The Fearless Husband - Chapter 12

Chapter 12 — “Blessings in Abundance—That Would Be Best…”

Fang Shu simply couldn’t understand—how could everything Yu Qinglong made be so fascinating?

He had been to town countless times, even visited the county seat, the prefectural city, and once or twice the provincial capital—yet nowhere had he ever seen these kinds of little trinkets for sale.

Such things were caught between two worlds: the poor couldn’t afford them, and the rich dismissed them as idle frivolities that bred moral decay.

But in Fang Shu’s eyes, crafting such delicate objects was in itself an act of mindfulness and discipline—how could that possibly be a bad thing?

He loved them. Absolutely loved them. So much so that he wanted to drag Yu Qinglong over and beg him to teach him how to make them.

Unfortunately, Yu Qinglong was a ge’er.

Fang Shu held the little waterwheel and turned to Mo Xiaoning. “Sister Mo, would you kindly ask that young ge’er if he’s willing to sell this? I find it utterly delightful.”

Mo Xiaoning said, “That’s easy enough to ask—but how much would you be willing to pay, Young Master Fang?”

Fang Shu replied, “Fifty wen, perhaps.”

Mo Xiaoning blinked. Fifty wen—for such a small thing! But then she took a closer look and couldn’t help but marvel. The little water buckets were carved so finely that they seemed almost alive. It looked as though it would actually spin if water flowed through it. She’d seen such full-sized waterwheels before, when she’d once traveled to the county to visit relatives.

Still—fifty wen was a lot. That much could buy two dou of rice.

She hesitated, but eventually went to ask Yu Qinglong if he was willing to sell it.

Yu Qinglong didn’t even have to think. “Sell it!” he said at once, asking her to pass the message on to Fang Shu.

And so the little waterwheel became Fang Shu’s, and Yu Qinglong gained another fifty wen.

That brought his total fortune to a grand sum of one hundred wen—his first real treasure!

But in the process of asking about the sale, Mo Xiaoning completely forgot about the other matter Yu Qinglong had asked her to inquire about—what auspicious words he should carve onto the wood.

She returned later to ask Fang Shu instead.

Fang Shu said, “I wonder if the young Yu ge’er has any particular intention in mind?”

Mo Xiaoning had no clue. She thought to go ask Yu Qinglong again, but then waved the idea away. “What’s the harm in asking directly? My father and child are both here. It’s not as if you’ll be speaking in private.”

And so Fang Shu stayed inside for his acupuncture, while Yu Qinglong sat outside on a low stool.

Yu Qinglong explained that he wanted to carve some auspicious phrases, to see if he could sell the items in town. Fang Shu thought for a moment and said, “Then perhaps your brother could carve these eight characters: ‘Gentle streams flow long, turning ever more prosperous.’”

…Wasn’t that a bit tacky?

Yu Qinglong couldn’t help feeling that didn’t sound like something a scholar would come up with. For this era, it seemed downright vulgar.

“But if I carve that, would any wealthy folks actually buy it?” he asked.

Fang Shu smiled faintly. “It isn’t meant for the wealthy. The Book of Changes says, ‘Where there is water, there is fortune.’ Water symbolizes wealth and prosperity. Businessmen in particular love such imagery. Carve those words upon a waterwheel, and it becomes a charm for good fortune. It will sell well—to those who seek wealth, not those who already have it.”

Of course! How had he not thought of that?

Yu Qinglong’s eyes lit up. This scholar really did have some wits about him.

He realized Fang Shu wasn’t one of those pedantic types buried in classics and empty phrases—he was practical, clever, and insightful.

“Thank you, Young Master Fang,” Yu Qinglong said. “But you yourself don’t do business. If you were to buy one, what would you carve on it?”

Fang Shu was lying face-down on the low bed, bristling with needles—so many that he resembled a porcupine. He’d even gotten them on his scalp this time. His headaches had worsened lately—he’d been too excited over the thought of the miniature well and hadn’t slept properly for days—so Doctor Mo had decided to treat his head as well.

With a head full of “spikes,” Fang Shu thought for a moment before replying, “If it were me, I would carve, ‘When water meets wood, blessings abound.’”

