Chapter 51: Bamboo Brush Unveils the Silk

As the well-trodden earth road stretched on, the acrid stench drifted ever eastward. The trees blocking the way had all been sawn down, then uprooted, the ground left spotless and the foundation packed firm. The Tie brothers, who loved to squat by trees, found nowhere to hide and could only wrap their mouths and noses with coarse cloth.

At that moment, Tie Feng asked, “Have you found out about the rolling lanterns?”

Tie Lei replied, “Yes. Uncle Yan said the man is called Jia Feng, a local landlord. He first sent his tenants to inquire about the murder of the bonded servant, then chased after the matter to the township office, bribed the clerks there, and tried to discover who bought this batch of rolling lanterns. Hmph, he has no sense of propriety. If he meddles again, I’ll chop him up myself!”

“If Uncle Yuan Yan has already told you this much, he’s reminding us that he’s taken over Jia Feng’s affairs.”

“That’s what he meant?”

“What else? The man’s practically stepped on your face and yet you still haven’t realized it.” Tie Feng suddenly glanced toward the right, at a thatched shed, sensing someone was watching them from that direction. But under the shed were only the young master and Liu Xiaolang; the three township soldiers in the distance were familiar to him, and Uncle Yuan Yan was nowhere to be seen.

Tie Lei raised his voice, sighing, “Who’d have thought Ren Suozhi would have such a handsome nephew? The young master spent just one day with him in the wild hills, and it’s as if they were old friends.”

“You’ve said that at least ten times,” Tie Feng retorted.

Tie Lei lowered his voice, “What’s wrong with you? This is strategy! The more suspicious you act, the more pleased Uncle Yuan Yan becomes. We should pretend he doesn’t exist and leave him hanging. Once he’s bored with being ignored, he’ll show himself.”

Tie Feng, exasperated, clapped his brother on the shoulder and advised, “Never assume others are like you. Uncle Yuan Yan won’t be pleased just because people ignore him. And next time you use a strategy, don’t let ‘I am using a strategy’ be written all over your face.”

Tie Lei rubbed his face. “Is it that obvious?”

Inside the shed, Huan Zhen and Liu Bo knelt facing each other, each with a piece of black stone before them. The black stones were found in the wild hills; Liu Bo wanted to learn inkstone carving, and Huan Zhen happened to have some experience.

Huan Zhen taught Liu Bo that the first step in making an inkstone is to sketch its shape. Naturally unrestrained, he recalled that when he found this piece of black stone, a white cloud shaped like a boat sailing on water drifted across the sky. So, with a charred stick, he outlined the form of a boat.

As he put down the stick, he noticed that Liu Bo was using a travel brush.

Huan Zhen wanted it.

Jiashe Village was remote. Even if he longed to try cooking oil cracklings the way Brother Wang described, he’d still have to ask Tie Lei to spend a whole day traveling to the township to buy pork fat. But travel brushes couldn’t be bought in the township, for brushes were easy to make, but ink was not.

Huan Zhen left and soon returned, holding a “pipa tube” he’d fashioned just yesterday. He shot a small wild fruit at the thatched roof. The fruit, hardly bigger than a fingernail and newly formed in the wild hills, looked like a tiny pumpkin. To use such a wild fruit, he’d chosen a fine bamboo tube for his “pipa tube.” “Brother Bo, this is a pipa tube. Will you trade it for your travel brush?”

At the same time, Wang Ge was smilingly asking, “Elder, you must have your own unique skills. Would you teach me?”

This “elder” was none other than the old bamboo craftsman, tenant of the Jia landlord.

It was no surprise to Wang Ge that someone would come seeking bamboo weaving advice after only two days. Though the craftsman worked only with bamboo, some only made everyday wares, others only delicate pieces; few mastered both. The old bamboo craftsman clearly belonged to the former.

He could produce bamboo strips matching the bamboo’s grain, but was so slow that even working all day he couldn’t split many. The Jia landlord was adept at exploiting the poor, earning from the sale of these strips. But taking this job meant his own farm chores were neglected.

The old man stammered his request, but no matter how pitiful, Wang Ge couldn’t just teach her skills to anyone who asked. Thus, her polite inquiry. She was willing to share techniques for using the scraper, but the other party had to show sincerity; after twenty years of bamboo work, he must have some unique skill.

