Chapter 44: The Bamboo-Haired Pin

In the countryside, in Kudzu Vine Alley, from early morning the families spun thread, the humming of their spinning wheels audible from afar. Amidst their labor, the women’s voices soared above the walls in song: “The kudzu stretches out, growing in the central valley, its leaves luxuriant and thick. Cut and soak, weave and bleach, made into cloth and worn without weariness.”

Feng the peddler felt his heart itch as he listened, yearning to join in with a verse, yet fearing a beating if he did. His mule cart could not enter the alley, so he stood at the entrance, shaking his rattling drum. Liu Bo heard the commotion, spoke a word to his mother, and stepped out the gate.

Children from neighboring houses chased one another, laughing as they ran past him, all aware the peddler had arrived.

“Little Liu?” Feng the peddler let the children crowd around his cart, cautioning them not to damage his wares, smiling and waving at Liu Bo. “Ah, Little Liu, thank goodness you guided me! That Miss Wang, truly remarkable—she showed me such wondrous things.”

“Wondrous things?” This surprised Liu Bo, for the peddler traveled far and wide, had seen much; for something to astonish him, Liu Bo was eager to see it himself.

Feng the peddler, eager to display the bamboo dragonfly, had wedged a stick into his cart for demonstration. “Watch,” he said, picking up the bamboo dragonfly and placing it on his left index finger, his face full of pride, as if he had crafted the item himself.

The children exclaimed in unison, “Wow…”

Liu Bo was moved as well, for before the peddler picked it up, he had thought the object was one with the stick.

The children surrounded the peddler, nearly tugging loose his belt. “We want to see too! Uncle, hold your hand lower.”

The smallest child, unable to get close enough, grew anxious and cried out, “Hmph, I’ll ask my father to buy it for me!”

To save his trousers, the peddler quickly handed the bamboo dragonfly to Liu Bo, but still the children clung to him.

Liu Bo asked, “This object resembles a dragonfly. Without glue, how does it stay balanced on your fingertip?”

“Heh, this is a balancing bamboo dragonfly—rare, isn’t it? Only the Wang craft-girl’s family has them; she made them to amuse her younger siblings… Yes, she calls them toys. You needn’t be so careful; it won’t fall. I kept one for myself, left it on the stick overnight, and it stayed just as steady, just like a real dragonfly resting on grass.”

In truth, Liu Bo had already discerned the trick. Interested, he asked, “How much? I want one.”

“Wait a moment.” The peddler, dragging his little entourage to the cart, placed another bamboo dragonfly on the grass stick, admonishing them, “You may look, but not touch,” then returned to Liu Bo and spoke in a low voice: “Since you know the Wang craft-girl, I’ll be honest. I got this for four coins; give me two more for the effort, and it’s yours.”

Liu Bo nodded and asked, “From what you said, there’s more than one rare item?”

“Don’t get me started—that’s a lantern, not a walking lamp, but a bamboo lantern that rolls in circles and the candle never goes out. Too bulky, the price didn’t suit me, so I didn’t take it. If you’re interested, next time I go to Jia She Village, I’ll bring one for you, no extra charge for delivery, ha!”

“Thank you, then.”

Suddenly the peddler remembered, “Oh, right, I also collected two bamboo hairpins carved by the Wang craft-girl.” Had they not come from her skilled hands, he would not have looked twice at the pair, placing them with other small items in a bamboo basket.

As Liu Bo picked up a hairpin, the child who had first run home to fetch his father returned, dragging the adult along.

The child kept pointing at the bamboo dragonfly, nearly in tears with urgency: “That one, that one!”

Feng the peddler hastily said, “Don’t worry, Little Liu, there are three more bamboo dragonflies!”

Only three left? The children around the cart bolted for home. If Wang Ge had been present, she would have applauded the peddler—wasn’t this hunger marketing?

The child’s father, pestered and confused, hadn’t even heard the words “bamboo dragonfly,” and asked for the price: “How much for this wooden moth?”

“Ten coins.”

“Ten coins? That’s expensive!”

