Chapter 9

In the oppressive darkness, Zhou Tiezhu bolted upright, his piercing eyes locked onto Song Dingxiang. His voice was sharp, demanding clarity. “What did you just say?”

Song Dingxiang leaned back, her tone calm yet filled with a knowing edge. “I asked if you wanted to learn how to read.” She could see the fire in his eyes, the kind of raw excitement that only came from a desperate hunger for change.

In times like these, the privilege of literacy was a rare luxury. Hell, even in the world she’d left behind, education wasn’t a guarantee unless your family had money to spare. But at least in her old life, girls had already begun to claim their space in schools, learning alongside the boys. In this “new China,” post-liberation, men and women now shared classrooms, absorbing the same knowledge—a revolution in its own right.

Song Dingxiang had never lagged behind when it came to learning. She didn’t just know how to read and write; she mastered the art of it. Her calligraphy was elegant, refined, a testament to the disciplined education her family had drilled into her from a young age. If fate hadn’t snatched her parents away, she might have gone even further—perhaps studied abroad, embracing a world far beyond the one she knew.

Now, though, time was fleeting. With just a month left before the New Year, snow had already fallen twice, blanketing the world in cold silence. And in another month, Zhou Tiezhu would be gone, enlisted in the military, his future a foggy unknown. Yet, the thought of him stepping into that uncertain world armed with knowledge was intoxicating. After all, in this day and age, literacy commanded respect, a weapon sharper than any blade.

“I want to learn!” Zhou Tiezhu’s voice broke the stillness, charged with determination. But his excitement wavered, his confidence faltering. “But… am I too old for school? And after the New Year, I’ll have to…” His words trailed off, his shoulders sagging under the weight of reality.

Song Dingxiang’s lips curved into a sly smile. “If you truly want to learn, I can teach you myself. There’s hardly any farm work to keep you busy now. A month is plenty of time to pick up the basics, don’t you think?”

The spark in Zhou Tiezhu reignited, chasing away his doubts. His voice brimmed with eagerness, almost trembling with anticipation. “Really? When do we start? I’ll work so hard, I swear!”

She couldn’t help but chuckle at his enthusiasm, her amusement carrying a hint of teasing. “Why the rush? Get some sleep first, Tiezhu. We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

But as she spoke, she could see it in his restless movements—the man wasn’t going to sleep a wink tonight. He was too electrified, already dreaming of the words he’d soon conquer.

Zhou Tiezhu lay restless on his bed, tossing and turning for what felt like hours. Sleep was elusive, teasing him with fleeting moments of calm. It wasn’t until his gaze landed on the serene beauty of Song Dingxiang’s face, her features soft in the glow of moonlight, that he found a semblance of peace. Watching her steady breathing, he closed his eyes and let himself drift off, his heart full of gratitude.

In the quiet depths of his mind, a thought bloomed with raw intensity: Marrying a girl like her is a blessing earned through lifetimes. She's my angel, my goddess, my fairy. I’ll guard her, cherish her, spoil her—she deserves nothing less.

At the first rooster’s crow, the village stirred to life. Winter’s icy grip didn’t excuse laziness here. By the third crow, chimneys across the village puffed out smoke, signaling bustling households. A silent chimney was an invitation for ridicule; no family wanted to be branded as idle.

But Zhou Tiezhu? He was up before anyone could question his diligence. At the first cry of the rooster, he slipped out of bed, careful not to disturb his slumbering bride. The water in the pot had turned icy overnight, but he braved the chill, splashing his face with the freezing liquid to wake himself fully. The stove was next. He stacked firewood with deliberate care, coaxing flames to life, and soon, the room began to warm. His little wife was still so young, so delicate—he’d be damned if he let her wake up to the biting cold.

Once the water was heated, he grabbed a bucket and slung a carrying pole across his shoulders, heading to the well behind Old Third Song San’s house. This wasn’t just any well; it was dug at the behest of Song Zhiyuan, who needed a constant water supply for his pig-butchering business. The well served not only his family but also neighbors and relatives who queued up each morning to draw water.

