Junger Premierminister, ein Einsiedler

Kapitel 1

Gu poison

01. A girl as beautiful as a mountain peach blossom fainted by the roadside.

Yang Hong walked wearily out of the village entrance, and Mujiao Village was then swallowed up by the early spring gloom.

In the late Qing Dynasty, the economy was sluggish in both urban and rural areas, and it was really hard to find work. He wandered around the village for a long time, asking around to see who was hiring long-term laborers, but to no avail. It was still early before the busy farming season, so who would want to support an idle person? A man looked him up and down and said, "Look at you, so handsome. You must be either a down-on-his-luck young master or a disgraceful failed scholar. How can you do manual labor?"

"Alas—" Yang Hong sighed deeply, "Only because my family has fallen on hard times can I earn a living by doing manual labor." He then spread out his calloused hands, his large eyes beneath his thick eyebrows filled with longing. The man told him that there was a bamboo shoot farm in Qingzhu Village, thirty miles away, and it was currently the season for making magnolia petals. They might need to hire people, so he might as well go and ask.

Yang Hong thanked them and coiled his braid. After walking about a mile, the stone path split into two, one winding up the mountain, the other stretching along the foot of the mountain into the distance. At the fork in the road was a signpost with the words: "Right to Qingzhu Village, Left to Guizhou Province"; above and below were two lines of smaller characters: "The bowstring breaks when drawn, the arrow is blocked by the monument." Yang Hong understood: the path on the right led directly to Qingzhu Village, and there was no more fork in the road.

Yang Hong straightened up, feeling a little dizzy and his stomach rumbling. He then realized he hadn't eaten lunch yet. Looking around, he saw no wild fruit to fill his stomach, so he picked some tender tips of wild roses from the roadside, chewed them, and found them bitter and astringent.

Beside the mountain, a thin spring flowed down from a crevice in the rocks. A bamboo awl, about a foot long, was stuck into the crevice to draw the water out. Yang Hong drank his fill from the awl's mouth, finding it surprisingly sweet.

He wiped his mouth, and after taking only a few steps, a beautiful young woman, as lovely as a camellia, walked towards him. Perhaps she had been walking too fast, for her peach-blossom cheeks were fair with a rosy glow, and her collar had split open, revealing her smooth, bamboo-shoof-like skin.

The girl eagerly approached the bamboo basket and began to gulp down the water. The thirst was so intense, it felt as if a raging fire was igniting within her, scorching her internal organs. A moment later, she suddenly bent over, collapsing to the ground and rolling around in agony. She desperately tore at her clothes, as if trying to pull the fire out of her body. The immense, unbearable pain turned her face from red to purple, and she fainted, drenched in cold sweat…

Yang Hong was stunned, not knowing what had happened. He wanted to help, but didn't know what to do. While he hesitated, a woman in her fifties, thin and with rough skin, came down the mountain path. Seeing the girl's condition, she quickly helped her up and asked with concern, "Xiaoyu'er, what happened?"

Xiaoyu sobbed, "I was thirsty, so I went down the mountain to Granny Yang's house to ask for a bowl of tea, but who knew she would use a curse to harm me."

"That damned witch doctor, I'll teach her a lesson!" the old woman roared angrily. After roaring, she saw a handsome young man standing next to her, so she asked him to look after Xiaoyu for the time being, and hurriedly ran down the mountain. Before long, she returned with a packet of antidote.

After taking the antidote, Xiaoyu seemed to have just recovered from a serious illness. She was weak and could only stand up and walk a few steps before swaying and about to collapse.

The old woman was about to carry Xiaoyu on her back when Yang Hong said, "I'll do it!"

The old woman asked, "Where are you going, nephew?"

After Yang Hong answered, the old woman said, "My husband runs the bamboo shoot farm, so come with me—"

After walking for a while, Yang Hong gradually felt his strength waning. Xiao Yu heard him breathing heavily and told him to stop. After resting for a while, she refused to let him carry her anymore, so Yang Hong and the old woman had to help her walk.

When they got home, the old lady knew that Yang Hong hadn't eaten yet, so she went to heat up some food. After Yang Hong ate his fill in a few bites, he felt energetic again.

At dusk, Yang Hong was chopping firewood when an elderly man, well over sixty but with a sturdy build, walked into the yard. His purplish-brown forehead was etched with wrinkles, his eyes were sunken, and his eyebrows twitched occasionally, revealing a hint of unease. Seeing a stranger working, he asked, "Who are you—"

Yang Hong guessed that this was the boss known as "Zhai Lao," so he put down his axe and respectfully replied, "My name is Yang Hong, and I just arrived."

When the old woman heard her husband's voice, she came out of the house and said, "Old man, I've decided to hire a farmhand."

