Li Lanxiang leaned on the kang for a while longer, listening to the faint sounds from outside—the scraping of skin and bones, mixed with Wang Dashan’s low instructions and the occasional response from Wang Shizhu—and realized it wouldn’t be done anytime soon.
The room gradually darkened, with only her little granddaughter occasionally smacking her lips, sleeping soundly.
She couldn’t just lie there.
The original Li Lanxiang had been the backbone of this household: the stove, the vegetable garden, the chickens and pigs—without her, anything could easily go wrong.
After lying in bed for three days, things at home were probably already a bit out of hand.
Besides… she needed to get up and familiarize herself with everything as quickly as possible, so that this “Li Lanxiang” could live naturally again.
Enduring the dull ache in her forehead and the woozy feeling from recently changing bodies, she propped herself on the edge of the kang and slowly lowered herself to the ground.
Her feet touched the cold earth, slightly weak, but she managed to stand.
Holding onto the wall, she inched toward the door and lifted the patched coarse cloth curtain.
Outside, the sky was a gray-blue.
Wang Dashan squatted by the stone steps under the eaves, his small skinning knife moving rapidly as he peeled a nearly whole rabbit skin from the carcass, revealing the pink flesh beneath.
Wang Shizhu squatted nearby, eyes wide, holding a half-plucked wild chicken.
At his feet, a wooden basin held bloodwater rising in wisps of heat.
On the ground, a dustpan contained another fully skinned rabbit and two prepared wild chickens.
The strong smell of blood was more intense than inside the house, mixed with the unique gamey odor of animal innards.
Li Lanxiang felt her stomach churn again but forced herself to swallow, suppressing it.
“Shizhu.”
Her voice was soft but made the crouching boy startle.
Wang Shizhu immediately dropped the wild chicken, wiped his hands on his old clothes, and dashed over:
“Mother! Why are you up? Father said to stay lying down!”
The boy’s face still held traces of childhood innocence, his clear eyes now full of worry, reaching out to steady her.
“My bones are sore from lying down. I need to get up slowly.”
With his help, Li Lanxiang steadied herself.
She didn’t go back inside but instead pointed toward the kitchen:
“Help me over there to take a look.”
“Okay!” Wang Shizhu said, carefully supporting her arm.
Passing by Wang Dashan, he paused his work and looked up at her, brow slightly furrowed:
“Are you sure?”
“I just want to check the grain bins, get a sense of things,” she explained, her eyes scanning the prey.
“Keep one fat rabbit; we’ll chop it up later.”
Wang Dashan nodded and went back to working on the rabbit skin, his movements now seemingly a bit more efficient.
The kitchen was darker than the main room but reasonably tidy.
Li Lanxiang had Shizhu light the oil lamp—a small clay dish with a wick and a bit of murky oil, casting a dim, yellowish light.
She walked to the corner, lifted the wooden lid of a coarse pottery jar, and peered inside.
The bottom was lined with a layer of gray-brown coarse grains, about half full. Beside it, a smaller earthenware pot held rough bran.
This would be the household’s food supply for the coming period—they’d need to ration carefully.
She checked the stove. In the corner, a small cloth bag contained dried wild mushrooms and a few hard chestnuts saved from last year.
“Shizhu,”
She pointed to the fat rabbit already skinned and laid on clean leaves.
“Chop this one up, but not into pieces too big. Go up to the beam and get some dried mushrooms, soak them in warm water. Grab a couple handfuls of chestnuts too, soak them together.”
“Got it, Mother!”
The boy’s hands and feet moved nimbly, quickly bringing the rabbit to the cutting board and chopping it with steady thuds.
Though young, poor children grew up fast, and he handled the tasks competently.
Li Lanxiang moved to the stove, checking the ashes—fortunately, it hadn’t completely cooled.
She tried lighting a fire. The flames leapt up, illuminating her pale yet composed face.
Adding a few durable sticks of wood, she watched the flames lick the blackened bottom of the pot.
“Mother, it’s chopped! Mushrooms and chestnuts are soaking too!”
Wang Shizhu brought over the chopped rabbit, the bloodwater mostly drained.
“Good.”
Li Lanxiang took the chipped clay basin, inspecting the meat—pink and white with hints of red, fresh.
She directed Shizhu to scrub the pot and fetch water while she added the rabbit pieces to the pot, covering them with cold water, along with a few slices of ginger and some coarse salt.
As the water slowly heated and scum rose, she carefully skimmed it off with a wooden spoon.
The blanched rabbit meat was set aside.
The pot was cleaned, reheated, and only a little oil was added—carefully scraped from a small oil container using a small tile.
Once the oil was hot, the drained rabbit meat went in, stir-fried until slightly golden, releasing some fat and filling the kitchen with the mixed aroma of meat and firewood.
“Go to the garden behind the house, pull a few radishes, and grab a handful of green onions,” Li Lanxiang instructed while stirring.
“Okay!”
Wang Shizhu, already enticed by the smell, bolted like a pony given a command, rushing out of the kitchen.
The scent of meat grew stronger. Li Lanxiang added the soaked mushrooms and chestnuts, stir-frying briefly before adding enough hot water and covering the pot with its heavy lid.
The rest would be left to time and the stove.
Leaning against the stove, she listened to the pot gradually bubbling, steam curling from the edges of the lid.
Outside, Wang Dashan’s work on the prey was nearly finished.
Her little granddaughter fussed briefly inside, soon soothed again by Liu Xinghua’s gentle humming.
Fatigue returned, and her temples ached more.
Yet, looking at the dancing flames in the stove and smelling the rich, chestnut-sweet, earthy aroma of the stew, Li Lanxiang’s heart—shaken for over seventy years and finally sunk into a cold valley—seemed, bit by bit, to warm again in the coarse, everyday fire of life.
To live, perhaps, was exactly like this.
No empty promises, only the food that needed tending and the household that needed holding together.