Early summer rains had been unusually heavy. After several downpours, Qinglong Mountain behind Xiangyang Brigade had become lush and verdant, and the mountain streams were swelling. Normally gentle rivers had risen significantly, their waters rushing swiftly, carrying a muddy, earthy brown.
That night, another sudden torrential rain poured down without warning. Lightning flashed, thunder roared, wind howled, and raindrops pelted the roofs and ground with terrifying force. Mu Yao woke from sleep, the roof of the woodshed leaking in several places, droplets falling onto the kang and floor. She tried catching them with old bowls, curling up in a barely dry corner of the kang, wrapping herself tightly in the quilt, listening to the raging wind and rain outside, feeling an inexplicable unease.
Later in the night, the rain eased, but a low, continuous rumbling came from afar—like countless boulders rolling, or the earth itself exhaling. It wasn’t thunder. Mu Yao’s heart leapt. She remembered overhearing Aunt Zhang chatting during the day, saying that the soil in the back mountain gully was loose, and with so many days of rain, something might go wrong.
At first light, the rain had fully stopped, but the ominous rumbling seemed even clearer. A sharp whistle pierced the morning quiet, followed by the deputy captain’s hoarse shouting through the wet air:
“Flash flood in the back mountain gully! It hit the livestock pen! All able-bodied, grab your tools and hurry to the rescue!”
The livestock pen?!
Mu Yao’s mind buzzed as if struck by a heavy hammer. She almost tumbled off the kang, hastily pulling on her wet, cold clothes and shoes, and rushed out of the woodshed. Outside, chaos reigned. People ran in panic, shouting, carrying hoes and picks toward the back of the village. The muddy roads were full of puddles, and the sky was a menacing gray.
She followed the crowd, treading cautiously, until she reached the back mountain gully. The sight made her gasp.
What had once been a gentle gully had turned into a churning, muddy flood. The flash flood carried mud, rocks, and broken logs, roaring down. The relatively flat area where the livestock pen had been was now mostly submerged. One corner of the mud-brick pen had collapsed, and murky water poured in, reaching the livestock’s knees. Several cows and donkeys struggled and brayed in panic, trying to climb to the still-unsunken ground. Hay piles were scattered, floating on the water, tools and debris in disarray.
Gu Jingci was already there. Standing at the edge of the flood, water reaching his thighs, drenched, his expression grim, he shouted commands to the arriving villagers:
“Quick! Get the livestock out first! Watch your feet! Don’t let the water sweep you away! Team Two, reinforce the upstream sandbags and divert the flow! Move!”
His voice, hoarse from urgency and exertion, carried a stabilizing authority. Under his command, people acted quickly, wading into the icy, muddy water to untie the frightened animals and guide them to higher ground.
Without thinking, Mu Yao stepped forward. This was the place where she had labored, where she had poured countless hours of care. These animals had been under her watch for so long they were almost like companions.
“What are you doing?!” A sharp shout exploded in her ears, and a strong, mud-slicked hand grabbed her arm, yanking her backward with painful force.
It was Gu Jingci. Somehow, he had noticed her. His grip was so strong it made her bones ache. His face was streaked with rain and mud, his expression severe, near anger:
“Go back! This isn’t a place for you! Stop causing trouble!”
“I can help! I know the livestock!” Mu Yao struggled, eyes locked on the animals in the flood, tears threatening.
“Help? With your frail body, you’d be swept away immediately!” Gu Jingci growled, his gaze sharp as a knife. “Go back! That’s an order!”
His tone was firm and absolute, carrying unprecedented severity… and a trace of worry he could not hide. Mu Yao froze, staring at his rain-smeared, tense jawline, at those eyes drilling into her as if reading her soul, a chill mixed with hurt rising in her chest.
At that moment, a cry came from upstream:
“Captain Gu! The landslide upstream is worse! The water’s still rising!”
Gu Jingci’s expression changed. He released Mu Yao, shoving her toward a safer, higher spot:
“Go!” Then, without hesitation, he charged back into the most dangerous part of the flood to direct sandbag reinforcement and guide the remaining livestock.
Mu Yao staggered a few steps, regained her footing, and watched his back disappear into the muddy torrent. Her heart clenched. She knew it was dangerous here. But he—he was even more in danger, putting himself at the forefront.
She didn’t retreat. Instead, she stepped onto slightly higher, relatively safer but still muddy ground, watching the harrowing rescue below. Men shouted, wrestling with the flood and the panicked animals. Gu Jingci stood out among them, dragging stubborn oxen, lifting heavy sandbags to plug gaps, soaked and smeared with mud, yet moving with calm strength and decisive authority.
Time passed in tense urgency. The sky lightened, though the rain continued its drizzle. Through everyone’s efforts, most livestock were safely relocated, leaving only the largest, most violent ox, the “Big Black Ox,” trapped by fallen timber and debris, the flood already reaching its belly. It struggled in panic, worsening the blockage.
“We have to move the wood! Otherwise it’ll drown or get swept away!” Gu Jingci wiped mud from his face, his gaze resolute.
Several strong villagers stepped in, trying to lift the heavy beam in the water, but the rushing current and the ox’s thrashing made it nearly impossible. After several attempts, the beam moved only slightly.
“Captain, it’s no use! The water’s too fast—we can’t get leverage!”
Gu Jingci frowned, assessing the rising current and the trapped ox. It was one of the best plowing oxen in the team; losing it was unacceptable.
“One more time! On my count—one, two, three!—push together!” He drew a deep breath, wading into the waist-deep water, gripping one end of the beam himself.
Mu Yao’s heart leapt into her throat. The water was fast, freezing, and debris was swirling downstream…
“One, two, three—push!”
Everyone shouted, exerting their full strength. The beam finally shifted and was slowly lifted. At that instant, a larger mudslide surged from upstream, waves of murky water crashing down!
