Временные трудности / Temporary hardships: Глава 9

Part 2. Tadpole swim.

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Chapter 9, in which the hero's wishes are granted, but not in a best way

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Today, Feng was overjoyed, almost jubilant. Despite a recent incident that had resulted in a very hurtful and sticky nickname, his foster parents had sent him to wash clothes and underwear today instead of making him hunch over in the field. It wasn't so much a heavy task as a responsible one - it required attention and some dexterity. And the fact that they sent him instead of his own children meant a lot. Perhaps it was because he was a city boy by birth, though he had never seen the city itself, as he was too young to remember anything clearly. This, however, did not prevent him from lying that in the city the huts were built of the best bamboo and covered not with rice straw but with wood, that they were so large that they could accommodate as many families as there were fingers on the palms of their hands, and that they were built on two or even three floors. No one believed him, however, and he had even been slapped for such things, but just for the sake of order. In this village he was not offended. His foster-father Shirong beat him not too often and harder than the rest of the family, and his foster-mother Zenzen fed him, albeit with leftovers, her husband and her own children.

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Feng's background, which usually only served as a cause for ridicule and cruel jokes from his adopted relatives and fellow villagers, now came in handy. After all, who better to do the laundry than "this city boy"? And the fact that it takes a lot of time to wash - well, that's the way it is in the city: to do everything carefully and to the best of their ability.

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"Hey, Shitfeng, why are you standing there?" Senior Sister Aimin shouted from afar.

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Feng turned around and grumbled resentfully, but he didn't say anything as he continued washing. Who could have known that in those bushes, through which he would decide to take a shortcut, someone had done a shit before? And even so, it wouldn't have been anything interesting - after all, everyone steps in shit sooner or later. If he hadn't been caught by Brother Kang, who had been sent by his father to see why Feng was taking so long. If only Kang hadn't had a tongue the size of a wagon and spread the word around! The nickname stuck. Even Mom used it! And it was much more offensive than the nickname "tadpole" that his master used to call him!

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Wait, what kind of master? Feng had been born in the city, but those masters were for rich people who could read. In their village, they were the Headman and Auntie Zhao's grandmother, who had passed away before Feng was born, not just Feng, but his adoptive parents.

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Feng sighed and banished the silly thought. This kind of thing had been going through his mind since he was a child, and lately it had become more frequent. Strange thoughts would pop up, new and previously unknown desires would arise, and very unfamiliar habits would appear. Feng, who didn't want to be known as crazy and get a more offensive nickname, didn't tell a soul about it. He even thought that his head was as messed up as old Chun's, who had fallen out of a tree and hit a rock a few years ago.

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But first of all, Feng's head was only banging against his father's slap, and secondly, it didn't explain how he had become able to read. How would he even know that the large inscription at the entrance of the village - "May the gods of fortune and fertility protect Duojia" was wrong? But he somehow knew that instead of the character for 'river,' it was the character for 'frog,' thus making the word 'protect' into 'blow their nose.' Even though the two phrases sounded the same aloud, the inscription took on an ominous and true meaning - the gods were indeed blowing their nose at Duojia Village, having sent neither fertility nor good fortune for a long time.

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Feng gripped the stick tighter and began to stir the laundry in the wicker tub. Only Crooked Yao knew how to make one. He was the only one who knew the intricate weaving to keep the buckets and troughs from leaking. Even though the tub was much lighter than the wooden trough, Feng never had the strength to carry it to the river; he always had to roll it.

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The laundry in the bucket filled with water and ashes resisted. It only gurgled and moved reluctantly. Feng had to push the stick as hard as he could. He had no idea why to make the clothes clean, it had to be soiled even more in the dirty ash, but somehow it worked.

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//"Purity turns to dirt, and dirt turns to purity," Feng thought. The beautiful phrase came out so well that he wanted to write it down on a scroll of the finest silk!

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On a scroll? Silk? To write? Feng had never learned to write. The only scroll in the village was in the village chief's possession, and all the silk was in his wife's festive ribbon, of which she was very proud. What kind of nonsense was going through his head? Feng looked at his hands, which were unusually small, thin, calloused, and dirty as if he had been trained by a master. Should he order the servants to do the laundry while he was away?

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Feng shook his head and groaned. Again! It's starting again! These stupid thoughts again! He grabbed the laundry from the tub and dragged it to the river to rinse. The water flowing down made the bamboo trunks of the small bridge on which the whole village was washing very slippery so several times he almost fell off.

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Leaning over, he considered how best to begin rinsing the laundry, but when he saw his reflection in the calm river water, he opened his mouth in surprise.

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Instead of the gaunt but beautiful young man who had been mocked in a thousand ways, he was looking at a child. A small, sharp face, sunken cheeks, sad, tired eyes - the reflection was that of a child of six or seven years of age. He was clearly a commoner, though not as evil or disgusting as the master looked.

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Feng froze, stunned by the totally unfamiliar yet strangely familiar reflection. He leaned closer and closer to the water, fascinated until his foot slipped on the wet bamboo, and he fell into the river.

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Feng flailed his arms and floundered in the water, but it only made things worse. He was caught up in the slow but strong current, pulled into the swamp, and swept away from the peasant women and other children.

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"Hey, look, Feng is sinking!" someone shouted.

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"Shitfeng is sinking!"

