Cai Jingxing had thought about dying more than once. Each time the thought grew near, the faces and voices of …
Cai Jingxing had thought about dying more than once. Each time the thought grew near, the faces and voices of his old regulars stopped him.
"Cai, with hands like yours, even if the oven's gone, you'll still be a fine cook."
Right, even if his meat bun stall was smashed, even if he couldn't cook meat, he could still make some vegetarian dishes, porridge, and rice. In such a vast world, as a cook, he could always make something for everyone to eat. A good cook feeds whole families. One life keeps dozens alive.
So he fell in with the refugees. At first, there were still rabbits in the brush and fish in the streams; he could rustle up something to eat and keep hope alive, thinking the war would end before long. Then the Khitan took Hutuo River. No more fishing, no more game. He began making soups from wild greens, telling himself that when the plants ran out, the fighting would be over.
But the plants ran out, and the war did not. People started digging for any roots they could find; they scraped at clay from riverbanks. Some of those roots and soils were poisonous. Men who ate them would convulse, foam at the mouth, and never wake again.
After a lifetime at the cutting board, Cai knew enough to recognize names and symptoms: the so‑called "Guanyin clay," the bitter, life‑binding broths that ate at the body.
He understood what those things would do. He also understood what not eating them would do. Hunger was immediate and absolute.
But there was no choice, neither for him nor for the people who followed him.