As Zhou Tiezhu approached, he was met with playful jeers and teasing grins.

“Well, well, Zhou Tiezhu! How was your day yesterday?”

The question was loaded, dripping with insinuation. His cheeks flared crimson, though he played it cool—or tried to. Instead of rushing to the well, he grabbed a hoe, knocking the thin layer of ice off its edge with deliberate force. He scattered straw around the area to prevent slips, ignoring the growing laughter.

The crowd—mostly young wives and older women—was relentless. Their knowing smiles and mischievous glances made his ears burn. He kept his head down, his silence only fueling their amusement.

Quickly filling his buckets, Zhou Tiezhu hoisted them onto the pole and made a swift retreat, their laughter chasing after him. He didn’t look back. He had a home to return to, a stove to tend to, and a fairy to keep warm. Let them laugh—he had better things to do.

At home, Song Dingxiang slowly stirred from her slumber, the warmth of the room wrapping around her like a soft quilt. The water in the pot was still hot, a quiet testament to her earlier preparations—perfect for freshening up her face and rinsing her mouth. Every detail was deliberate, and the simplicity of it all carried a certain raw intimacy.

The house still held winter’s well-preserved leftovers—salted meats, dried vegetables, and grains stockpiled with care. But in their rural corner of the world, meals were rationed by routine, three a day during the labor-intensive seasons, and two on quieter days. That might have suited the rest, but not Song Dingxiang. She was aware—sharply so—that she and Zhou Tiezhu were young, their bodies demanding more than mere sustenance. Two meals a day simply wouldn’t cut it.

With precision, she took to the kitchen. Sweet potatoes and corn simmered in a fragrant porridge, their scent rising in a comforting warmth, while she steamed a modest handful of greens. Her movements were fluid, practiced, yet there was a certain sensuality in the care she put into crafting this simple breakfast.

Zhou Tiezhu devoured the meal, the nourishment lighting a fire in his veins. The vitality in him was palpable as he wiped his mouth and stood, brimming with purpose. An axe glinted on the wall; a rope hung coiled beside it. Without hesitation, he seized both, his intentions clear. Firewood was needed to heat the house, and while the task was demanding, for someone like Tiezhu, with his broad shoulders and steady hands, it was child’s play.

"Go on, then," Song Dingxiang’s voice carried both warmth and a teasing command as she reached out to smooth the collar of his shirt, her fingers lingering just a second too long. "But don’t you dare miss lunch. This afternoon, you’re mine—I’ll teach you to read."

"Got it!" His voice was low, almost shy, his flushed cheeks betraying his thoughts. He bolted for the door, unwilling—or perhaps unable—to meet her gaze, his retreat tinged with the unspoken tension that always simmered between them.

Song Dingxiang chuckled softly, a knowing smile playing on her lips. She turned back to the daily grind, fetching hot water to scrub the clothes he’d discarded the night before. The mundane act carried an intimate familiarity, a tether binding their lives.

Before long, Fang Shi arrived, the crisp winter air trailing behind her. Her sharp eyes missed nothing as she stepped inside, her satisfaction evident in the way she took in the home’s warmth.

"Up already?" Fang Shi’s tone was light but probing. "I caught a glimpse of Tiezhu fetching water at dawn. Smart boy, avoiding my questions lately. Last night..."

"Mother," Song Dingxiang cut in, her voice measured but laced with humor, "nothing happened. Zhou ge said I’m still too young." She glanced up, a sly spark in her gaze, the tease clear despite her composed delivery.

"Oh, is that so?" Fang Shi’s laughter rang out, rich and full, her eyes dancing with mischief. "Well, I’m just worried he won’t be able to resist. Look at you, already defending your husband like a proper little wife. My heart, oh, how quickly you’ve changed!"

