60s: I have a store

Chapter 604 The Lively Back Mountain

Zhou Yimin moved the kerosene lamp closer, and its dim yellow light immediately enveloped the two ginseng roots on the table.

He held his finger above the dark red ginseng whiskers, examining them closely as if he were appreciating an antique.

The fine spiral patterns on the main root are clearly visible, the stem scars on the rhizome are arranged in a neat and orderly manner, and even the forked ends of the ginseng rootlets exude a natural charm, gleaming with a warm luster under the flickering lamplight.

He gently parted the ginseng whiskers with tweezers, and after confirming that there were no signs of breakage or insect damage, he finally breathed a sigh of relief—this was indeed a high-quality wild ginseng.

Turning around, he pulled out a tin box from the bottom of the wooden cabinet in the inner room, peeled back layers of oil paper, and neatly arranged the glossy cured meat.

Zhou Yimin took out the largest rope, and as it pierced through the flesh, it made a rustling sound, and the salty aroma immediately filled the room.

He placed the meat on the steelyard, and the weight slid slowly along the steelyard until it came to a steady stop at a certain mark.

"Dahu, weigh it. If there are no problems, we're even." Zhou Yimin handed over the scale beam, the metal hook gleaming coldly under the light.

The north wind outside the window suddenly picked up and became fierce, rattling the window paper, but it couldn't drown out Zhou Dahu's rapid breathing.

Zhou Dahu stared at the mountain of cured meat piled on the cutting board, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down.

It weighed a full five or six pounds, two or three times more than he had expected.

"No need, Uncle Sixteen, I believe you." His voice trembled as he hurriedly reached out to take the meat. His rough fingers touched the still-warm oil paper, and he suddenly felt his eyes welling up with tears.

The ginseng hidden in the inner pocket of his cotton-padded jacket was long gone, but the heavy flesh filled his chest with a sense of security.

Zhou Dahu now has only one thought: to take this meat back to his wife to help her recover.

"Be careful on the road." Zhou Yimin watched as the boy hugged the meat tightly to his chest, as if protecting a rare treasure, and walked towards the door.

Moonlight streamed through the doorway, casting a long shadow behind Zhou Dahu. The shadow, along with the aroma of cured meat and ginseng, blended into the quiet winter night of Liangjiazhuang.

The copper hookah made a dull thud as it hit the octagonal table, and the old man's cloudy eyes were fixed on the red silk cloth that Zhou Yimin had spread out.

Three ginseng roots curled up on the silk, their dark red tendrils stretching out like coral branches, gleaming with a warm light under the kerosene lamp.

His age-spotted hands unconsciously rubbed the armrests of the wicker chair, his Adam's apple bobbing beneath his loose skin, making him look like an old bee guarding a honey pot.

"Grandpa, do you want it?" Zhou Yimin followed the old man's gaze and suddenly burst out laughing.

The old man's dry lips twitched when his thoughts were exposed, like an old cat whose tail had been stepped on.

He spun the pipe twice in his palm before slamming it heavily onto the blue brick floor, sending a few sparks flying: "You little brat, asking so many questions!"

"Grandpa, what are you going to do with this?" Zhou Yimin deliberately dragged out his words, his fingertips swirling around the ginseng whiskers.

"You're not planning to use it for a bar, are you?" Before the words were finished, the old man choked abruptly, his coughing so loud it caused plaster to crumble and fall from the walls.
He spat out thick phlegm into the enamel basin, wiped his mouth, and pointed his cracked fingers at his grandson's nose: "You little rascal, your belly is full of roundworms!"

Grandma Zhou Yimin then said, "Even if Yimin didn't say it, I could guess that you only have a few hobbies."

The old man smiled somewhat awkwardly: "Yimin, just tell me if it's okay or not!"

Zhou Yimin looked at the three ginseng roots arranged on the silk.

The largest ginseng root is plump, with veins like the rings of a tree etched by time; the other two are slightly slender, but their rootlets are still intact.

