Chapter 3: Mischievous Monkey

“Dad!” Song Daya was stuck fast and could only shout for her father to save her.

Song Dalang was greeting some villagers when he looked down. He panicked and hurried over to pull his daughter out.

He gave a hard tug, but she did not budge.

So he had to bend down, wrap one arm around her back and slide the other under her legs, and haul her out of the mud hole.

As she came free, one of her straw sandals was left behind in the muck.

“Dad, my shoe came off…”

To fish out the shoe, Song Dalang had to hold his daughter in his arms, and got himself covered in mud too.

Father and daughter sneaked quietly back into the yard, only to be spotted by Mei-shi.

There were her daughter’s two pale little legs, smeared with dark mud, looking just like two big radishes freshly pulled from the field…

“You two! You were only out for a little while, and look at all this mud!” Mei-shi laughed despite herself. “Why didn’t you just roll around in the mud pit?”

Father and daughter hung their heads, not daring to talk back.

Left with no choice, Mei-shi had Old Mother Wu heat some water so the two muddy figures could wash up.

While she was being washed in the tub, Song Daya remembered her father saying that rich families in the county paved the ground with grey bricks.

One day, she would pave her own house inside and out with grey bricks, so her feet would never have to step in mud again!

Several days had passed by the time the mud on the ground dried completely.

During those days, Song Daya kept thinking about how to improve her family’s home.

Her house had three earthen rooms in the main building, with the main hall in the middle and a side room on each end.

The kitchen was built onto the outside of the west side room where Old Mother Wu lived, the kind of layout people called a lean-to.

The latrine stood behind the east side room, though in the local dialect it was not called a latrine, but a maosi, or a maosi shed.

As for its construction, it was just two boards laid over a pit with walls around them, plus a small hole in the wall for light. It let in the wind in winter and the rain in summer.

That was not even the worst part. The worst part was the smell…

Either way, to this day Song Daya refused to use the maosi by herself.

They say a child never finds her mother ugly or her family poor, but if a better life was possible, who would insist on suffering?

So what could she do?

In her past life, Song Shengnan’s parents had done all kinds of work to support the family. They farmed, brewed wine, planted eucommia trees, and made soda, biscuits, jelly, and countless other things.

Her father had even apprenticed with a man who knew how to boil sugar, and sold stick candy, sesame candy, melon seed candy, and peanut candy. Business was quite good.

All of it was handmade.

Song Shengnan had watched from the side and helped out, so she knew a little of each trade.

But none of that was something the present Song Daya should know.

After thinking it over, Song Daya fixed her eyes on the bamboo grove beside her house.

People said the grove had been planted when her grandpa, Old Man Song, was still alive. Bamboo grows shoots, and shoots grow into bamboo, a sign of life going on without end.

Thanks to that grove, Song Dalang was even better at bamboo work than at carpentry.

Looking at the moso bamboo, as thick as a rice bowl, Song Daya had an idea.

“Dad, can you cut a stalk of bamboo for me?” Song Daya went to find her father.

“What do you want bamboo for?” Song Dalang asked.

“To make a lunchbox^[1].”

“What lunchbox?”

“A box, with a lid like this, so the rice won’t spill.” Song Daya gestured as she explained.

“Oh, you mean a food box, a small one.” Song Dalang had seen something of the world, so he understood.

Villagers were not particular. During the busy season, they sent food to the fields in bowls set in a bamboo basket, covered with a cloth, and people ate as soon as it arrived.

Only rich families bothered with such things.

Song Dalang had only seen food boxes when he worked away from home.

But Song Daya had never seen one!

“How do you know about food boxes?” Song Dalang asked.

“I don’t!” Song Daya answered boldly. “I just thought of it!”

“How did you think of it?”

“Mom has a chest, right? A chest can hold clothes, so why can’t it hold food?”

Song Dalang thought about it. She really had a point.

He patted his daughter’s head and sighed, “Our Da’ya is so clever!”

Having understood what his daughter meant, Song Dalang went behind the house, chopped down a stalk of moso bamboo, sawed off the finest segment, and crafted a cylindrical lunchbox.

Truth be told, once it was sanded smooth, it looked quite nice.

A lidded bamboo lunchbox with carved skin, image sourced from a merchant on Taobao.

Meanwhile, while Song Dalang was chopping bamboo by the house, Song Daya went over to cling to her mother’s leg.