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"Shit doesn't sink!"

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"Watch your mouth, you little brat!" came a grumpy voice, and there was the sound of a slap.

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Feng grabbed at his laundry, but it was torn out of his hands, dragged by the current. He tried to call for help but only got more water.

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"Crooked-armed foster!" Aimin shouted. "What's wrong with you!"

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"Truly, the city's idiot!"

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"Row to shore, you fool!"

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"Shitfeng is finally getting a wash!"

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"You smell like shit!"

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"Me? Why don't you go wash yourself?"

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The children were fighting, and a couple of them went into the water, but Feng didn't care about the fuss on the shore. He swam farther and farther away, and the gurgling of the water and the sound of the river drowned out the distant voices. They must have been saying that he was an adopted crooked turd, the spawn of the city's cesspool whore, which certainly explained his crookedness. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Feng even agreed with them. How could he have dropped so much linen, so many important and elegant clothes, even when he was entrusted with the responsible task of helping to prepare for the summer solstice festival and the day of offerings to the spirits?

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He tried to frantically grab the laundry, but it was tangled in his arms and legs, and his attempts to get up ended sadly. The current knocked him off his feet and dragged him further into the depths. The fear of losing the laundry and being punished was supplemented by the fear of death, that he would be carried far away, or even that a river monster would emerge from the depths and drag him away for his evil amusement.

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"Ancestral Spirits, I beg you!" Feng howled, trying to raise his arms. But his hands were covered with wet rags.

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Then again, what spirits, what ancestors? All he knew about his ancestors was that his mother was a harlot from the city who had given the child to traveling monks, who had left him in this village, and Shirong had taken him in. Extra hands are always needed in a village. He was not the son of a general but a homeless orphan who had been kept from starvation and beasts only by good people.

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The current pulled him under the water, and he held his breath, terrified that now the bastard master would get his way, finishing what he had tried to do so many times before. He would tell his mother and father that Han had drowned because he was weak, and the Nao family could rest easy now that the stain of disgrace was gone.

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But wait, what water? He was at the feast! And then Mother said. And May! And then... Han wanted to howl - it was hard to imagine anything more stupid than what he'd done! He'd disowned the Nao family, insulted the spirits of his ancestors, and so what? Now, he was an orphan, the adopted son of a peasant family in a village somewhere in the worst hole in the Empire. Work and work again, dirt, shit, more shit, more dirt, some unimaginably disgusting food, beatings from his elders for bad work, and all over again, day after day, monotonous and nightmarish.

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And the worst of it was that until that day, he, an orphan, had not realized the horror of his life. He rejoiced when he was able to fill his belly with liquid rice and grass, considered a carrot a treat, and a small egg from a ruined bird's nest an occasion for a great feast. He was glad when he was not beaten badly and delighted when he could escape from work and escape to the forest or the marshes.

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And they called him not by his noble name but by some dog name, constantly demanding something:

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"Feng, why aren't you on the field?"

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"Feng, bring the firewood!"

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"Feng, you bastard, you ran away to the river again? Why didn't you catch any fish?"

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"Feng!"

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Han was floundering and struggling to get out, his whole body spinning and noisy, and he couldn't get enough air. He was about to go to the next rebirth when the darkness was replaced by light and the suffocation by the sweet, delicious, life-giving air. The world around him exploded with smells and sounds, the noise of the river, the scalding cold of the water, the ache in his back and stomach and arms and legs, so much battered against the rocks. He was dizzy, and the water around him was churning and foaming, trying to suck him back in, to drag him down to the depths again.

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"For what?" he screamed. "Is this the reward for all my suffering?"

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Whoever suffered in this life but did not give in to malice and envy will be exalted in the next life. Whoever lived righteously in this life would also be elevated in the next life and continue on his way to Heaven. This was a well-known truth, and this was how Han lived his short life! He lived righteously and had no bad feelings for anyone except for the villains, especially the bastard master, but he deserved it! No, no. It couldn't be: he had suffered so much! And he had done so much good - he had given the world his wisdom, sometimes praised the servants, and loved his mother and Mei very much! And if there was any justice under Heaven, he could not have gotten a new life full of more suffering and disgusting food!

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"It's a dream, a dream, a dream," he kept saying, trying not to slurp up the water.

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But if this was a dream, it was a nightmare of miserable misery, cold water, and impending doom. One of the floating rags caught on his face, covering his mouth and nose and preventing him from breathing, but he was only concerned now with the thought of punishment for losing his laundry. These rags, rags that in his previous life Han would have shunned even to wipe himself with, were a great treasure in the village, something that took a long time to sew or to buy for a great deal of money from a traveling merchant, and then to wait months for what they had ordered.

Camrad_RIP 13.01.24 в 14:16

What to speak of his daily clothes, which were made of the fibers of nettles, a tall and dense weed, which he had so many times had to cut down with a sharp stone and then drag back to the village? Such things did not even deserve the right to be called rags; not only the servants but also the servants of their servants would not wear them! And the shoes were not much different in the best way at all - flip-flops woven from bark and lined with rice straw, as if they had been invented by the chief executioner of the imperial palace. But Feng wore them rarely and only on important occasions, running barefoot the rest of the time.

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A new wave washed over him, and Han went under again. He had no strength to fight, but he wanted to drown to end his suffering.

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