I am a Primitive Man
Chapter 803 – The Shaman: “Divine Child, I… I’m going to die.”
Han Cheng rose to his feet in delight and made his way to the grain storage room. Guided by memory, he opened the door marked with the number nineteen.
Inside, most of the space was filled with soybeans, while the rest was occupied by peas that had turned somewhat dark.
This time, instead of paying any attention to the soybeans—which, ever since stone mills and brine had been introduced, had become the foundation of countless versatile foods—Han Cheng headed straight for the peas stored on the other side.
These peas, brought back from the Half-Farming Tribe, had proven valuable after he discovered their potential. Recognizing their worth, Han Cheng had them all planted in spring, covering over thirty mu of fields.
Now, with the harvest complete, they had several thousand catties of peas in storage.
Looking at the dark peas before him, Han Cheng was both thrilled and excited. These weren’t just peas—these were the raw material for cold jelly noodles!
With the oppressive summer heat and “autumn tiger” bearing down, people in the tribe had little appetite. What better time to bring out this refreshing, appetite-stimulating dish?
“Bring out two sacks!” Han Cheng instructed the Eldest Senior Brother and the others who had followed him.
The tribe was large, and everyone was a hearty eater. In such heat, once cold jelly noodles appeared, what would happen was easy to imagine.
So Han Cheng had them carry out two sacks—nearly two hundred catties in total.
The men obeyed without hesitation. After leaving the granary and locking it behind them, Han Cheng led them to the large communal kitchen.
There, he had big basins brought out, poured the peas into them, and added water.
The process of making cold jelly noodles from peas was similar to making tofu from soybeans: soak the dried beans, then grind them with a stone mill.
But Han Cheng didn’t just leave them soaking. Instead, he called over two women who had experience cleaning grain and instructed them to wash the peas.
Even though the peas had been hulled on the threshing floor—which had been rolled flat beforehand—inevitably, sand and dust mixed in. Washing was essential before cooking.
The women sat on wooden stools, each holding a sieve woven from split bamboo strips under Han Cheng’s guidance.
This sieve, called a zhaoli, was about ten centimeters across, with a handle and a shallow concave center—perfect for washing grains.
They stirred the water-soaked peas in the basins, letting sand settle at the bottom, and skimmed away floating hulls before carefully washing the peas batch by batch.
Once cleaned, the peas were left to soak overnight. By morning, they would be ready for grinding into cold jelly noodles.
Not far away, the Shaman sat fanning himself lazily, watching Han Cheng and the others work.
He knew Han Cheng was making a new kind of food. Usually, he would have gone closer, curious and eager.
But today was different. The sweltering heat left him breathless. He had no appetite whatsoever. Even the thought of food made him nauseous.
“What a curse…” he muttered, repeating his favorite phrase.
In the past, when food was scarce, he could eat anything, always craving more. But now, with food plentiful and delicious, he found himself repulsed. If that wasn’t a curse, what was?
As he muttered, the Shaman suddenly realized: he was old. Too old.
If even good food no longer tempted him, wasn’t that a sign of aging?
The thought made him anxious. He had once been unafraid of death, but now… now that the tribe thrived under the Divine Child’s leadership, he didn’t want to die.
He wanted to see how far the tribe could go. He wanted to see the youths grow up and contribute.
That night, with these heavy thoughts, the Shaman ate very little.
The next morning, Han Cheng himself began grinding the soaked peas into a slurry.
Bai Xue, her belly round with pregnancy, stood nearby with a ladle, feeding beans and water into the mill.
The morning was crisp and quiet, broken only by the sounds of dogs barking, roosters crowing, and sheep bleating. Sunlight filtered gently through the bamboo grove.
Freshly ground pea slurry poured into a large clay jar, bubbling and frothing as it splashed. The air filled with its raw scent.
The serene morning made Han Cheng wish time could stop.
The slurry was strained through cloth bags before cooking…
But as the sun rose higher, the day grew hot and stifling.
Han Cheng poured two jars of slurry into a clay pot and had a fire lit beneath it. Soon, the kitchen turned into a steam bath, sweat soaking everyone.
Making food in summer was brutal.
When the slurry boiled, Han Cheng ladled it into basins to cool.
“Divine Child, isn’t it time for the brine?” someone asked.
Everyone knew tofu-making. The process so far was identical. But Han Cheng shook his head, smiling.
“No brine. We’re not making tofu. We’re making something else. Only soybeans make tofu—other beans won’t.”
Compared to tofu, cold jelly noodles were easier to make: boil the slurry, cool it, and let it set.
“If we had pea flour ready-made, it would be even simpler,” he sighed.
“This will be delicious. You’ll love it!” he promised mysteriously, remembering how refreshing cold jelly noodles had been in his past life.
The basins of boiled slurry were left to cool and set, while Han Cheng excused himself from the sweltering kitchen—ostensibly to prepare condiments, though in truth to escape the heat.
He prepared garlic juice by smashing cloves with salt, grinding them in a mortar, and then mixing the mixture with water. It lacked sesame paste, chili oil, or fresh cilantro, but at least there was vinegar.
As he worked, someone rushed out from the kitchen, shouting breathlessly:
“The pea slurry—it’s set into one block!”
Han Cheng’s eyes lit up. Cold jelly noodles!
He hurried back inside. Sure enough, the basins held trembling, glossy blocks of black-gray jelly. When touched, they wobbled beautifully.
The crowd marveled. Too pretty to eat, they thought.
Han Cheng, however, was only concerned with taste. He cut the jelly with a large knife, served it into bowls, and dressed it with garlic juice and vinegar.
He ate the first bowl himself. Cool, slippery, refreshing—it was perfect. He gulped it down eagerly, sighing in relief as the heat seemed to fade.
Around him, people swallowed hard, eyes fixed hungrily on the new dish.
Han Cheng smiled and assured them there was enough for all. He even prepared a bowl especially for the Shaman.
But the Shaman wasn’t there. He had retreated to an incredible cave, sitting weakly on a stone, fanning himself.
When Han Cheng arrived with the bowl, the Shaman could hardly bear the thought of food. He gagged at the mere mention.
Alarmed, Han Cheng rushed to his side.
“Divine Child,” the Shaman whispered, voice trembling with sorrow, “I… I am going to die.”
Han Cheng froze. His heart pounded, legs trembling. Tears welled up uncontrollably. The thought was unbearable.
The Shaman, too, was moved to tears. “I’m old… I can’t eat anymore…”
Han Cheng blinked, dumbfounded. That’s it? You scared me half to death for that?
He quickly realized: the Shaman had mistaken heat-induced loss of appetite for a sign of imminent death.
Suppressing his exasperation, Han Cheng gently coaxed him: “Don’t cry. Try this new food. It’s different, very refreshing—I ate three bowls myself.”
Suspicious but swayed, the Shaman closed his eyes and let Han Cheng feed him.
The cool, tangy, garlicky jelly slid into his mouth. Instantly, his nausea vanished. His eyes lit up.
In moments, he seized the bowl, devouring it hungrily, not stopping until it was empty.
“Is it good?” Han Cheng asked with a smile.
“Delicious! Truly delicious!” the Shaman exclaimed, licking the last drops. Then, eyes gleaming, he asked eagerly:
“Divine Child… is there more?”