The next day, He Yi was awakened by a rooster’s crow. The instant he opened his eyes, it felt as though his brains had been brought to a boil, bubbling furiously inside his skull. He dazedly counted the imaginary bubbles for quite a while before remembering that he had passed out earlier.
It was still dim outside. He really had heard a rooster crowing just now, so it was probably early the next morning. In other words, he had spent the whole night sprawled there without a quilt. No wonder it was difficult even to raise his hand. He managed to press his palm to his neck and found himself hotter than yesterday.
Expressionless, He Yi slowly sat up from the earthen bed. The moment he turned, a long-tailed pheasant with white feathers shot straight at his face, covering him in feathers.
“Ptoo, ptoo!” He Yi hurriedly spat out the feathers that had gotten into his mouth. He had barely recovered when the pheasant began flapping around the room, leaping everywhere and clucking without end.
He Yi could not understand why there was a wild pheasant inside the hut; just like yesterday’s rabbit, it had appeared out of nowhere, which was very strange.
He glanced toward the door and found that the spot where the rabbit carcass had been was now empty. Before he could make anything of it, something that looked suspiciously like a tail suddenly flashed past the barred window.
He Yi stared motionlessly at the window. A moment later, something black and white swept past again, this time more slowly, and he finally saw it clearly: a huge fluffy white tail covered in black spots.
Judging from the markings, could there be a leopard outside? But as far as he remembered, a leopard’s tail was not that fluffy. Surely it could not be a white tiger. With a tail that thick and long, whatever it belonged to could not possibly be small.
So had that beast set its sights on him? Or had it simply been drawn over by the pheasant’s cries?
His body was weak, but the judo and grappling skills he had practiced for years were still there. Enduring his discomfort, he caught the pheasant by the wings in a few quick moves, then forced it through the bars of the window and tossed it outside.
A moment later, the irritating cries stopped abruptly. He Yi cautiously swept his gaze outside through the window. Only after failing to find any trace of the big tail did he let out a breath.
Once he relaxed, he noticed how hungry he was. Yesterday’s steamed bun was gone, and there was nothing left to eat in the hut. Come to think of it, A’ma should have brought him food at some point yesterday, yet not only had she never appeared, there was no sign that any fresh food had been added either.
She had not come today, but perhaps it was still too early. He Yi decided to head outside first and see whether he could find something to put in his stomach.
Decision made, He Yi pushed open the unlocked door and left the hunter’s hut.
This body was malnourished and sick, but it had long arms and legs, and its original owner had spent years doing farmwork, so his endurance was decent. He Yi walked and rested by turns and still managed to cover a fair distance. He was unfamiliar with the terrain, however, so he did not dare plunge into the undergrowth and simply followed the muddy footpath while looking around.
Green plants grew thickly along both sides of the path, but he could not tell weeds from wild vegetables, much less which plants were edible and which were not. The original He Yi had come up Yaluo Mountain several times to gather wild greens, but even with those memories he could not be certain that the plants before his eyes were the same ones he remembered. If he made a mistake and ate some deadly poisonous herb, this life might end even faster than if his illness worsened.
Admittedly, before transmigrating into this world, he might not have thought that was such a bad thing. He might even have welcomed it as a release from his depression. After arriving here, however, perhaps because he had changed bodies, his thoughts no longer seemed to rush so readily toward extremes. Besides, this body had not originally belonged to him. Now was not the time to die.
He Yi also passed plenty of fruiting trees, but identifying them was just as difficult as identifying the wild vegetables, so he did not stop and continued down the path.
After walking a little farther, he reached a stream. Perhaps because of the heavy rain two days ago, the water was somewhat muddy and the current swift.
Fish and shrimp were plentiful when the water rose, though shrimp were easier to catch after the water receded. Right now, it was better to catch fish. He Yi studied the stream and found it was not deep. He rolled his sleeves up and tied them at his shoulders, rolled up his trouser legs, and waded in.
There really were a lot of fish. In only a short while, more than ten little ones bumped into his legs. The newly risen red sun hung behind him, and by its faint dawn light He Yi could make out flashes of silvery blue beneath the surface. His brows immediately eased. He recognized this fish.
