Chapter 008: The Sky at Four-Thirty in the Morning (Please Add to Your Favorites)

After retrieving the tools from his grandmother’s house, Wang Qiang began crafting hooks specifically for catching softshell turtles. Ordinary fishing gear could also catch turtles—many people hooked them by accident while fishing for other species—but the dedicated turtle hooks were far more effective. There were several types of these hooks; he chose the simplest and most reliable one.

He took a small sewing needle, removed the eye at one end, and sharpened both ends to needle points. The fishing line would be tied at the center of the needle. The needle’s surface was slippery, making it hard to secure the main line, but Wang Qiang had a solution. He dripped a bit of vinegar onto the middle of the needle and left it under the sun to rust. Once the rust appeared, he carefully used a file to create a groove, then tied the nylon line in place.

This kind of hook had a particular advantage: simply attach pieces of pig liver to both sides and throw it into the water. When the turtle ate the bait, the needle would lodge in its neck, making escape impossible. The nylon line had to be thick enough to prevent it from being bitten through.

The process sounded straightforward, but by the time Wang Qiang had made ten or so hooks, dusk had already fallen.

Evenings in the countryside were especially beautiful, with fiery clouds drifting across the western sky and the temperature pleasantly cool.

Outside, his mother’s voice called, “Qiangzi?”

Wang Qiang quickly hid the hooks and lines in his room. “I’m here,” he replied.

His mother’s footsteps entered the living room, followed by the sound of farm tools being set down. “What are you doing?”

“Reading,” Wang Qiang said, pretending to pull out a random book and walk outside with it.

“Oh,” his mother replied, sounding satisfied, but then she said with mild surprise, “You’re holding the book upside down?”

Wang Qiang glanced at the book and felt a little embarrassed. He quickly put it away and answered calmly, “I heard you coming and set it down, so when I picked it up again, I grabbed it upside down by mistake.” He hadn’t really been reading—he just grabbed whatever was handy, not realizing it was upside down.

His mother didn’t suspect anything and simply said, “Alright, let’s make dinner. Tonight we’ll have tomato and egg stir-fry, just the two of us. It’s summer, so we’ll eat light.”

Though she said this, Wang Qiang knew well the real reason: they were poor and couldn’t afford chicken, duck, or fish. Their meals mostly came from whatever the fields provided. Because he was home, his mother would use two eggs for the stir-fry; if she were alone, she’d never indulge herself, often making cornmeal and eating just some salted vegetables.

“Sounds good, tomato and egg stir-fry is my favorite,” Wang Qiang replied.

So dinner was just tomato and egg stir-fry, plus leftover crayfish from lunch.

After eating, Wang Qiang drew well water and took a bath, scrubbing himself thoroughly in the large wooden basin. He’d sweated a lot during the day, running around, and felt sticky and uncomfortable.

After bathing, he lay on his bed with his eyes closed, dozing, ears alert for any sounds from his mother’s room.

There was some rustling at first, but soon everything was quiet. Outside, frogs and toads croaked incessantly.

A swarm of mosquitoes buzzed relentlessly.

Wang Qiang grabbed a bamboo fan and waved it a few times. After a while, he quietly climbed out of bed, tiptoed to the living room, and listened at the door. From his mother’s room came the faint sound of snoring—she was clearly exhausted and fast asleep.

Certain she was asleep, he returned to his room, retrieved the hooks and lines he’d hidden under the bed, and again crept outside, carefully sliding the door bolt.

He opened the door slowly; a couple of clicks sounded. Wang Qiang’s heart raced, worried his mother might wake at the noise.

Luckily, after two minutes of careful effort, the door was open.

He gently closed it behind him, sweating from nervousness. Looking up, he saw a bright moon hanging in the sky with few stars—perfectly normal.

Bathed in moonlight, Wang Qiang found a bamboo pole and attached his homemade hooks, then set off toward the West Creek Bank.

...

At the riverbank, Wang Qiang cast the ten fishing rods he’d prepared along the shore and stuck each one firmly into the ground.

The best time for catching turtles was from dawn to nine in the morning, and again from five in the afternoon until dusk. However, turtles were very timid; any disturbance and they would refuse to feed. The period from five to dusk was noisy and less productive. As for dawn to nine, Wang Qiang would be busy collecting nets and taking fish to town to sell, so he had no time then.

Honestly, his attitude toward turtle fishing was much like the old saying in his hometown—“try and see if there’s any luck.”

After all, turtles weren’t social creatures; there might only be a few in any given stretch of water. Wang Qiang wasn’t relying on probability to make money.

After setting the hooks, he waited nearby for about an hour. Unfortunately, nothing happened, so he yawned and went home to sleep.

...

He slept exceptionally well that night. Perhaps it was because he hadn’t slept much the night before. As soon as he hit the bed, he drifted into a deep sleep.

One hour...

Two hours...

Five hours...

Soon, the sound of someone snapping rapeseed stalks came from outside.

Deep in sleep, Wang Qiang rolled over and kept sleeping, paying no attention.

Suddenly, the door creaked outside and he woke with a start, remembering his fish traps. He quickly looked outside—hmm? It was still dark?

Wang Qiang was puzzled. He groped in the darkness until he found the lamp cord, pulling it to illuminate the room with a harsh orange glow. He instinctively squinted, then climbed out of bed, yawning, pulled on a pair of big shorts, slipped on his sandals, and rubbed his sleepy eyes as he walked out.

He glanced at the small round clock on the wall—it was only four thirty in the morning.

He had just stepped outside when he saw his mother, hoe in hand, ready to leave.

Wang Qiang paused, “Mom, why are you up so early?”

“Oh? You’re awake?” his mother brushed dust off her clothes. “I’m going to plant the remaining cabbage in the field.”

Wang Qiang frowned, “Why not wait until daylight?”

His mother swung the hoe onto her shoulder, “No, that won’t do. I have to be at the textile factory by six. Qiangzi, you sleep a bit more. I’ll go to the fields first.” With that, she closed the door behind her.

Four thirty in the morning.

She was going to work in the fields?

As her son, Wang Qiang felt uneasy, a little oppressed. If not for his tuition, his mother wouldn’t need to work so hard—just some light fieldwork at most. Now she had to work at the factory by day and squeeze in time for the fields at night or before dawn.

He took a deep breath, knowing he needed to work hard too; only by earning more money could he spare his parents so much toil.

He found a large wooden basin at home, put on a short-sleeved floral shirt, and opened the door, heading toward the West Creek Bank.

Yesterday, he set out fish traps and turtle rods—he wondered how the harvest would be today.

He knew the river was full of crucian carp and white silver carp in this era, but his confidence was shaky; after all, more than twenty years had passed, and his memories were blurred. Besides, the river at West Creek Bank wasn’t large—there might not be many fish.

Wang Qiang had placed all his short-term hopes for making money on river fish. If the ninety or so yuan he spent only yielded a few fish, he would be greatly disappointed.

And he wondered if he’d caught any softshell turtles.

He hoped for success—even if he didn’t catch a turtle, he wished the traps would bring in plenty of river fish.

There should be a good harvest.