“I can make bamboo brushes,” he said, and from the basket on his back took out a bamboo knife and a foot-long bamboo tube. He shifted to a squat, set the tube before him, split it in two, and began, “My family has done this for generations. When I first learned, I was so happy, thinking this skill would keep me fed. Later, I realized that no matter how sturdy or quick the work, what’s the use? A bamboo brush can last two years without breaking. When my grandmother starved to death, the starving rats weren’t even afraid of people—they gnawed on her. My grandfather threw every bamboo brush in the house at them. Later, he starved too.”

He didn’t let his hands idle as he spoke. Soon he had split the tube into strips—this step was called “opening the bamboo strips.”

Each strip was about a finger’s width.

The next step was to split each strip into filaments—true filaments!

First, he divided each strip into two layers, tossing the inner layer back into the basket, unused. He fell silent, gripped the lower end of the green bamboo strip, and with lightning speed, cut it into more than twenty filaments in a single, steady breath.

To demonstrate his skill, he kept his eyes fixed ahead, never glancing down. This was “blind splitting.”

After the demonstration, he finished splitting all the strips, tossed the waste into his basket, bundled the green filaments with more strips, and wove and bound the lower ends into a bamboo brush. “A gift for Craftsman Wang.”

Afterward, the old craftsman worked in the Wang family’s yard all day, only leaving gratefully at sunset. Wang Ge spent the morning weaving mats, sewed a hemp glove at noon, and in the afternoon, with the glove on her left hand, practiced quick splitting as the old man had instructed. She was struck by the bamboo knife countless times, but thanks to her experience in a previous life and the protection of the coarse cloth, her hand did not bleed.

When Wang Shu finished preparing dinner, she called from the kitchen door, “Sister Cong, I’m done now.”

Only then did Wang Ge put down her work. As always, she first went over to say, “Thank you, Cousin,” then, “Once I master making bamboo brushes, I’ll teach you.”

“Alright!” Wang Shu replied, delighted.

Wang Xing was already helping her elder sister sort the bamboo strips. Wang Ge put her tools away in the main room, then stowed the work stool in the storeroom.

Recently, Wang Peng had become close with Wang Xing and now joined her in shaking out the bamboo scraps from the straw mats.

Madam Jia and Wang He, urged by Second Brother Wang, came to move the dining table and happened to block Wang Ge at the door. Facing her eldest son, she glanced sidelong at Wang Ge and said, “See that? Your sister is just a fool—tricked into learning a trade. How long has it been? All she’s learned is obedience and doing chores for others.”

“Then don’t learn,” Wang Ge replied coldly.

“Oh, so now you’ve got an answer for everything!” Madam Jia’s temper had been simmering for days. “Your cousin cooks and works the fields from morning till night—are you blind? Blind? You make her work for you without a care! How did the main branch end up with such a troublesome, worthless wretch as you? You know Wang Shu is honest, so you take advantage of her. Aren’t you afraid of retribution?”

“If you haven’t suffered retribution, why should I be afraid?”

“What did you say?” Wang He, unwilling to let his mother be insulted, shoved Wang Ge. The boy’s strength sent her tumbling into the pile of sundries behind, making her cry out in pain.

Madam Jia gasped in fright—scolding was one thing, but real violence put her at a disadvantage. She immediately dragged Wang He back to move the dining table, calling out as she went, “Wang Ge, if you’re not working, don’t block the way! Don’t blame us if you get yourself hurt!”

Wang Ge got up. After a whole day splitting bamboo, her hands had remained unscathed, but now she was bleeding from a knock. When Wang He saw the blood, he panicked. Just two days ago he’d been beaten by his father, and now he was in trouble again—what should he do?

Mother and son carried the table outside. Madam Jia glanced back into the storeroom, where, in the dimness, Wang Ge’s eyes flashed with a cold, fierce light at Wang He.

Madam Jia patted her son’s shoulder reassuringly, then, returning to the storeroom, whispered into Wang Ge’s ear, “This time I was careless. If you want revenge on Ah He, I’ll have no choice but to take it out on Wang Xing.” Then she exclaimed loudly, “Oh dear, how did you hurt your hand? Don’t move, child—let your aunt find you some cloth to wrap it up.”