Qiao: The Sound of the Loom

When I opened my eyes, I saw a gray, dusty ceiling beam, and the smell of firewood filled my nose. It took me three days to accept reality: I had transmigrated into the body of a girl from an ancient farming family. My father was a hunter, my mother worked the fields, and I had a little brother with a permanently runny nose.

The original owner was named Shen Qiao. She was fifteen and as skinny as a bean sprout. From her memories, I learned that the family was so poor they could barely scrape by, and they’d nearly starved to death the previous winter. I touched the frostbite scars still fading on my arms and thought I had to find a solution fast.

First, I went into the mountains. My father had to hand most of his catch over to the village head, and what remained wasn’t even enough to buy salt. I followed him and learned to identify medicinal herbs, racking my brain for everything I knew about traditional Chinese medicine from my past life. The first time I dug up wild yams, I nearly burst into tears as I crouched on the hillside. When my mother saw me come back with an armful of roots, she thought I’d gone delirious from hunger. I chopped the yams and cooked them with brown rice. My little brother drank three bowls, and that night, for the first time ever, my mother didn’t sigh.

In autumn, I found a wild persimmon tree on the mountain behind our home. The fruit was so astringent it made your mouth pucker. I picked some, peeled them, and left them to dry, then tucked them into straw to get rid of the bitterness. Half a month later, they were so sweet my little brother jumped for joy. My mother took them to the market and sold them for twenty coins. She came home with half a jin of salt and a silver hairpin, which she’d bought for me.

“A girl should have something decent to wear.” She slipped the hairpin into my hair, her fingers as rough as tree bark.