Remembering Zhou Dahu's hardship in digging ginseng in the snow, and glancing at the old man's anxious look as he stroked his pipe, he sighed inwardly: "Alright, but only one ginseng can be used!"

"Success! Success!" The old man immediately perked up, his withered fingers reaching eagerly for the ginseng, but he suddenly stopped when he touched the ginseng whiskers.

A flicker of hesitation crossed his cloudy eyes, but in the end he picked up only the thinnest one, as if holding fragile glass: "This one, this one."

Suddenly, the kerosene lamp burst into flames, illuminating his gaping tooth and the smile that filled his wrinkles, as if he could already smell the medicinal fragrance wafting from the wine jars next year.

Zhou Yimin then said, "Grandpa, what's the rush? I'll go get some wine in a couple of days and just soak it up!"

The old man realized that with such a severe food shortage, there was simply no extra grain to brew wine, so he could only get wine from Zhou Yimin.

Zhou Dahu ran home against the cold wind. The cured meat in his arms was slightly softened by his body heat, and the aroma of oil seeped through the oil paper, making it especially tempting in the chilly air.

When the door was pushed open, the wooden shaft made a grating creaking sound. Under the dim light of the kerosene lamp, his wife was sitting on the kang (a heated brick bed) sewing shoe soles, her heavily pregnant figure casting a swaying shadow on the wall.

"Why did it take you so long to get back?" His wife looked up and saw the snow on his shoulders and his flushed face, her tone tinged with reproach.

Zhou Dahu didn't bother to reply. He rushed to the stove, lifted the lid, and added water to the pot. The flames licked the bottom of the pot, making his eyes shine: "Wife, hurry up and start the fire! We're having meat tonight!"

The wife froze, the shoe sole in her hand falling with a thud onto the kang (a heated brick bed). She stared at the oil paper package her husband pulled from his pocket, and at the pork belly revealed after the layers were opened, her eyes instantly reddening.

"Where did this meat come from? Could it be..." Before she could finish speaking, Zhou Dahu had already pressed her down onto the small stool in front of the stove, rolled up his sleeves, and started cutting the meat himself: "It's from Uncle Sixteen, so you can eat it without worry!"

Zhou Dahu's wife gripped the chipped ceramic bowl tightly, her knuckles turning white from the force, the rim of the bowl leaving deep red marks on her palm.

Under the dim light of a kerosene lamp, the pork belly stacked on the cutting board glistened with oil, the fat trembling slightly, a thin layer of white frost condensing in the cold air.

She took a sudden half-step forward, nearly dropping the ceramic bowl, her voice trembling uncontrollably: "Big Tiger! This...this must weigh ten pounds, right? How could Uncle Sixteen give so much meat?!"

A dry swallowing sound came from her throat, and beneath her swollen eyelids from pregnancy, her gaze was fixed on the lump of flesh, as if it were a precious treasure that could save her life.

She staggered and grabbed the stove for support, her rough apron clattering against the spatula: "Could it be... you've gotten into some trouble?"

Zhou Dahu stomped the snow off his feet, leaving dark marks on the muddy ground from his cotton shoes.

Looking at his wife's growing belly, he recalled the ecstasy of finding ginseng in the snow and felt a warmth in his heart: "I didn't find the ginseng in the back mountain; all this meat was traded for ginseng."

As he spoke, he pulled out half a piece of oil paper used to wrap meat from the inside pocket of his cotton-padded jacket; it was still covered in fresh dirt.

The wife's tense shoulders suddenly relaxed, and the ceramic bowl clattered against the edge of the stove with a crisp sound.

Her fingers gripped the front of her husband's cotton-padded coat tightly, her voice trembling with tears: "My God! The ginseng was exchanged... You scared me to death!"

Hot tears fell onto Zhou Dahu's hand. She reached out and touched her husband's chapped cheeks, her fingertips rubbing against the frostbite covered with a thin scab, her heart aching: "Does your hand still hurt?"

After saying that, he put Zhou Dahu's hand into his own chest to warm it.