“Mom, make me a little crossbody bag, will you?”

“What’s a crossbody bag?” Mei-shi asked, puzzled.

“Like this…” Song Daya gestured. “A little bag for carrying things, like this…”

Mei-shi squinted, only half understanding. “Oh, a pouch^[2]?”

“Yes, yes!” Song Daya nodded eagerly.

“The fabric has to be saved for making clothes. How could I waste it on a pouch for you?” Mei-shi refused.

Besides, she wanted such a big one at that!

“Mom, just make one for me! It doesn’t have to be big, and no embroidery either, just sew a simple one!”

“What do you need a pouch for anyway?”

“To carry things!”

“You’re just a tiny tot. What could you possibly have to carry?”

“You’ll see once you make it!”

“Still no.”

Left with no other choice, Song Daya fell back on her special kiss attack, giving her mother a loud smack on the cheek. “Mommy, I love you the most!”

Pleased to have earned a “most” that her husband never got, Mei-shi pieced together a pouch for Song Daya out of fabric scraps and, as requested, sewed on a strap.

Honestly, it looked quite nice slung over her shoulder.

The next morning, Song Daya got up and slung on her bag, with the lunchbox tucked inside, and went to show it off to her granny.

“Granny, is it pretty?”

Old Mother Wu was busy cooking breakfast and spared her a glance. “What are you up to?”

“This thing is called a lunchbox. It’s for rice! Dad made it for me!” Song Daya explained eagerly to Old Mother Wu. “This is a crossbody bag. Mom sewed it for me!”

“Oh, oh, it’s pretty! Pretty!”

Breakfast was porridge. Song Dalang’s bowl was a little thicker, everyone else’s a little thinner.

To go with it were pickled vegetables made by Mei-shi herself.

Mei-shi was very good at making pickles. Her radishes came out crisp and crunchy, refreshing and perfect with rice.

But for a family like the Songs, even pickles had to be rationed.

Mei-shi gave her daughter one pickled radish and was about to take the rest away.

“Mom, I want another piece!” Song Daya shouted.

“Other people eat three bowls of rice with one pickled radish. You want three radishes for one mouthful of rice!” Mei-shi scolded.

“If she wants it, give it to her,” Song Dalang chimed in. “We made it ourselves anyway. When it’s gone, we’ll just make more.”

Mei-shi was annoyed at Song Dalang for always undermining her, but in the end she still gave Song Daya one more pickled radish.

Song Daya munched on her pickled radish without a word, looking smug.

“The rice in the fields has just started to fill out. Harvest is still a long way off,” Song Dalang said to Mei-shi. “I’m planning to go down to town and see if I can find some work.”

He was still in mourning, but work still had to be done, or the whole family would starve.

“If there’s nothing in town, I might have to go to the county.”

Mei-shi was reluctant. “The county is too far…”

Song Dalang said, “There’s no helping it. We only have so much land, and no matter how hard we dig, it only gives so much food.”

Many people in the village had never left it in their entire lives.

Born at the head of the village, married to a girl from the tail of the village, and buried on the hill behind the village when they died, they spent their whole lives going in circles in this one place.

As far as Songjiatai was concerned, Song Dalang was already remarkable for having traveled so far. He hadn’t earned much money, but he was still more resourceful than those who only scratched a living from the dirt.

In the end Mei-shi agreed. “When will you go?”

“I want to go today,” Song Dalang answered.

“Then I’ll cook you some rice to take along.”

Mei-shi quickly cooked some plain rice, squeezed it into several rice balls, and wrapped them in fresh lotus leaves for Song Dalang to take as dry rations.

Whenever Song Dalang went out, she always did this.

With the little rice that was left, Mei-shi mixed in some scorched rice crust and squeezed two smaller rice balls for Song Daya’s lunch.

While Mei-shi had her back turned, Song Dalang took one rice ball from his own share and tucked it into Song Daya’s little lunchbox.

“Don’t tell your mom!”

“Mm-hm!”

Father and daughter whispered to each other, grinning from ear to ear.

Mei-shi was washing dishes in the kitchen, but her mind was on the father and daughter the whole time. She peeked out quietly and laughed in exasperation.

Well, so all this fuss over a lunchbox and a satchel was to guard against her!

Had the girl never stopped to think that with the mice stealing grain for so long, how could she possibly not know?

What went on in this house could possibly escape her?

These two little rascals