One blink, one breath—and Chún found himself seated.
He had not felt the shift, nor noticed the moment his feet left the ground. Only now did he realise his right elbow—and staff—were still held in a firm, steady grip.
He looked up into Yijing's smiling, wrinkled face, the old man's eyes twinkling with amusement. "A better place to watch your flock, en?"
He was not yet grown, but his limbs had been shaped by labour and solitude. Still, the old man had lifted him with effortless grace—as though strength were no more than wind in his sleeve. Even the village blacksmith would have needed effort to move him that way. Such ease could belong only to one kind of man, if the villagers' tales were true.
His earlier fear softened into calm. If this old man were dangerous, Chún would not know it until after he had died. He bowed carefully in thanks. "Honoured elder Yijing, this one is called Rén Chún."
"A Simple Man, en. Good. Very good," Yijing said, his smile broadening. "Or perhaps a skilled one?"
"This one is merely an orphan of little skill, honoured elder," said Chún respectfully, keeping one eye and both ears trained on the flock in the pasture to their left. They seemed strangely well-behaved—or perhaps not so strange, considering the calm he felt himself.
"En. Rén Chún, then you do not know your family?"
"This one was left in the village as a babe, honoured elder," Chún answered, setting aside the familiar ache with the ease of long practice. "The village raised me as one of their own. I repay their kindness as I can."
"Kindness, is it? So that is why you sing your song?" The twinkle had left Yijing's eyes, though he smiled still—and Chún felt his face grow warm.
"It is merely a pastime, honoured elder," Chún said, ducking his head. "I only sing alone. I know my voice is not very good."
"Your song seems wise for one of your age," Yijing replied, watching him. "Where did you hear it?"
Chún hesitated, momentarily forgetting to watch the flock. "I… that is… it is my song, honoured elder. It helps the chores go faster."
"Truly? Your own?" Yijing leaned in slightly, his tone sharpening with interest. "Are there more verses still, Rén Chún?"
Chún looked up, startled. The old man was studying him intently—then suddenly laughed, his eyes crinkling. Caught off guard, Chún blinked in astonishment.
"You wish to hear them...?" His voice dropped a little in embarrassment. "Well… the path is long, so… there are quite a few."
"Then let us watch your flock together," Yijing laughed, "and you shall sing for us both, xiǎo yǒu."
Chún cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck beneath the rim of his grass hat. "It is only that… I use my staff, as I walk, for the beat..."
A ringing chime cut him off as Yijing's staff struck the grass beside the boulder. Chún glanced over, meeting the old man's smiling gaze.
"As you wish, then..." He took a breath and raised his voice once more:
Good food and
Dry bed
Stream's cry,
Wind's heart.
Stronger than wine
Warmer than,
Woman...
Treasures of
Heaven;
Treasures of Earth
Chún breathed out. The song fell naturally from his mouth, each verse rising with the easy rhythm of long practice.
All around them, the mountain seemed to sing with him.
A breeze stirred the treetops and ruffled the green grass. The scent of wildflowers and herbs drifted softly in the warm air. The proud steel-backed eagle called from above, answered by the chatter of jackdaws. Water flowed over river rocks, chuckling to itself as a doe and her fawn dipped soft muzzles to drink, a stag standing nearby in silent watch.
Even the insects moved with purpose, humming from flower to flower as lizards darted through sun-dappled shade.
The Golden Crow climbed through a sky of polished blue. The mountain's voice was everywhere—subtle, layered, and complete. And then Chún faltered—as the rhythm broke beneath a ripple of aged laughter from atop the boulder. The deer jerk their necks upward and bound away in startlement, the sound of the jackdaw pauses—and then resumes as the laughter dies away.
"Rén Chún," wheezed Yijing as the old man wiped away tears of laughter, "A good verse—although perhaps, I think—you might wish to rewrite it when you get a little older."
Chún blinked. "I have been doing adult chores for the villagers for the last two seasons," the boy replied, slightly indignant, "and hunting for myself for the past three—That makes forty-four seasons..." the boy paused, his voice losing some of his indignant tone to uncertainty as he continued, "...Everyone my height is around that many seasons, or so they say."
Once again Chún thought he saw an appraising look cross the face of the old cultivator, before the aged head dipped slightly in apology.
"I meant not to mock your achievements, Rén Chún—merely that when you get to my age, everyone seems young," Yijing answered, smiling at the boy across from him. "Although I do wonder—where have you heard that the warmth of a woman is less than that of a good bed...?"
"I heard some of the village men talking about it," answered Chún in puzzlement. "Although I never really understood it. A girl won't be any warmer than I am—if anything, she'd be fussing or stealing the blanket. And without a bed, everything is cold at night, honoured elder. That's why I put it into the verse." He scratched the back of his neck, confused, as Yijing broke into a fit of coughing.
Yijing rubbed his mouth with one hand, still shaking faintly as his coughing subsided. His eyes were shining with laughter.
"Forgive me, ah... my throat has become dry with all this talking—and the Golden Crow is warm. Ah... you will understand that line differently one day—perhaps. But for now, please—share a drink, in thanks for your good company.