Chapter 35: Exchange of Tokens

Ren Suzhi noticed that the fire in the courtyard had not yet been extinguished, so he redoubled his efforts, banging the alarm drum and shouting again, “Did you hear me?! Put out the fire!”

Huan Zhen, by now, understood well the stubbornness of the pavilion chief; if no one answered from within the courtyard, the chief would surely come pounding at the door.

Old Wang and Wang Dalang were startled awake and came out asking, “Tiger, what’s going on? Why all the racket?”

Wang Ge quickly responded from outside the courtyard, “Sir, we heard you!” She instructed A Xing to persuade their grandfather and father to return indoors, then carried her lantern to light the way, slid the bolt, and opened the door a crack. Her first sight was the lantern inscribed with “Waterside Pavilion,” then five pavilion guards, all in official attire, which reassured her, so she stepped out.

In the distance, Iron Thunder scoffed at Iron Wind, “Tch, these thieves are a bit weak!”

Iron Wind took a few steps forward, changing the subject, “Hey? Isn’t that the little Lady Wang?”

Neither the swaying lanterns held by the guards nor Wang Ge’s rolling lamp cast much light. Ren Suzhi had only met her once before and had no recollection, so seeing a half-grown girl come out holding a lantern irritated him further. “What are you burning a fire for in the middle of the night, especially on a windy night like this?”

Wang Ge was startled by his sudden booming voice, and her rolling lamp fell, blown by the wind across the street, where one of the would-be thieves chased after it and held it still with his foot.

She quickly apologized, “Sir, I’ll put out the kitchen fire right away.”

Meanwhile, A Xing couldn’t persuade their grandfather or father at all. Old Wang came toward the gate, A Xing, with his short legs, ran ahead, and as he reached Wang Ge’s side, he noticed nothing else but the lamp rolling so far away! What if it got broken? He paused briefly, ran toward the thief, bent down, and rolled the lamp back.

Ren Suzhi looked at Old Wang and solemnly warned, “Old Wang, take the children back inside immediately. Remember, on windy days, put out the kitchen fire early.”

A Xing pushed the lamp, passing between the two men, over the threshold, and all the way back into the courtyard.

Old Wang made way for his grandson. Having experienced the chaos of war, the old man held a special reverence for officials. He replied, “Yes, yes, sir, you’re right. Tonight we kept it burning to finish some farm work. We won’t do it again, never again. I’ll put out the fire right away.”

Ren Suzhi disliked seeing the old man so frightened. With a wave of his hand, as the guards were about to leave, the courtyard door closing, and Wang Ge finally exhaling in relief, the always silent Huan Zhen spoke up, “Is that child Wang Adi?”

A Xing, guarding the lamp, craned his neck and blinked.

The door opened wider.

“I thought I must be mistaken. Wang Adi, the mountains and rivers are long, and here we meet again.”

A Xing, inseparable from his rolling lamp, rolled it out. “Ah! Brother, are you the one who serves by the official’s side?”

Wang Ge stared at Huan Zhen; Huan Zhen stared at the lamp. In an instant, she understood—he’d noticed the clever mechanism of the lamp!

Huan Zhen introduced himself, explained he still had to patrol, and spoke briefly with A Xing, his face always showing a touch of “I’m miserable but I won’t say why.” He untied the hemp cord from one side of his ram-horn bun, used the opportunity to scratch his itch, and left the cord with A Xing as a token of trust.

The sight of Huan Zhen’s loose, drooping hair moved A Xing deeply. He felt he should reciprocate the gift, but surely he couldn’t just return Huan Zhen’s hair tie. As for the lamp… it was meant to be sold to a peddler, and even if not, he was so fond of it, it was hard to part with.

Children wear their feelings plainly. Wang Ge crouched down and quietly advised him, “A Xing, friendship must be sincere. Whoever weighs gain and loss first is unworthy of that friendship.”

A Xing, ashamed, nodded earnestly and, with open generosity, held up the lamp. “Brother Huan, this lantern is really fun. If you roll it or kick it, it won’t go out. We made it ourselves, and I’m giving it to you.”

“Very well, I accept it.” Huan Zhen’s words were more polite than his actions; he took it at once.

A Xing, now understanding, no longer felt attached. He beckoned Huan Zhen to lean in and whispered, “Brother Huan, take care of yourself. If anyone bullies you, or if you don’t have enough to eat, come to my house for food.”