He Yi knew fish better than plants. In his previous life, whenever he went fishing in remote places where the water quality was good, he would constantly end up hooking this kind of sharpbelly. It was perfectly normal to end a whole day with a keepnet full of little fish and not a single big one. After he adjusted his bait later on, he encountered them less often.
The original He Yi had seen them too. The locals seemed to call this kind of fish cantiaozi.
Even if he had identified the fish incorrectly, toxins in freshwater fish were usually concentrated in places such as the fins, dorsal fin, internal organs, and roe. As long as he removed the head and innards and cooked the fish thoroughly, there should not be a problem.
The cantiaozi were slippery and small, but there were so many that He Yi only had to guard the gap between his calves with both hands cupped together. The instant he felt something strike his palms, he scooped upward and tossed the fish onto the bank.
Before long, a pile of small white fish lay on shore. He Yi looked at them, then down at his water-wrinkled hands, and decided that should be enough.
At the same time, his lips felt dry. He remembered that he had already finished the water in his bamboo tube and had not drunk anything today.
The stream was somewhat muddy at present, but he could still see the bottom. Cantiaozi were particular about water quality, so He Yi stopped worrying, scooped up a handful of stream water, and drank. Once his thirst was quenched, he climbed back onto shore.
Then came another problem: how was he supposed to cook the fish? He had no pots, bowls, or utensils, no little knife, not even flint. Perhaps the fever had slowed his brain, and he hardly ever cooked to begin with. His greatest culinary achievements were roughly limited to steaming egg custard and boiling a packet of instant luosifen, so these essential practicalities had never occurred to him.
He Yi remembered that the carrying basket A’ma had brought seemed to contain cooking utensils. But inside the hunter’s hut, apart from the stool, bamboo tubes, earthen bed, and winter quilt, there was nothing else to be seen. He had no idea where everything had gone.
Without tools, He Yi had no idea what to do and almost wanted to lie flat on the ground and give up. But he had worked hard to catch these fish and could not bear to throw them back. After thinking it over from every angle, he finally picked two banana leaves and overlapped them into a bundle around the cantiaozi.
He would keep walking and see whether he could find some way to deal with the fish along the way. Thinking this, He Yi headed downhill.
He had gone only a few steps when a thatched shelter beside the road caught his attention. It was open on all four sides, supported only by four wooden posts, without so much as a wall.
He Yi approached a little and immediately saw someone lying beneath it, covered by a thin quilt and resting on a straw mat. One more look, and he froze.
The person lying there was no stranger. It was A’ma.
Why was the old woman sleeping here? Forget nighttime; even at noon the shade beneath the trees was cool, and that straw mat could not keep out the chill from the ground at all. He Yi’s heart sank. He hurried forward and felt A’ma’s forehead.
Hot, just as he had expected. A’ma kept muttering in her sleep. The fever had clearly left her barely conscious.
He finally understood why she had not brought him food yesterday. She had probably been too feverish to get up since then.
He Yi no longer had the luxury of worrying that he might infect A’ma with the epidemic. If he did not save her now, A’ma might not even have to wait until she caught it before… This was ancient times, after all, where medicine was primitive and even an ordinary chill could easily take a life.
He Yi looked around and found A’ma’s carrying basket beside one of the shelter posts, while the handcart stood behind the shelter.
He set down the banana-leaf bundle of cantiaozi and rummaged through the basket for a clean piece of sackcloth and a bamboo tube of fresh water. He poured water onto the cloth, gently lifted the back of A’ma’s head, dampened her lips with it, then pried apart her badly receded teeth. Wringing the cloth, he carefully let the water drip into her mouth one drop at a time.
After giving her water, He Yi placed the damp cloth against A’ma’s forehead to help cool her down.
Leaving a sick person lying on the ground would not do. He Yi pushed the handcart over beside A’ma, gritted his teeth, and tensed every muscle in his body. With considerable effort, he finally managed to lift her onto the cart.
In doing so, however, he discovered that neither the thin quilt covering A’ma nor the short jacket she wore underneath had originally been dark in color. They only looked that way because they were soaked through with water.
He Yi could not worry about impropriety now. He lifted the thin quilt away, removed A’ma’s outer robe, then took off his own dry short jacket and wrapped it around her.
