Chapter Seven: A Small Windfall

Before dawn, he had already made his escape, thrilling yet safe. The patrolmen stationed outside the cave had long since retreated to the warmth of their makeshift tents, lost in slumber. Who, on such a cold night, would be so dutiful as to keep watch over a cavern not yet open to the public? It wasn’t even the tourist season, so He Zhixing slipped away without much trouble.

By the time he emerged from the ancient Buddha Cave and reached the mountain path outside, the sky had begun to brighten. The crisp calls of sparrows and mountain doves rang in his ears, cheerful and clear. His leg still ached, not yet healed, so he limped along, moving as quickly as he could. One sleeve of his shirt was gone, revealing the short sleeve of a summer garment underneath, making him look rather peculiar. He snapped off a branch to use as a makeshift cane and hurried homeward.

As he recalled the perils of the previous night, he wondered who would ever imagine a boy barely in his teens, bold enough to spend the night alone in a deserted, pitch-dark cave. He chuckled foolishly to himself, his left hand caressing the wooden figurine of a beautiful woman, lost in self-satisfaction. In a moment of delight, his right hand slapped his thigh—right on the wound. “Ouch!” he cried out. He checked to see if it was all right, then glanced up and down the mountain path to make sure he was alone before putting on a serious face and picking up his pace.

It was nearly noon by the time he got home. His grandfather noticed him the moment he entered and began to scold, “You rascal! Why didn’t you come home last night? I asked all over about you. Do you know how worried I was? You nearly scared me to death…” His grandfather’s face was ashen with anger, teeth gritted. “Just wait—I’ll teach you a lesson for being disobedient…” He strode over to the corner of the bedroom to fetch a stick, as he always did to discipline He Zhixing for his mistakes.

After giving him two hard whacks, his grandfather demanded, “Now, where did you go after you finished? Why didn’t you come home? Where did you go last night?” The scolding and spittle flew as he spoke, and Zhixing, aggrieved, tried to shield himself with clumsy hands, pleading, “Grandpa, don’t hit me, I’ll tell you…”

He knew he’d have to confess everything honestly to avoid harsher punishment. So he told his grandfather about his visit to the ancient Buddha Cave, omitting the part where he was bitten by a snake, saying only that he had tripped and scraped his thigh on a rock. He summarized the adventure and then opened his old bag to show his grandfather the piece of millennia-old stalactite he’d brought back. As soon as he opened the bag, his grandfather caught a whiff of the rich, medicinal fragrance wafting from afar. Startled and excited, he snatched it up. “Boy, is this truly a thousand-year stalactite? The real thing?”

Zhixing nodded. His grandfather pressed the stone to his nose, savoring the pleasant scent. There was no denying its authenticity. After a moment of awe, he glanced around the room and said, “Quick! Get a plastic bag and seal it up!”

“Oh,” Zhixing replied, moving awkwardly, and his grandfather remarked, “You clumsy rascal, let me do it. Look at yourself…” Zhixing had no choice but to sit on the edge of the bed and let his grandfather carefully wrap the precious stalactite. Then, his grandfather quickly made him a bowl of rice noodles. Zhixing’s stomach had been growling with hunger for ages. Only after he’d eaten did his grandfather say, “Rest well after you finish your noodles. I have work to do.”

His grandfather’s work was simple—handcrafted wooden furniture, mostly made at home on commission, which was conveniently close.

A month passed. He Zhixing, apart from practicing his knife skills morning and night, focused on treating his wound with herbal poultices guided by the essence of the ancient stalactite. He filtered and pressed out small amounts of the precious liquid for consumption (his grandfather occasionally benefited as well), but the rest he used for his experiments. Whether applied to the wound, taken internally, or used as an eye poultice at night, as soon as he concentrated his energy, he found remarkable results. His progress was swift and astonishing; each day brought a transformation.

When bored during the day, he would go up the mountain or collect discarded wood from neighbors to practice his daily lessons—carving. He didn’t just carve wood; sometimes he carved vegetables and flowers—sweet potatoes and yams were his usual materials. His grandfather, seeing him so focused, left him to his mischief. Zhang Ling and Zhang Yan, the two little girls from next door, would often come over after school to play with him, begging him to carve flowers or copy calligraphy and paintings for them. Whether it was carving radish flowers, sweet potato blossoms, copying couplets, or painting, the girls loved everything he made, and he was happy to indulge them, enjoying their company.

