Chapter Forty-Six: The Camphor Tree

Old man Lu gulped down a bowl of water and immediately began to complain of fatigue, then fell asleep as soon as he lay down. Lu Ergou hurriedly turned to Li Jianguo.

“Master, is my father...?”

“No need to worry. The foul energy had lingered too long, so Elder Lu has lost a bit of vitality. Once the hysteria is dispelled, he’ll be back in a few days, ready to work the fields again,” Li Jianguo replied with a smile.

Hearing such words from the expert, and seeing Lu Datong breathing evenly in peaceful slumber, Lu Ergou finally relaxed, the tension leaving his body.

Li Jianguo instructed Cui Yue to tidy up the ritual implements on the table. Lu Ergou drew Li Jianguo aside to thank him, then pulled a few bills from his pocket and pressed them into Li Jianguo’s hand—how much, it was hard to tell. Li Jianguo made a show of modest protest, but his face lit up as he tucked the money away.

As Cui Yue packed up the ritual tools, he grumbled inwardly—so this was why he’d been dragged along, just to be a servant.

Once the two had finished packing, they prepared to leave. Yet, strangely enough, a torrential rain burst forth without warning.

Mountain weather changes swiftly; it’s common for a day to start sunny and end with wind and rain. Such storms arrive suddenly and depart just as fast, often turning the mountain paths to mud, making travel difficult.

With their departure postponed, Lu Ergou seized the chance to urge them to stay, preparing some food as a gesture of gratitude and to fulfill his duty as host.

Li Jianguo and Cui Yue, unable to decline such hospitality, agreed to remain.

Cui Yue glanced at the misty rain outside, then at Li Jianguo, and shook his head in resignation. “You consult the almanac for travel, but never check the weather forecast. Tonight we’re bound to end up caked in mud.”

Farm folk are generous hosts. Though their fare lacks the variety and refinement of city cuisine, the ingredients are fresh, and the table abounds in wild delicacies and mountain produce.

Soon, the table was piled high: wood-fired chicken, tender and rich; cool bracken salad, emerald green; bitter stir-fried black dragon’s head, cooling and sharp; all paired with country-style corn bread—delicious beyond words.

Lu Ergou brought out a small jar of homemade Mingguang liquor, filling two bowls for Li Jianguo and Cui Yue.

Mingguang, also called Immortal Mingguang Wine, originates from Yaojiagou Village in the southern valley of Niangniangba Town, ancient Qinzhou. Brewed with mountain spring water and corn, using traditional methods, it is famed for its fragrance and strength. There is even a local legend about Iron Crutch Li, but that tale is for another time. The poet Li Bai once passed through, heard the legend, drank a pot of the wine, and composed the poem “Immortal Mingguang”: “Stream flows from green mountain, clear spring; Immortals dwell in apricot blossom village; Seeking souls, returning to life at dawn; One pot, drinking light, regrets linger; I urge you, drink sparingly; Ancient wisdom remains in the world!”

Cui Yue tasted Mingguang for the first time; half a bowl set his tears streaming and his stomach ablaze. He quickly buried his face in the food to ease the burn.

Li Jianguo chuckled, having expected this reaction—this wine is potent, not for bravado.

Li Jianguo and Cui Yue had spent the day hurrying along the road and busying themselves; their stomachs were empty, so they ate and drank with gusto, feeling utterly at ease.

During the meal, old man Lu awoke briefly, complaining of hunger. After eating a bit, he lay down again to rest.

After several rounds of drinks, Li Jianguo and the others were flushed and cheerful, their spirits high.

Li Jianguo pointed to the camphor tree outside and whispered something in Lu Ergou’s ear.

At first, Lu Ergou was puzzled and wary, but his expression soon changed. He thought it over, gritted his teeth, and pulled another twenty yuan from his pocket, handing it to Li Jianguo.

Li Jianguo laughed heartily, drained another bowl of wine, and whispered again in Lu Ergou’s ear. This time, Lu Ergou beamed with joy, nearly bursting with excitement.

Cui Yue watched from the side, itching with curiosity. What had Li Jianguo promised Lu Ergou to make him so giddy?

As Lu Ergou went to tidy up in the kitchen, Cui Yue sidled up to Li Jianguo and murmured, “Uncle, what did you say to him to make him so happy?”

“That’s a secret, a secret.”

“Tell me, or I’ll go home and tell Dad what you did in Lu Family Village.”

“Ah, honestly, it’s nothing! Don’t upset your father over such a small thing.” Faced with Cui Yue’s threat, Li Jianguo surrendered immediately.

“In truth, I just advised Lu Ergou on how to have a son.”

Cui Yue scoffed, “You’re just spinning tales again.”

Li Jianguo grew serious. “This isn’t nonsense. The layout of this courtyard is outwardly upright but inwardly square, with a large front door and a small back door, creating a closed-off atmosphere. With a few adjustments, it could be improved. The main issue lies—”

He pointed outside, directing attention to the camphor tree in the courtyard.

“The camphor tree?”

Cui Yue was baffled. “It’s just a tree—what does that have to do with having sons or daughters?”

“Not so. Camphor trees signify daughters, especially when planted in the southwest corner, which corresponds to the ‘black earth star’—that spot represents the mistress of the house. If a daughter is to be born, it’s from here. Another child will surely be a girl.”

“So accurate? Did you tell him how to change it? He seemed utterly delighted after you whispered to him.”

“A trivial matter. I told him the northwest represents sons—if he plants an osmanthus tree in the northwest corner, at the ‘white metal star,’ preferably on the eighth or eighteenth day of the lunar month, then puts in extra effort, he’ll have a healthy baby boy next year.”

Cui Yue blushed at the suggestion—it seemed rather improper.

Camphor trees have a long tradition in the south: when a daughter marries, her father chops down the courtyard camphor to make a chest for her dowry, symbolizing mutual affection. Osmanthus trees, meanwhile, carry the wish for sons and success, as their blossoms represent high achievement.

Lu Ergou paid dearly for this secret—twenty yuan! Though it pained him, the thought of having a son next year made it worthwhile, even at two hundred yuan.

The mountain rain continued, and dusk began to fall.

Inside, Li Jianguo boasted of his achievements, recounting tales of his prowess. Lu Ergou listened, entranced, while Cui Yue found most of it exaggerated—three parts truth, seven parts fiction.

As the rain eased, mist drifted through the mountains, lending them a subtle charm.

Everyone inside drank merrily, playing drinking games and raising their voices in lively cheer.

Suddenly, a clear bell rang from outside, its sound sharp and urgent, piercing the air.

Those at the table looked at each other, uncertain and tense, staring at the door. After a moment, Li Jianguo spat out a mouthful of wine and whispered,

“Cui Yue, did you collect the spirit bell outside after finishing the ritual?”

“Uh, I—I forgot,” stammered Cui Yue.

Villagers take superstitions seriously and know a bit about feng shui and yin-yang. When a ritual implement rings outside, hearts skip a beat. Seeing the uneasy faces of the two, Lu Ergou tried to reassure them:

“Maybe it’s just the mountain wind picking up outside.”