Doctor Mo, who was mixing medicine at the table, turned and gave him a look—half curious, half incredulous—as if wondering whether he’d misheard.

Yu Qinglong, however, took no notice. Blessings abound—that sounded auspicious enough. Perhaps the scholar’s ideals were just refreshingly simple.

He asked his master to write the phrase down for him so his second brother would know exactly how to carve it. But Doctor Mo said, “Better wait until Young Master Fang’s needles are out. His calligraphy is far finer than mine.”

After all, even the best carving master could only make the engraving as good as the handwriting he copied from.

Yu Qinglong agreed. “That makes sense. Young Master Fang, if you truly like these little wooden pieces, perhaps my second brother could meet you someday. You’d get them for a better price directly. Or, if it’s inconvenient for you to come, he could visit you instead.”

It wasn’t far—just a few li. If it meant earning money, his second brother wouldn’t mind the walk.

But Fang Shu waved his hands in alarm. “Heavens, no! If my mother found out I was buying toys, she’d chop me up for firewood! Doctor Mo, I beg you—please don’t breathe a word of this to her, or I’m done for.”

Doctor Mo chuckled. “Don’t worry. My lips are sealed.”

And so Yu Qinglong said no more. Even with others present, lingering conversation might still invite trouble.

He went back to studying The Three Character Classic with Liang Mo, practicing his writing.

Paper was too expensive, so they used the courtyard dirt as their canvas—writing with sticks, then smoothing it over and starting again. A natural writing board, endless and free.

If Sister Mo needed help with chores, Yu Qinglong would lend a hand as well.

About an hour later, Fang Shu’s treatment ended.

He wrapped up the little wooden toys in the gray cloth Yu Qinglong had brought and climbed onto the ox cart. He wanted to say something more to Yu Qinglong but thought better of it. It just wouldn’t be proper.

Still, as he rode off, he couldn’t help feeling a pang of regret. Why—why did he have to be a ge’er? If Yu Qinglong had been a man, he would have already sworn brotherhood with him by now!

Ah, life was truly nine parts sorrow to one part joy.

Fang Shu’s emotions were a tangled mess of delight and frustration. Every time he looked at the cloth bundle in his arms, his heart swelled with giddy happiness. But then he’d remember that Yu Qinglong was a ge’er—and the joy turned to bitter melancholy.

As the ox cart rumbled slowly out of the village, Hu Bo caught sight of it—and froze.

That bundle… that gray cloth, that patch—it looked exactly like the one Yu Qinglong had carried that morning!

How on earth had it ended up in that man’s hands?!

So! Yu Qinglong, that little slut who claimed he had no match—was secretly meeting a man at Doctor Mo’s house! How dare he!

Hu Bo trembled with rage. He hadn’t spoken to Fang Shu directly, but he knew who he was. His aunt lived in Lower Stream Village, and he had seen Fang Shu there before—tall, elegant, and handsome among a group of men chatting by the roadside. Hu Bo had barely looked once before his eyes were glued to him.

That handsome face, that air of refinement, that scholarly grace—what ge’er wouldn’t dream of marrying such a man?

But Fang Shu had never taken a spouse. Some said he was waiting until he passed higher examinations to marry someone of equal status. Others whispered that he liked women, not ge’ers.

Hu Bo had brooded over it for months, knowing his own dream of becoming the scholar’s husband was nearly impossible—but as long as Fang Shu hadn’t married, he could still hope.

And now—this!

Yu Qinglong—that bumpkin—dared to approach Fang Shu?!

Hu Bo’s jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. He had known about the fight between Yu Qinglong and Yu Qingfa that day but hadn’t gone outside, afraid that Yu Qingfa might accidentally let slip that he’d once met privately with Yu Qinglong. His reputation was fragile enough. Later, he’d heard rumors that Fang Shu and his father had been in the village that same day—if only he’d known, he would have gone to the Mo house himself!

Now, as the ox cart rolled away, that gray cloth bundle seemed to mock him.

A reckless impulse seized him. He clenched his fists and ran—ran as fast as his legs could carry him, in the same direction as the ox cart.

He sprinted like a man possessed, breathless, unstoppable. He even overtook the cart.

Then, without warning, he gave a dramatic cry—“Ahh!”—and threw himself to the ground.

