9: Chapter 9 Firewood and Smoke at the Campsite

As I stuffed the jade stone into the innermost layer of my backpack, Zhao Kai was squatting under a walnut tree, fiddling with his black-screened phone, fingers swiping across the screen while muttering curses.

"I said, stop fussing with it,"

I kicked his heel, "Uncle Liu said that pine forest ahead is good for camping. If we don't leave now, we won't get the tent set up before dark."

He looked up and glared at me, stuffing his phone into his pocket, "It's all because of that damn jade stone. If it weren't for trying to fish it out, would my phone have gotten water in it?"

No sooner had he finished speaking than a squirrel darted out of the woods, hugging a pinecone and "whooshing" up a tree.

The pinecone shell fell with a "snap" right next to Zhao Kai's feet, followed immediately by two "squeaks," as if mocking his disarray.

I laughed so hard I couldn't straighten my back, "It seems even the beasts in the mountains can't stand your pettiness."

I shouldered my backpack and walked toward the pine forest.

The jade stone inside pressed against my waist through the canvas, feeling like a cold block of iron.

Uncle Liu led the way, his pipe tapping "clack-clack" against the pine needles, startling a few gray sparrows that flew off, "flapping" their wings and leaving behind a string of "chirps," which, mixed with the "babbling" sound of the distant stream, sounded like someone humming an off-key tune.

The pine forest was as dense as a green wall, with sunlight filtering through the branches and leaves, weaving a mottled golden web on the ground.

The carpet of decaying leaves felt soft underfoot, mixed with the fresh scent of pine resin, much more comfortable than the lawns in city parks.

The wild chrysanthemums by the roadside were in full bloom, their bright yellow petals dusted with dew, attracting a few blue butterflies that landed on them, their fluttering wings stirring up tiny flecks of light.

From the distant ridge came a few "baa-baa" sounds of sheep, likely mountain dwellers herding their flock back to the pen.

The campsite was chosen on a sheltered flat ground, with a mountain spring nearby.

The spring water gushed out from the cracks in the rocks, "plinking" onto the bluestone, the splashing water droplets sparkling like broken silver in the sunlight, flowing down the stream and crashing into snow-white foam among the scattered rocks.

The cliff on the opposite bank was covered in green vines, with purple morning glories twining up the vines, turning the gray, dusty rocks into a wall of flowers.

A "croak-croak" sound suddenly came from the stream; it was a stone frog singing from its hiding place in the water weeds, its pitch rising and falling, as if it were measuring the depth of the water.

Zhao Kai had just set up the tent frame when he got pricked by a pine needle, grimacing in pain, "This damn place, the mosquitoes are even bigger than the flies in the city."

He looked around, then suddenly pointed to the distant ridge and shouted, "Look at those clouds, they're like cotton."

I followed his gaze; the clouds on the horizon were indeed blindingly white, like crumpled cotton batting piled on the dark cyan mountain peaks.

As the mountain breeze blew, the shadows of the clouds slowly shifted over the terraced fields, dyeing the green seedlings in varying shades of dark green.

A few egrets skimmed under the clouds, their wing beats as steady as a metronome, creating ripples as they skimmed the water, turning the reflected cloud shadows into shattered jade.

A "coo-coo" sound came from the woods; it was a turtle dove hiding among the branches and leaves, its voice as deep as a muffled drum.

"Be content," I said, picking up a flat stone to use as a stove, "at least there is clean water to drink."

When I dug out the compressed biscuits from my backpack, my fingertips accidentally touched the jade stone, and that faint warmth emerged again, like carrying a sun-warmed pebble.

Uncle Liu brought over a pile of dry firewood from somewhere and placed it on the stone stove, "Young man, do you know how to start a fire? This pine needle fire needs to be started slowly; if you rush it, it will just smoke black."

He poked the woodpile with his pipe, revealing the dry moss inside, "Just like stewing meat, you have to simmer it with a low flame first."

