Chapter Eighteen: The War of the Tunnels

Lin Miaomiao’s small hands, like tiny rulers, measured Li Yanhe’s large hands again and again, delighting both of them to no end. Each time Lin Miaomiao arrived at a new result, Li Yanhe would deliberately close his hand, enveloping her small fingers. When Lin Miaomiao found herself caught in his grasp and realized she had miscounted, she would start over, pinching with her fingers, carefully measuring back and forth across his hand. Sometimes, playing with Li Yanhe’s hand would tire her, and she would lean into his embrace, gazing out at the passing scenery.

Clearly, they were traveling northward, and autumn had imperceptibly given way to winter; the air was finally growing cold. That night, they stopped to rest in the wilds, Lin Miaomiao lying on Li Yanhe’s lap, gazing at the star-strewn sky above. She began to hum softly, her tune floating through the night:

The crescent moon hangs, entwined, entwined,
I’ll share half my juice, our love we’ll share in turn.
The road is long and rough, yet I’ll still give you half,
Tonight is so joyous, our meeting so romantic,
I share my juice with you,
No need to fuss over who pays,
I’ll give you half my juice,
Sometimes I’m troubled, my mood turns in a blink,
I’ll still give you half my juice,
No matter how hard it gets, I’ll stay optimistic,
I’ll still give you half my juice...

Her voice was light and cheerful, and though it was very soft—too faint for most ears—the mood it created was infectious. Both of them, with their keen hearing, could catch the words, but the song’s rhythm was so sprightly that Li Yanhe only managed to catch a few lines: “The crescent moon hangs, entwined, entwined...” As she sang, they sat by the fire, leaning together, watching the flames as they roasted a wild pheasant that Anqi had caught.

Just then, a heap of chickens, rabbits, and other wild animals were tossed before them. Lin Miaomiao looked up to see the two wolf children she’d encountered before. With a dead chicken hanging from their mouths, they dropped it at her feet. Lin Miaomiao smiled without moving. One of the wolf boys nudged the chicken toward her, indicating she should roast it.

She laughed and handed the roasted pheasant to Li Yanhe, who kept a drumstick for Lin Miaomiao, shared some with Anqi, and ate a little himself. The rest he passed to the two wolf children, who, burning their fingers on the hot meat, began devouring it eagerly. What started as a meal for three turned into a feast for five, and Lin Miaomiao found herself growing fond of the wolf boys’ wild charm.

Her mind wandered to modern illustrations she’d seen—children with animal ears atop their heads and tails at their backs. She’d once wondered where those artists found their inspiration; now, gazing at these two spirited children in the firelight, she felt her own creativity spark to life. She loved them all the more.

Under the glow of the flames, she examined the wolf boys closely. Both were sturdy and healthy, with strong, round faces, though their hair had grown long from their time in the forest. They had no real clothing—just a few scraps of animal hide wrapped around themselves, looking pitiful and forlorn. Lin Miaomiao’s heart overflowed with sympathy. She reached out to stroke their heads. At first, the boys growled softly in protest, but she persisted, and gradually they warmed to her touch. Eventually, they even seemed to enjoy the attention.

By morning, the wolf boys were curled up beside the fire, while Lin Miaomiao and Li Yanhe slept close by, with Anqi on watch nearby. Lin Miaomiao went to the stream, washed up, and rinsed her mouth, gazing at her reflection in the water. For a moment, she felt that this life was truly good.

Her father used to say, “When we’re old, we’ll buy a piece of land, build a house, and retreat to the countryside. There’s no need to worry about all the messy things. As long as you, Miaomiao, make something of yourself, we won’t have to fret. That’s happiness enough.”

Staring at her reflection, she was transported back to the present, lost in thought, until Li Yanhe tapped her awake. Smiling at him, she turned and returned to the tent.

The next day, Lin Miaomiao and Li Yanhe climbed onto the ox cart. The two wolf boys seemed reluctant to part with Lin Miaomiao—after all, their simple minds were free of complexities. For them, survival in the wild was all that mattered. Lin Miaomiao patted the cart, inviting them aboard. The boys glanced warily at Li Yanhe and whimpered, but once on the cart, they played only with Lin Miaomiao. Their beastly instincts gave them sharp intuition; they could smell the scent of blood on Li Yanhe and Anqi.

As their group of five reached a nearby village, dusk was falling. Li Yanhe found a farmer willing to rent them a house for the night. That evening, he boiled two large tubs of water, and Lin Miaomiao set about washing the two boys. At first, they resisted fiercely—water, to them, was both a danger and a lifeline. But under Li Yanhe’s firm hand, they finally submitted, and together with Anqi, they managed to scrub the boys clean and dress them in Li Yanhe’s old clothes.

They were staying at the home of an elderly couple. The old man and woman were pitiable souls: their son had died on the battlefield, their daughter-in-law, unwilling to waste her life, had remarried after returning to her father’s house, leaving only the two of them behind.

This village, lying close to the border, was often plagued by raids from nomads. There was little the villagers could do—each time the raiders struck, they would vanish quickly, taking food, women, and children. Those with means would flee with their families, seeking safer places, while the poor could only stay put, hoping the army would arrive in time. The villagers would hide their grain in cellars or elsewhere, so that when the raiders found nothing, they’d move on to the next village.

Some families, unwilling to abandon their homes passed down for generations, chose to stay and take their chances rather than become refugees. Lin Miaomiao, learning all this, sighed. If a country’s borders were always at war, it could hardly prosper.

She and Li Yanhe walked around the village but found no one willing to sell them grain. The houses were more dilapidated than those in Yang Fugui’s village—some little more than thatched huts. Lin Miaomiao surveyed the surroundings and asked Li Yanhe, “If so many people refuse to leave, why don’t they take up arms against the marauders?”

Li Yanhe shook his head. “The nomads are cunning and fierce. If the villagers fought back, many would only get hurt. These raiders strike quickly and vanish into the steppe. The court’s soldiers find them a constant headache.”

“The villagers often hope for luck—the raiders never target just one village, but pick and choose. The southern tribes understand this too; they’re not foolish enough to cut off their own sources of plunder. Their lands have no grain, only cattle and sheep, and in winter, many livestock freeze to death.”

“So the villagers muddle through, hoping for the best. It’s only natural.”

As they walked, Lin Miaomiao recalled stories her grandfather had told her of underground warfare during the old wars, and how her grandmother had once been a militia captain. She turned to Li Yanhe and said, “They could form a militia, pick some strong men from several villages, and have the army send experienced trainers. They could learn tactics from the raiders, dig tunnels for defense, and build stores for grain. When there’s warning of a raid, the militia could evacuate the villagers through the tunnels, or at least help them hide.”

“That way, the villagers wouldn’t have to risk their lives or leave their homes. They could still protect the elders, women, and children. It might just be the answer they need.”