Chapter Forty: The Men Who Lifted the Boat in the Heavy Snow

The next day, it snowed heavily.

The entire desolate village was immersed in a bitter chill, and amidst this harsh season, cries of lament could be heard from every corner. The sound of whips cracking echoed incessantly. No one knew exactly what was happening, but some claimed that in the dead of night, the Gelimu Mountains were roaring in angry curses. As to why they were cursing, there was no definitive answer.

Shaoqiu did not crawl out of bed until the sun was high. He glanced at the massive object occupying his room and felt a surge of despair so profound he longed to curse, though he dared not. In this desolate village, what could a mere scholar say?

Rumor had it that the Black Bandit’s wood shed had a leak, and his firewood was soaked, making it impossible to light a fire. "No one is allowed to light a fire! I have no fire to warm myself; if you dare to light one, are you looking for a beating?" The Black Bandit struck his copper gong throughout the village, warning every household that disobedience would result in summary execution.

Facing such threats, the villagers dared not disobey. Those who did were met with the agonizing sting of his whip. After being beaten, those who had attempted to light a fire were forced to douse their roaring flames with cold water, standing in their doorways with hands tucked into their sleeves, shivering in the biting wind.

It was an exceptionally cold day. Some of the cattle kept in the sheds began to bellow, and witnesses claimed to see tears streaming from the animals' eyes. If even the cattle were suffering so, what of the people?

Days passed like this, and reports of children freezing to death began to spread. Under the cover of pitch-black nights, women would steal out of their homes, silently burying their sons or daughters in the desolate hills, their faces streaked with tears. Despite this, the Black Bandit remained adamant: no fire, not even in Shaoqiu’s room.

Shaoqiu was ill, his coughing echoing in the room, drawing a measure of pity from those who heard it—though what did that matter compared to the children who had perished? Lying in his freezing room, he stared at the dilapidated, oversized boat that filled the space, its surface still smeared with feces, filling the room with an unbearable stench. He could say nothing, so he simply covered his nose, wrapped his head in his cold quilt, and drifted into a feverish sleep.

He didn't know how much time had passed when, late one night, someone pulled back his quilt. He opened his eyes to see the Black Bandit standing right before him. The man’s large hand was bleeding, and the blood dripped onto Shaoqiu’s face; though uncomfortable, it brought a fleeting, perverse sense of warmth.

"Get up! The boss hurt his hand beating someone. Stop sleeping, damn you, and go get some medicine for him," the bandit’s henchman snarled.

The Black Bandit tore a piece off Shaoqiu’s quilt to bind his wound, stopping the flow of blood. A gust of wind whistled through the gap in the shredded quilt, making Shaoqiu tremble uncontrollably.

"I don't know anything about medicine," Shaoqiu said.

"Just go! Whether you know it or not, go grab some," the man retorted.

With no other choice, Shaoqiu braved the freezing cold, crawling out of bed and heading into the snow to search for herbs. But where could he find any? He simply dug up a handful of weeds from the frozen earth, hoping that bringing them back would spare him a beating.

"Will this do?" Shaoqiu asked, his voice barely a whisper.

"Damn it, don't ask! Mash it up and put it on the wound," the man ordered.

Shaoqiu complied. Once the "medicine" was applied, the Black Bandit’s attitude improved significantly, and his urge to strike others seemed to vanish.

The bandit’s purpose was to move the giant boat out of the room. For Shaoqiu, this was a relief; at least he would no longer feel so cramped. With more space, his spirits felt slightly lifted.

It was still dark outside, and the wind continued to howl, filling Shaoqiu with a sense of desolation. If he could only light a fire and roast some meat, that would have been fine, but the Black Bandit strictly forbade it.

Seeing the Black Bandit move the boat outside, Shaoqiu closed his door and climbed back into bed, hoping to catch some sleep before he had to go up the mountain to dig for soil the next day. But as soon as he shut the door, a thunderous pounding shook the house, startling him.

The door flew open. The Black Bandit ripped the quilt off Shaoqiu again, forcing him to get up and help move the boat. Despite his illness, Shaoqiu dared not refuse the bandit’s brute force. He followed him outside and stood by the boat.

"Lift!" the Black Bandit roared.

Shaoqiu had no choice but to lift. The bandit insisted he take the front, where Shaoqiu was the only one, while several others held the back. The weight was clearly all on him. At first, he couldn't move it, but after a savage shout from the bandit, he found the strength.

He walked with trembling steps. The villagers watched and laughed—not at the bandit, but at Shaoqiu. The snow kept falling, and the ground was treacherous and slippery.

Shaoqiu’s strength gave out. Sick and exhausted, he couldn't take more than a few steps before he was gasping for breath, eventually slipping and causing the Black Bandit to stumble. The bandit began to curse, vowing that once they reached the small river, he would make Shaoqiu pay. Shaoqiu was by then too numb to be afraid.

When they reached an old tree, Shaoqiu had absolutely nothing left. Carrying the front by himself while three or four others carried the back was impossible. He collapsed into the muddy field, and the heavy boat pinned him down.

Seeing this, the Black Bandit dropped his shoulder, rushed over, and kicked Shaoqiu a few times. He didn't bother to lift the boat to free him; instead, he simply walked away.

Pinned under the boat, buried in mud, ice, and snow, Shaoqiu realized he had no way to escape. He stopped struggling, knowing it was futile and would only waste his remaining strength.

At this life-or-death moment, an old man stepped forward and propped up the boat, relieving enough pressure for Shaoqiu to crawl out. A fierce gust of wind blew, and large, rock-like chunks of ice fell from the sky, striking Shaoqiu on the head. Blood gushed out like a fountain.

The old man glanced at him, sighed, and walked away. Not far into the village, he could be heard crying out in pain—the Black Bandit was beating him for helping Shaoqiu.

Shaoqiu prepared to return to his room, hoping to light a fire and eat something, but the Black Bandit appeared again. He forbade Shaoqiu from leaving, demanding he help move the boat into the river; he needed it to go into the mountains for firewood.

This time, the Black Bandit didn't make him lift the boat. Instead, he took off his own filthy shoes, ordered Shaoqiu to carry them, and hoisted the giant boat onto his own back, carrying it alone.