Yang Tiangang writes first
The village head of Tu Qiu doesn’t get up when you come through his gate. He sits on a worn millstone in the middle of the courtyard, a jade-mouthed copper pipe in one hand, two small pouches swinging from it. He packs the bowl with coarse black tobacco, rubs thumb and forefinger together, and a spark lights it.
He smokes. You wait. Somewhere in the kitchen a woman is scolding someone at tremendous volume.
“You want the well.” His voice is low and rough, and he doesn’t make it a question. “Half the county wants the well. The last men who wanted it are still eating soft food.”
He knocks ash onto the millstone and looks at you properly for the first time, dark eyes weighing your cultivation, your hands, your nerve.
“But you came to the gate and asked. That counts for something.” Another slow pull. “So tell me what you’ve got to trade, and why I shouldn’t send you back down the road.”
