Chen Hao placed the stone on the table and began to push it.
The first time, there was a lot of resistance.
The second time, it went a little better.
The third tap produced a slight rustling sound.
His right middle finger split open again, blood mixing with sawdust and leaving a diagonal line on the side of the millstone. He didn't stop, continuing to push forward, when his hand trembled, the millstone got stuck in a dent, and he suddenly stopped, his whole arm jolting.
"Damn." He shook his hand, flipped the millstone over, and pressed it down again.
The surface of this table is so pitted, it looks like it's been chewed by a dog. Some parts are high, some parts are low, and you can feel the obvious undulations when you run your finger across it. Yesterday I thought it was usable, but now the more I look at it, the more disgusted I feel. If soup were poured on it, it would definitely flow downhill and end up all accumulating in the bottom left corner.
He sat up straighter, switched his left hand to hold the back of the millstone, and pushed forward with his right hand. After only two pushes, his palm burned with pain. Looking down, he saw that the blister he had developed the night before had burst, the skin peeled off, and a pale yellow liquid was seeping out.
"That's good enough," he muttered to himself. "Who stares at the table while eating?"
That's what he said, but his eyes were still fixed on the deepest groove. It was the result of his excessive force last night, like a dried-up riverbed lying across the center of the table.
He sighed, rummaged through the drawer for a new strip of cloth, and rewrapped his finger. The cloth was stuck to his skin by wood powder as soon as it reached the back, causing a painful tearing sensation.
"At this rate, you won't be able to finish it even in three more days," Nana's voice came from the side.
He didn't even look up: "If you're so capable, then you do it."
"I can smooth the surface in three minutes."
“That won’t do.” He shook his head. “If this table were made by machine, I wouldn’t have the same strength to do it.”
Nana didn't speak, turned the optical mirror towards the table, and scanned for a few seconds.
"The test results show that the wood fiber density is too high, and the efficiency of manual sanding is only 12% of the ideal value," she said. "It is recommended to use auxiliary softening methods."
"What do you mean?"
"There is a tree on the nearby hills that secretes a transparent resin. Applying it can temporarily reduce the surface hardness, making it easier to process carefully."
Chen Hao looked up: "You mean the kind with serrated leaves and thorns on the branches?"
"yes."
"I've been there, but you can't even climb up there."
"You can wear thick clothes."
“Easy for you to say.” He cracked his knuckles. “Last time I was harvesting timber, I was almost scraped to a pulp.”
"Risk assessment has been taken into account."
"You're really not afraid I'll hang it outside?" He stood up, brushing the sawdust off his pants. "Fine, since this table is unusable anyway, let's take a gamble."
He pulled an old coat from the closet; the cuffs were frayed and there was a patch sewn onto the shoulder. After putting it on, he found it was still a bit thin, so he simply added a vest. With the two layers of fabric stacked together, he finally felt a little more secure.
Nana handed over a ceramic jar: "The container is ready."
"You're quite thoughtful." He took the jar, weighed it in his hand, and said, "I'm just afraid that tree won't cooperate and won't release a single drop."
"According to database records, this tree species has the highest secretion activity in the early morning."
"So I have to clock in right on time," he muttered as he walked out.
The woods weren't far from the woodworking shop; they were just across a scree slope. The ground was soft and slippery underfoot. He carefully protected the pottery jar with one hand and grabbed onto the vines by the roadside with the other, inching forward.
The tree grew at the top of the slope, its trunk crooked, its branches stretching out haphazardly, covered in sharp thorns. He went around to the leeward side, found a thicker fork, tucked his gloves into his collar, and freed his hands to climb.
He had just stepped onto the first foothold when the loose stones beneath his feet gave way, and he swayed. He quickly grabbed the tree trunk, his chest slamming against a horizontal branch, making it hard to breathe.
“This damn tree…” He gritted his teeth and inch his way up.
Finally reaching his target location, he took out his knife and gently made a cut in the bark. At first, nothing came out, but after almost a minute, he saw a little amber-colored liquid slowly seep out and flow down the cut.
He carefully caught the liquid from the mouth of the earthenware jar. The liquid was viscous and flowed slowly, as if deliberately dragging out the time.