The blush on Song Dingxiang’s cheeks deepened as she ducked her head, her hands scrubbing furiously at the clothes. Fang Shi’s knowing smirk only widened, her gaze lingering on her daughter’s rosy face. For all the teasing, the bond between mother and daughter was evident, their banter underpinned by love and an unspoken understanding.

Fang Shi inspected the house inside and out with a sharp, discerning gaze. Every corner passed her scrutiny, and when she found everything in order, she gave a curt nod of approval. "I saw Tiezhu chopping firewood before I came, so I brought some steamed buns and sticky rice cakes for you. Later, your father and the others will be heading to the backyard to feed the pigs. Two need to be slaughtered today, but since you're newly married, we’ll spare your yard from the mess and the stench of blood."

Song Dingxiang, ever the obedient daughter-in-law, replied with a quiet smile, "Alright, Mother. Please, sit for a while and have some hot water to rest."

But Fang Shi wasn’t one to idle. Her relentless energy surged as she bustled about, barely masking her exhaustion. She waved off the suggestion. "Why would I tire from a little walk? I came to make sure everything is running smoothly. Now that I see things are under control, I’ll head back. There's still plenty to do at home." Without waiting for further protest, she turned on her heel and strode off, her steps brisk and purposeful.

Not long after, Song Zhiyuan arrived with his older brother, Song Zhicheng, and their nephew in tow. The trio entered the courtyard, exchanged greetings with Song Dingxiang, and moved straight to the backyard without delay.

In the backyard, they wasted no time. The fire roared to life, boiling water to prepare the pig feed. Once the animals had eaten their fill, Song Zhiyuan sized up the herd, selecting the two plumpest pigs with a practiced eye. In one swift motion, he tied their legs and hauled them off, their distressed squeals piercing the air. The sound, though jarring, was a proud reminder of the family's wealth and the bounty of their hard work.

The slaughter took place outside the front gate, where two long tables had been set up, each one ready for the grim task ahead. The massive pigs were hoisted onto the tables. A blade flashed—a clean, white entry—and exited stained crimson. Hot blood gushed, spraying like a macabre fountain, collected in waiting buckets. It was a savage, visceral display of abundance, one that spoke to the family's industriousness and prosperity.

Back inside, Song Dingxiang finished scrubbing the last of the laundry, her hands red from the cold water. She hung the damp clothes to dry, each piece fluttering like small flags of labor. From the cabinet, she retrieved a needle and thread, her fingers deft as she worked on patching Zhou Tiezhu’s worn clothes. The laughter and chatter from the men drifted into the room, a distant yet grounding reminder of the life swirling around her.

Zhou Tiezhu’s new outfit wasn’t just stitched together overnight—it was a labor of love from the meticulous Song family. His eldest aunt, Song Zhicheng’s wife, along with the capable Fang Shi, led the charge. Song Dingxiang, not one to be outdone, dusted off her long-forgotten sewing skills to craft a few pairs of socks and insoles. Every thread and stitch spoke of care, practicality, and the unspoken struggles of a modest household.

But Zhou’s old clothes? They were a pitiful sight. Worn thin, faded from too many washes, and held together with more patches than fabric, they barely hung on. For families like theirs, garments had a lifecycle that stretched beyond reason—new clothes served proudly for three years, patched and sewn for another three, and when they became unwearable, they were stripped down for shoe soles or felt. Not a thread was wasted; survival left no room for extravagance.

By mid-morning, with a few garments patched and the sun climbing high, Song Dingxiang straightened up and decided it was time to prepare lunch. Her hands, raw and calloused, got a quick rinse before she tackled the meal. She reheated a pot of thin corn porridge, tossing in a plump, sweet potato to give it some body. Buns and sticky rice, brought over by Fang Shi, were carefully set on a steaming pot stand. Frugal but warm, it was the kind of meal that spoke of resourcefulness and love.

