Chapter 5: The Stepson
Fang Zichen felt as if the whole house had transformed overnight when he woke up, as if the Snail Maiden had visited his home and repaid a kindness.
[田螺姑娘 (Tiánluó gūniang): lit. Snail Maiden; fig. a mythical figure who secretly helps a poor man with household chores]
Zhao Ger stood at the door, watching as Fang Zichen carried Guaizai under his arm like a toy, heading toward the kitchen. His heart couldn’t help but tighten with nervousness.
When he was nervous, he tended to tug at the hem of his clothes—Guaizai did the same.
Fang Zichen pretended not to notice. Seeing the water vat full, he raised an eyebrow. "You even fetched water? The river isn’t exactly close. You’re so diligent."
Zhao Ger let out a sigh of relief and followed him in, pushing the bowl of porridge on the stove toward him.
The moment Fang Zichen saw the blackish glop in the bowl, his throat reflexively ached. "Only one bowl?" The pot was currently just heating some water.
Pointing at Guaizai still tucked under his arm, he asked, "What’s his name?"
Zhao Ger replied, "Guaizai."
Is that even a name?
Fang Zichen asked, "There’s only one bowl of porridge, aren’t you two eating?"
Zhao Ger pointed at the washed wild vegetables beside him. "Guaizai and I can eat these."
Fang Zichen followed his gesture and, after a moment, revealed an expression of shock and complexity as he looked at Zhao Ger.
He was even a little skeptical.
"Can this stuff even be eaten?"
"It can," Zhao Ger said, avoiding Fang Zichen’s astonished gaze. "…Just blanch it in hot water, and it’s edible."
He had always eaten like this—if it weren’t, he’d have starved long ago.
"Don’t we still have food at home?" Fang Zichen asked helplessly.
"There’s a bag of coarse rice, but not much. We have to ration it," Zhao Ger said cautiously. He had taken the liberty of using the kitchen supplies and felt uneasy. Back at the Ma family’s, they had guarded against him like a thief, even supervising him while he cooked.
He wasn’t allowed to touch anything in the house, as if he were something filthy.
Seeing that Fang Zichen wasn’t upset about him using the kitchen supplies, only frowning slightly at the mention of "coarse rice," as if disgusted by this staple that filled most families’ bellies, Zhao Ger relaxed a little.
"Cook it and let’s all eat together," Fang Zichen said. "Saving isn’t the right way, it’s not like it’s anything good anyway. I’ll go out tomorrow and see if I can find ways to earn some money."
The village was poor. To make any silver, they’d have to go to town.
Zhao Ger nodded, looking obedient and agreeable.
He added some firewood to the stove, then picked up two flint stones and started striking them. Fang Zichen watched curiously, put Guaizai down, and squatted beside Zhao Ger. Last night, he had gone hungry because he didn’t know how to start a fire. Pointing at the flint stones, he asked what they were, and when the fire finally sparked, his eyes lit up as he asked Zhao Ger how he’d done it.
Seeing his awestruck expression, Zhao Ger answered every question patiently.
"Let me try," Fang Zichen said.
Zhao Ger handed him the flint stones, placing them in Fang Zichen’s clean, unblemished, slender, and fair hands, which had a healthy pink hue.
He lowered his head to look at his own hands, an inexplicable sense of shame rising in him.
When people saw something beautiful, even knowing they couldn’t compare, they couldn’t help but measure themselves against it.
His hands were far from attractive—years of labor had left the backs covered in scars, deep and shallow, crisscrossed. His fingers were rough, his palms calloused, and his fingertips and nails were stained with an indelible green tint from years of handling plants.
There was only one bowl in the house, so the three of them took turns eating.
Fang Zichen was the last. As he ate, he nearly gagged. Seeing his expression, Zhao Ger asked, "Does it not taste good?"
Fang Zichen frowned, looking deeply aggrieved. "This porridge is bitter, and there’s this indescribable weird taste."
He knew wild vegetables boiled without oil or salt wouldn’t taste great, but he hadn’t expected them to be this bad.
Once, during a school-organized rural learning activity, he had seen a farmer feed pigs. Just cutting sweet potato vines, mixing them with some cornmeal, and dumping them into the trough. The sow had eaten it with relish.
Pigs weren’t entirely useless, at least they could endure hardship, Fang Zichen mused.
Zhao Ger thought for a moment, then got up and left. He returned shortly with a washed tree branch, using it to scoop a peanut-sized lump of lard from the oil jar and stirring it into the porridge. "This should make it taste better."
The lard melted into the warm porridge, releasing a meaty aroma.
The porridge did improve slightly.
But it still wasn’t exactly delicious.
Fang Zichen sighed.
If not for this whole transmigration business, he would never have experienced this kind of life in his lifetime.
After eating, there wasn’t much work to do at home. Zhao Ger rarely had idle moments, so now that he had stopped, he felt uneasy. Eventually, seeing Fang Zichen and Guaizai leave the kitchen, he stood at the doorway like a guardian deity, unsure of what to do.
He seemed to have a special fondness for doorways.
Guaizai squatted under the eaves, counting ants. He was a very obedient child, never running around. When Zhao Ger took him to the fields, he was too small to help, so he picked wild vegetables by the ridges. Now that Zhao Ger wasn’t busy, he didn’t know what to do and didn’t dare approach Fang Zichen, so he played with ants within Zhao Ger’s line of sight.
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