They prepared quickly. Reed mats and cotton quilts lined the cart, with a bright red floral quilt on top. To keep it dry, they covered everything with oilcloth. Old Ding Nine filled two thermoses with hot water, packed a dozen steamed buns and pickled vegetables. Others brought flashlights, oil-soaked torches, an old lantern, even steel wolf forks.
These villagers… weren’t bad people.
Wrapped in a sheepskin coat, wearing a straw rain hat, the shaman drove the ox into the mountains. Surprisingly, they moved faster than expected. The ox seemed slow but took long, steady strides—persistent and unhurried.
Night fell quickly. The snow had stopped, but the wind cut like knives. The shaman chewed on a bun, lit a torch, and held the cart handles.
Halfway through, wolf howls returned. Shadows stirred in the forest, but they never dared emerge—probably afraid of the fire.
In the second half of the night, nearing the campsite, the wind worsened and the ox struggled. The shaman climbed down, flashlight in hand, rope over his shoulder, and pulled with all his strength. When he shone the light ahead again, he suddenly shuddered.
A wolf lay crouched on the ground, blood nearly black from freezing. Its fur was clotted stiff with ice. The ox snorted uneasily, trying to back away. The shaman braced himself and forced the cart to hold.
He flipped the wolf’s corpse aside with a steel fork and continued.
On the final stretch, blood dotted the thin snow. Then feathers appeared—one by one, clumps at a time. His heart leapt: had Cao Jiefang been eaten? But there were too many feathers—far more than one chicken could produce.
When he arrived, he hurried forward and shone the flashlight—no tent dome.
His heart clenched. Had it collapsed under snow? Impossible—the snowfall wasn’t that heavy.
He ran, beam fixed ahead. The wind scattered snow dust like falling flakes. For a moment, the torn tent fabric lifted in the wind.
No, no, no—please no. Unless the five had woken and cut their way out, the tent was gone. Exposed in this cold, they would truly freeze to death.
He stopped short.
He’d seen many strange things in his life, prided himself on staying calm—but this stunned him.
Pheasants. Many of them. Brilliant plumage, silk-like colors, huddled close around the blanket-wrapped five. Cao Jiefang was nestled beside Cao Yanhua. Startled by the flashlight, he froze—then recognized the shaman and excitedly flapped his wings.
The shaman noticed one wing lifted less than the other—injured. Cao Jiefang’s neck craned proudly. One of the small tags on his neck was gone. The remaining one read: A Good Chicken.
The tent had likely been torn by wolves; bite marks lined the edges. The stones had partly collapsed. Scratches clawed the ground near the entrance.
The shaman stood there a long time before saying, “Jiefang… are these all your friends? When did you get so close?”
He remembered Wan San once scolding him, saying Cao Jiefang had once been nearly pecked half-disabled by wild pheasants after misbehaving drunk.
Cao Jiefang lifted his head and puffed his chest, radiating a heroic air of we fought, we bonded, now we’re brothers.
The shaman said, “I see. Thank you. I’m taking them out—it’s too cold. You all go home and rest.”
He didn’t know why, but he suddenly bent down and bowed.
After a second of silence, all the pheasants except Cao Jiefang suddenly took flight. They wheeled in the air. In the flashlight beam, the shaman couldn’t be sure, but for a moment it looked like stage lighting—and the flock resembled a soaring phoenix.
He brought the cart over, laid out the quilts, and loaded them one by one. Xiao Kou was the lightest; he tucked her into Luo Ren’s arms. “You should eat more,” he scolded gently. “Any thinner and you won’t look good.”
She smiled faintly, long lashes dusted with snow. He blew the snow away.
Cao Yanhua was the heaviest. Lifting him nearly toppled the shaman. “Why do you eat so much?” he cursed.
Cao Yanhua just smiled foolishly, as if apologizing.
