Renjie and his wife went to make potash on the newly cleared land behind the house. Qinmei, who was ready to give birth any day, remained at home with Lanmei to look after the two grandchildren, Dexin and Defu. The rest of the family had gone off to plant potatoes in the new fields behind the house.

  Xu Shihui was the local “potato king.” Anyone who was short of food could buy or borrow from him. He had the most land in the area under cultivation, because he had the most manpower: two wives and nine sons, four of whom were married, as well as three unmarried daughters still at home and a number of grandsons who were still young. In all, he could count on twenty pairs of hands to do the work. He himself, though past sixty, was still as strong as an ox and capable of working from morning till night.

  Peng Aqiang still remembered his first meeting with Xu Shihui. “Do you have enough people for the work?” the old man had asked. “Can everyone use a hoe?”

  “We’re twelve in all, young and old,” replied Peng Aqiang. “Ten, not including one unborn and one still crawling.” He felt that Xu Shihui was a man of no nonsense, a man after his own heart.

  “That’s good. In Fanzai Wood everyone must work. The bigger the family, the better.”

  Peng Aqiang was determined to follow Xu’s example. But for now, all thoughts of making money were in the back of his mind: the problem of food had to be solved first. Thus all the land that they cleared had to be planted with potatoes.

  After father and son returned, they went to plant potatoes in a newly cleared field at the base of the slope. It was a field of black soil with brown flecks, furrow after furrow of loose, rich soil that emitted a strong, earthy aroma.

  “How much food will this field yield?” asked Renxiu.

  “Enough for several months,” replied his father.

  “That won’t be enough. What are we going to do?”

  “That’s why we’ve got to clear some more land. We will get two crops, though.”

  “Let’s plant buckwheat between the potatoes.”

  “Sure, why not?”

  “I think millet would be better.” said Renhua. “What I wouldn’t give for a bowl of millet gruel right now.”

  “Barley is the best!” interjected Renxiu. “I haven’t had my fill of barley in ages.”

  They talked of their hopes as they worked. The sound of the large mattocks at work along with the talk and laughter combined to create a lively rhythm.

  “Listen, everyone,” said Peng Aqiang with a wave of his hands, “we can plant anything we like—this is our land.” His elation knew no bounds.

  “Ours?” asked Renxiu. “Ours in what way?”

  “All we have to do is pay the taxes on it one day.”

  “Don’t we have to pay rent to the landlord?”

  “Our landlord is the state. What other landlord is there?”

  “Land for our family? Our own land?”

  At that time, Renjie and his wife were already putting the fifth load of vegetation into the furnace to make potash. This was the only thing the family could do to make money.

  The best material for making potash was wild taro, mountain bananas, mountain palms, papayas, ferns, and other alkali-rich plants. But the supply was limited; such plants couldn’t be picked for long without growing scarce. Moreover, the time it took to transport them made it more economical to gather plants nearby, though they contained less alkali.

  They used a simple earthen furnace in making potash. Two pots were sitting on the ground next to the furnace. One was half filled with a cooling gray-brown liquid—the liquid potash undergoing sedimentation. The other was full of boiling-hot liquid that gave off a good deal of white steam that floated high into the air. The smell of the acrid liquid filled the morning air. It didn’t seem like a winter’s day.

  Two other large cauldrons sat atop the furnace, which was six or seven feet high. One contained the leach water and the other was filled with spring water from a reservoir next to the furnace. The water was piped from a mountain spring above their newly cleared fields to the reservoir via a duct made of split cassia bamboo. The same clear, limpid spring supplied water for the six families living in Fanzai Wood.

  Renjie’s face, like that of his wife, was covered with dirt and ashes and smeared black with charcoal. Their lips and noses were pitch black. The knot of hair that Liangmei had done up behind her head had come loose a long time ago, and aside from a few strands blown by the wind, her hair was plastered with sweat to her neck and face. She was busy stoking the furnace to keep the fire burning bright. Renjie was wearing a gray shirt, and his long queue was wound untidily around his head. His knee-length pants were soaked, and his whole body was covered with ash made sticky by his sweat.

