The pitiful ones are not just the laborers; the soldiers guarding the city gates are pitiful too. Dressed in thin uniforms, faces branded with golden marks, they huddle in the gatehouse, shivering as they clutch their long spears. Every time, Henry Clark buys a few packs of hot chestnuts, one coin per pack, just to hand out to these soldiers. With these, the soldiers won’t give you trouble or take your grain. They’re not short of food, and even if they took your grain, they couldn’t sell it—if they tried, the officers would beat them to death. They’re simply making trouble for people.

The ox cart creaked along the narrow path. Henry Clark huddled inside his straw raincoat, popping chestnuts into his mouth from time to time, eyes fixed ahead, but his ears alert like radar to any sounds from either side.

Sure enough, the dry grass ahead parted, and two hunters carrying their game appeared before Henry Clark. Both were clad in animal skins; the stronger one even wore a leopard-skin hat, looking especially fierce.

“Kid, do you have any pickled vegetables today? We’ll trade you for some game. We got lucky and killed a wild boar today.” The hunter, worried about scaring Henry Clark, deliberately lowered his voice.

“I can’t really trade. I only have a small bag of salt and a jar of pickled vegetables. I can’t spare the rest—it’s for the laborers.” Henry Clark saw the disappointment in the hunter’s eyes; these things were worth far less than a wild boar.

The tall hunter was George Wright. He’d dealt with Henry Clark a few times and knew the kid was honest. Sighing, he said, “Alright, let’s trade. Some salt is better than none.” With that, he dragged a fat wild boar out of the grass and tossed it onto Henry Clark’s ox cart.

“I can’t trade, you’re losing too much. I know how much a wild boar is worth. Last time, a hunter from the village killed a smaller one than this, sold it at Dousha Pass for one string and three hundred coins. My pickled vegetables and salt together aren’t even worth three hundred.”

George Wright gave a bitter smile. “I know, but what can we do? We’re mountain folk.” As he spoke, he took the pickled vegetables from Henry Clark’s cart, and Henry Clark handed him the bag of salt, smiling as he said, “I’ll go sell the boar in town in a bit. Today’s market day, it should still be going. No idea how much I’ll get, but it’ll be worth more than this salt. Tell me what you need, and when I come back to return the cart, I’ll bring it for you.”

George Wright suddenly turned to stare at Henry Clark. “If you can bring me some real fever medicine, that would be best. I just need one dose.” Seeing George Wright’s anxious expression, Henry Clark knew someone at home was sick. The salt was probably for heating and applying to the patient—a common remedy here, no matter the illness. The other method was bloodletting.

Not only did they use this method, but many people in Henry Clark’s village did the same when they fell ill.

“Is it an adult or a child? If it’s a child, bring them here—don’t dress them in animal skins. I’ll take them to see a doctor. If it’s an adult, tell me the symptoms. You have to treat the illness according to the symptoms.” Henry Clark spoke calmly, having already forgotten about making money.

“My daughter, six years old. If you can save her, I’ll give you my life.” George Wright was trembling with emotion. He dashed into the grass, and before long, came back panting, carrying a little girl wrapped in a quilt. Henry Clark had no idea how he’d managed to cross two hills so quickly.

Chapter Thirteen: Selling the Boar

Hearing the little girl coughing nonstop, it was probably pneumonia. Damn, without antibiotics, this illness could be fatal. Who knew how many days she’d been sick? Henry Clark touched her forehead and found it burning hot, making him anxious.

Without wasting words with George Wright, he hurried the ox cart down the hillside. The old ox seemed to sense Henry Clark’s urgency and trotted quickly. Soon, they reached the market.

He first left the child at Huichun Hall, telling the doctor to treat her first—he’d pay after selling the boar. The doctor, Old Mr. Wen, waved him off to take care of his business, only reminding him to save the pig’s ears for his wine.

The market was bustling, everyone carrying baskets and bartering. It was impossible to sell such a big pig quickly. As the market was about to close, Henry Clark gritted his teeth and drove the cart to the Xiliansheng Silk Shop’s stall. This was the biggest business in Dousha Pass. On market days, they’d bring leftover silk scraps to sell. Mountain folk would buy them, embroider them into handkerchiefs, and sell them back to Xiliansheng. The shopkeeper was said to be a good man, so Henry Clark decided to try his luck.

The huge wild boar immediately drew a crowd of onlookers, all exclaiming in wonder. Henry Clark had been showing up at the market often lately, so everyone knew him. He made a point of greeting everyone to increase his presence—people are like that: once they’re familiar with you, they stop paying attention to when you show up. Henry Clark had worked hard to erase the blank in his background.

“Clark the First, that’s a huge pig! Where’d you get it? Don’t tell me you caught it yourself? That’s impossible.”

“Mind your own business. I’m keeping the intestines. Come to my place tonight—we’ll cook the offal. Don’t forget the rice wine. I’ve been wanting to try Grandma’s brew for ages.”