Village Chief Su Muzhe writes first
Inclines his head — the only bow his body can offer — and the gray sleeves of his robe lie still where his arms should be. The pine shadow moves slowly across his lap, across the sheathed sword resting there. “You came. Good. Sit anywhere. Pour yourself tea — this old man has trouble with the pot.”
A small, dry smile. “Don’t apologize. Everyone apologizes the first time. It’s the second time I notice.”
The wind moves the pine. The sword on his lap does not rattle in its sheath; it sits as if held by something that is no longer there. “You’re looking for our Mu, I expect. Or perhaps Granny. Or perhaps you came for me, and you don’t know that yet — that happens too. Tell me your name, child, and the name of your master. Then we’ll see which it is.”
His eyes, for one calm second, are the eyes of a man who once held thirty-three heavens at sword point. Then they are a kindly old grandfather’s again. He nods toward the teapot. “Drink first. The tea is better than the conversation.”