  Heaps of still-smoldering ash lay scattered over the recently cleared field, which was about one fifth of an acre in size. Bluish smoke rose from some of the piles, flames from others. Renjie, moving as quickly as he could, was carrying the ashes from the field to the large pot of spring water. The ashes hissed as they hit the water and gave off an acrid smell.

  “How’s that pot doing?” asked Renjie, indicating the cauldron cooling beside the furnace.

  “It was boiling when we got here. Who knows?” said Liangmei, sounding very tired.

  “Can you taste it and see?”

  “Taste the leach water? You want me to put a hole in my stomach?” said Liangmei, glaring at him, which made her very attractive. He didn’t know if she was really angry or if she was playing the coquette. Renjie’s heart skipped a beat. Generally, in the company of others, she was quite gentle and yielding, but when the two of them were alone together, she was ferocious. As he looked at her covered in ashes, disheveled and dirty, her glare seemed positively enticing. He felt a strange sensation. When he saw her tired and panting, covered in sweat, and could smell the scent of her body, he grew as agitated as a large rooster when it mounted a little hen.

  “Why are you looking at me in that way?” she asked, her temper flaring.

  Renjie jumped down, picked up the bamboo ladle, scooped up some hot liquid and ash mixture, and, after letting it cool a while, pinched the mixture between his thumb and forefinger. He smelled it and rubbed it between his fingers, testing it. The liquid was thickening nicely.

  “Not bad. Good. It’ll do.”

  Liangmei looked at him disdainfully. She moved several feet away from him and sat down on a grassy spot sheltered from the north and west winds by two bamboo racks for drying grass. That was the place to rest. Liangmei heaved a sigh and lay down, pillowing her head on her arms.

  Her breasts were full; it was time to feed little Defu again. She cupped one of her breasts in her left hand. Turning around at that moment, Renjie caught sight of her gesture. Liangmei instantly turned her back to him. Renjie laughed with pleasure as he remembered how the two of them had rushed there before the crack of dawn. The furnace had scarcely been lit when he himself felt all aflame. Who could blame him? Twelve of them shared that house, and the only thing that separated him and his wife from the others was a thin wall of bamboo and yellow earth. But their children slept there by their side. How were they to manage? They had no choice. That fire was inextinguishable; he had half forced her. But there was no other way. Women were like that: willing and at the same time unwilling. Surely she wasn’t angry.

  But when he had risen from her, he let escape a cry of regret, for her breasts were dripping wet; he had squeezed out little Defu’s breakfast! He touched his own chest…. What about Liangmei? Her face was red, her eyes were half-closed, and she sighed with resignation.

  Thinking of Liangmei, he threw another glance at her raised breasts. It was clear to him that everything before him was filled with beauty and love. A spring filled his heart; he was full of life. White clouds floated in the blue sky, and the earth was so solid and felt so new.

  He climbed to the top of the furnace and dumped more ashes into the cauldrons, after which he stirred them. Then he decided to change the cauldrons. He scooped the liquid out with a long-handled bamboo ladle and into big-bellied clay pots through filter-fitted funnels. He threw the sopping ashes that remained at the bottom of the cauldrons into a gully where all the weeds and underbrush had withered or been singed. Then he would run the filtered liquid through a bamboo pipe to the cauldrons at the base of the furnace.

  Peeking over the tall trees of the dense forest, the sun revealed its face to the little field. It was a cool, liquid red in color, and shone weakly. The cliff was bathed in the soft light; the nearby slopes and peaks were tinged a dreamy yellow. They were in the bosom of the mountains, the vast hall of the great earth, secure and solid. The forest united with the arching sky; the arching sky and the earth were melded together; and men seemed to be part of both earth and sky.

  Renjie was busy climbing up and down the furnace. He felt exhausted; perhaps their morning activity had taken too much out of him. His eyes were red from the smoke and the liquid. Tears ran together with his sweat. He felt sticky, and his mouth was dry and parched. He walked over and lay down to rest beside Liangmei. As the sun shone on the tip of his nose, he shut his eyes. The wind blew coldly from the northwest.