Only then did Huan Zhen truly look at the child. Though plain in appearance and far less delicate than his own sister, Wang Adi’s eyes were astonishingly clear and sincere, reflecting the lantern’s glow. Huan Zhen couldn’t help but gently pat the boy’s head before leaving.

With the gate closed, Old Wang went to put out the kitchen fire. A Xing folded the musty hemp cord still tangled with Huan Zhen’s stray hairs and tucked it into his sister’s cloth pouch. “Sister, keep this for me. Sister, can you guess what Brother Huan did wrong? Why has he become like this? I almost didn’t recognize him just now.”

“Hmm… I can’t guess either. So next time we see Brother Huan, don’t ask him. You might make him sad.”

“Oh, I understand.”

Wang Ge smiled quietly. That young Huan was childish too—was it really worth it for a rolling lamp? They nearly swore brotherhood with Tiger Head; he’s so different from when they first met.

The next morning, just as dawn broke, Wang Ge got up. She had spent half the night thinking it over and decided to be more cautious. In her previous life, rolling lamps appeared in the Song Dynasty, but now, with the Jin deviating from history, bustling towns might already have them. Besides, even if they don’t, once someone has a model, they’ll quickly copy it.

Thus, after sewing a cover onto one last rolling lamp, she made no more, but instead began crafting bamboo hairpins.

The leftover bamboo stalks, strips, and rods were few. Fearing Madam Yao might cause more trouble, she moved them all to her own room.

In her past life, Wang Nanxing came from a family of woodcarvers. Carving the simplest bamboo hairpins was as easy as sharpening pencils for her, even without specialized knives—it just took a bit more time.

She sat on the floor, using a stool as her desk. She selected a green bamboo slat, scraped off the skin, cut it short for a flat hairpin shaft about eight inches long, left two inches at the end, and whittled the rest thin and smooth, sharpening the tip.

She wrapped the knife evenly with scraps of cloth to grip it tightly without hurting her hand, using its sharp blade in place of a carving knife.

Then she began directly.

She carved the end of the hairpin.

If her basket-weaving skills had been dulled by years of crossing worlds, needing to be awakened step by step through working with bamboo, moving from simple weaving to complex, to rekindle her talent and regain her craft, then her carving skills had reincarnated with her soul, growing alongside her body—an innate gift, needing no awakening, no transition, no rekindling.

This talent was Wang family’s heritage—never forgotten, never lost.

At the hairpin’s end, she carved the left side of the character for “bamboo,” lying sideways, the shape on the cross-section modeled after the slender golden script of later times—thin, strong, and graceful, resembling both a character and a bamboo leaf, echoing the hairpin’s material.

At the pointed tip, she traced delicate, curved lines, like the tip of a brush.

She blew away the bamboo shavings, and it was done.

A Xing had somehow crept up before her, holding his breath, not daring to speak until she finished carving. Then he asked softly, “Sister, can I learn to carve hairpins from you?”

“No, you’ll hurt your hands.” She showed her hands. “Every person’s hands have their mission. Mine are for weaving and carving. Yours are meant for reading and writing. Different missions, but equally hard work.”

“Oh. Hmph!” Clearly unconvinced, the child pouted and walked away.

Soon, the sounds of scolding and quarreling rose in the courtyard; A Xing ran back, hair flying, looking like a little madman.

“Sister, let me tell you,” he whispered, “Grandmother is scolding Third Aunt.”

“Why?”

“Third Aunt not only got up late, she spilled the porridge. Grandmother scolded her, so Third Aunt said her arm hurt and rolled up her sleeve to show grandmother—bruised blue and purple, really scary! Third Uncle hurried to explain he didn’t beat her, and Third Aunt stammered, saying someone must have pinched her while she was fainted. Grandmother said Third Aunt’s heart is rotten, always stirring up trouble, and that it must be her guilty conscience—a ghost pinched her in the night.”

Wang Ge, seeing her brother’s little mouth relaying the whole affair so clearly, affectionately turned him around and began to comb his hair.

Once his hair was tidy, their father got up as well.

“I’ll bring water for Father to wash his face.” A Xing ran out cheerfully.

At that moment, a mule cart left the village, the peddler chewing on a flatbread and driving toward Jia Village. He’d only gone a few miles when two riders galloped up, one shouting, “Make way! Make way!”

The peddler quickly pulled his cart aside.

Dust billowed under the horses’ hooves. The peddler squinted, puzzled, “Why are they in such a hurry so early? Has something happened?”