One day, he noticed his eyes had grown sharp and bright. While carving a wooden figurine, he realized he could see through the tip of his chisel. He was so startled he nearly dropped the wood in his left hand. Glancing around to make sure no one was watching, he quickly buried his head in his work to cover his amazement.

That day, everything he carved seemed to flow effortlessly. After lunch, it took him less than three hours to finish a sculpture of an ancient lady. Just then, the two girls arrived, calling, “Brother! Brother!”

He Zhixing put down the finished figurine and smiled at them. “Ling, Yan, you’re here.”

Zhang Yan spotted the small wooden beauty he’d set on the chair and rushed over, snatching it up to admire. “Brother, did you just carve this? It’s so pretty! Is it for me? I really love it!” Zhang Ling saw it too, but her sister was quicker. She looked at the lifelike figurine in Zhang Yan’s hands, admiring the vivid lines, the finely detailed features, the elegant hair, the delicate eyes and nose, the little mouth, the flowing lines of the robes and skirt, the graceful posture—beauty in every curve. She reached out, hoping to take it. “Yan, let me see it!”

But Zhang Yan darted away, hugging the figurine to her chest. “No, it’s mine!”

Zhang Ling protested, grabbing He Zhixing’s arm and shaking it, her eyes brimming with tears. “Brother, I want one too!” Shaken by her plea, He Zhixing couldn’t refuse. “All right, it’s too late today. I’ll make you one tomorrow, okay?”

Zhang Ling pouted, still unhappy. He Zhixing gently flicked her nose. “How about I draw you a picture of the Moon Fairy holding a rabbit?” At this, Zhang Ling broke into a smile and ran to fetch brushes and paper for him.

It took He Zhixing over half an hour to finish the painting. Though simple in style, its composition was complete: the moon palace, pavilions, peonies, colored clouds, and a full moon, all flowing from his brush in one inspired burst. Though hardly the work of a master, it captured his vision well enough. The fairy’s attire, the fluttering ribbons, the rosy lips, the jade arms, her graceful poise, the lively expression in her eyes, and the delicate face; the fairy leaning on the railing, lost in thought, holding her rabbit, surrounded by blooming peonies—each detail brought the scene to life.

He Zhixing carefully handed the finished painting to Zhang Ling, who gazed at it, reluctant to let go. “Brother, is it finished?” “Yes.” “It’s beautiful. I love it.”

Zhang Yan leaned in, envious. “Brother, how did you come up with this? I don’t remember your house having anything like this for you to copy from. How did you manage it?”

“Oh, I love all kinds of paintings. Out here in the countryside, we don’t get to see many masterpieces, but every year at New Year’s, I look at the couplets and posters on everyone’s doors—the Door Gods, immortals, all those pictures of Zhang Fei, Guan Yu, Zhang Yun, all sorts of deities, even Wu Daozi’s work. And then, during the Mid-Autumn Festival, the more expensive mooncake boxes have paintings of the Moon Palace. Whenever I see something I like, I sketch it and copy it. Over time, I’ve come up with a few ideas of my own.”

The two girls listened in awe. “Wow, Brother, you’re amazing!”

After a while, Zhang Ling tugged his hand. “Brother, since it’s still early, why don’t you come to my house for a bit? We have lots of old books and painting guides. Maybe you’ll find something you like.”

“Sure, I’ll come.”

The three of them held hands and went to say goodbye to his grandfather, who was planing wood in the side room. “Grandpa, I’m going to Zhang Ling’s house with them. I’ll be back soon.”

His grandfather looked up from his work. “All right, be safe and come home early!”

“Okay.”

Zhang Ling’s family was middle class. Her father drove a small truck for a construction team—a pretty impressive job back then, when drivers hauled sand, stone, and cement around the county. When they arrived, her father had just returned from a trip, and her mother was at home, busy with housework and tending the vegetable garden.

