I. The bustling morning light on the bluestone path
As the last wisp of mountain mist was broken up by the morning sun and settled in the rice paddies, Ayu's cloth skirt was already damp with dew. Clutching her woven straw basket, she stood under the wooden veranda of the guesthouse urging everyone, "Hurry up, hurry up! Grandpa Li said the bamboo shoots at the morning market are so tender you can squeeze water out of them!" Before she finished speaking, Afang ran out carrying an apricot-colored cardigan, a spark from last night's campfire still clinging to the end of her hair—a fragment of firewood that had brushed against someone's sleeve during their conversation under the stars last night.
Passing through a few low walls covered with loofah vines, the bluestone path suddenly widened. First, there was the buzzing of voices in the distance, like the vibrations of a beehive warmed by the sun, followed by the clatter of bamboo baskets colliding, mixed with the creaking of wooden carts rolling over the stone slabs. Turning past an old locust tree with a canopy like an umbrella, the market suddenly appeared before my eyes—as if someone had poured a jar of colored glass beads into the morning light, strings of red chilies, green banana leaves, and blue homespun banners, dazzling in the slanting sunlight.
"Oh, isn't this a distinguished guest from the city!" An older woman wearing a straw hat called out from across two rows of vegetable baskets, the long-handled weight in her hand tracing a shimmering silver arc in the morning light. In the bamboo tray before her, freshly picked cucumbers still glistened with dew, their blossoms and thorns making Afang immediately squat down. The moment her fingertips touched the cucumber rind, the coolness made her recoil. "Ah, so fresh!"
Ayu was already captivated by the shouts coming from across the street. It was an old woman with a blue headscarf, using bamboo tongs to turn rice cakes on an iron griddle. The aroma of rice mixed with the roasted scent of sesame seeds seemed to have wings, wafting straight into her nose. Seeing Ayu staring at her, the old woman simply picked up a piece and blew on it: "Try some? It's made with wild jujube honey. It'll make a girl's cheeks as ripe as a peach." When Ayu took it, her fingertips touched the calluses on the old woman's palm, rough like worn linen, yet unexpectedly warm.
II. The Wrinkles of Time Before the Bamboo Strip Stall
Amin was tripped up by a bamboo weaving stall on the street corner. The stall owner was a silent middle-aged man, his fingertips pinching bamboo strips as thin as hair, weaving a cricket cage the size of a palm. The bamboo strips turned between his fingers, sometimes winding like snakes, sometimes fluttering like butterfly wings, and soon a hollowed-out morning glory flower was woven on the top of the cage. Amin remembered that his grandfather used to weave this when he was a child, but his grandfather's hands always trembled in the last few years, and he would break the bamboo strips halfway through.
"How much... is this?" He pointed to the small flower on top of the cage. The man looked up, sunlight reflecting off the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes: "It's free, you can have it." As A-Ming froze, the man had already shoved the cricket cage into his hands. "Yesterday I saw you guys going to the fields with Old Zhou, and that clumsy way you were acting reminded me so much of myself when I was young." A-Ming held the cage, the cool bamboo fabric seeping through his fingertips, and suddenly noticed a tiny "An" woven into the bottom of the cage—later he learned that it was the name of the man's deceased youngest son.
Not far away, at a homespun cloth stall, Afang was staring blankly at a bolt of indigo floral fabric. The white lotus scrolls on the fabric were printed using a bean powder resist dyeing method, with natural shading at the edges, like ink spreading in a traditional Chinese ink painting. The stall owner, a young woman wearing a silver necklace, saw that Afang liked it and took down a new bolt, unfolding it: "This is a craft passed down from my grandmother. The indigo was soaked in woad root for forty-nine days, and the flowers were drawn based on the wild roses on the hill behind the house." As she spoke, the silver bracelet on her wrist jingled, its surface engraved with fine ripples. "You can't buy fabric like this in the city. Make a shirt out of it, and when the wind blows, it'll feel like you're carrying the fragrance of all summer flowers."
Afang touched the fabric and suddenly remembered the perpetually wrinkled business suit in her closet. She bit her lip and pulled out her wallet: "Cut two meters for me, make a skirt." As the girl measured the fabric, Ayu leaned over and squeezed it: "It's so soft, like a cloud." The girl smiled, revealing two small tiger teeth: "Grandma said good fabric should be worn close to the skin; the warmth of your body nourishes the fabric, and over time, it feels like it's grown into your body."
III. The warmth and life of people in an earthenware pot
The atmosphere at the food stalls was incredibly lively. Earthen stoves sat on the flagstones, firewood crackling and popping, oil sizzling in the iron woks. An old man selling tofu pudding stirred the liquid in a blue-and-white porcelain vat with a long-handled copper ladle, the milky-white tofu trembling as it slid into a rough porcelain bowl, then was topped with amber-colored syrup and crushed peanuts—it looked so delicious it made your mouth water. Ayu squatted by the stove, bowl in hand, watching the old man scoop an extra spoonful of honey into her bowl: "Girls should eat more sweets, so their hearts won't be bitter."
Amin was drawn over by the aroma of cured meat from the stall next door. A woman wearing an oilcloth apron was scraping cured meat from a ceramic jar with a bamboo skewer; the dark red meat was still speckled with white peppercorns. "This was cured last winter, using our own free-range pigs, and the peppercorns are wild peppercorns from the mountains behind the house," she said. As she spoke, her knife sliced the cured meat into thin slices, the marbling of fat and lean meat gleaming like amber in the sunlight. "Take it and roast it; it's so oily and delicious, you can easily eat three bowls more with it and brown rice." Amin bought two pieces, wrapped them in lotus leaves, and the aroma of the oil seeped through the leaves, mingling with the earthy scent, creating a comforting warmth.
The busiest stall was the one selling cold rice noodles. Three women in blue cotton shirts were working around a stone mill. The snow-white rice flour flowed from the millstone, dripping into boiling water and turning into translucent noodles. They deftly scooped up the noodles, cut them into strips, and mixed in the toppings: red chili oil, green cilantro, and white minced garlic, piled high in a rough porcelain bowl. Ayu squatted by the roadside, eating, her tongue lolling out from the spiciness, but she wouldn't stop eating. The woman next to her handed her a bowl of cold tea: "Eat slowly, there's more in the pot." Ayu took the tea bowl, touching the rough rim, and suddenly remembered eating cold rice noodles at her grandmother's house when she was a child. It was the same rough porcelain bowl, and the same earthy, spicy flavor.
IV. An Unexpected Reunion Under the Old Locust Tree
As the sun climbed higher, the crowds at the market began to thin out. The old man selling vegetables packed up his bamboo baskets, the old woman selling rice cakes began cleaning her iron griddle, and only a few elderly tea drinkers remained around the stone table under the old locust tree, sipping their rustic tea from rough porcelain bowls. Ah Ming, carrying his cricket cage, passed by when he suddenly heard someone call out to him, "Young man, come and sit down?"
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