Chapter 21: Exchanging Embroidered Goods for Mountain Produce

Before dawn, a faint ray of light struggled to pierce the paper-covered window. Shen Guilan was already seated at the edge of her bed.

She did not light a lamp—not to save the few drops of oil, but for fear that the dim yellow light would reveal the despair buried deep within her eyes.

By the faint morning light outside, she held her breath, bringing a needle as fine as a cow’s hair close to her eye. With the other hand, she twisted a nearly faded thread. Once, twice, thrice... the stubborn thread split stubbornly at the end, as if mocking her cracked fingertips and weary eyes.

At last, the thread passed through the needle’s eye.

She exhaled deeply, as if she had accomplished a monumental task.

But when her hand reached for the basket of threads, it grasped only a loose ball of thread, smaller than half a fist.

This was the last half ball of thread.

“Mother,” a weak, buzzing voice came from under the covers. Seven-year-old Xiu Wei had somehow awakened. Rubbing her eyes, she clutched the empty thread basket tightly to her chest, her small face marked by a worry beyond her years. “Today... can you still embroider little flowers?”

A sharp pang struck Shen Guilan’s heart, as if pricked by the embroidery needle held in her daughter’s hand.

Yet on her face, she forced a smile more hideous than tears, reaching out to stroke her daughter’s withered hair. Her voice was hoarse but feigned cheerfulness: “Of course, I can. How could your mother’s skill not embroider little flowers? Go back to sleep a while longer. When the sun’s up high, I’ll embroider you the most beautiful butterfly.”

Xiu Wei nodded, half understanding, and slipped back into the cold bed.

But the moment her daughter closed her eyes, Shen Guilan’s smile shattered piece by piece.

She knew better than anyone: when the thread ran out, so did her livelihood.

That little bit of thread could last no more than a day.

Without silk thread, her proud embroidery became water without a source, and their mother-daughter survival would be cut off.

That day happened to be the market day held every three days.

Shen Guilan tucked the last twenty copper coins into her bosom, carefully wrapped three newly embroidered crimson cuckoo handkerchiefs in an old cloth, and weighed down by heavy steps, headed toward Desheng Cloth Shop in town.

She knew that with just twenty copper coins, not even the cheapest silk thread could be bought.

All her hopes rested on those three handkerchiefs, which she had labored over for three sleepless nights, hoping Manager Zhang might take pity on past favors and extend credit for some thread.

But she didn’t even get inside the shop.

At the doorway, a burly man with a face full of scars lounged with crossed legs, leaning against the doorframe. His mud-stained worn shoes blocked the only path in.

It was Zhao San, a notorious town ruffian now employed by Desheng Cloth Shop to collect debts and do dirty work.

“Yo, isn’t this Widow Shen?” Zhao San raised an eyelid, curling his lips into a malicious grin, his voice loud enough for passersby to hear clearly. “Back for more credit? Manager Zhang has made it clear—these days, no more credit. Want thread? Fine, bring cold, hard silver, don’t bring those shabby embroidered pieces to embarrass us.”

His contemptuous gaze swept over the embroidered pieces wrapped in cloth at Shen Guilan’s bosom. He spat on the ground. “No matter how good your work is, can it feed you? Can it buy silver? It won’t get you a single inch of silk!”

The crowd around burst into suppressed laughter and whispered gossip.

Shen Guilan’s face flushed crimson, then drained to a ghastly pale.

She clenched the cloth bundle tightly, knuckles whitening from the strain.

She knew Zhao San was deliberately humiliating her.

Since her husband died, Manager Zhang had repeatedly insinuated she should become a concubine to replenish the household. After her firm refusal, he made life difficult at every turn.

Zhao San was just Zhang’s lapdog.

Arguing with a mad dog would only deepen her humiliation.

Shen Guilan said nothing, only cast Zhao San a deep look—no pleading, no anger—only an icy stillness of death.

Silently, she turned and left the marketplace, resolute amid the pointing fingers and stares.

She did not return home but gritted her teeth and walked in the opposite direction of the village, toward the rarely trodden western mountain pass.

The heavens were unkind, and just beyond town, heavy raindrops began to fall.

Without an umbrella, Shen Guilan let the cold rain soak her thin clothes instantly.

Instinctively, she held the cloth bundle closer—the three crimson cuckoo handkerchiefs were her last dignity, her last bargaining chip.

Through the curtain of rain, the lonely wooden gate deep in the western mountain pass flickered faintly.

It was the home of Gu Changshan, the village’s only hunter.

A taciturn, solitary man, villagers said he carried a dark aura, and no one dared approach easily.

But Shen Guilan knew he was the only person who might help her.

“Knock, knock, knock.” With fingers numb from the cold, she rapped on the rudimentary wooden door.

The door creaked open, revealing a tall, sturdy figure.

Gu Changshan wore a patched coarse cloth jacket; his bronzed skin still carried the dampness of the forest, and his eyes were sharp as a hawk’s.

When he saw Shen Guilan, drenched and disheveled, a flicker of subtle surprise crossed his keen gaze.

“Business?” His voice was hard and dull as stone from the mountain.

Shen Guilan’s lips turned purple from the cold, her teeth chattered, but her back remained straight as a rod.

Carefully, she untied the wet cloth bundle and held the three still-dry embroidered handkerchiefs before Gu Changshan.

The cuckoo birds on the cloth seemed vibrant, as if about to burst forth in a bloody cry.

“Brother Gu,” she began, her voice trembling from the cold but unusually clear, “I know you spend long seasons in the mountains and have broad knowledge. Is there anything in the mountains that can be exchanged for thread? Anything at all! I’ll trade my embroidery for mountain goods, medicinal herbs, anything you recognize as valuable!”

Gu Changshan did not answer immediately.

His gaze shifted from the stunning embroidery to her hands, red from the cold yet still clutching the work protectively, then to her stubborn, cornered eyes.

He remained silent for a long time, so long that Shen Guilan’s heart sank deeper and deeper.

Just as she thought all hope was lost, Gu Changshan turned and walked into the dim interior.

Moments later, he emerged holding a cloth bundle and two roots tied with red string.

He placed them before Shen Guilan.

“A pack of dried poria and two wild ginseng roots,” he said succinctly, “These are worth more than mountain goods.”

Shen Guilan’s eyes lit up instantly. She knew their value.

Gu Changshan looked at her, his voice still even: “Tomorrow, at the hour of the dragon, wait for me beneath Old Eagle Cliff east of the village. Bring plenty of your embroidery.”

The next day, at first light, Shen Guilan set out, carrying a heavy bundle on her back.