Chapter 2: Dining

The grandeur of the Tang Dynasty is often lauded for its romance and culture, but in the early days of Tang, the primary concern was simply securing enough food to eat. The Xuanwu Gate Incident had only just concluded, the nation was barely stabilized, and grain was in desperately short supply. Though no one had yet resorted to cannibalism, it was not uncommon to see children and daughters being sold for survival.

Cai Cong now faced a crisis of hunger. Though peace had returned to the realm, except for wealthy and noble families, most common households were barren; even finding a single mouse was difficult. The mice themselves feared being turned into soup in the middle of the night.

He was eating thin gruel, mixed with coarse wheat bran that scraped his throat like swallowing knives. “I can’t take this anymore, I’ll die if I eat another bite,” he suddenly exclaimed, startling his mother.

“My dear Cong, be good. Once I deliver this embroidery to the shopkeeper, I’ll take you out for noodles. Just bear with it a little longer,” his mother coaxed. She felt her son had changed; he used to be eager at meal times, but now he could barely finish a bowl, pickier than the sons of noble families.

“I’m going out to find something to eat.” When living near mountains and water, one must rely on them for sustenance. There were both here—he was determined to find meat.

“My son, where are you going? Don’t frighten your mother, please! In these times, just surviving is a blessing. We’re not landowners—having food at all is already fortunate.”

His mother, flustered, hugged him tightly. How had her eight-year-old become so opinionated?

“Mother, let me go. I promise I won’t go far. Really, if you don’t let go, I’ll get angry.” Though he spoke with irritation, he did not struggle.

She reluctantly let him go, unsettled by how serious and authoritative her son seemed, speaking with more gravity than the clan chief.

“Let me come with you, all right?”

“Please, stay at home. I’ll be back soon, you don’t need to worry,” Cai Cong replied gently. Yet in his heart, he thought, “Perhaps this is what they mean by a loving mother spoiling her child.” Still, he enjoyed this motherly affection.

Though his mother was reluctant, she didn’t wish to anger her son and thought she could secretly follow him. But once he wandered through the village, she lost his trail entirely.

Unbothered by his mother’s anxiety, Cai Cong walked along the mountain path, whistling. The idea that she could truly follow him was wishful thinking.

The wilderness a thousand years ago was nothing like it is today. Wild game was not visible everywhere, but their numbers were much greater.

Hunting goats or similar creatures was unrealistic for him, but setting snares for birds and rabbits was child’s play—he’d done such things even as a young boy in his previous life.

After setting his traps, he found a quiet spot by the river, cast his fishing line, and lay on a rock, basking in the warm autumn sun. The light was gentle and comfortable, making him feel content. For an eight-year-old to feel fulfillment would seem strange, but he did.

Time flies when one is happy. The afternoon was golden, and so was Cai Cong’s mood. He ended up catching five fat river fish, so heavy he could barely carry them. With some dry grass as a cushion, he dragged them home, marveling at his own small size.

When he finally staggered back home, his mother gaped in astonishment. How could a single hook yield so many large fish? Others could fish all day and catch only a few small ones.

“Mother, please start boiling the fish soup; I’ll go out once more.” His face was flushed, his hands aching, but he was elated—at last, he could have meat. If only there were some fresh vegetables and fruit, it would be perfect.

“My son, where are you going now? It will be dark soon!” His mother’s voice trembled with worry as she looked at the sinking sun. It was only a little past four in the afternoon, but with the autumn days growing short, dusk came early.

“Nothing much, I’ll be right back,” Cai Cong called over his shoulder. He dared not tell her he was going up the mountain, or she would never let him go.

He went straight to Uncle Cai Gang’s house and knocked. He had set many snares—if even half caught something, he would need help to carry them back.

“Uncle Gang, good day. I have a favor to ask of you,” he said politely, bowing with clasped fists. Unsure how people of the past spoke, he adopted a formal, respectful tone.

“Heavens, listen to this child—he talks like a scholar!” Uncle Gang muttered, leaning against the doorframe, bewildered. He’d once seen young scholars in the city reciting poetry in the taverns; his nephew’s demeanor was exactly the same, startling him.

“Heh, I mean, Cai Cong—what do you need, nephew?” Perhaps he was still unsettled by Cai Cong’s strange behavior the other night; now, seeing the boy so composed and methodical, he felt uneasy.

“I’d like you to accompany me to the mountain—not far, just to Little Ring Hill. I fear there may be too much game for me to carry alone.” Cai Cong didn’t mind the slip of the tongue—people needed time to adjust.

“Why speak so roundabout? Just say you want me to go with you! Have you been sneaking into the village school to listen to the teacher?” In these times, even stealing lessons was worthy of respect.