When the jar was more than half full, he was about to stop when a dry branch suddenly broke off beside him, grazing his shoulder, tearing his coat, and leaving a gash on his skin.
Blood immediately came out and flowed down his forearm.
He didn't have time to think about it; he first put the knife back in his pocket and slid down, holding the jar with one hand. When he landed, he lost his footing and his knee hit the ground, making him wince in pain, but he didn't let go of the jar.
"Thank goodness it didn't spill." He checked the container, panting. The liquid level was stable; there was no leakage.
Back at the woodworking shop, he placed the pottery jar on the workbench, took off his coat and saw that the wound on his left arm wasn't deep, but the edges were red, so he figured he'd need to apply some medicine.
“Let’s process the wood first,” Nana said.
"You won't let me get bandaged first?"
"Blood may contaminate the sample."
"Am I less important than the sample?" He rolled his eyes, but still endured the pain and walked to the sink, rinsed the wound, applied a layer of ointment, and wrapped it with a strip of cloth.
When she returned, Nana had already dipped a brush in the tree sap and applied it evenly to the recessed area of the table.
The liquid is transparent with a faint grassy scent. When applied, it forms an oily film that reflects light.
How long will it take?
Two hours.
"So long?"
"Molecular penetration takes time."
Chen Hao plopped down and stared at the table. The liquid slowly seeped down, its color fading until it was almost invisible.
He was getting impatient and tried to reach out to touch her several times, but Nana stopped him each time.
"Touching it again will affect the results."
"I'll just touch it!"
"If you touch it, you have to start over."
He withdrew his hand, leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes. But closing them made it even more uncomfortable; his mind was filled with that groove, and the more he thought about it, the more he felt he couldn't just let it go.
Two hours later, Nana immediately reminded everyone that it was time to start polishing.
He put on gloves, picked up the finest whetstone, and gently pressed it down.
After pushing it a couple of times, the feel was off—it was too slippery. I couldn't control my strength, and the whetstone veered off course, almost leaving new scratches on the edge.
"Slow down," Nana projected a dotted line, "along this direction."
He adjusted his posture, supporting the bottom of the millstone with his palm, subtly adjusting the angle with his fingertips, and pushing it forward little by little.
After every ten pushes, stop and rest for a while.
Sweat rolled down his forehead, dripping into the pile of sawdust and creating small dents.
His left hand wound throbbed with each movement, and the bandage on his right middle finger began to bleed, but he didn't change it, afraid of disrupting his rhythm.
Once, twice, three times.
The desktop gradually changed. The roughness disappeared, and when you run your finger across it, you can feel a smooth flow.
Sunlight streamed in through the window, falling on the table and casting blurry shadows.
He stopped and reached out to touch the deepest ditch from before.
It's even.
It's really even.
He grinned, put the millstone into the basin of water, and washed away the wood residue. The water became murky, with a layer of grayish-white foam floating on top.
“We need to deal with all four legs too,” Nana said.
“I know.” He stood up and stretched his shoulders. “Let’s take it one step at a time.”
He reapplied the sap, waited for it to set, and then polished it. The chair back and seat were treated the same way. He changed the water three times during the process, wore down two whetstones, and repeatedly wet and dried the cloth strips on his fingers.
By the time the last chair was finished, it was almost dark.
He sat down in the chair, pulled the table closer, and spread his palms out, slowly stroking the entire surface.
There are no bumps, no rough edges, not even the slightest graininess.
"It's done," he said.
Nana walked over, and the optical lens swept across the table, displaying a line of data: Surface flatness meets the standard.
"What's next?" she asked.
“Move them to the restaurant.” He stood up, stacked the four chairs together, and hugged them to his chest.
He had just reached the doorway when he tripped and nearly fell. He steadied himself and glanced back at the empty woodworking workshop.
The workbench was still in its original place, with several grinding stones soaking in the basin and the earthenware jars upside down on the side to dry.
He turned and walked out, his steps a little unsteady, but he held on firmly.
The corridor lights were dim, casting a long shadow behind him.
The edge of the chair scraped against the wall, making a slight rubbing sound.
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