Chapter 53: The Tumbling Doll

Early the next morning, Sanlang set out with his father. Wang Erlang accompanied them to the edge of the village, and only when their figures faded into the distance did he finally feel at ease. It seemed his parents truly would not let the Yao woman return just because they pitied their youngest sons. In his previous life, when the Yao woman’s aunt, Yang, came to seek refuge with them, Yao wanted her aunt to have a rightful place in the household and tried to match her with their eldest brother, but he refused decisively.

“Wuu…” The memory was so painful for Wang Erlang that he crouched in the grass and sobbed in silence.

His elder brother’s final days had been so lonely. Misfortune befell the family repeatedly in that previous life; with fewer hands to help, everyone was overwhelmed, and no one had time to look after the eldest brother. He was always cautious—each time he went to the latrine with his cane, he would call out first. That day, he called, but no one answered, so he went inside. Unexpectedly, Yang stormed out, accusing him of tarnishing her reputation. No amount of explanation that his brother was completely blind could change her mind.

Perhaps life was just too bitter. His brother knew that if he agreed to marry Yang, the trouble would end, but even so, he hanged himself that very night.

“Wuu… my poor brother…”

Suddenly, “Ow! Ow, ow!” Wang Erlang felt a sharp pain—he’d been bitten on the backside by a grass snake. Grabbing the snake’s head, he whipped it furiously against the ground, as if taking out his anger on both Yang and Yao, as if to break all ties with the misfortunes of his past life.

He beat it until it was ruined, determined to sever the chain of ill fate.

That evening, the Wang family enjoyed a delicious snake meat stew, celebrating as if it were the New Year. From time to time, Wang Erlang would let out a hiss, though no one could tell if it was from the pain in his backside or from being scalded. As the hero who caught the snake, he received the largest share of meat, second only to his parents. While eating, a sudden thought occurred to him, and he asked Wang Ge, “A-Ge, since pork fat can be fried into cracklings, can we make snake cracklings from snake fat?”

Aunt Jia immediately scolded him, “Still daring to mention that? Wasn’t the last beating enough?”

The younger generation all bowed their heads to stifle their laughter. Little Jia glanced at Wang Ge and said, “Don’t forget to teach Ashu more. I saw how quickly you split those bamboo strips today.”

“I’ll teach her now. I’m done eating—Ashu, come and learn.”

“From me? Alright then.” Wang Shu had no choice but to slide the rest of her food to her brother.

Little Jia remarked, “Is one last bite really that important?” But her daughter had already gone over.

Wang Shu, a meticulous eater, always saved the best morsels for last—so the snake meat was left at the bottom of her bowl. Wang He reached for it happily, but their mother was quicker, taking the bowl and handing it to their father instead.

Little Jia, still thinking of other matters, called out toward the utility shed, “Ashu, study well with your sister. If you become half as skilled as her, we’ll send you to take the artisan’s apprentice exam as well.”

Wang Shu had just answered her mother when, distracted, she cut her hand with the bamboo knife.

Wang Erlang and his wife rushed over at the sound of her cry. Tears streaming down her face, Wang Shu whimpered, “Father, wuu…”

Wang Erlang scolded Little Jia in annoyance, “You can’t keep quiet even at meals! Come, sit here and split bamboo while talking to me—see if you can keep your mind on both tasks!”

Little Jia immediately shrank into herself.

Wang Ge said, “Ashu, don’t cry. Look at my hands—every scar is like a bamboo joint. The more scars, the more I’ve grown and improved.”

Little Jia mouthed silently, “Nonsense!”

Old Wang approached and said, “Well said. Erlang, if you’re going to spoil your daughter and think learning bamboo work is too hard for her, then don’t let her do it. Otherwise, she’ll work hard only to be blamed by you and your wife.”

Wang Erlang quickly shook his head, “Father, you make me sound so bad! How could I ever blame A-Ge? I just… I just…” He couldn’t help but feel sorry for his daughter. In his previous life, she died before he did; in this life, he vowed to cherish her twice as much to ease his regrets.

Wang He brought over a cloth and wrapped his sister’s hand.