“I haven’t, Uncle. Are you free to come with me?” He nearly blurted out something about vernacular language but caught himself just in time.

“I have time, of course. But where could you possibly get game? Was it a fox spirit who gave it to you?” Uncle Gang closed the door and walked out. Ever since the village shaman claimed Cai Cong could communicate with fox spirits, the boy had become shrouded in mystery.

“That’s just nonsense,” Cai Cong replied, quickly translating the idiom for his uncle’s benefit.

The two—one young, one old—had little in common, so they walked in silence.

Uncle Gang’s amazement grew as they reached each spot: at every turn, ropes tied wild pheasants, rabbits, and large birds, all densely arrayed in a small area.

“Heavens above, it must have been the fox spirit!” Uncle Gang stared in awe, looking at Cai Cong with newfound reverence.

The tricks of children from a later era seemed like magic here. People hunted with bows and arrows or set traps for wild boars and bears—no one used intricate snares and tiny spikes like this. At best, they clumsily tried to catch birds with nets.

The power of food is immense. Uncle Gang carried a hundred pounds of game down the mountain in one go without stopping for breath.

Cai Cong, holding two small rabbits, was still dazed by their abundant haul, astonished at the richness of the ancient wilderness.

“Come out, Sister Cai! You must see this—your Cong has been blessed by the fox spirit!” Uncle Gang’s voice rang out across half the village, and soon neighbors, bowls in hand, craned their necks to see the spectacle.

“Look here! Just now, Cai Cong asked me to help collect his catch. I wondered what that could be, and on the mountain, it was all these fat rabbits and pheasants! He led me from spot to spot—no doubt the fox spirit told him where to go.”

Uncle Gang beamed with pride, as if the gift was his own.

“Wow, it really is from the fox spirit!”

“Mother, look at all that meat—rabbit, chicken! Are the Cai family finally going to eat meat?”

“Indeed! Their fortune’s turned—imagine how much grain all that meat could buy!”

Everyone gazed enviously at the pile of game, children drooling at the sight.

The Cai home had no walls, only a simple fence. When Sister Cai opened the door and saw the abundance of game, she was dumbfounded.

“This... should we return it? My son, I’ve heard elders say that whatever the fox spirit gives, it will take back in equal measure. Our house is bare—what if it shortens your life?” she pleaded, fearful of things beyond her understanding.

“Don’t worry, Mother. The fox spirit gave me nothing—I caught all this myself. When I’m older, I’ll hunt a tiger for you and make you a fur coat,” Cai Cong promised, noticing her shivering in the thin night air and making a bold boast.

“Don’t even think of it! Tigers are fierce—you’re no match for them. But what should we do with all this?” his mother fretted, while the villagers looked on in awe. Whether or not this was a fox spirit’s doing, a child of his age, speaking and acting as he did, was a prodigy in their eyes.

“Let’s cook a chicken for tonight. The rest I’ll take to Chang’an and sell for money, so we can buy lots of rice. Uncle Gang, I’ll need your help again tomorrow, and I’ll give you twenty percent of the rice we bring back.”

“I can’t accept that—I’m just helping carry things, how could I take your rice?” Uncle Gang protested, waving his hands in embarrassment. In these honest times, such simple help wasn’t worth payment.

Among the crowd, Uncle Gang’s wife, though envious, lifted her head in pride at her husband’s refusal.

“Please don’t refuse, Uncle—there’ll be plenty of times I’ll need your help in the future. Mother, keep these rabbits in a separate cage, and the rest as well—don’t let them die. I’m exhausted, I’ll rest a bit; call me when it’s time to eat.”

No matter how extraordinary Cai Cong was, he was still just an eight-year-old. After a day of hard work, he was utterly spent. Only when yawning did he truly seem a child.

The next morning, he was awakened by the aroma of food. Last night’s meal had been simple—fish boiled with salt and ginger, chicken merely scalded—bland and flavorless, but in times of scarcity, even the taste of meat was a luxury.

Cai Cong wanted money—clean, honest earnings. He resolved to make his mark in this food-starved era of the Tang Dynasty.

When he slaughtered the chickens and rabbits, blood splattered everywhere. His mother nearly burst into tears, torn between stopping him and her own fear of her son’s steely eyes and bloodstained figure—he no longer looked like a normal child.

“Mother, if you sell the rabbits and pheasants as they are, one fetches only twenty coins. But if I turn them into delicacies, each could sell for a hundred,” he explained patiently, wrapping up each beggar’s chicken, ready for the fire.

By midday, everything was prepared. They loaded the goods onto Uncle Gang’s ox cart and headed for Chang’an.

That trip would soon set the city abuzz, keeping many awake at night in anticipation.

(End of this chapter)