The moon was bright, casting the reef shore in a sheet of silver white. Zhou Xubai sat on a rock beside the hammock, his back facing the house, his empty right trouser leg rolled up to the top of his thigh. He lowered his head, both hands forcefully kneading his left leg, more precisely, the section above his left knee.
Under the moonlight, the muscles in his arms were taut, sweat beading along his temples. With every press, his shoulders trembled faintly, as though he were enduring immense pain.
Shen Zhiyi held her breath.
She recalled what Granny Lin had said casually that afternoon. “Comrade Zhou’s leg aches whenever the weather turns damp or rainy. A few days ago when the weather changed, I even saw the hand holding his crutch trembling.”
She also remembered how, over the past few days, Zhou Xubai would occasionally pause while walking before continuing as if nothing had happened. She had thought he was simply unaccustomed to using the crutch, but now…
It was painful.
That severed limb, lost in the landmine explosion of 1969, had never truly left him. It remained in the form of pain, returning on nights when the weather changed, reminding its owner of that past.
Zhou Xubai rubbed for about a quarter of an hour before his movements gradually slowed. He let out a long breath, then took out a small metal tin from his chest pocket and scooped out some ointment, applying it to the end of the limb. In the moonlight, the skin there appeared dark, the scars twisted and grotesque, like knots on a withered tree.
After applying the medicine, he rolled down his trouser leg and stood up with his crutch. The moment he rose, his body swayed, but he quickly steadied himself.
He stood under the moonlight for a while, gazing at the sea, motionless.
Then he turned and walked back toward the house.
Shen Zhiyi hurried back to the bed, closed her eyes, and pretended to be asleep. The door opened softly, and Zhou Xubai entered, pausing briefly in front of the cloth curtain. She could feel his gaze resting on her for a few seconds before it moved away.
He went to the table and poured himself a cup of water. The sound of him drinking was soft, but the movement of his throat as he swallowed was unusually clear in the quiet night.
After drinking, he walked to the bed.
Shen Zhiyi’s heart skipped a beat.
But he merely pulled out the wooden box from beneath the bed, took out the weather record notebook, and opened it under the kerosene lamp.
The pencil scratched softly across the paper as he recorded the day’s weather.
Shen Zhiyi secretly opened her eyes a slit and saw the focused expression on his profile. The lamplight flickered across his face, illuminating his tightly pressed lips and the slight furrow of his brow.
He was in pain.
Yet he did not say a single word.
The next day, Shen Zhiyi woke earlier than usual. Moving quietly, she lit the fire and cooked a pot of ginger soup. She had dug up the ginger from a patch of wild ground by the roadside when returning from the supply and marketing cooperative yesterday. It was old ginger, sharp and pungent.
By the time Zhou Xubai woke up, the soup was ready, and the room was filled with its spicy aroma.
“Morning.” Shen Zhiyi filled a bowl and handed it to him. “I… I caught a bit of a chill, so I made some ginger soup. There is extra, would you like a bowl?”
She did not dare look at him as she spoke, the tips of her ears slightly red. The excuse was so clumsy that even she did not believe it. Who would wake up so early to make ginger soup when they were ill?
Zhou Xubai accepted the bowl and looked at the thick soup inside. The ginger slices were cut finely, clearly prepared with care. He was silent for a moment before raising his eyes to look at Shen Zhiyi.
She was lowering her head, stirring her own bowl, her lashes casting a faint shadow beneath her eyes. Her hands were exposed, and the two blisters from yesterday had already been pricked, coated with plant ash, forming a thin scab.
“Thank you,” Zhou Xubai said, his voice slightly hoarse.
Then he lifted the bowl and drank the soup in one go. The spicy liquid slid down his throat, warmth spreading from his stomach through his limbs. When he set the bowl down, he saw the faint curve of a smile at Shen Zhiyi’s lips, like the first light over the sea at dawn.
“Going to Granny Lin’s again today?” he asked.
“Yes.” Shen Zhiyi nodded, finishing her soup as well. “She said my hands are clumsy but my mind is careful. I thought… maybe I can try another method.”
“Another method?”
Shen Zhiyi did not explain, only smiled.
At Granny Lin’s house that day, she did not rush to weave. Instead, she sat and watched for an entire morning, observing Granny Lin’s techniques, the movement of the shuttle, the angle of the thread, every detail of how each mesh was formed.
In the afternoon, she asked for a discarded net, took it apart, and rewove it. But this time, she did not completely copy Granny Lin’s method.
Her father had been a carpenter and often told her, “For craftsmanship, your hands must be skillful and your mind must be flexible. Just because others do it one way does not mean you must follow. Finding the method that suits you best is the real ability.”
Weaving nets and planing wood seemed unrelated, yet Shen Zhiyi discovered they shared something in common. Both relied on touch, rhythm, and an understanding of the material.
Nylon thread was soft, but once pulled tight, it held tension. As the shuttle moved, the tension of the thread changed. Granny Lin relied on years of experience, able to judge it with a single touch. Shen Zhiyi did not have that experience, but she had eyes and a mind.
She tried changing how she held the shuttle, instead of pinching it with her thumb and forefinger like Granny Lin, she wrapped her whole palm around it, as if gripping a plane. This gave her more even control and steadier movement.
She also adjusted the angle of the thread winding. Granny Lin wound it at a slant, but she tried winding it vertically and found the thread stayed straighter, producing more even meshes.
These adjustments were small, and Granny Lin did not notice at first. It was not until the third afternoon, when Shen Zhiyi handed over her finished piece, that Granny Lin’s eyes widened.
The net was not large, but its mesh was astonishingly even. Each diamond shape was precise, identical in size. It was tightly woven, the threads firm, nothing like the loose, limp nets made by beginners.
“You…” Granny Lin held it up to the light again and again. “How did you weave this?”
Shen Zhiyi explained her changes. Granny Lin fell silent for a long time. She picked up a shuttle and tried the method herself, weaving a few meshes before shaking her head. “These old hands cannot change.”
But the way she looked at Shen Zhiyi had changed. It was no longer scrutiny, but something more complex, surprise, approval, and a faint trace of something like envy.
“Your hands are clumsy, but your mind is sharp. With your method, you will weave faster than me,” Granny Lin finally said.
The words quickly spread through the village.
On the fourth day, when Shen Zhiyi returned to Granny Lin’s house, she found several people in the yard. They were all women from the island, some holding shuttles, some carrying thread, their eyes turning toward her as she arrived.
“Little Shen, we heard you have a new way of weaving nets. Teach us, will you?” a round faced woman said, stepping forward.
Shen Zhiyi was momentarily stunned. She looked toward Granny Lin, who sat leisurely in her rattan chair, fanning herself. “Teach them. Skills are not meant to be hidden.”
That afternoon, Shen Zhiyi’s small improvements became a shared lesson among the fishing village women. She guided them hand in hand, showing the new way to hold the shuttle, demonstrating the angle of winding, explaining why it made the work faster and more even.
At first, the women were doubtful, but after trying it, their eyes lit up.
“It really works! My hands do not tire as easily!”
“The mesh is so even, like it has been measured!”
“Little Shen, how does your brain work like this?”