Chen Yang checked it carefully. The foul-smelling, sticky liquid clinging to the branches was somewhat transparent, resembling egg white.
Could it be that a pheasant had laid its egg in the bushes? It didn't seem like it. Wild birds are cunning; they wouldn't cause a mess near their own nests.
Driven by curiosity, Chen Yang parted the bushes. By the moonlight, he saw several white, fingernail-sized objects on the grass inside. Upon closer inspection, they turned out to be eggshells. However, judging from their small size, they looked like the eggs of a bird such as a pigeon.
Chen Yang understood: the pheasants must have discovered the eggs and been happily pecking at them. It would have been nice to find bird eggs in the mountains. What a pity—the pheasants had pecked all the eggs open, leaving only broken eggshells scattered on the ground.
Just as Chen Yang was about to leave, the bushes at his feet suddenly moved. Was there something else? Fearing it was a snake, he stood up decisively and stomped his foot on the ground. Snakes in the mountains usually stay far away when they hear such a noise—unless you encounter a cobra. If you dare to stomp your foot then, it will stand right in front of you, and all you can do is pray for good fortune.
Chen Yang dared to stomp his foot because he knew that even if it was a snake, it wouldn't be venomous. Since the commotion was right at his feet, a venomous snake would have already attacked him.
After waiting for a while, there was no further movement. Chen Yang then parted the bushes at his feet. At the sight, his eyes widened instantly and his breathing became heavy.
In the white, hazy moonlight, a wild bird with gray feathers, a round head, and a thin beak lay on the grass. Why was it called a "wild bird"? Because it was smaller than a pigeon and had more mottled plumage, making it look unremarkable. But Chen Yang recognized it at a glance: it was a spotted dove!
It wasn't very big—probably only weighing about half a pound. But don't underestimate this small dove; eating it is good for the eyes (especially for the elderly) and has a calming effect.
These birds usually stay in their tree nests at night, so how did this one end up in the bushes? The dove at his feet lay motionless on the grass, as if it were dead. Chen Yang was curious, so he reached out and touched it—and it really was dead.
He examined it carefully. The dove had lost many feathers, and there were peck marks on its neck. It seemed the pheasants had been startled by the dove and had even killed it. Chen Yang felt very lucky—unexpectedly, on his first night, he had encountered such a windfall.
That was enough for tonight. Dawn would come soon. It was only March or April, and the temperature in the deep mountains was surprisingly low in the morning. Chen Yang was only wearing a thin white undershirt; when the mountain wind blew, he got goosebumps all over. He didn't dare stay in the mountains until dawn.
So he quickly turned around, tied the plump pheasant tightly with a branch, picked up the dove, and went down the mountain.
Returning to his childhood home, he entered the earthen-walled courtyard. Chen Yang first looked at his parents' room and saw that the two elders had already turned off the lights—they must be asleep. He then looked at Lin Anyu's room; the lights were off and there was no sound. The entire courtyard was quiet.
Chen Yang stood in front of Lin Anyu's door for a while, then sighed softly. He then felt his way in the dark to the kitchen in the southeast corner of the yard.
The Chen family's kitchen was low and small. At 1.8 meters tall, Chen Yang had to hunch over to squeeze to the edge of the stove. He opened the cabinet on the stove and noticed a large porcelain bowl upside down where the bowls were kept. When he lifted the bowl, he found a dish of cold houttuynia salad.
Houttuynia (or "fishgrass") is a unique food in the southwest. It smells fishy, but tastes delicious. Mixed with chili peppers and sesame oil, it becomes a refreshing cold dish. However, in those days, this was practically a daily dish for the Chen family—because it was spicy enough to pair with a little vegetable broth and a few steamed coarse flour buns, which made up their daily meals. There was no oil or meat; they relied entirely on houttuynia for flavor.
Chen Yang rummaged through the drawers and cabinets for a while, only to find a small bowl of leftover oil residue from the New Year's feast—something his mother had carefully placed at the back of the cabinet. He felt a pang of sadness.
He put the pheasant down, took the dove to his room, then went to the firewood pile under the courtyard wall, grabbed some dry firewood, and brought it to the kitchen. By the 1980s, city dwellers were already using honeycomb briquettes, but in rural areas, people still generally burned firewood.
Chen Yang started boiling water, cleaned and gutted the pheasant, and decided to cook a pot of pheasant soup before dawn to improve his family's meal. The firewood crackled, and the water in the pot boiled. As the sky began to lighten with the first rays of dawn, a steaming pot of fragrant pheasant soup was ready in the large, dark pot on the stove.
To make the soup even more delicious, Chen Yang cut up several white radishes his father had been drying in the yard and threw them into the pot. The only downside was that the radishes were a bit wilted—his father had planned to pickle them into kimchi to eat with coarse flour buns. But Chen Yang didn't want to eat kimchi, and he especially didn't want to eat coarse flour. He wanted to use his own hands to ensure his family enjoyed a good life from now on.
The pheasant soup smelled incredibly delicious. Even Chen Yang, who was used to eating delicacies, couldn't help but drool. But he simply covered the pot tightly with the lid to prevent the aroma from escaping. In that era, if a family in the village ate meat, it was easy to arouse envy. Chen Yang understood the principle of keeping a low profile. He just wanted to make a fortune quietly, take good care of his parents, and make up for the regrets of his previous life.
So he didn't touch the pot of soup. As dawn broke, he slipped back into his room, intending to take a quick nap to recharge before planning his next hunting trip.
In Niujiawan, the first rooster crows heralded the dawn. Chen Yuanchao rolled out of bed, ready to start his day's work. The Chen family had two acres of land planted with sweet potatoes, and it was time to harvest them. His wife, Liu Shufang, also got up.
The elderly couple walked into the courtyard and first glanced at Lin Anyu's room a few times. Seeing no movement, they weren't sure if she was awake.
"Why don't you stay home these few days and look after Anyu?" Chen Yuanchao suggested to Liu Shufang. "She has a fiery temper—don't let her do anything foolish."
"Can you manage all the work in the fields by yourself?" Liu Shufang asked. "You're so old now—do you still think you're a young man in his twenties with endless energy?"
She knew that harvesting sweet potatoes from two acres of land would yield several thousand kilograms. In the past, she and her husband had worked day and night for several days to finish. Now only Chen Yuanchao would be working in the fields, and he was getting old. She guessed he would be exhausted by the time he finished.