Just as the meal was coming together, Zhou Tiezhu strode back in, hauling a hefty bundle of firewood. Dangling from it were two rabbits and a mountain chicken, frozen stiff from the winter chill. He dropped them onto the cold ground with a casual air. “Caught these in the traps I set before we got married,” he said, brushing snow from his boots. “Lost a few to some big beast, but these made it through. I set more traps today—if we catch anything fresh tomorrow, we’ll save it for your parents.”

Song Dingxiang didn’t miss a beat, grabbing a small broom to dust the grime off his clothes. “You’ve thought of everything,” she remarked, her voice sharp but appreciative. “How’s the mountain looking? Still heavy with snow?”

“Plenty of snow,” he replied, a shadow passing over his face. “Saw a wolf near the base. I’ll need to let Father know.” His tone turned grim. Wolves weren’t just predators—they were ruthless tacticians. Other beasts might snatch a chicken or gnaw on a goat’s leg, but wolves were in a league of their own. They’d nip at a pig’s ears, driving it into the wilds, leaving the family with nothing. And in a house that raised pigs, a wolf sighting wasn’t just concerning—it was a call to arms.

Today was a bloody affair at the Song household—time to butcher the pigs. Song Dingxiang knew her parents would waste no time sending over a haul of fresh pork, so she already had dinner plans brewing. She wasn’t one to be caught off guard, especially when her elder brother, Song Junshan, and his wife, Fang Shi, were predictable to a fault.

Sure enough, Junshan didn’t disappoint. He strode in soon after, lugging a massive pot brimming with pickled, bone-in meat and a bowl of freshly steamed pig’s blood. The scent was sharp, primal, intoxicating.

“A wolf came down the mountain?” he blurted, momentarily stunned by the unexpected news. His expression hardened. “Fine, I’ll let Father know. But make sure you eat while it’s hot—I don’t have time to linger.” With that, he spun on his heel and disappeared, leaving the heavy meal behind.

The couple wasted no time tearing into the feast. Bellies full and spirits lifted, the newlyweds retreated to the kang, the heat of the evening settling between them. Dingxiang pulled out a scrap of leftover white linen paper, a relic from her recent window patching, and wrapped a piece of charcoal in cloth. She carefully wrote out her husband’s name, Zhou Tiezhu, her strokes bold and purposeful.

Tiezhu’s eyes locked on the characters, a mix of awe and disbelief crossing his face. “This is... my name?” he murmured, almost reverently. For many men in his position, seeing their name written out was a rarity—a privilege, even. Life didn’t afford them the luxury of literacy; contracts were sealed with thumbprints, not signatures. Yet here he was, staring at his identity in ink.

Dingxiang hesitated before speaking, her voice low but firm. “When you’re out in the world, ‘Tiezhu’ doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue. It’s crude. If you don’t mind, I’d like to give you a new name.”

His head snapped up, eyes glinting with curiosity and admiration. “You want to rename me?” he asked, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Alright, but make it good.”

She studied him, her gaze lingering as if to engrave him in her memory. Finally, she spoke, her tone soft yet weighted with meaning. “A man’s word is everything. When I married you, I didn’t ask for wealth or luxury, only for you to come back to me, safe and sound. I want us to grow old together. That’s why I want to rename you ‘Yinuo’—from ‘Yinuoqianjin,’ meaning ‘a promise is worth a thousand pieces of gold.’ Every time you hear your name, I want you to think of me, waiting here for you.”

She leaned forward, her hand steady as she penned the three characters for Yinuo on the paper. The transformation was profound—Zhou Tiezhu, a man of rough edges and simple roots, became Zhou Yinuo, a man bound by honor and the weight of her hope.

Yinuo’s chest heaved, and tears streamed down his face as he clutched the paper like a lifeline. His voice cracked as he vowed, “A promise worth a thousand pieces of gold... I’ll remember. Dingxiang, I swear, I’ll never let you down.”

———Author's Note: Zhou Yinuo: I've got a great name now, given by my wife, feeling happy.

Song Dingxiang: This little fool...