Zhou Dahu squatted down and gently placed his rough palm on his wife's high, protruding belly, where he could feel faint fetal movements.

The twelve pounds of meat glistened enticingly in the earthenware basin, its aroma blending with the warm glow of the dim kerosene lamp in the room.

"Wife, with these twelve pounds of meat, I believe you'll have enough nutrition throughout your pregnancy." His voice was deep and resolute, and his breath condensed into tiny droplets of mist between them.

The wife was stirring the batter in a chipped earthenware bowl when she heard this, her hand trembled violently, and the wooden spoon hit the rim of the bowl with a crisp sound. She stared at her husband in disbelief. In the dim light, the frostbite on Zhou Dahu's cheeks was tinged with purple-red, and there was still dirt on the shoulders of his cotton-padded jacket from digging for ginseng.

In this woman's mind, the best food should always go to a man.

As Aunt Wang next door always says, "Men are the pillars of the family; only when they are well-fed can they support the family."

Whatever good food she has at home, she always gives it to her husband first, and she just eats what's left over.

"Dahu, you should eat this meat." She hurriedly put down the bowl, her rough fingers twisting her faded apron.

"You went into the mountains before dawn; you need more nutrition than I do."

Before she could finish speaking, Zhou Dahu suddenly reached out and pressed down on her icy hand, the warmth of his palm seeping through the rough cloth: "Nonsense! You're carrying our child in your belly, that's the lifeblood of the whole family!"

The wife's eyes instantly reddened, and hot tears fell onto the backs of their clasped hands.

She thought of Qiaozhen in the village who went to work in the fields right after giving birth, and of her sister-in-law's health problems stemming from only drinking thin porridge during her postpartum period. Her throat tightened: "Women shouldn't be so delicate."

Before she could finish speaking, Zhou Dahu had already broken off a piece of fatty and lean cured meat and stuffed it into her palm: "With me, you should be pampered!"

Zhou Dahu's wife could no longer hold back her tears, which flowed directly down her cheeks. She was extremely grateful that she had chosen a wonderful husband.

Outside, the cold wind howled, rattling against the windowpanes covered with newspaper, while inside, the temperature was hotter than a stove fire.

The next day, as the wooden door of Zhou Dahu's mud-brick house was being pounded on with deafening force, the cured meat in the pot was bubbling and sizzling with oil.

The rising aroma, mixed with the smell of firewood, wafted out from under the door, making the villagers gathered outside the courtyard feel a tightness in their throats.

Aunt Li stood on tiptoe, prying at the broken fence, her bamboo basket containing half a cornbread mixed with bran: "Big Tiger's wife, I heard your family traded over ten kilograms of meat?"

Before he could finish speaking, Wang the Cripple, leaning on his crutch, squeezed to the front, his pipe bobbing against the doorframe: "Brother Da Hu, give me a hint, how exactly did you find that ginseng?"

Zhou Dahu wiped his apron as he emerged from behind the stove and saw that the yard was crowded with people.

The winter sun slanted across everyone's faces, revealing envy, eagerness, and above all, an undisguised longing.

He rubbed the grease off his hands, twirling his bamboo pipe in his palm twice: "It's right there, near the old pine forest on the back mountain, in that patch of withered bushes next to the cliff."

These words were like a firecracker exploding. The crowd fell silent for a moment, then erupted into a buzz of discussion.

Old Zhao didn't even bother to pick up his pipe that had fallen to the ground; he grabbed his grandson and ran out of the village. Zhang's wife shoved the crying baby in her arms into her mother-in-law's arms and stumbled forward on the icy stone path.

In less than the time it takes to drink half a cup of tea, the dirt road was filled with hurried figures, their cotton-padded coats fluttering in the cold wind, startling the crows on the old locust tree at the village entrance.

The silence of the back mountain was completely shattered. The "crack" of shovels digging into the frozen soil, the "snap" of dry branches breaking, and shouts echoed through the valley.

Some people lay on the snow, digging at the withered grass, their frozen fingers scratched and bleeding from the thorns; others were digging haphazardly with hoes, sending snow and mud flying everywhere.

