New Year’s Eve is just around the corner.
My lover has long been gone.
My parents and I prepared a lot of New Year goods, setting off from Jiangcheng with big and small bags, boarding the bus back home. Of course, Xie Xiaoyu carried all the bags, making the men on the road envious. If they had such a wife, they wouldn’t need to carry anything when shopping in the future.
The journey was cheerful, and we arrived home around four in the afternoon. My parents looked around and found that the house had been burglarized. All the rice from the rice jar was stolen, the oil jar was empty, and even the soy sauce and salt were gone. The neighbor uncle often helped watch the house, but despite all precautions, thieves still struck.
I comforted my parents, telling them not to be upset, and went to town to buy rice, peanut oil, and other essentials. The town was packed, with cars everywhere—people who had left to make a living had returned, filling the streets with noise. At the intersection stood a bleeding man, his motorcycle lying on the ground, a brick still clutched in his hand as he shouted into a knockoff phone: “Second Brother, I crashed my bike. Bring people over fast. We’re fighting.”
Cars with out-of-town plates crowded the road, none willing to yield. I struggled to flag down a motorcycle taxi while carrying a bag of rice and a jug of oil.
The driver immediately shouted, “Ten yuan minimum fare.”
Resigned, I yelled, “Let’s go.” It was highway robbery—ten yuan for a few minutes’ ride.
The bumpy ride had the driver complaining, “This road is terrible. They should’ve fixed it long ago.” When we reached my doorstep, he asked, “You’re Long Youshui’s grandson, aren’t you?”
I laughed and nodded, handing him fifteen yuan—making up for the time he once fled without charging me. As he sped off, he shouted, “Hope you strike it rich working tomorrow!”
Business must be booming these days—five minutes per passenger, ten yuan each, hundreds an hour, thousands in a day. Over New Year’s, a month’s earnings could easily hit tens of thousands.
Of course, braving the cold wind to earn money isn’t easy.
I opened the rice bag and the oil jug. My mother had already picked some cabbage from the garden. Little Rascal and the kitten were hungry, so she tied on her apron and started cooking.
I flipped the power switch and turned on the TV, muttering about catching the news. Most reports were about the Spring Festival travel rush—train stations, bus stations, and the “motorcycle army” mobilizing nationwide. Everywhere was packed with people and vehicles. Despite the winter cold, everyone’s heart burned with the desire to return home—to see their aging parents and growing children, carrying carefully chosen gifts, enduring sleepless nights just to make it back.
Home may be made of broken bricks and tiles, but it’s built with tears and nostalgia.
After dinner, my mother assigned tasks: first, a thorough cleaning—every nook and cranny, doors, windows, and eaves, with all junk sold for cash. The yard had to be spotless, divided into five zones, three main ones, with assigned responsibilities. Slackers would face public shaming. My zone? My own room.
Second, preparing cured meats—carp and silver carp, half a pig, salted and smoked into preserved fish and bacon.
Third, roasting peanuts, sunflower seeds, and pumpkin seeds. One bag of sunflower seeds was a special gift from Bai Changde, the village chief of Baishui Village—likely grown on Bai Jingren’s grave.
Fourth, making tofu, fried tofu, fish cakes, and more.
By the time all this was done, it’d be New Year’s Eve.
But just step one exhausted me, and I quickly slacked off. Soon, the neighbor’s auntie dropped by to chat with my mother, occasionally glancing at me. After a few words, my mother politely declined her offer. Once she left, my mother explained: “She came to set you up on a date.”
I grinned. “Mom, you’re brilliant. Just tell her I already have a girl—the silly one in our house.”
The next day, my mother hung all the bedding in the yard to kill dust mites under the sun.
Meanwhile, my father and I hit the market for fish and meat. The place was so packed we nearly got shoved out—just a sea of heads. Kids tugged at their fathers’ hands as the men carried heaps of New Year’s goods—new clothes, pants, shoes—with a cheerful “Pleasant Goat” print on the back. One dad joked about buying a “Big Bad Wolf” outfit, making his kid cry: “He’s the bad guy! I don’t wanna be bad!” Tears still streaked the child’s face.