Clutching his ankle, he wailed, “Ouch! My foot! It hurts so much!”

Fang Shu blinked. …A ge’er. Of course.

He could not, under any circumstances, afford entanglement with one.

But—what if the fall was real?

He suddenly remembered Yu Qinglong’s tearful scene the other day and nearly broke into a cold sweat. “Young sir, quickly get up! There’s a poisonous scorpion under your leg!”

Hu Bo, completely caught off guard, yelped and sprang up in terror. “Where?! Where?!”

Fang Shu: “…”

So the storybooks were right after all—these kinds of “delicate ge’ers” who threw themselves into a scholar’s path crying in pain were always demons in disguise.

A normal person who tripped in front of strangers would be embarrassed first, not flirtatious. They’d either hobble home or ask for help shyly. They wouldn’t immediately perform theatrics!

Take Yu Qinglong for example—he’d been beaten that day and hadn’t made a sound of complaint!

No, this was no innocent ge’er.

Fang Shu hastily patted his yellow ox’s flank as though fleeing pestilence. “Salted Egg Yolk, hurry up! Go, go!”

The ox gave a slow, lazy “Moo~,” ambling just a little faster—but only a little. It was clear that the only one truly panicking was the scholar on its back, who clutched his bundle protectively while muttering anxiously.

Hu Bo stood frozen, humiliated.

Then, fuming, he shouted after the departing cart, “You—you and Yu Qinglong—what’s your relationship?!”

At the sound of that name, Fang Shu immediately grew cautious. He didn’t answer, just kept the cart moving.

Instead, he scolded loudly, “Salted Egg Yolk, even if Little Egg White from next door is cute, you mustn’t sneak off to see her! We mustn’t be shameless beasts!”(“Yeah yeah, my cow might be tempted by the neighbor’s cow, but at least we’re not shameless like some people,”)****

Hu Bo’s face turned red, then green. Even he understood that was a jab meant for him.

By the time the ox cart disappeared down the road, Fang Shu’s heart was still pounding.

He didn’t go straight home, though. Instead, he headed to his best friend’s forge—he needed to talk.

His friend’s name was Wu Sheng, courtesy name Changjie, a blacksmith by trade. His family had been in the craft for three generations and even owned a shop in town. Business was good, and they lived comfortably.

The two had grown up together—one fascinated by wood and stone, the other by iron and copper.

When Fang Shu’s ox called out as it neared, Wu Sheng immediately recognized the sound.

He set down his hammer, wiped the sweat from his bare chest, and brought out a bowl of steaming tea. “As soon as I heard Salted Egg Yolk moo, I knew it was you.”

Fang Shu dismounted and went straight to the tea, gulping it down in one go before wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “Changjie, I’m troubled by something. Could you give me some advice?”

“What is it?” Wu Sheng poured himself a bowl of cool tea, sat beside him, and said, “Go on, I’m listening.”

“Is anyone else at home?”

“No. My father and brother are at the shop, my mother’s in the fields thinning seedlings.”

“Good.” Fang Shu nodded, then leaned in and spoke softly. “I met someone interesting—a real craftsman. He makes these incredible wooden toys. I’ve never seen anything like them.”

“Then get to know him!” Wu Sheng grinned. “Ask him to teach you.”

“But there’s a problem,” Fang Shu muttered. “He’s a ge’er.”

“Married?”

“No.”

“What’s he look like?”

“Why do you need to know that?”

“Just answer the question.”

“…Good-looking. At least, to me.”

Yu Qinglong wasn’t the kind of “pretty” that people normally used to describe ge’ers—but to Fang Shu, he was beautiful nonetheless. It wasn’t beauty of form or face, but of spirit—a raw, unyielding vitality that seemed to wrestle life itself into his hands.

He was different from everyone else here. Fang Shu didn’t know how, only that he was.

Wu Sheng smirked. “Then what’s the problem? Just marry him! Make him your husband. He can make you wooden toys every day.”

“?!!”

How—how could he even say that?!

****TL;DR:

• • “Salted Egg Yolk” = Fang Shu’s ox 🐂

• • “Little Egg White” = Neighbor’s cow 🐄

• • And the whole scene = a top-tier rural insult