“Expensive? Listen…”

Liu Bo stared at the tips of the two hairpins carved by Miss Wang, and the more he looked, the more he realized she hadn’t imitated the form of bamboo, but the character itself.

Each hairpin tip had three leaves, their elegant lines stretching out like the resilient sinews of young bamboo—the thinner the stroke, the stronger the force.

Gradually, Liu Bo’s ears shut out the haggling voices, the roar of spinning wheels, all noise; the two halves of the character blurred and floated, merging into one.

Zheng…

A bold “bamboo” character, rendered with a brushwork he had never seen, revealed its true form.

Jia She Village.

At midday, the rumbling convoy finally left the Wang family’s gate.

Villagers who had crowded the road, having seen all there was to see, drifted away murmuring: “That scared me—I thought Wang Sanlang abandoned his wife and caused a death, about to be arrested.”

“Me too! Who would have guessed they were moving things? Tsk tsk, that Wang girl is really capable, even doing business with the authorities now.”

“Capable, yes, but her craft looks ordinary to me—all round cages tied with bamboo rings, anyone could make them.”

Whether it was the matter of Sanlang abandoning his wife or this rolling lantern trade, the villagers would gossip for some time. No one escapes rumors, but the Wang elders and grandchildren pretended not to hear. They stood at the gate, waiting until the convoy was out of sight before returning, hearts still pounding.

Who could have thought that Iron Lord would arrive as promised, but among the ox carts was a prison wagon!

The people of Jia She Village had not seen a prison wagon in years.

Its bars were as thick as a leg, the cart broad but low-roofed. The prisoner inside, shackled, could neither stand straight nor squat. Iron Lord explained, the criminal would have to remain half-crouched until reaching the county seat.

Only those guilty of major crimes or murder were sent straight to the county; lesser cases could be judged at the waterside pavilion.

Wang Old Man grew more fearful the more he thought about it—thank goodness last night’s scare passed; had the nearby houses caught fire…

He sternly admonished, “Ge, Tiger Head, Peng, Ai—you saw it, didn’t you? Bad deeds bring retribution! Whether speaking or acting, keep your heart upright! Even if you live poor all your life, never let your heart stray, not even once! Do you hear me?”

“We hear!” Wang Peng and his siblings’ eyes were still swollen, sticking close to their grandfather for comfort.

Wang Old Man, feeling for them, asked deliberately, “Peng, Ai, you’re both so handsome—who braided your hair? More braids than Tiger Head’s ponytail.”

“It was Sister.” Wang Ai, shy, nestled beside Wang Ge.

The yard, finally cleared again, regained its brightness. Wang Dalang fumbled with the clothesline, Wang Old Man about to help, but Wang Ge went over to untie the other side, admiring, “Father is so tall, he can reach up easily. Not like me, even on tiptoe it’s a struggle.”

Wang Dalang laughed, “Leave it be, don’t strain yourself, I’ve already undone this side.”

“Alright!” she replied cheerfully, and truly let it be.

Wang Dalang, holding the rope, shuffled step by step to the other bamboo pole. “By the way, did they complain about our rolling lanterns?”

Wang Old Man could see that his eldest son’s eyes were probably completely blind now. The old man let out a rough sigh, tried to act normal as he spoke, but shook his head, his eyes stinging, his throat tight.

Wang Xing’s mouth was twisted with sorrow, wise beyond his years, spending the most time with his father, and knew before his sister that their father’s vision had failed. The child threw himself at his grandfather, heartbroken, holding back his tears.

Only Wang Ge remained unaffected, winding the clothesline into loops, chattering about home matters: “Don’t worry, Father, all the lanterns were taken, and they praised our workmanship. It’s just that they take up so much space—it took several carts, but the oxen were lively. Also, we used up all the green bamboo, but what about the leftover yellow strips? We can’t just burn them as firewood.”

“That won’t do!”

“How about you try weaving a sieve from these yellow strips?”

“Can it be done?”

“I think it can.”

“If the craft-girl says it can, then it surely can. Ha ha.” It was the first hearty laugh Wang Dalang had let out in the four years since his wife passed away.