Chapter 9: Descendants of a Foodie Empire
It was sunny for three days in a row. The drying fish began to exude a foul smell, attracting swarms of buzzing flies. The tribe paid it no mind, but Chen Jian hated it.
He had to enlist a few children to gather fresh herbs like mugwort. They lit a small fire near the drying racks and kept adding the herbs to create a bitter smoke, which finally kept the squadron of dive-bombers from approaching.
Hunting had become much simpler over the past two days. The clansmen's archery skills had improved slightly, and while they couldn't yet kill a deer or sheep with a single shot, their overall efficiency had increased significantly.
Life seemed good. There was meat and fish, and occasionally the women would collect large white grubs from trees, which were rich in protein. They were disgusting raw but had a unique flavor when cooked.
However, as a transmigrator from a culinary empire, Chen Jian could no longer bear it.
Grilling, frying, stir-frying, stewing, steaming… of all the cooking methods he knew, only roasting was available.
He would gaze eagerly at the fat, tender sheep, imagining it boiled into a milky white soup with a sprinkle of scallions and cilantro. The mere thought made his mouth water.
It was a pity that he could only watch it become roast lamb, and without any salt…
So, on the evening of the third day, Chen Jian decided it was time to create some containers. At the very least, he wanted to be able to drink hot water. There were no antibiotics in this era; while the river water was safe for now, how could they drink it during the summer floods?
Once again, he lied about receiving guidance from the ancestors. He requested two days off from the hunt, ensuring the tribe had enough dried fish and other food to last.
Taking time away from hunting to engage in other "industries" was no trivial matter. It was only because Chen Jian had earned their trust with the bow and the fishnet that his proposal was unanimously approved by the tribe.
From the pile of accumulated bones, he selected several deer and sheep scapulae. These were excellent materials for making bone tools, being narrow and thick at the top but thin, wide, and very tough at the bottom.
He carefully tried to smash a few irregular holes in them with stones, but shaping bone was a technical job. Even the tribe's most skilled stone-knapper had a low success rate.
Of the more than twenty scapulae they started with, only eight usable ones remained in the end.
He went out and chopped down a few saplings as thick as an egg, stripped the bark, and inserted the wooden shafts into the holes he had made in the bone blades.
Over the past few days, the women had twisted a lot of rope, drying some for later use. Ropes were a prerequisite technology for this tool.
He carefully lashed the rope where the bone and wood connected. Then, he added a foot-long crossbar above the bone blade, securing it as well.
The purpose of the crossbar was to make it easier to apply force when digging, providing a place to step. After all, a shovel you can't step on isn't a proper shovel.
The process wasn't complicated. He finished all eight simple bone plows before bedtime. He gave one a few swings; it was quite light.
People gathered around to look at the new tools, but they couldn't figure out what they were for. They did, however, learn its name—sì, a word that sounded like the number four.
Early the next morning, all the men, women, and children of the tribe went down to the river at the foot of the mountain. The current was swift, so sandy beaches had only formed on the river bends, while the banks were composed of loamy soil.
He examined the soil. It wasn't high-quality clay, but he wasn't trying to make fine crafts, so he didn't worry about it.
The best clay, also known as Guanyin soil, was the same kind that starving people ate during famines. It was completely indigestible and would kill anyone who ate it, a last resort for those hoping not to be a starving ghost in the next life.
There might be that kind of high-quality clay up on the mountain, but with their current tools, they could only make do with local materials.
He squeezed a handful of soil and soaked it in water. After kneading it, the viscosity seemed acceptable. It was mixed with some yellow clay, and he guessed there was a thick layer of it just beneath the topsoil.
Surveying the terrain, he found a flat spot not far from the river.
Chen Jian demonstrated how to use the tool. He stepped on the crossbar, drove the bone blade into the ground, and then vigorously dug up the soil, tossing it aside.
It was a simple movement, and soon all the men had learned it.
Nearly thirty men took turns using the eight bone plows. In a short time, they had dug a pit about two meters in radius, exposing the yellow clay beneath.
The dry yellow clay was too hard to dig with their simple tools, so they dug a small channel to divert river water into the pit.
When the water was ankle-deep, they blocked the channel and had several people get in to stomp on the clay.
After a while, the hard yellow clay mixed with the water, turning into a thick sludge that clung to their feet, making it difficult to even lift their legs.
The rest of the tribe went to collect branches from the numerous dead trees nearby, finding a few grubs for a snack along the way.
After a full morning of work, the pit had been churned into a thick slurry. The men who had been stomping were sweating profusely, their bodies splattered with mud.
The next shift took the bone plows, dug out the wet yellow clay, and piled it on the ground. This was their basic raw material. It certainly wasn't suitable for firing porcelain, but it would be fine for pottery.
He had Yuqian'er take the children back to the cave to fetch some plant ash, while others collected fine sand from a sandbar in the middle of the river.
Normally, before firing pottery, one would use a sieve to remove hard lumps and coarse sand. But it was still spring, and fibrous plants like nettle and flax hadn't grown yet. Even if they had, it would take a week or two of retting them in water to produce fibers for weaving a fine cloth that could filter the soil. Starting from scratch required a great deal of time and countless preliminary technologies.
With the "cloth" they could weave now, the weave was so loose you could probably strain an ostrich egg through it, which was useless.
After mixing some dry soil into the wet clay, Chen Jian pinched an extremely ugly bowl with his hands. He ran to the river, scooped up some water with it, and showed it to the women. They immediately understood its purpose.