  “Here,” said Liangmei as she handed him a ladle of spring water.

  The news that eight or nine Chinese had been killed at South Lake by indigenous people spread quickly through the system of guard posts via headquarters at Big Lake. It also spread to all the villages near the lands of the indigenous people. Strange reports came to Fanzai Wood from the furnaces to the south: some said that the southern villages would be attacking on New Year’s Eve; others said that the Tabeilai villagers were going to drive all settlers out of the area; still others said that the Tabeilai and the Moponai were headed their way to join up with the Jiaheliwan, who were coming from the shores of South Lake, for a joint attack. It was also said that the tribes were competing to see who could take the most heads.

  The Peng family was frightened but didn’t know what to do. On the afternoon of the 30th, Peng Aqiang went to see Xu Shihui to get his opinion. The six families living at Fanzai Wood had long considered Xu Shihui the village head. He himself felt that the situation was serious and decided to call a meeting of the heads of the families.

  “What can we do?” Xu Rixing asked. “We have to defend ourselves from attack and also build levies against floods.” Fifty-year-old Xu Rixing was the only literate settler; he was considered an important person and was addressed as “sir” by the others. He knew how to choose auspicious days and was a spirit medium as well.

  “The problem is, how do we go about defending ourselves from attack while also working to protect ourselves from flood waters?” asked Xu Shihui.

  “I don’t see a problem. We just do what we have always done.”

  “Brother Aqiang, do you have a gong at home?”

  “No. Why do you ask?”

  Xu Shihui then outlined for him their emergency response plan. Every family had a gong for sounding the warning and a long-handled machete or scythe to use as a weapon. Xu Shihui and Chen Afa both had old rifles. When the gongs sounded, the women, children, and elderly would seek protection at Xu’s house. A mud wall surrounded the house and courtyard, providing excellent defense against attack. The men would go out in groups to head off and fight the enemy. If the situation were really pressing, everyone would rush to the scene of conflict with their weapons.

  “We have to post sentries at night,” said Su Ajin.

  “This time, according to the reports …” Peng Aqiang was reluctant to show how afraid he was.

  “Yes, yes.” Everyone seemed to be in agreement.

  “The area might be evacuated, right?” continued Peng Aqiang.

  “You mean evacuate the entire village?”

  Peng Aqiang nodded slightly; his face flushed red and he lowered his head. He was certain that he was not afraid of death, but in the last month he had come to realize that everything in that wilderness was a struggle and that he lacked the strength to protect the women and children of his family.

  “I’m sure it won’t be necessary to evacuate,” said Xu Shihui after careful consideration. “However, we should decide if we should get together as a group in one place for the New Year or not.”

  “You mean for New Year’s Eve, I believe….”

  “Go and make haste with the New Year sacrifices. After you’ve eaten, return here.”

  The suggestion met with heated discussion. In the end, everyone except Peng Aqiang agreed that staying together in one place probably wasn’t necessary. After all, rumors about attacks by the aborigines and the taking of heads were rife at least once a year. But Fanzai Wood was a good place and had always been spared by the indigenous people; no harm had ever been done to it or its inhabitants. Being careful would be enough; there was no need to overreact. So it was decided. Since the Pengs did not have a gong, they had to make do with a metal hoe. The hoe was removed from its handle and hung with twine under the eaves to be struck in the event of an emergency.

  “There’s nothing to worry about, Brother Aqiang. Don’t worry about anything and enjoy the new year.”

  “On the third day of the new year, you and your wife must come and eat with us.”

  “Don’t worry, don’t worry. They won’t come here to Fanzai Wood. We are much the same—the same vintage. Ha ha.”

  Peng Aqiang was somewhat reassured. After listening to his account of the discussion, his family also felt as if the sky had cleared.