“Watch out!” someone yelled from shore.
Gu Jingci was furthest in. A wave knocked him off balance. To keep the beam from crushing the ox, he used his back to absorb a log that hit from the side, grunting, and fell backward, momentarily submerged by the murky flood!
“Captain Gu!”
“Jingci!”
Shouts erupted. Mu Yao felt her mind go blank. She didn’t think—she just charged into the water.
At that moment, Gu Jingci resurfaced, coughing, pale, but still clutching the beam. Others hurriedly pulled him from the deep water, finally freeing the ox.
The “Big Black Ox” was dragged to safety.
Gu Jingci was helped ashore, soaked, mud-covered, lips purple from cold, the back of his shirt ripped, blood seeping into the mud. He gasped, waved off concern, and instinctively glanced toward the slope to see Mu Yao pale, trembling, wanting to rush down but restraining herself.
“All accounted for! Check for injuries!” He forced himself upright, continuing to direct.
The rescue lasted until noon. The rain finally ceased, the upstream sandbag dam stabilized. All livestock were safe; the pens were badly damaged, but no serious injuries occurred. Gu Jingci stayed until the end, ensuring all hazards were addressed, before, under repeated urging from the deputy captain, retreating with his exhausted, injured body to handle aftermath at the brigade.
Mu Yao waited until most of the crowd had dispersed before slowly descending the slope. She saw Gu Jingci supported by several people, walking back, slightly staggering but with a straight spine. She followed at a distance, not daring to approach.
Back in the village, many villagers gathered at the brigade office, talking anxiously about the flood. Mu Yao did not stop, returning directly to the woodshed. Closing the door, leaning against the cold wood, she finally felt her legs weaken and her heart still racing. The image of Gu Jingci being swallowed by the flood replayed in her mind, filling her with fear, her palms cold.
He had been injured. To save livestock and… protect collective property. He was a hero. Yet the blood seeping through, the pale face, pierced her heart like needles.
In the afternoon, Mu Yao was restless. Work in the yard had paused due to the accident; everyone discussed the flood and rescue. She heard that Captain Gu’s back was badly cut, treated by the barefoot doctor, yet he refused rest, still arranging post-disaster recovery and production.
She wanted to see him. The urge was almost unbearable. But in what capacity? With what reason? She was just a politically “poor” female youth, recently scolded by him as “causing trouble.”
As dusk fell, she could no longer resist. She prepared a bowl of ginger soup—using ginger slices he had given her before—and dug out the remaining clamshell oil, wrapping it in a clean old handkerchief. Then, under the dim evening light, as smoke rose from villagers cooking dinner, she quietly left and approached the Gu family courtyard from the rear.
She had seen the Gu courtyard from afar but never approached. Mud-brick walls, two main rooms, one wing room, a few fruit trees, tidy and neat. She hid in a shadow at the wall corner, heart pounding. Warm light glowed from the main room’s window; faint voices could be heard—Gu’s mother, speaking with worry.
Mu Yao bit her lip, holding the bowl of ginger soup and clamshell oil wrapped in the handkerchief, hesitant. Go straight in? Impossible. Leave it at the door? What if someone took it or misunderstood…
As she hesitated, the courtyard gate creaked open.
Gu Jingci stepped out. He had changed out of his soaked, muddy clothes, wearing a clean old undershirt with a jacket casually draped over it. His back wound had been treated; white gauze was faintly visible in the dusk. He carried an empty basin, seemingly going to fetch water.
His eyes immediately fell on Mu Yao crouched in the corner. He paused.
In the dim evening light, they stood a few steps apart, silently facing each other. Mu Yao could see his lingering fatigue and the flicker of surprise in his eyes. She opened her mouth to speak but couldn’t. She simply extended the bowl and handkerchief toward him, her movements stiff.
Gu Jingci’s gaze fell on the faintly steaming ginger soup and handkerchief bundle in her hands, then back to her pale, anxious face. He remained silent, neither taking it nor inviting her in.
The night wind stirred, carrying the fresh scent of rain-soaked earth and a slight chill.
After a long moment, he stepped forward, taking the bowl and handkerchief. His fingertips brushed hers—cold, calloused.
“…Thank you.” His voice was low, hoarse, almost inaudible in the quiet dusk.
Mu Yao shook her head, wanting to say “I should be the one thanking you,” wanting to ask about his injury… but she only softly said:
“Drink the ginger soup while it’s warm. The clamshell oil… might be useful.”
Gu Jingci murmured “Mm,” and didn’t look back, walking into the courtyard. At the gate, he paused, didn’t turn around, voice low:
“…Go back. Be careful on the way.”
Then he entered and closed the gate.
Mu Yao stood alone in the deepening dusk, watching him disappear. Slowly, she turned and retraced her steps. The night air was cold, yet her chest warmed faintly from his low “thank you” and the touch of his fingers as he took the gifts.
He didn’t refuse. Didn’t ask further.
That was enough.
Back in the woodshed, night had fallen. She lit the oil lamp; the dim glow illuminated her small world. Exhaustion came over her, but her heart felt steadier than before.
She didn’t know how badly he was hurt, nor whether he had drunk the ginger soup or used the clamshell oil.
But she knew that in that dangerous moment, he had shoved her aside and charged forward himself.
She knew that in the silent, dusk-lit exchange, he had accepted her clumsy care.
Some protection is silent as a mountain.
Some affection needs no words.
On this post-storm night, Mu Yao curled up on the cold earthen kang, clutching the military quilt scented with soapberry, feeling, for the first time, less lonely and cold.
Outside, stars began to appear, hinting at a sunny day tomorrow.
And some things, like rocks revealed after a flash flood, became clearer and harder in the quiet protection and clumsy care.