Wang Shu, wiping her tears, said, “Grandfather, Father, I want to learn from my sister—I want to. I’m only crying because my hand hurts, not because I feel wronged. And Mother, next time I’m splitting bamboo, could you please not call me? I can’t ignore you, but if I answer, I’ll get distracted and hurt myself. Sister, my hand hurts…”

Little Jia was frustrated—how was it always her fault?

Wang Ge pulled her little sister aside and consoled her, “There, there, come with me. I’ll show you how to treat a wound, because you’re sure to get plenty more cuts and scrapes in the future.”

Little Jia clenched her teeth, her fingernails digging into her palm. If she still didn’t understand that Ge was getting back at her, she must be a fool! How infuriating—she woke before dawn and labored until dusk, yet never found a chance to put Ge in her place.

Time slipped by unnoticed, and soon it was the start of August.

The delivery date to Mr. Feng, the traveling merchant, was approaching. Wang Ge sat in the courtyard, bent over a newly made workbench, weaving bamboo strips. The old bench had a surface too rough for anything but splitting bamboo.

The gourd-shaped lunchboxes were finished. The shell for the "Drunken Immortal Catcher" was also done, with a small round head and a round, bulging body, though the final decorations had yet to be added. Inside, she used river sand as ballast—it was heavier than clay. There was plenty of natural river sand along the banks of the Clear River, so her second uncle brought some home and she selected the finest grains.

The final form of the Drunken Immortal Catcher required adding hair-like strands to the top and a headband. The real challenge lay in weaving the headband—it was so tiny that she had to use homemade fine bamboo needles, employing a “pick two, press two” technique to create a herringbone pattern.

This process demanded intense concentration and strained her eyesight. Every so often, she’d pause to split more bamboo strips, sometimes attempting to mimic old bamboo masters by cutting without looking, which led to the occasional slip of the knife and a cut finger. Even with thick gloves, Wang Xing and the others winced every time she got hurt.

A pile of bamboo brushes had accumulated in the utility shed, a result of her practicing for this project. Through this, Wang Ge gained a deep appreciation for the hardships of veteran bamboo artisans. Relying solely on making bamboo brushes for a living truly meant risking starvation.

Regardless of age, every bamboo craftsman in the village could make these brushes, and the price had long been set—just one coin apiece. Even so, buyers compared quality: whether the strips were finely split, whether only the green outer layer was used. Worse still, when customers bought sauces or oils, the shops threw in a bamboo brush for free!

How did she know these brushes were so hard to sell? Because when Wang Erlang sold wheat in town, he took some along but brought back every single one unsold.

Better to sell them all to Mr. Feng, the merchant.

As usual, Mr. Feng arrived on the fifteenth. Wang Ge invited him into the courtyard, where he was immediately confronted by a mountain of bamboo brushes. His professional composure nearly slipped.

Then his gaze fell on a small table nearby—why was there a food table here?

Old Wang, uneasy, cleared his throat. Anticipating the merchant’s arrival, the old man had tied a kudzu headscarf to match the Drunken Immortal Catcher displayed on the table. Old Wang gently pressed the toy down; as soon as he released it, it sprang back up. Down, up, down, up.

Mr. Feng… strode over in fascination.

Seeing his grandfather still hesitant to give it a firm spin, little Wang Xing pressed his palms together and gave the toy’s “belly” a vigorous rub.

Round and round it spun…

Beside him, Wang Peng cheered, “Whoever the headband points to is a little dog!”

The toy spun and spun, and finally the headband pointed at him.

“Apprentice Wang, what… what is this?” Mr. Feng nervously shielded it with his hands, afraid it might fall off the table. When he got closer and saw the toy never toppled no matter how it spun, his eyes went wide and his tongue was tied. Only then did he notice how much it resembled Old Wang—the headband and exposed hair were all finely woven from bamboo! Exquisite, delicate bamboo!

Wang Ge, smiling, explained, “This object resembles an old man; no matter how you spin it, it doesn’t fall. So it’s called…”

“A Roly-Poly Man, isn’t it? Ha! What a good name, what a fine thing—so catchy, and such good symbolism!” Mr. Feng answered before she could finish, joyfully thumping his leg several times.

Wang Ge… Very well, let’s just call it the Roly-Poly Man.