"How does he compare to Lao Hu?" Lao Hu is his family's long-term farmhand. He's been here for six or seven years, living in the bamboo shoot farm, and only comes to do farm work during the busy season.

"He is stronger, smarter, and more diligent than him."

"That's good."

Xiaoyu lowered her eyebrows and called out "Father." Seeing the village elder's smile, she quickly made a cup of tea and handed it to him with both hands.

"Are you feeling better?" the village elder asked with concern.

"It's okay."

"If you go outside alone, don't eat anything indiscriminately."

"Father, I will never go to Mujiao Village again."

"You can't say that. We still need to visit your late mother's grave during the Qingming Festival."

Dinner was plentiful, but the village elder couldn't eat a single bite, looking preoccupied. Before going to bed, he suddenly said to the village woman, "Go to Xiashaping and ask when the people left."

Zimin was Zhaihua's only nephew. He worked at the bamboo shoot farm, selling magnolia petals, and was always on the go. Why was he going out to inquire so late? Had something happened to his business? The village woman muttered a few words, called Yang Hong, and they went out with torches lit with pine resin.

"Is it him? Is it really him?" the villager asked himself over and over again.

Last night, he closed the main gate of the bamboo shoot farm and the small door of the roasting shed, and alone sealed the steamer for roasting magnolia slices, placed the fire-insulating plate, and installed the smoking holes. This was the most technically demanding task, a family heirloom skill, seemingly easy but actually very difficult. The magnolia slices he roasted were tender, fragrant, and had a golden sheen, a perfect combination of color, aroma, and taste. The Su family's magnolia slices have a long history, roasted with fragrant leaves and firewood unique to Qinglong Mountain, resulting in an exceptionally rich aroma. During the Wanli era of the Ming Dynasty, the county magistrate brought the Su family's magnolia slices to the capital for the emperor to taste. Indeed, they surpassed even the finest delicacies, extraordinary indeed. The emperor was overjoyed and bestowed upon the Su family's magnolia slices made from winter bamboo shoots the title of "Imperial Slices," also known as "Yellow Slices," stipulating that only nine small batches of magnolia slices could be made from the first harvest of winter bamboo shoots each year as tribute. This unique skill of making magnolia slices was only allowed to be passed down through generations, from son to son, with anyone who dared to peep at it to have their eyes gouged out. Of course, that's all ancient history, but the reputation of the Su family's "Imperial Bamboo Shoots" from Qinglong Mountain is still highly regarded, and their ancestral skills cannot be passed on to outsiders. He was working when he occasionally glanced back and noticed a gleaming eye through the crack in the door. He pretended to cough, but the person outside didn't seem to understand. On a whim, he grabbed a bamboo skewer and tossed it aside, only to hear a cry of "Ouch!" from outside. He hurriedly pushed open the door, and the person had already left the bamboo shoot field and disappeared into the darkness.

Afterwards, he felt that the voice was very familiar, and this afternoon he suddenly realized that it sounded just like his nephew Su Zimin's voice; but how did he know that he had sealed the pot last night?

The village chief had no children and had long wanted to pass on his unique skill and his position as village chief to his people. Last year, someone advised him to adopt an orphan, but the news spread quickly. However, Su Zimin picked a fight with that person and knocked out two rows of teeth, leaving him unable to speak properly ever since.

The village elder naturally understood the people's intentions—the bamboo shoot farm, Uncle's wealth, and the village elder's status were not to be touched by outsiders, except by the people of Su.

This incident enraged the village elder, who refused to pass on his ancestral skills to his nephew, nor did he want to hand over the family property and the position of village elder to him. He couldn't believe Zimin had come to spy on him; it was truly despicable. But he couldn't bring himself to gouge out his nephew's eye. Lost in thought, the village woman and Yang Hong returned. The village woman said, "Zimin went to the prefectural city early yesterday morning."

"Not him?" the village elder was confused. "Who could it be?"

Just as Zhai Lun was puzzled, his people returned. Equally puzzling, he had suddenly become a "one-eyed dragon".

Only he himself knows the reason behind this.

That morning, Zimin heard from the people at the bamboo shoot market that the village elder wanted everyone to go back and rest, and that he would guard the market alone that night. Zimin immediately knew the elder's ulterior motive—the old man was afraid of revealing his secret skills and was keeping them hidden from everyone. So he drove his caravan to the market outside the mountains, but pretended to be going to the prefecture city. He showed up at the market for a while, traveled a distance towards the prefecture city, and then secretly turned back, crossing mountains and valleys along a small path back to Qingzhu Village. By the time he arrived at the bamboo shoot market, the sun had already risen, so he hid outside the gate and peeked in.

