The villagers of Deng Village worked in a flurry, following the methods Li Ying had taught them: force the poisoned to vomit, cleanse the bowels, tend to the poisoned stomachs. The charlatan Taoist who had been playing tricks and scaring people was not spared theatrics—he was thrashed, tied up, and locked in the wood-shed like a dangerous animal.
As Li Ying had expected, those bitten least deeply by the mushrooms woke up later that afternoon. She boiled a pale, silky milk porridge—gentle on the stomach and mildly detoxifying—and fed it to them. The village chief could not find enough words to thank her. When he learned she wanted only to inspect the village well for medicinal use, he insisted on escorting her at once.
Li Ying had guessed from the start: the villagers made salt from the well water. Seeing it with her own eyes confirmed her suspicion and left a faint, inevitable disappointment in her chest. The chief, quick to read her expression, hurried to console her as if presenting a treasure.
“Miss Li, don’t underestimate this salt well,” he said, flashing her a proud smile. Two men hurried forward with a single, enormous cured pig leg, laid reverently at her feet.
“In this hollow, there’s little worth noting except our salt-cured hams,” the chief explained. “It’s a craft passed down through generations. This leg’s been kept for over two years. It’s perfect for frying or stewing—rich and tender. Please, Miss Li, don’t refuse it.”
Mountain black pigs, raised wild on the slopes, produced lean, fragrant meat with generous fat. The well salt—packed with minerals—was worked repeatedly into the flesh, pressed and massaged until every fiber tightened. Then the waiting did the rest: time and smoke lent the meat its character. When the butcher sliced through the ham at the thigh joint, a hearty, mouthwatering aroma rose. Amber fat glistened; ribbons of meat took on a berry-red cure, carrying a faint scent of pine-wood smoke.
The ham had an uncommonly refined flavor, calling to mind distant Yunnan legs. Li Ying sliced a thin piece, smeared it with a smear of fresh cottage cheese she’d brought, and tucked a wild grape between the meat and cheese. The sweet grape softened the ham’s oiliness; the shock of fruit and smoke made her eyes brighten.
On impulse she accepted the ham, tucking it away as if merely being polite. Then, appearing to change the subject, she brought up the trade road again.
Deng Village’s regular diet left them not as iodine-starved as Yun Village, but the mushroom poisonings had made everyone skittish. When she explained the harms of iodine deficiency and said the Ping’an Exchange and the fishing hamlet would cover the bulk of the road’s cost—leaving only labor to the villagers—the chiefs readily agreed. They arranged to trade well salt, cured ham, and wild grapes for seafood from the fishing settlement, and set a date for the surveyors to arrive. To the villagers, who had just escaped disaster, Li Ying was a savior arrived at the right moment.
When she mentioned she was searching for spring water suitable for boiling glue, the chief’s face brightened. He slapped his thigh as if struck by a sudden thought.
“I think I know just the place,” he said, and unfolded a map with a flourish. “Two days’ march northwest from our valley there’s a small tribal settlement. They used to trade mules and goods with us even though we didn’t speak the same tongue. I’ve been told—by a man who’s been there—that they have a spring that stays cool and sweet even in the hottest days. It might be just what you need.”
Another villager, slapping his brow as if remembering something important, chimed in: “Yes, their spring was crystal clear. Even in midsummer it tasted like mountain water. I can’t vouch for anything else, but that spring… it’s something special.”
Li Ying felt a faint thrill. If that spring could yield purer glue, the risk would be worth taking. Before she could press for exact directions, the chief’s expression hardened. He lowered his voice.
“Miss Li, you should be cautious if you go. A few years back, something changed in that tribe. They turned violent and attacked neighboring settlements. We cut ties with them long ago. Sometimes shepherds stray in; they come back broken-legged and half-dead. They don’t welcome strangers.”
Li Ying nodded. Cause and effect—there were always reasons for a place to harden its borders. If the spring was truly worth the effort, she would go, even if it meant walking into danger.
So the village chief added more cured meats and salt to their bundles, drew a careful map, and sent them off. They hurried through long days and nights—eating on the move: ham, dried bamboo shoots, mushrooms, and wild fowl stewed together, dipped in a simple sauce. Quality mountain produce needed little else; the soups were intensely satisfying.
On the second day the horizon began to blur with a veil of dust, thin as gauze. Li Ying spied small, dome-shaped yurts lit like stars against the plain. A-Man’s eyes lit up; she was a creature of feeling, and home called to her in a way that didn’t wait for reason.
Li Ying gave her a gentle push. A-Man took a couple of steps forward, then hesitated; childhood memories are greedy and untrustworthy. “Sister,” she whispered, voice small, “I was taken to the Central Plains when I was little. I barely remember home. Are we—could this really be my village?”
Felt tents all look alike to an outsider. A-Man’s heart leapt at the sight, but she had no anchor. Before Li Ying could soothe her, a sharp whistle split the air.
Dark-skinned riders on tall horses had ringed them. They rode hard, shouting in a language Li Ying could not comprehend. A-Man’s broken speech stumbled over a few words she recognized from childhood, and before she could make herself understood, several long spear points prodded them like a herd of cattle. The horsemen shoved them into a corral choked with thornbushes and left two guards posted before riding off.
The men were broad and wiry, their shoulders as wide as Lu Xunguang’s and their strength matched them. There was no contest in a punch-for-punch fight, and with Granny Sun and the child Mianmian with them, and only Lu Xunguang able to fight, Li Ying made a quick, unspoken calculation: resistance would gain them nothing. She exchanged a single look with Lu and folded her hands.
After a storm of words the horsemen thundered away, leaving two to watch. Li Ying scanned the corral, then knelt close to A-Man and asked softly, “Did you understand what they said?”
A-Man frowned, concentrating. Her cheeks flushed as she forced the words out. “Not everything, sister… only bits. I heard ‘Central Plains’… and something like ‘trouble’… and—maybe—‘disturbing a longevity feast’.” She shivered, as if touching a memory that was both shameful and frightening.
Li Ying’s jaw set. If they’d been accused of disrupting a feast, whatever the truth, the tribe’s anger was high. The spring, she thought, might still be worth the risk—if she could find a way to talk rather than be driven away or worse. But first they would need to stay alive long enough to approach what lay at the heart of that silent, guarded village.