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A cleaver and a silver tael given to her by her father were all that weighed down the sack hanging from her shoulders as Qiezi forded the river.
Now on the opposite bank on agile feet she scarcely needed to halt her pace except that she was hungry, the family meal aborted by the unfortunate events of the past hour. Expressionless yet alert, darting like a cat, she stopped and squatted to turn over the undersides of rocks and logs for termites and grasshopper and darkling beetle larvae to place on her tongue.
They would do for now and she washed it all down with sweet osmanthus flowers and dandelions, stems and all, and river water from cupped hands. The sustenance glowed inside her and she got her energy back. As it grew dark, she slowed her pace and listened. The forest was almost cacophonous in its myriad sounds. The way she angled her head suggested they appeared to her as images positioned in a three-dimensional ink painting, with darker strokes in the foreground and lighter strokes in the background.
There were no human figures in the painting; had there been, she would have removed them by repositioning the painting. Her knowledge of the territory quickly brought her to where she wanted to go, a familiar clump of bamboo stalks. They ranged from her upper arms to her calves in diameter and she felled the thickest of them, wielding her cleaver like an ax with a few blows on either side. Hacking the tops away and shaving off the branches, she worked from memory, reconstructing what she had observed on the river.