Ever since he knocked out the talkative man's teeth, he knew the village chief was wary and no longer trusted him. Perhaps he shouldn't have acted that way; he was too impulsive and blatant. Now, regret was useless. He could only take this approach, step by step, to get what he wanted and deserved.

He had only known his uncle for his martial arts skills, never imagining the old man also possessed the extraordinary skill of throwing darts. After being pierced in the eye by a bamboo skewer, he rushed down the mountain that very night to the county town to find an old doctor to treat his injury, but that eye would never see again. Back in the village, he told everyone he met that he had been pierced by a piece of iron while shoeing horses in the prefecture; only the village elder looked at him with a pained gaze, showing great concern for his injury; he simply smiled, lamenting his bad luck and the unexpected misfortune that had befallen him. The village elder felt very guilty and wanted to make it up to his nephew.

The subject opened his money bag and poured out ingots of silver, saying that the government had already paid the tribute of six hundred taels of silver, even though it was six months late.

The village elder knew the imperial coffers were more than this, and wouldn't have dragged it out for so long; Zimin had done many underhanded tricks, taking advantage and making extra money; he himself was over sixty, how many more years could he live? What did he need so much money for? He decided to let it go. Then he felt he had gone too far by blinding his nephew in one eye; so he took out another hundred taels of silver, saying it was a reward for Zimin. Yu Min insisted on refusing, saying, "Uncle's trust is the greatest reward!"

The village chief naturally understood the unspoken meaning in his people's words, and thought to himself: This matter is not that matter; he must weigh the importance of each.

02. Love songs are like fine, intoxicating wine; the two of them are intoxicated.

Spring was warm and sunny, and the vegetable garden next to the house was a riot of color thanks to Xiaoyu's tending. Lately, a young man named Fengsheng often passed by the vegetable garden, his bright black eyes always fixed on her, trying to strike up a conversation with her. Although he wasn't very tall, he was handsome and spirited, and his folk songs were more melodious than the spring water of Liuye Creek.

Xiaoyu had a strong liking for him, and felt empty inside after not seeing him for a few days. Now, separated by a mountain ridge, Fengsheng sent over several more hot and spicy songs:

There's a slope on the mountain opposite; others walk less, but I walk more.

Even the toughest straw sandals are worn through; if not for a lover, then for whom?

Two red clouds immediately rose to Xiaoyu's face. This was the first time she had encountered something like this, and she didn't know whether it was from shyness or fear.

Suddenly, the shrill voice of the woman Caihua rang out: "Feng Sheng, you slut, don't you even take a piss and look at yourself? How dare you seduce my Xiaoyu! I'll tear your mouth apart!"

The singing stopped abruptly. Caihua ran over and said angrily to Xiaoyu, "You can't be polite to this kind of person. I scolded him and chased him away."

Xiaoyu remained silent, looking lost and forlorn.

The next day, Su Zimin's sworn brother, Scarface, stormed into Feng Sheng's house and slapped Feng Sheng twice without saying a word.

Feng Sheng was baffled and questioned, "Why did you hit me?"

Scarface said, "Hitting you was too lenient!"

What's wrong with me?

"Don't you understand?" Scarface chuckled maliciously. "Two more slaps and you'll wake up!"

Feng Sheng's father hurriedly came out, bowed, and said to Scarface, "Tell me if he has done anything wrong, and I will teach him a lesson."

"Your son is incredibly audacious!" Scarface threatened. "Anyone who dares to make a move on Xiaoyu will be dealt with ruthlessly!"

The news spread quickly, and everyone knew that Fengsheng had been beaten. The young men, fearing Zimin, dared not associate with Xiaoyu anymore. The village chief, hearing the rumors, felt that Zimin's nature was incorrigible and was completely disappointed in him.

It was a hardship for Xiaoyu, who had nowhere to confide her inner turmoil. The young men dared not joke around in front of her, and even the girls were no longer as carefree as before. Although Caihua would come to play with her every few days, she could no longer muster any enthusiasm and just worked hard to relieve her unbearable loneliness.

The autumn rain drizzled down from morning till night, weaving a gray curtain between heaven and earth. Grayish-brown clouds drifted over the mountains surrounding Qingzhu Village.

Unable to leave the house and with little work to do inside, Yang Hong locked himself in his room, staring blankly out the window. Suddenly, he heard the village woman calling him, saying the pigsty was leaking. He quickly opened the door and went over.

Xiaoyu sewed shoe soles in her room for a while, then looked out at the endless drizzle and felt bored. She left her room and walked until she came to the side room where the farmhand lived. Seeing that the door was open, she went in.

On the table, a traditional Chinese ink painting made with soot from the bottom of a pot immediately catches the eye: the green mountains are washed by rain, lush and verdant; the green trees sway in the wind, graceful and charming, creating a scene of misty and hazy beauty.

