I chopped another log of wood before stretching my shoulders contentedly. It’d been less than a week since I got here, but every day, my old life seemed farther and farther away. I hadn’t been part of a gym or had much time for exercising back then. It felt really good to get work done, to look at the pile of firewood all neatly stacked and ready to put away. Grandma, as I called the old lady, was quite a taskmaster. After that first meeting, I told her that I was a peasant traveling to find a relative but that I got lost in the mountains. I thought that was probably better than the real story that I was an assassin (I think?) on the run after stealing something. Anyway, neither of those stories would have really been true, because I was really from Buffalo, which I’m pretty sure is not a place in this world.

All things considered, it could have been worse. Grandma seemed pretty happy to have an extra set of hands. All day, it was “Ah-Zhou!”-this and “Ah-Zhou!”-that. “Ah-Zhou, can you chop some firewood?” “Ah-Zhou, can you draw some water?” “Ah-Zhou, can you carry this?” I was happy to help. The house was not in great repair. There were two rooms, but one of them was sort of collapsing. The other room had a big brick platform that was used as a bed, and there was a small shed on that side with an absolutely enormous wok over wood-burning brick stove and another, smaller, pot for making rice or grains. I had been sleeping in the small wood shed that was set apart from the house.

Grandma gave me a set of clothes that she said were her son-in-law’s. I hadn't seen any signs of other people around the place, but resisted asking further. The clothes were very well-mended, even though the arms and legs were too short. But almost anything would be better than the conspicuous black ninja-style outfit. That outfit had concealed a surprising number of weapons, including four daggers, at least eight throwing knives, and two lengths of wire. I hid them in various spots around the woodshed. The little black bag with medicine was hanging on a cord around my neck. You never know when it you might need it.

“A-Zhou, can you put this on the roof?”

“Yes, Grandma!”

Grandma had piles of wild greens that she dried on big flat baskets on the roof. I had to admit, she is a pretty tenacious old lady. Dinner usually consisted of some form of beans, barley, and wild vegetable. You might pay big bucks for that kind of thing at a restaurant in L.A., but I was hankering after a good old-fashioned hunk of meat. Grandma was humming to herself. She was a pretty cute old lady. I didn’t have much of a family growing up, but I did help out an old lady down the street. She wasn’t so spry on her feet, and she usually watched game shows on TV instead of hiking over mountains to forage wild plants. But she was always crocheting. She made me a blanket once. Every afternoon, she put an extra can of soda in the fridge for me and made a luncheon-meat sandwich for after I finished whatever small chores she needed help with. I think the main thing was she wanted company. Grandma is similar in some ways.

After lifting the large, disc-shaped baskets to the roof, making sure all the greens were spread out flat, I walked over to the well, wiping my forehead with the cuff of my too-short sleeve. I couldn’t get over how good the water was on the mountain. It was cool, sweet, and slightly mineralish. I took a refreshing gulp from the water gourd and carried the bucket over to the kitchen to refill the large ceramic water vat. I couldn’t imagine how Grandma managed this before. Then again, apart from some sticks and thin branches she didn’t seem to have much firewood wood, and the water vat was mostly empty before I filled it, so my guess is she didn’t really manage.

I looked around the kitchen. There was a big iron wok set into a wood-burning stove. Some items hung on the wall. A very old-looking wooden lid; a steamer basket woven from reeds; a large, shovel-shaped spoon for stirring. On one side of the room were some almost-bare shelves that just held a box of sparingly-used salt. No oil.

There was a small garden at the side of the house. It had some veggies I recognized and some I didn’t. There were something like garlic or onions, carrots, still-small napa cabbages, immature daikon, and a patch of what looked surprisingly like potatoes, though those shouldn’t be in ancient China yet. Then again, if I accept that mystical soul travel, magic, and immortality is possible, what makes potatoes impossible?

I turned around and caught Grandma watching me with a small, indulgent smile on her wrinkled face. She looked at me the same that first day when I asked for seconds on the whole-grain and vegetable medley we had for dinner. “Ah-Zhou, let’s go!” Grandma was a woman of few words. She was already suited up with a big basket on her back. She thrust one of those big baskets into my hands. We headed out the rustic gate and up the craggy mountain. Grandma teetered with each step, but somehow spryly darted ahead up the mountain. We got to a big meadow full of bright yellow lilies and started picking some unopened buds.

It was pretty tedious work. However many tens of lily buds you pick, it seems miniscule in comparison to the enormous size of the basket. I took a deep breath and settled into a steady rhythm of work. The breeze blew, leaves rustled, green trees released a balmy scent, and the lily buds steadily plopped into my basket. That gentle feeling of contentment and a sense of peace flowed through me.