This was the most ancient method of hand-pinching. The resulting pieces were oddly shaped and easily broken during firing, but for their first attempt, it was the only method they knew.
The women joined the mud-working army, each taking a lump of clay and kneading it on a stone, shaping it into whatever form they desired.
The men were called over by Chen Jian. They found a large, flat stone slab by the river and piled heaps of yellow clay on it. They kneaded the air bubbles out of it and, using a piece of wood as a rolling pin, flattened a pool of clay into a large, round slab over half a meter wide.
He checked the thickness of the slab; it was nearly three centimeters thick.
Another group took large balls of clay and rolled them into long coils, like snakes. Everyone was sweating profusely under the sun.
After dozens of coils were made, three or four men would carefully lift one and place it on the round clay base, forming a circle. They poured a little water on it and pressed it lightly to fix it in place.
They added coil after coil, and when the walls were about half a meter high, they had finally completed a large clay pot.
If they made it any larger, it would crack under its own tension and weight.
Since it was their first time firing pottery and they had no experience, Chen Jian had them make several large pots this way.
The women and older children also made a variety of bizarre-looking containers, placing them on stone slabs near the large pots to dry.
There were four large pots and dozens of strange bowls and jars. He had no idea how many would survive the firing.
Thinking the pottery might leak, he mixed plant ash with some excavated white clay to form a slip. He had people carefully brush a layer of this mixture onto the large pots, though he had no idea if it would fire into a glaze.
The best tool for making pottery was a potter's wheel. The centrifugal force made it easy to create various symmetrical, round pots, saving time and effort.
But the transmission system was a problem. Many Stone Age tribes had mastered the technology of the potter's wheel, but Chen Jian couldn't figure out how they made it spin.
After squatting and pondering for a long time, he came up with a possible plan, though he didn't know if it would succeed.
First, he had the men roll out two very thick clay disks. He poked a hole through one disk, off-center, and carved a shallow depression into the center of the other.
On the sides of both disks, he pinched deep grooves by hand.
He fashioned two bases out of the leftover clay, with a pivot on top just large enough to fit into the depression and the hole.
By the time everything was done, it was already dark.
Chen Jian looked at the sky. For the first time, he sincerely prayed to his ancestors: Please don't let it rain. A single downpour would ruin the day's effort, and he feared the primitive worshipers would think it was the wrath of the gods.
He was in no mood to eat dinner. Yuqian'er thought her brother was just tired. She wanted to ask him what came after the number ten, but seeing his expression, she held back and quietly went to feed the little birds with the other children.
His unease lasted late into the night. The croaking of frogs from the foot of the mountain, a sound of nature that was usually pleasant, seemed particularly annoying tonight.
He didn't really know how to make pottery; he only had a vague understanding. Since transmigrating, this was the first time he had encountered something so completely beyond his control.
He laughed at himself. His mindset still needed a lot of tempering. There would be many things he couldn't control in the future; he might as well consider this his first trial.
After a restless night, he woke to find that it hadn't rained. His mood instantly improved. Even the incessant chirping of the forest birds no longer bothered him.
The men prepared firewood. When the sun had dried the pottery a bit more, they lit the pyre.
The temperature for firing earthenware didn't need to be extremely high. He called a few people to keep vigil with him through the night, continuously adding firewood.
The raging flames lit up the surrounding area in a red glow. The fire burned for a whole night before it was gradually allowed to die down, leaving behind a thick layer of plant ash.
Like a gambler at a table, he controlled his pounding heart and began to sweep away the ashes. The rest of the tribe stood behind him, looking on eagerly, wondering what great things the ancestors would bring them this time.
As he swept away the dust, like a groom lifting his bride's veil, Chen Jian's heart nearly leaped out of his throat.
The first three hand-pinched bowls came into view. Two were broken, but one was intact.
Its reddish color was indescribably beautiful, and it excited him more than the sight of bright red on a wedding handkerchief.
He wanted to smile faintly to show he was in control, to enhance his mystique, but unfortunately, the clansmen wouldn't understand such subtle beauty; they were all staring intently at his face.
He had no choice but to let out a roar of joy, which was immediately echoed by the happy shouts of the tribe.
After clearing away the rest of the dust, they found that two of the four large pottery jars were broken, but the other two were intact. The success rate was about fifty percent.
The two bases and the clay disks, perhaps because they were solid, were both intact. They were still hot, making people afraid to approach.
An anxious Chen Jian waited for a long time before finally picking up a complete pottery bowl and handing it to the old matriarch. She tapped it with her hand, and the clear clinking sound startled her.
Yesterday it was yellow mud, so why was it like a stone today?
The miraculous bowl was passed among the clansmen, and everyone wore an expression of astonishment. How was this possible?
And because the two large pottery jars had been coated with the slip, their outer surfaces weren't rough but as smooth as ice.
Looking at the two large pottery vats, Chen Jian felt tears welling up in his eyes—he was one step closer to steamed buns, mantou, noodles, and rice.
Goodbye, roast venison! Goodbye, roasted tubers! Goodbye, grilled lamb and grilled fish!
"Tonight, we're having goat soup! Tomorrow, fried tubers in mutton fat! The day after, fresh fish soup..."
He muttered to himself. Yuqian'er scratched her head, wondering why her brother was drooling. Could that stone-like thing be edible? she thought.