Rén Chún trudged slowly up the dusty track, flicking his staff at the stragglers of the village's flock of geese as they marched up the mountainside. The screams of a mighty army on the march, he mused to himself as the squawking fowl flowed like a river towards their favourite grazing area, surging and spilling forward in uneven waves, startling smaller creatures along the path with their unceasing cacophony.
Chún had long since grown used to the racket. As a simple orphan who survived by doing odd jobs for the village, he was often given the work others preferred not to do—hauling night-soil out to the fields or cleaning the offal from the carcasses the butcher hung out the front of his shop. Compared to that, putting up with the screams of the village flock was an easy break.
The warmth of the Golden Crow touched his shoulders as he called after a few birds that had decided to sneak off the path. "Yi, yi yi—sisters, stay with us," he called in a herder's cadence, circling alongside and ahead of the wayward geese and flicking his staff in warning as one stretched out her neck and hissed at him. "None of that, Princess—back," he said sternly.
The bird pulled back with a grand show of flapping, ruffled feathers and sideways glances, her wings sending a waft of gamey, oily feather scent towards him. Then she turned to rejoin the main group—as if it had been her intention all along, of course—followed immediately by her underlings. Snorting with amusement, Chún bent to pluck a stalk of grass, keeping one eye on the flock for further breakaways as he rolled it between his fingers. The geese, he mused, behaved a great deal like people.
Straightening his back and smiling up into the azure sky, he drew in a long breath of cool morning air. It was much cleaner up here on the mountainside than down in the village valley—the scent of dry earth far removed from the thick, sour smells below—and another reason he preferred this task to the others he was given. "Dangerous beasts, ha—if there are any upon this mountain, they wear feathers and honk at me," he exclaimed grandly to the empty hillside, spreading his arms to indicate the gaggle marching noisily upward. "…and the lack of company is getting to me. Not a soul to talk to."
Slipping the stalk of grass firmly between his lips, he whistled sharply and resumed following the flock, chasing errant individuals back towards the path. He tugged his woven grass hat lower to shade his eyes from the Golden Crow's morning light, then broke into a simple song, each line punctuated by the push of his staff into the earth for purchase:
"Clean air and
Crow's fire,
Birdsong and
Earth's breath;
Better than gold,
More precious than
Power…
Treasures of
Heaven;
Treasures of Earth."
"A thoughtful song, xiǎo yǒu."
Chún's eyes widened, and the grass stalk dropped from his lips. The praise came from a short, elderly man clad in simple robes, sitting cross-legged upon a boulder a little way ahead on the right side of the path, just short of the flock's customary pasture, his gnarled hands resting loosely on his knees. Chún blinked and rubbed at his eyes with his left hand as his right tightened cautiously on his herding staff.
"Peace, friend—I mean no harm," chuckled the stranger, slowly laying aside a full-length stave from across his lap. "This old one was contemplating the mountain scenery when I was interrupted by the dulcet tones of your lady friends." He gestured wryly towards the flock streaming past him, their loud, contented honks announcing the familiar pasture as they began to spread out across it.
Chún ducked his head in embarrassment and hasty apology. "Apologies, honoured elder—I did not mean to disturb your meditations…" He trailed off as the bald man waved one hand, the long sleeve of his earth-coloured robe flowing grandly with the motion, somewhere between a Daoist's blessing and a rustic dismissal.
"It is of no concern," the elder said easily. "But you did seem surprised to see this old one…?" Dark eyes shone with curiosity in a face seamed and brown like an old walnut as he cocked his head in question at Chún.
Chún shook his head in befuddlement. He rarely had reason to speak at length with anyone; most villagers ignored him unless they wanted chores done, or he was bartering the rewards of work and hunts for necessities he could not gather or make himself.
However, the rock had been in his sight for the last two li of the climb. That he had not seen the old man upon it until now made him long to be elsewhere. Unfortunately, the villagers would skin him alive if he abandoned the flock, even if they believed anything he said about strange old men. He eyed the geese, who seemed oblivious to the person on the rock, and shivered despite the warmth of the rising Golden Crow.
"Honoured elder…"
"This old one is called Yijing," the man interrupted, his long beard fluttering as he bounced off the rock towards Chún like one of those hairy wild goats the boy had spotted on his occasional forays further up the mountain. His staff thumped against the path with a musical chime from the bells dangling near its head.
Chún broke into a sweat. He had not seen the man pick up the staff—and where had the bells come from? Despite the geese, his feet moved backwards of their own accord and tangled into a fall…
…only for him to find his right elbow—and his staff—held firmly in a strong grip. For a heartbeat, the wind across the pasture softened, the honking of the geese dimming as though it came from farther away. He was looking up into Yijing's smiling, wrinkled face, the old man's eyes twinkling in amusement.
Yijing hoisted him upright and onto the boulder with less effort than Chún would use to lift one of the butcher's carcasses, then hopped up beside him. The wind and the honking of the geese came back to him all at once. The stone pressed cool against Chún through his trousers. "A better place to watch your flock, yes?"
Chún blinked. He was not yet grown, but he had lived by his wits and physical effort. Years of labour and wild game had given him a stocky, muscled frame despite his youth—he was no lightweight. Even the village blacksmith would have needed effort to move him that way, yet this old man had lifted him like a feather. From the stories the villagers told, there was only one kind of man who could do that.
He set his herding staff and the bundle he carried beside him on the rock, then bowed carefully towards the old cultivator in thanks. His earlier fear had softened into something calmer and more practical: if this man were dangerous, Chún would not know it until after he had died. "Senior Yijing, this one is called Rén Chún."