The bottom left corner has seven small characters: "The evening rain falls on the autumn mountains."

After looking at it over and over for a while, Xiaoyu remembered that when she was studying at a private school in town, she had also tried to copy a few strokes with her teacher, but they didn't look like anything at all. This Yang Hong really has some hidden talents.

When Yang Hong returned, he saw Xiao Yu looking at the painting and felt a little uneasy. He quickly put the painting away and said apologetically, "I just scribbled a few lines because I had nothing to do. Please forgive me, Xiao Yu."

There were no wealthy families in the mountains, and people didn't address each other as "Miss" or "Madam." The employer and the long-term and short-term laborers worked and ate together. He called Xiaoyu, who was a few years younger than him, "Sister Xiaoyu," which was a respectful title and also indicated that they were of different statuses.

Xiaoyu said, "Could you draw a portrait of me?"

"I can't draw well."

"You can do it."

Xiaoyu indeed bought paper, brushes, and ink, and on rainy days when she had nothing to do, she would go to the farmhand's house and ask Yang Hong to paint her portrait.

Unable to refuse, Yang Hong had no choice but to obey; yet he dared not look her in the eye. Xiao Yu told him to open his eyes wide, look carefully, and not be shy. Like a painting finished and colored, hey, she was even prettier than Xiao Yu in the mirror.

"How could I draw as well as you?"

“You are even more beautiful than in the painting,” Yang Hong said sincerely.

Xiaoyu started to notice Yang Hong. Before, she always thought of him as just a farmhand, a good person, and never considered anything more. Like the pear tree in front of her door, in spring, it was covered in snowflakes; in autumn, it was fragrant in the wind; everything was normal, everything seemed to be as it should be, and she took it for granted. It wasn't until one day she was pricked by the thorns of a brightly colored wild rose and got a sour orange stuck in her tooth that she suddenly realized the many wonderful and beautiful things about the fragrant pear tree in front of her door.

Soon, she discovered that Yang Hong could also sing opera. Although he was humming softly alone, she heard every word clearly. Yang Hong sang Yang opera pieces such as "Meng Jiangnu's Thousand-Mile Search for Her Husband" and "The Death Tablet," the melodies of which were plaintive, poignant, and deeply moving—songs she particularly loved. She couldn't understand: how could a farmhand, though handsome and well-mannered, be so multi-talented? But not wanting to pry too much into his background, she found a pretext to chat with him. They talked about the operas they had seen, the actors' costumes, and when they found common ground, they couldn't help but hum along, adding much life to their remote mountain village home.

Yang Hong was strong and intelligent; he could learn anything at a glance. When working at the bamboo shoot farm, he suggested adding several perforated serpentine tubes under the steamer. When the fragrant leaves burned, the gas wouldn't rush upwards directly, but would instead spread evenly through the perforated serpentine tubes. This would make the roasting of magnolia petals more effective, resulting in a more fragrant and fresher flavor. The village chief praised him for his cleverness.

Time flies, and in the blink of an eye, Yang Hong has been living with the Zhaihua family for more than half a year. Life is stable, and the work isn't heavy; Yang Hong's pale and haggard face has gradually regained its rosy hue. One day, while working, he sang:

Bamboo on the mountain can serve as a house, and thatch on the ground can serve as a bed;

As long as the girl is kind, well water is worth a pot of wine.

Unexpectedly, Xiaoyu blocked his way and asked, "What song were you singing just now?"

"I didn't sing any songs."

"You sing a rascal's folk song."

"I didn't know you were here."

"I don't blame you." Seeing his flustered state, she found it amusing. "Teach me."

“This…” “I told you to teach me, so teach me!” She shook his hand coquettishly.

Ah, she loved hearing him sing love songs. Yang Hong's heart stirred, and he opened his throat and sang another one:

I saw my sister dressed in blue across the river, and thought to myself that I wanted to cross the river but was afraid the water was too deep;

Throw a stone to test the depth, sing a folk song to test the girl's heart.

Love songs are like mellow rice wine, intoxicating both of them. Then comes a constant series of tentative explorations, sparks of affection occasionally flying, drawing their hearts closer and closer.

She asked him if he knew about the local specialty "Wanhua Tea". He said he did. It is made by carving patterns of flowers, birds, insects and fish into strips of winter melon or grapefruit peel, soaking them in honey, drying them, and then putting a few pieces into boiling tea. It is used to entertain guests.

She then asked him if he knew how to serve guests with Wan Hua Cha (a type of herbal tea). He said he did: three petals are for first-time visitors, two petals are for regular visitors, and a single flower or bird is for "flower guests" who have been rejected in their marriage proposals.