I took out my lighter and was about to light it when Zhao Kai suddenly leaned in, "Let me, let me, my camping experience is much richer than yours."

He struck a match and thrust it into the pine needles.

The flame "whooshed" up half a foot, but was smothered by the moisture in the pine needles, making a "hissing" sound, and instantly surged upward wrapped in black smoke, like a rolling black Dragon.

The wind rolled through the valley, and the column of smoke suddenly tilted toward Zhao Kai, choking him so he clutched his head and retreated, kicking over the pile of pebbles nearby.

The rolling stones "clattered" into the stream, startling the water birds into "flapping" away, the water droplets from their wings falling onto the wild chrysanthemums, trembling and rolling into crystalline balls.

The squirrel at the top of the tree was startled by the commotion and "squeaked" wildly, as if protesting our disturbance of the forest's tranquility.

"Are you stupid?"

I pulled him away and placed a layer of thick branches under the woodpile, leaving gaps for ventilation, "You have to let the fire breathe, otherwise, like you, it loses its rhythm when it rushes."

The rekindled flame climbed up the branches, licking the pine needles and making a faint "crackling" sound.

This time the smoke was as thin as gauze, drifting up along the pine tips and intertwining with the morning mist on the distant cliff, dyed golden-red in the setting sun.

From the distant hillside came a "howl," likely some beast responding to the twilight, the sound so distant it seemed to drift from another valley.

Zhao Kai rubbed his irritated red eyes and cursed, "What kind of crappy firewood is this? You must have picked the wrong kind."

He threw a piece of wet pine wood into the fire as if in a huff.

Sparks "popped" and burst, splashing onto the bluestone stove, scalding a few ants carrying food and sending them scurrying in panic.

The black smoke grew thick again, like disturbed ink, spreading a choking burnt smell in the air.

Just as I was about to pull the wood out, the jade stone in my backpack suddenly vibrated gently, as if someone had tapped the canvas with their fingertips.

Strangely, that black smoke didn't drift toward me, but instead swirled around the backpack and drilled into the gaps in the canvas, as if being sucked by an invisible mouth.

I unzipped it and took a peek.

The patterns on the surface of the jade stone were glowing with a very faint blue light, weaker than the time I saw it in the stream, but exceptionally clear in the firelight.

The horizontal and vertical lines looked like a miniature circuit board, with the blue light flowing slowly along the patterns, like water in the stream wandering between the cracks in the rocks.

"What are you looking at? Hurry up and take that damn wood out!"

Zhao Kai covered his nose and kicked the wet pine wood away.

The black smoke gradually dissipated, but the surrounding air was still filled with a choking smoky smell, making one's throat tighten.

Uncle Liu squatted nearby, smoking his pipe and laughing, "The smoke in the mountains is wicked; sometimes it chases people."

He leaned closer to me and sniffed, "Hey, why isn't there any smoke smell here? Instead, there's a scent of pine resin."

I also felt it was strange; I was clearly the closest to the fire, yet my cuffs only carried the fresh scent of pine needles.

I subconsciously touched my backpack.

The temperature of the jade stone was higher than before.

That layer of blue light had faded, but the patterns on the surface were becoming increasingly clear, like smoked copperware, revealing an even deeper dark green color.

The setting sun stretched the mountain shadows long, the pine forest was dyed with a layer of warm golden-red, and the distant terraced fields looked like a green silk cloth trimmed with gold.

The wind passed through the treetops, carrying a cool, refreshing breath, mixed with the scent of burning pine needles, making people forget the thick smoke from just now, and also forget Zhao Kai's complaints, leaving only the "crackling" sound of the fire, as if harmonizing with the distant stream.

In the tree shadows, the squirrel's "squeaks" gradually faded, replaced by the "chirping" chorus of night insects, which drifted over from among the grass leaves, wrapping this mountain twilight in softness.