Everyone shouted to be heard. Cleaned-out fertilizer bags were tucked under arms as people greeted acquaintances.
A fish vendor shortchanged an old man by three taels, sparking a near-brawl until bystanders intervened: “It’s the New Year—both sides, step back.”
After buying fish and carrying meat, I spotted Ma Ruoxing at the market entrance—ragged clothes, a jar of fresh pig’s blood in hand, straw sandals falling apart, his big toe exposed and red from the cold. I hailed a motorcycle taxi for my father to take the groceries home first.
Ma Ruoxing forced a smile. “I’m fine. Used to it. This blood’s for Bai Yueming—he’s a ghost baby, after all.”
I bought him a pair of “Liberation” shoes and a black down jacket. He touched the fabric. “Never wore anything this nice.”
I asked about Bai Yueming. Both his parents were dead, and as a child born after his mother’s death, no one in Baishui Village would believe his origins, so Ma Ruoxing raised him in Songxi Village. After returning from Thailand, he fed the baby formula and pig’s blood, nearly exhausting his savings.
At Ma Ruoxing’s home—a crumbling mud-brick hut with weak lighting—the bedroom doubled as a kitchen. A bucket behind a straw curtain served as the toilet. Bai Yueming slept in a wooden cradle. Seeing me, he stretched out his arms and murmured, “Daddy.”
I picked him up. At just six months old, he’d grown as fast as a year-and-a-half-old, with uncanny memory—he recognized me. His nose twitched at the pig’s blood.
Ma Ruoxing explained: “Ghost babies age three times faster. He might only live to his twenties.”
Bai Yueming’s bright eyes, pale skin, jet-black hair, and faintly blue irises gave him an ethereal, melancholy handsomeness.
Ma Ruoxing simmered the blood, mixed it with formula, and fed him. After eating, Bai Yueming wobbled on his feet, even taking two steps while leaning on the table.
I praised, “Xiaoming, you’re amazing! Walking so steadily!”
He giggled, sped up, then face-planted and wailed. I scooped him up, wiping his tears.
Ma Ruoxing laughed. “Little rascal.”
I stayed until nightfall before leaving Songxi Village. Ma Ruoxing advised me to pack light for our next trip—just essentials, leaving the jade corpse at home.
The next day, I told my parents I was heading out, leaving Xie Xiaoyu, Little Rascal, and the kitten behind, taking only the jade ruler and golden compass to meet Ma Ruoxing. He’d prepared a bamboo basket lined with a quilt for Bai Yueming.
I frowned. “Uncle Ma, bringing a baby isn’t convenient. Shouldn’t we find a sitter?”
He shook his head. “No need. We’re going into the mountains—might as well get him some fresh game.”
I realized we were hunting—stupid rabbits or boars would provide blood for Bai Yueming. Ma Ruoxing handed me a knife and several blackened bamboo tubes.
As we entered the mountains bordering Hubei and Jiangxi, he explained: “Jiangxi’s mountains have unique bugs—not as famed as those in western Hunan or Yunnan, but special in their own way. We’re here to catch a few. They’ll be useful to you.”
Now I understood: this trip was for bug hunting.
Though a “Five Elements Insect Master,” my actual insect-raising skills were lacking. If the Guo family killed my grandfather and cursed me with yin energy, mastering true insect arts was essential. Ma Ruoxing likely had the same thought.
Curious, I asked, “Uncle Ma, you’re a Ma Yi fortune-teller’s heir. How do you know about raising insects?”
He chuckled. “Truth is, I only know bits. It’s about following nature’s way. Like Song Nineteen’s wife in our village—a master pig-raiser. When asked her secret, she said, ‘Feed them when it’s time to eat, let them sleep when it’s time to sleep.’ Same with insects—go with their flow.”
I mused: understanding and working with natural laws—that’s philosophy, that’s the “Dao.” Everything has its Dao. Grasp the “insect Dao,” and becoming a top-tier insect master is just a matter of time.
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