Chapter Four: Little New Year

His mother had been bustling in the kitchen since early morning. Of course, she knew her son's preferences when it came to food, so she hadn't prepared any lavish meat dishes but instead had set out four pure, natural, green offerings: stone-ground tofu, rice wine-infused taro, winter bamboo shoot and Chinese yam soup, and stir-fried mustard greens. The only dish that could be considered “meaty” was something rather unconventional—dried daylily and old duck soup.

This was the authentic taste of farmhouse cooking, which Yiting loved most. Before he returned, he’d specially told her that his friends had similar tastes, so his mother had prepared everything just as he liked.

Amidst her busy preparations, she was also getting ready the items for the Kitchen God ritual. Today was the Little New Year, and there was a tradition here of sending off the Kitchen God to the heavens. According to legend, on the eve of the Little New Year, each household’s Kitchen God would return to heaven to report on the family’s deeds over the past year. To encourage him to speak well of them, the simple villagers would offer meager tributes and light an oil lamp to see him off respectfully.

She was fussing with that oil lamp, her eyesight no longer as keen as it once was. She tried several times but couldn’t quite get the wick through. With a helpless sigh, she carried the lamp to the square altar table in the living room, where the light was better. Just as she left the kitchen and turned into the living room, Yiting and his friends arrived at the door.

The houses in Li Village still retained the ancient wooden style, with three courtyards in succession. Guests typically entered through the living room, where a long, high altar table stood with several ancestral tablets and a Buddhist shrine. His mother had already prepared incense and candles, placing them neatly on the square table.

The long altar table stood against the wall, with the square altar table positioned before it.

When she saw Yiting return, her eyes reddened slightly, but her face soon bloomed with the joy and happiness she could not hide. Silently, she lit a bundle of sandalwood incense. Yiting approached quietly; when his mother handed him the incense, he solemnly bowed three times, after which she took the incense back and placed it, one by one, before each ancestral tablet.

When she returned, she still said nothing for a while. At last, she spoke softly, “Yiting, let’s get ready to eat.”

She turned and walked into the back hall. In the faint light, it seemed she wiped her eyes, but with her back to them, few noticed—or, if they did, they quietly looked away.

Standing at a distant corner, Shen Mingyue could not hold back her tears. She was a sensitive soul, her emotions plain for all to see.

Liu Zichen gently wiped her tears and smiled, “Silly girl, this is a happy day.”

“I know.” Shen Mingyue nodded and quickly broke into a smile.

—

The relatives and neighbors who had come to greet them stayed and chatted for about half an hour before taking their leave. They all lived nearby and understood the need to give space when there were guests.

Li Fuqi was the last to stand up to go, but Yiting would not hear of it. Not only had Fuqi helped the family today, but Yiting genuinely wanted his cousin to stay and chat with his friends from Beiting. His parents were elderly and not talkative; Fuqi, with his stature and eloquence, was the perfect companion.

In Yiting’s mind, he and Li Fuqi had quietly become joint hosts of this family banquet, while Chen Tianyu and the others were the honored guests. It was only natural. He also wanted to seize the chance to share a drink with everyone; with Fuqi present, there’d be no lack of lively conversation.

Fuqi quickly understood and readily agreed.

The most enthusiastic of all was Yiting’s father, Li Qihuai, a true farmer whose face was already flushed before a drop of wine had been poured—he was simply too excited. Farmers could not hide their feelings; every nuance was written clear as day on his face. The old man insisted on personally pouring tea for each guest, declining Fuqi’s help, and as he served each cup, he chatted with everyone, asking after their well-being.

The warm tea, sweetened with bits of rock sugar, was made from wild leaves picked on the local hills, something the two women especially enjoyed; they refilled their cups several times without noticing.

Chen Tianyu watched from the side, a quiet smile on his lips.

He was no stranger to such simple warmth and was entirely at ease.

Li Fuqi was the first to speak. “Brother Yiting, are you still working in the government?”

Before Yiting could answer, his father, Li Qihuai, replied, “He’s been retired for years now.” He turned to his son: “See? You’ve stayed away so long; even your brothers and sisters don’t know what you’re up to.”

Yiting felt a pang of guilt, but he didn’t want to dwell on work matters, nor did he want to worry anyone. Being a detective was dangerous work—apart from his family, he never spoke of it. And this time, he most wanted to just be an ordinary person at home. He knew people would ask, but he’d already prepared his answer.

“Fuqi, working for the government these days is a tough life. I’m a lazy fellow—couldn’t keep up with it long ago. Now I do some relaxed work with a few good friends, things I enjoy…”

Fuqi took him at his word, smiling simply, “Retiring with honor, that’s a fine thing.”

“And what about your wife…?” Fuqi asked offhandedly. Yiting’s father, Li Qihuai, glanced instinctively at Liu Zichen and Shen Mingyue, but both women were focused on their tea, seemingly oblivious.

Yiting blushed and quickly changed the subject. “Hey, Fuqi, are you married yet? I haven’t been a very good brother—haven’t had a chance to ask after you.”

Fuqi grinned, “Not yet. I’ve still got time.”

“It’s about time you thought about it. You gave up your city job—don’t let marriage slip by, too.” Yiting’s words were sincere.

Li Qihuai, seeing his son’s embarrassment, deftly changed the topic. “Yiting, your sister will be back in a few days.”

“Really?” Yiting was grateful for the timely rescue, though his guilt deepened. “Ha, so Li Tian still remembers to come home.”

Li Qihuai chuckled, “She’s more dutiful than you—she never misses a year.”

Yiting rubbed his face in mock shame, “At least she’s got a conscience.”