In the past, the desolate corners where only wild animals left their footprints were now crowded with villagers who were breathing out white vapor and searching with their heads down. Even the steepest rock crevices on the cliff edge were being climbed and explored by people, as if every inch of land held a treasure that could change their destiny.

The biting north wind swept snowflakes across the cliff face, tearing the sound of the pine trees on the back mountain into pieces.

Men, women, and children of Zhoujiazhuang, bundled up in bulky cotton-padded coats, scattered through the woods, their breath instantly condensing into frost flowers.

Old Zhao leaned on his jujube wood cane, squinting his cloudy eyes as he scanned the ground inch by inch. His chapped fingers rummaged through the pile of dry grass, and his coarse cloth gloves were soon covered with mud and snow.

The young Zhang knelt down on the ground, scraping away layers of snow. His nose, red from the cold, almost touched the frozen ground, and his breath created a white mist on the ice.

"There's a hole here!" a shout suddenly erupted from the crowd.

A dozen or so figures rushed over immediately, their shovels and hoes striking the frozen ground with a series of rapid sounds.

When they dug down half a foot and found only half a piece of rotten wood, everyone sighed in disappointment.

A cold wind took the opportunity to blow into their collars, and someone shivered, wrapping their patched-up scarf tighter.

As the sun gradually set in the west, the shadows stretched longer and longer through the woods.

Aunt Li's bamboo basket contained only a few broken, withered branches. She stamped her numb feet and looked at her husband, who was still lingering on the edge of the cliff in the distance: "Dad, let's go home! This wind is chilling to the bone!"

Before the words were finished, a child's cry came from afar—Wang's grandson had slipped and fallen between the rocks, hitting his forehead and bleeding.

The crying was like a thorn, piercing everyone's tense nerves.

As dusk settled over the ridge, the crowd began to thin out and start walking back.

Some people kicked at the pebbles by the roadside, dejected, the sound of shovels clashing echoing in the empty valley. Others, still unwilling to give up, kept turning back every three steps, their cotton shoes leaving long tracks in the snow.

The cold wind swept past their messy footprints, and soon covered everything with fresh snow.

The back hill returned to silence, with only a few stubborn pine branches swaying in the wind, as if mocking this futile fervor.

As dusk settled, it gradually seeped into every crevice of the back mountain.

The villagers of Zhoujiazhuang dragged their weary bodies back home, the clanging of shovels and hoes echoing in the cold air, mixed with their heavy breathing.

Old Zhao's pipe had long since gone out, but now he tapped it restlessly in his palm, the sparks landing on the frosty, withered grass and disappearing in an instant.

"This is strange!" Zhang Er's wife broke the silence first. The bamboo basket in her arms was empty, with a few strips of cloth torn by thorns hanging from the edge.

"We dug for a whole day, searching every crevice in the rocks, but we didn't even find a single ginseng root!" These words were like a pebble thrown into a deep pool, immediately stirring up a thousand waves.

A chorus of agreement rose from the crowd, the cold wind carrying the discussions, swirling among the bare branches.

Wang the Cripple slammed his cane heavily on the icy stone pavement: "I knew it! That kid Da Hu looks honest on the surface, but who knows what he's up to!"

His cloudy eyes swept over the crowd. "So many people have searched high and low and still can't find it. Could this be the place he's talking about?"

These words instantly brought tears to the eyes of several people who had been skeptical. Aunt Li, clutching her frozen hands, said with a hint of reproach in her voice, "That's right! If it were really in the old pine forest, how come we couldn't even find a trace of it?"

The more they talked, the more excited they became, and their steps unconsciously slowed down.

As the moonlight climbed to the treetops, the group came to a complete stop under the old locust tree at the village entrance. The tree's shadow stretched and writhed on the snow, as if echoing the crowd's suspicions.

Some people started doing the math: "The back mountain isn't that big. Even if it's hidden deep, with so many people searching like a carpet, it should leave some clues."

(End of this chapter)