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

Grandma and I took another route back to the little hut, passing by a pond. It was late afternoon, and you could hear the sound of croaking frogs, buzzing insects, and quacking ducks. Ducks…… I stopped suddenly, then sped up as I followed Grandma home. After we shed our baskets, I dashed over to the woodshed and grabbed one of the knives I’d discreetly hidden behind a pile of wood. I left the other daggers, throwing knives, and thin wire. On second thought, I grabbed the wire. Might be useful!

After some fumbling and a couple false starts, I finally bagged a duck. That wire came in handy after all. It was a plump mallard. I walked back home, thinking about next steps. At least I know my way around a kitchen. Thank you, thankless years working back-of-house at restaurant after restaurant. Roast duck seemed pretty attractive. Duck giblets with onions. Crispy duck skin. My mouth was watering. I didn’t want to waste anything. Catching an animal yourself isn’t the same as buying it at the grocery. You feel more of a sense of responsibility.

I got back to the kitchen and let Grandma know I was making dinner tonight. She seemed pretty excited about the duck. First, I drained the duck blood in a bowl. It might sound gross, but besides being delicious, blood sausage has lots of nutrients. Black pudding is made with oatmeal, Spanish morcilla is made with rice. Maybe I could use some barley and onions to make a blood sausage with the duck. It wouldn't be that big, but it's worth experimenting.

I brought some water to a boil in the wok and scalded the duck before removing the feathers. I was still thinking about what to do while cleaning it. There was a good amount of fat on the bird. Well, if oil is in short supply, why not use duck fat? I gave the bird another dunk in water to rinse it. Duck meat is pretty much all dark meat, and I wanted to make this go as far as possible. I set aside the giblets. Those would be great fried with onions.

I removed the bones, trimmed fatty bits and skin and put it all in a bowl. Now I have giblets, bones, fatty bits, and duck meat. Not as much meat as a chicken, but still workable. I put the duck meat in cool water to keep fresh. Then, I set up some barley to cook in the iron rice pot. I wonder if we can get wheat or rice….. I washed the giblets in another bowl of fresh water, then chopped them fine. They don’t keep as well, so better to use them first. I added wood under the wok and gave the creaky bellows a couple puffs to heat the stove up. First, add a couple chunks of duck fat. The fat quickly rendered out, leaving some crispy bits and a glorious sheen of oil. Then I added a generous amount of sliced onions and some salt. After the onions turned golden, I added the minced giblets. Another pinch of salt. By this time, the smell of meat and onions was filling the kitchen. When the giblets and onions had some crispy, golden-brown bits, I moved them all to a wooden bowl.

I rendered another fatty bit from the duck and mixed the oil with some of the wild vegetables that I’d already blanched in boiling water and squeezed dry. Not bad! In the meantime, the barley was done cooking. I dished up two bowls of grain and carried everything out on a tray. Grandma was sitting in the courtyard, fanning herself with a large grass fan and sorting the lily buds. We ate barley, green veggies, and stir-fried giblets with onions while the fireflies started twinkling out under the trees.

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The smell of immortality is not good or bad, but it is attractive. The incense-like fragrance of immortality threaded through the trees, intertwined with another, much more mouthwatering scent. She sat at the foot of a tree, using her front paws to smooth one of her three bedraggled tails. She was wounded and panting with pain. Ten years…. She thought. Two-legged storytellers say foxes can take a human form after cultivating for 50 years. That isn’t quite right. It isn’t the length of time that matters, but the depth of cultivation.

After attaining sentience, she had cultivated for many years. One day, she had been caught in a trap. A two-legged cultivator had freed her. With very gentle hands and a calm, indifferent face, he ripped cloth from his pure white robe to bandage her leg. She was so grateful, she followed him and helped him however possible. Which admittedly wasn’t much. She curled up beside him while he cultivated during the day, and kept watch at night, sounding the alarm when any sinister beasts approached. She counted down the days until she could take human form. Finally, one day, she sensed that she was just on the verge. What would he say when she took human form? What first words would she say to him? She didn’t dare to imagine.

But as soon as she reached the threshold, before she could transform, the two-legged cultivator had stolen her energy, damaging her core and blocking her meridians. “I’m sure you understand,” he said, indifferently. “Think of it as repayment for saving you from that trap. Now the debt between us is resolved.” She was too wounded to make a sound. She couldn’t comprehend it. He had been everything to her for ten whole years. When he gently stroked her head as she preened, fed her bits of rice from his own bowl, and watched as she chased butterflies, was he always planning to take back the debt this way?

Sinister black threads of energy tickled at her consciousness. Revenge on the two-legged. She shook herself and pushed away the temptation. She knew she didn’t have any right to feel resentful, but that just made the heartache even more intense. Gritting her teeth against the pain she slowly padded through the forest, following the alluring smell of meat and immortality.