He Zhixing greeted her parents politely, and the sisters whisked him off to their study, their little world of books. They had quite a collection: magazines like Zhiyin, Youth Digest, San Yue Hong, old newspapers, books from the late Qing and early Republic, handwritten manuscripts, and even some of her father’s favorite martial arts novels—Red Lantern Bandit, Chu Liuxiang, Journey to the West, Three Kingdoms, Dream of the Red Chamber, Water Margin, Romance of the Western Chamber, works by Jin Yong, Gu Long, Liang Yusheng, and Wolong Sheng. Most martial arts novels of that era had illustrated covers, and those pictures were He Zhixing’s favorites, serving as models for his own drawing. The old books, manuscripts, and newspaper illustrations were all treasures for his eager mind—a true golden house, a place of beauty.

The three children, all of similar age, got along well. Before leaving, he borrowed a copy of Romance of the Western Chamber, full of illustrations of ancient beauties. On the way out, he overheard that Zhang Ling’s family would be going to the county the next day, which was a weekend. There was to be a performance by the City Art Troupe at the county’s cultural square, a publicity event for the opening of the Ancient Buddha Cave—a major project for the county. They asked if he wanted to join them. Of course, he agreed—who could resist a lively outing?

Early the next morning, He Zhixing waited outside Zhang Ling’s house. Her mother, returning from the market with breakfast, spotted him. “Oh, it’s little He! Come in, have you eaten yet? Come, have breakfast.”

He Zhixing felt a bit embarrassed. “Auntie, I… I already ate…” In fact, he hadn’t, but was afraid of being late. Zhang Ling’s mother handed him two buns. “Eat, I bought plenty.”

The two girls were up early and delighted to see him. After breakfast, they all piled into their father’s truck and headed straight for the county square. The place was already bustling—people coming and going, though the main event wouldn’t start until after ten. Their father left to run errands, and their mother took the opportunity to take the girls shopping, asking if He Zhixing wanted to come along. He said he’d rather visit the bookstore, so they agreed to meet back at the square at 9:30.

After saying goodbye, He Zhixing made straight for the bookstore. Since he started consuming the ancient stalactite, his memory had become extraordinary—anything he glanced at once or twice was etched deeply in his mind, ready to be recalled like a slideshow. In the bookstore, he absorbed as much as he could about painting, carving, and calligraphy until the clock showed 9:20. He hurried back to the square, just in time to meet the sisters and their parents. The square was now packed. The stage had been set up, and county officials were busy arranging tables for the speeches that would precede the performances.

At the front of the stage, a large crowd had gathered. Curious, He Zhixing asked, “What’s going on over there?”

The twins’ father explained, “Oh, that’s the lottery—instant scratch-off tickets. If you’re lucky, you could win big.” The children’s eyes lit up. “Wow, let’s go try!” The two girls tugged their mother’s sleeve. “Mom, we want to buy some! I want to win a prize!” Their mother looked to their father for approval.

Seeing their excitement, he said, “Fang, let the kids have a few. Maybe they’ll get lucky.”

They bought ten yuan’s worth of tickets, and He Zhixing received one. Luck was with them—Zhang Yan won ten yuan, and He Zhixing won a free ticket. Excited, they exchanged their winnings for more tickets and kept scratching.

This time, He Zhixing chose his ticket himself. He decided not to waste his newfound eyesight. Focusing his energy, he activated his simple x-ray vision, all the while pretending to rummage through the tickets without drawing attention. He checked several, then reached toward the tickets held by a pretty salesgirl. At last, he spotted one with the hidden words “100 yuan” beneath the anti-counterfeit layer. Delighted, he selected that ticket and scratched it open—sure enough, he’d won a hundred yuan. Zhang Yan, seeing his win, grabbed his hand and squealed, “Wow, brother, you won!”

He exchanged the ticket for a hundred yuan. The girls’ parents congratulated him, and the children, emboldened, bought thirty yuan more—ten each—leaving seventy yuan for him to pocket.

With his ten yuan’s worth of tickets, He Zhixing wandered off to another salesgirl, circling the booth. At last, he picked out a ticket, and this time, he hit the jackpot—a prize of twenty thousand yuan. He kept quiet, pocketing the ticket, and casually scratched off the rest before rejoining the sisters. The story would continue—each chapter of his life unfolding with fresh promise and hidden miracles.