Just then, his mother passed by and, ever thoughtful, said, “A good man has his ambitions far afield. Old man, why are you rambling on? Come, let’s invite our honored guests to the table.”

“Right, right…” Li Fuqi echoed. “Let’s eat and talk.”

In the countryside, the dining area was part of the kitchen—spacious and open, with a large square table and plenty of room to move, much like a private room in the city.

The table was already set with steaming dishes and several warm flasks of old rice wine.

Seeing the fare, Fuqi couldn’t help but joke, “Second Aunt, are we eating vegetarian today?”

Li Qihuai answered cheerfully, “You know your second brother is picky.”

“Brother Yiting’s style is truly unique,” Fuqi said with feeling, “Good thing I like it, too.”

Everyone laughed and took their seats. Soon, buoyed by the fragrant wine and the warmth of company, the conversation flowed freely.

Chen Tianyu took the opportunity to ask about the Li family. Li Qihuai, feeling a kinship, opened up: he was one of six brothers, each with a large family, making theirs the most prominent household in the village. In Li Village, true authority lay not with the village chief, but with the eldest brother, Li Qisi, who now, in his old age, looked after the ancestral hall and rarely meddled in village affairs. With so few villagers, almost all matters fell to the capable young Fuqi, with only the most important decisions requiring the patriarch’s approval.

The third brother, Li Qiwen, served as the custodian at the Guanyin Temple—a fact Chen Tianyu already knew. Apart from Fuqi, he was the only one in the village addressed as “sir.” The fifth brother, Li Qiumao, was a master carpenter; nearly every wooden house in the village was his handiwork. The youngest, Li Qiubin, was both a carpenter’s helper and a skilled farmer.

Chen Tianyu was about to ask why no one mentioned the fourth brother when Fuqi explained, “My father was the fourth, Li Qiuyuan. He passed away when I was very young.” After so many years, there was no great sadness in his tone.

Li Qihuai nodded, “The fourth was a man of many talents, respected by all. Luckily, Fuqi has lived up to his father—he’ll surpass him yet.”

The others all raised their cups in agreement.

During the meal, Kuang Suo, who had been silent until now, suddenly asked, “Why isn’t Yiting of the Fu generation?”

Li Qihuai, a little tipsy, replied, “When Yiting was born, the village had just built a beautiful water pavilion, so I gave him that as a nickname. His formal name is Li Fuyan—you probably never heard him mention it.”

Everyone burst into laughter, and Yiting scratched his head, joining in with a hearty drink.

—

As dusk fell, winter nights came early, and the countryside grew dark and still, save for the dim lanterns glowing before each house.

At noon, the meal had been light, mindful of the guests’ travel fatigue. But in the evening, there was no avoiding the killing of chickens and geese, and a spread of rich dishes—his mother had thought of everything.

The Li house was spacious, a two-story building with more than enough rooms for the six guests; only the two women insisted on sharing. Shen Mingyue could not help but sigh at how comfortable it was to have so much space in the country.

Content and full, everyone soon washed off the dust of travel and settled in to enjoy a rare moment of peace.

Only Yiting lay awake, unable to calm his excitement. He was no longer young and was usually the most composed among them, but now more than anyone, he felt like a child again, longing to rest in this safe harbor. Peace and contentment were rare luxuries for him.

No wonder, he thought, people say the stronger you are, the harder it is to resist the call of home.

He tossed and turned for a while before getting up, intending to talk with his mother. He found her in the kitchen, still struggling with the lamp wick she hadn’t managed to thread through the tiny hole.

Yiting’s nose tingled. He took the needle from her and, with ease, finished the task.

His mother sighed, “I’m getting old.”

But there was no sorrow on her face—she deftly poured half a cup of tea oil into the lamp and set it on the stove, her movements swift and sure.

A sharp strike, the familiar sound of a match, a wisp of smoke rising.

The lamp lit, she picked up the shade and gently covered the flame. The yellow light glowed softly, tinged with red. The shade, open at top and bottom, was made of bamboo and oiled paper, each side painted with intricate designs and words: “May a hundred sons attain success,” “Triumph in three generations,” images of deities, zodiac animals, all vivid and lifelike in the lamp’s glow.

Unhurried, she arranged the offerings before the lamp and set out a container of rice for the incense. Yiting helped her light a pair of candles, and then, after the candles were set, he lit several sticks of incense. First, he bowed before the stove, placed three sticks, then went to the living room and the front door, bowing and placing incense at each spot.

The motions came naturally, no matter how many years had passed.

When he returned, his mother was already burning joss paper at the stove, her lips murmuring prayers—words meant for the Kitchen God to carry to heaven. Yiting never knew what they were.

As the last paper burned, she turned the ashes with iron tongs. Shining black fragments drifted gently in the breeze, falling silently to the ground.

One oil lamp, two candles, three curling threads of smoke—this was home, the place that haunted his dreams.

He called softly, “Mom…”

“It’s enough that you’re home,” she replied quietly. “Today is the Little New Year.”

Yiting took her wrinkled hand in his own, the familiar warmth spreading through his palm.

“This time, I’ll try to stay a few more days,” he promised.

She smiled, “I know my son. As long as you don’t neglect your duties.”

Suddenly, she remembered something.

“Have you met a girl you like?”

This time, Yiting could not hide the truth. “I have… but it didn’t work out.”

She nodded. “Marriage is fate—it can’t be forced.”

“Don’t worry, Mom. I’ll make sure to find you a good daughter-in-law.”

“There’s no rush,” she whispered.

They fell silent, sitting together in peace. The fire in the stove flickered, and the water in the pot began to boil, sending up clouds of steam. The rich aroma of something delicious filled the house—his mother was stewing another dish, preparing a feast for her beloved son.