhuang eased his torso into the narrow hole. Hearing Qin Chuan’s plea, he steadied his breath and replied offhandedly, “Don’t worry, Chuan! I’ve crawled through this hole plenty of times. I know it well.”

He wedged himself in, blocking the hole completely. His voice came through muffled, but Qin Chuan knew what he meant and could only sigh, his gaze softening.

After the time it took to drink half a cup of tea, Dazhuang finally squeezed through. He poked his head out, face smeared with dirt. “The old man didn’t notice. I’ll get the wine now, just wait a bit.”

“Got it, I’ll be right here.” After all, boys at that age are fearless—he’d been in and out of trouble so often, there was no guilt left in his heart.

In truth, it was nothing shameful. If the neighbors caught them, they’d just get an earful and a tug on the ear for their trouble.

There was nothing in the village truly off-limits—Qin Chuan knew this well. A little mischief did no harm, as long as it was like today.

Of course, he never touched valuables like gold, silver, or jewelry, nor did he dare lay a hand on anyone’s chickens, ducks, or crops. If he ever took a couple of eggs from a widow’s hen, he’d be sure to find some fat grubs for the chickens the next day to make up for it.

While he mused, Dazhuang finished his task. He called softly, “Chuan!” and reached his hand through the hole, holding a half-filled jug of wine. A single drop clung to the mouth of the jar, its fragrance intoxicating.

“Heh, Grandpa will be in for a treat today! See you around!” With a word of thanks, Dazhuang tucked the wine into his shirt, delighting in the new name he’d learned for it: Blue Bridge Moonlight. He couldn’t wait to let the two old men at home have a taste.

With great satisfaction, a smile on his lips, he strolled down the country lane toward home. As he passed the widow Tian’s house, he caught sight of her old yellow dog with a white mark on its brow, and the widow herself leaning in the doorway, her gaze shadowed.

For a moment, Qin Chuan thought he’d stumbled upon a fierce, ugly door god. By the time he realized, it was too late.

The widow lunged at him, claws out as if to devour him.

Normally, Qin Chuan would’ve run, but with half a jug of wine in his arms—even if the lid was on—the thought of spilling it was unbearable.

He cursed his luck: of all days, he’d run into the widow on her watch, let his guard down in his glee, and now with the precious wine, he couldn’t even run properly.

He gritted his teeth. He wouldn’t run!

The widow was surprised Qin Chuan didn’t bolt, but she didn’t go easy on him, pulling his left ear until it turned red, the pain making his eyes water.

“So, why aren’t you running today? Sneaking around stealing eggs again, are you? You think old lady Tian is a pushover?” she scolded.

In broad daylight, a boy and a woman in such a scandalous scene drew the attention of villagers, young and old, who fetched benches and cracked sunflower seeds to watch the drama unfold.

The little ones teased, “Chuan, don’t lose your nerve!”

The big ones jeered, “Widow Tian, looks like little Chuan is in for it today—thirty like a wolf, forty like a tiger, how terrifying!”

Ignoring everyone, the widow dragged Qin Chuan toward the Qin house. “Finally caught you, you little rascal! Let’s see if I don’t teach you a lesson!”

“Honestly, I wasn’t after eggs this time. Aunt Tian, listen—I thought those eggs were laid by the dog!”

The old yellow dog barked once, as if in protest, kicked its legs, and dashed away.