  This was to be the Pengs’ first New Year’s celebration since they had set up on their own. Although they were beginning to look thin and wan after more than a month, as people who had worked for others for years, they now had an irrepressible gleam in their eyes and a sense of exhilaration. Lanmei had with some difficulty managed to steam rice balls with radish. “If everyone can just work together in peace and harmony,” she said with great confidence, “then I guarantee that we will have sweet rice balls to celebrate the next new year.”

  The rice for the midnight meal was in actuality half rice and half sweet potato. In addition, there were two catties of kaoliang wine. The only shortcoming was that their rough-hewn table, which could hold all the dishes, could only seat eight people. There were only five stools, so most of them stood, squatted, or sat on the piled firewood. That night they also lit their new lamp for the first time. Burning the lamp oil was an extravagance, but the soft glow of the oil lamp at this frugal but happy family occasion gladdened the hearts of one and all.

  After the meal, Peng Aqiang gave everyone a New Year’s gift of money, as was the custom. But on receiving hers, Lanmei pressed the red packet back into her husband’s hands.

  “The best place for all of this is in father’s safekeeping,” said Renjie as he handed all four packets back to his father. The other members of the family did as the eldest son had done. Then they all burst out laughing.

  Flushed, Peng Aqiang also laughed. In years gone by, his wife had always returned the New Year’s money to him. “I can’t take this, you keep it,” she had always said. And he, for his part, had adamantly refused, but the money had always ended up stuffed into his pocket. As for the children, they had always kept their gifts. This year, however, Peng Aqiang gritted his teeth, lowered his head with an embarrassed laugh, and accepted the money. He told himself there was no other way; he had to swallow his pride and take the money back because they needed every cent.

  After the ritual, Peng Aqiang made an announcement: “Renxiu is now twenty and Dengmei eighteen; I have decided that at the Lantern Festival in two weeks’ time, they will be married.”

  “Congratulations, Renxiu!”

  “I told the ancestors at the sacrifices we just held that Dengmei is as good as a member of the family.”

  “Renxiu, what do you say? You’re blushing,” they teased him.

  “Ha ha. Congratulations, Renxiu,” Renxing’s loud voice rang out.

  That night the Peng family decided to take their bedding and sleep at the Xus’ house.

  The worries at Fanzai Wood around New Year proved groundless. Spring was late in coming to the mountains. In the valleys lay a sheet of mist that rose to cover the forest in opaque gauze, hiding the few thatched houses halfway up the slope. The milky white mist in the east quickly turned a bright yellow and then an amber color. The mist began to shift; it moved, floated, and finally began to thin somewhat. In the amber-colored east, the faint outline of the sun had risen in the sky above the tree branches. People vaguely could be seen moving around on the slopes, and the loud voices of men were punctuated by the crowing of cocks and the barking of dogs. Spring had been slow to come, but finally it had arrived.

  The elders of the Peng family thought of little else but the upcoming marriage of Renxiu, their youngest son, and Dengmei, his bride-to-be. The Pengs couldn’t provide the sort of banquet demanded by the occasion, but it was an important moment for the family. Since arriving at Fanzai Wood, they had not yet invited their neighbors for a meal, something they found embarrassing. They would have liked to invite everyone over for a glass of weak wine, but that would mean spending money, something they couldn’t afford to do.

  Peng Aqiang had always wanted Dengmei to have her moment in the limelight. In truth he was very fond of the girl. It was her story, first and foremost, that touched the old man. Dengmei had been abandoned as a baby. She had been thrown into a pigsty shortly after birth—her umbilical cord had not even been cut. It was the Huang family that had rescued and named the infant and then sold her to the Ye family, who had lost a three-month-old daughter. Dengmei took the place of the Yes’ dead daughter, who had been buried without ceremony. Not long after she had been adopted by the Yes, the family experienced a number of mishaps. Through divination, an astrologer told the Yes that they were astrologically incompatible with their new daughter and that she should be sent away as quickly as possible. He further predicted that the girl would have a total of three fathers and three mothers. The incompatibility could only be resolved if she were adopted by someone else. “Once the incompatibility is resolved,” said the astrologer, “the girl will make a good wife with the right family and the right house.”