Ideally, he would go back and bring over his own quilt. That winter quilt was as hard as one of the stones used in those chest-smashing performances, but it was still better than nothing and could at least keep her somewhat warm.
Next, He Yi dug a bundle of firewood out from the bottom of the carrying basket. Unlike the items packed above it, the wood had not escaped the rain and was thoroughly soaked, making it useless. Fortunately, the fire striker, flint, tinder, and other tools for starting a fire were all there.
With no other choice, He Yi went into the brush to gather branches. Fortunately, the original He Yi had been extremely familiar with this kind of work. Relying on instinct and muscle memory, he picked out plenty of dry twigs and wood that would catch easily. He never went far and could rush back to the shelter in a few steps, though hurrying left him panting hard.
Starting the fire went smoothly, which surprised He Yi a little. The original owner really had been capable. Guided by the body’s muscle memory, he successfully used the fire striker and flint to light the small twigs, then used them to ignite thicker pieces of wood, and soon had a proper fire going.
He built the fire outside the shelter and pushed the handcart nearby. Then he turned the carrying basket upside down, spread A’ma’s outer robe across it, and set it by the fire to dry more quickly. The thin quilt he rolled into a bundle and placed aside to deal with later.
Only after all that work did He Yi finally have the leisure to look after the bundle of cantiaozi. They had been out of water for so long that he guessed few could still be alive. When he opened the banana leaves, sure enough, only a handful were still moving.
His strength was nearly spent, but for the sake of the fish he made another trip to the stream, filled two bamboo tubes with water, and put the dozen or so surviving cantiaozi into them.
Since he still had not found the pot and knife A’ma had brought up the mountain, He Yi temporarily gave up on cooking the fish. Before turning the carrying basket upside down, however, he had found five or six sweet potatoes inside, enough for lunch.
The sweet potatoes were all quite small. Only one was a little larger, about the width of a fist.
He Yi tucked the sweet potatoes beneath the firewood, where the heat of the ashes would roast them through. He had done something similar while barbecuing outdoors with friends in the past, although they had always wrapped the potatoes in foil then, so they would not char. He did not have that luxury now. If they burned, they burned. As long as the insides were edible, that was enough.
They had been buried in the ashes for about half an hour. During that time he also changed the damp cloth on A’ma’s forehead once. Finally he could wait no longer; he was so hungry he was almost dizzy. He hurriedly dug the sweet potatoes out of the ashes, let them cool a little, and began to eat.
Peeling away the black-and-gray skin revealed orange-gold flesh inside. A steaming sweetness almost rich enough to cloy spilled into the air. One bite yielded soft, fragrant flesh that made saliva gather in his mouth as the sweetness deepened.
He Yi had never particularly liked sweet potatoes because eating too many made him bloated, but compared with yesterday’s cold, rock-hard day-old steamed bun, having something warm to eat was infinitely better.
He had originally intended to save the largest sweet potato for A’ma, but worried its center might not have roasted through. He would rather leave her two smaller ones, so he peeled the large potato for himself.
Sure enough, when he broke it open, a piece in the middle was still raw. He Yi did not care. He wolfed it down in a few bites and quickly finished it.
As long as he swallowed fast enough, the bad taste could not catch him.
Starch was filling. The portion was not large, but quite a bit of strength returned to his limbs.
He Yi rested for a while but did not dare delay. He followed the path back to the hunter’s hut, carried over the winter quilt, and covered A’ma with it. Once she had a quilt, he could put his own clothes back on. The trip cost him another good measure of strength; by the last few steps, his calves were trembling from the ache.
Exhausting as all this work was, it still felt better than sitting idle. Whenever He Yi stopped moving, the itching across his body became impossible to ignore. It felt as though ants were crawling all over him and every so often their acid stung his skin.
After noon, the sky grew much cloudier and thread after thread of chill seeped into the air. He had to withstand the cold in nothing but his short jacket while suppressing the urge to scratch his rash, and his energy and strength drained away quickly. Sheer willpower kept him going, rinsing the cloth and giving A’ma water every two to four hours.
A full day passed before A’ma finally woke.