Once everything was secured, he tied the oilcloth, tightened the ropes, and went to lift Cao Jiefang onto the cart. Cao Jiefang resisted, backing away.
Looking in that direction, the shaman saw several pheasants that had returned.
He understood. “Jiefang… you’re not coming, are you?”
“That’s fine. Being with people is boring anyway. Stay with your friends. It’s lively.”
He broke two buns and scattered the crumbs. “We’ll come visit you again. When you’ve got a wife and kids and live in a big house, don’t pretend you don’t know us.”
The pheasants hesitated, pecking cautiously. Cao Jiefang stayed still, looking up at him. The shaman patted his head. “We’re leaving.”
He climbed onto the cart and whipped the ox. After a short distance, he looked back. Cao Jiefang limped a few steps toward them, tail feathers bristling, staring after the cart.
His chest tightened. He stopped, got down, and ran back with his phone. “Jiefang, let me take a picture. A souvenir. Cao Pangpang and Xiao Sansan will miss you.”
He took a photo. Cao Jiefang even struck a pose, like the little mascot he once was in a bar, knowing how to face the camera.
Afterward, the shaman waved goodbye, climbed back on, sniffed hard, and urged the ox forward. Don’t look back, he told himself.
But far away, he couldn’t help turning once more.
This time, there was nothing.
He pulled up the photo, picked the liveliest one of Cao Jiefang, and tucked it into Cao Yanhua’s arms.
The ox was tired. So was the man. Curled on the cart seat, half-asleep, the shaman occasionally flicked the whip—not hard, like scratching an itch. The ox was steady and reassuring: no bolting, no panic. Whenever the shaman opened his eyes, it was still walking calmly. At forks in the road, it stopped and waited, never moving without guidance.
He didn’t know how many times he opened his eyes before realizing dawn had come.
Another day. What day was this since entering the mountains?
Suddenly, a thought struck him: today—the seventh seven-day cycle—had passed.
Had the ferocious slips been sealed? If they escaped, would Luo Ren and the others bear rectangular wounds like before?
He hurriedly stopped the cart, lifted the quilts. He avoided the women and checked Little Radish instead.
Hands shaking, he undid the buttons—and froze.
Below Luo Ren’s shoulder blade, faintly visible, was the outline of a phoenix—head raised, as if looking back.
The shaman’s eyes grew moist. He buttoned him back up and then checked Cao Yanhua.
There was one too—though on Cao Yanhua’s round body, the graceful phoenix looked more like a plump goose.
…
Sitting by the roadside, leaning against the wheel, the shaman ate another bun. When he finished, he stuffed the bag under Luo Ren’s head.
Looks like the seven slips were sealed.
As for when the five would return, when they’d wake up—no rush. Sleeping was fine. Hope was enough.
His spirits lifted. He drove on.
The ridge was waking up. After the first snow, the sun rose. Forest sounds returned. The unused axle creaked. The ox plodded steadily, its broad back rising and falling.
After a while, the shaman felt strangely disoriented.
Over two thousand years ago, Laozi rode a green ox through Hangu Pass—this area had once been part of that land. Had Laozi walked this very road?
Laozi alone. They’re together. A creaking cart.
Perhaps doing the same thing—moving in the same direction, crossing paths in tangled time.
Whether he returned or not didn’t matter. There would always be successors.
The shaman cracked the whip. The cart creaked forward. He raised his head to the gentle sun and shouted:
“The sun’s out! If you’ve slept enough, wake up—otherwise the whole day will be gone!”
He drove on, humming old songs to himself.
Later, Luo Ren said that one of the most unforgettable memories of his life was waking up on the road out of Fengzi Ridge.
Lying on a swaying cart, a bag of buns under his head, Mu Dai in his arms, covered by a red floral quilt from decades past.
And the shaman was singing.
Singing:
“Pigs and sheep, where are you sent?
Into the people’s cooking pots you’re meant…”
Sam Williams On TYMIMA Chapter 152