Rén Chún trudged up the dusty track, flicking his staff at a few lagging geese as they marched uphill. "The screams of a mighty army on the march," he mused to himself as the squawking fowl flowed like a river toward their favorite grazing area, startling smaller creatures along the path with their noise.
Chún had long since grown used to the racket of the village flock. As a simple orphan who survived by doing odd jobs for the village, he was often given the work others didn't want—compared to hauling night-soil to the fields or scraping the butcher's offal, herding the village geese was an easy break.
The warmth of the Golden Crow touched his shoulders as he called after a few birds sneaking off the path. "Yi, yi yi, sisters stay with us," he called in a herder's cadence, circling ahead of the wayward geese and flicking his staff in warning as one hissed at him. "None of that, Princess—back."
The bird flapped and ruffled her feathers, casting a few sideways glances, then turned back to the flock—pretending it had been her idea all along—with her underlings in tow. Snorting with amusement, Chún bent to pluck a blade of grass, keeping an eye out for more breakaways. The geese, he mused, behaved a great deal like people.
Straightening his back and smiling up into the sky, he pulled in a long breath of cool morning air—much cleaner up here than in the village valley. Another reason to prefer this task. "Dangerous beasts, ha! If there are any upon this mountain, they wear feathers and honk at me," he exclaimed to the empty hillside, gesturing broadly to the flock. "…And it's the solitude that wears worst. Not a soul to talk to."
Slipping the stem between his lips, Chún whistled sharply and chased a few stragglers back to the path. With one hand, he tugged his woven grass hat lower to shade his eyes from the morning sun, then broke into a simple song—each line timed to the thump of his staff against the ground:
"Clean air and fire of the Crow
Bird song and Earth's stillness;
Better than gold, More precious than power...
Treasures of Heaven; Treasures of Earth —"
"A thoughtful song, xiǎo yǒu."
Chún blinked in surprise as an aged voice broke the rhythm of his song, rubbing his eyes with one hand as the leaf of grass fell from his lips. His other hand tightened on his herding staff.
Ahead on the right, just before the flock's usual pasture, sat a short, elderly man with a bald head and nut-brown skin, robed simply and seated cross-legged on a boulder. His hands, gnarled and liver-spotted, rested loosely atop his knees. He sat as though he belonged to the stone itself.
"Be at ease, xiǎo yǒu—this old one means no harm," the old man chuckled, setting aside a full-length stave topped with bells from across his lap. "This old one was admiring the quiet of the mountain when your companions' voices reached my ears." He gestured wryly at the flock streaming past him, their contented honks rising as they fanned out across the pasture.
Chún ducked his head, flustered. "…Apologies, Honoured Elder. This unworthy one begs forgiveness for disturbing your cultivation..." He trailed off as the old man lifted one hand in a gesture somewhere between a Daoist's blessing and a rustic wave, the earth-coloured sleeve flowing grandly with the motion.
"Think nothing of it," the old man said easily. "But you did seem surprised to see this old one..." His dark eyes gleamed with curiosity in a face lined like old bark, head tilted slightly as he studied the boy.
Chún hesitated. Conversation wasn't something he often had—especially not with strangers. The boulder had been in sight for the last two li of mountain road, and yet he hadn't seen anyone there until the voice spoke. That alone made him wish he could turn and vanish down the path. But abandoning the flock would earn him a beating—or worse.
He risked a glance toward the geese. They showed no sign of noticing the stranger at all. He shivered, though the warmth of the Golden Crow touched his skin.
"Honoured Elder..." Chún began cautiously.
"This old one is called Yijing," the elder replied, rising smoothly from the boulder like mist lifting off morning grass. His stave—bells and all—was already in hand, though Chún hadn't seen him move.
The bells chimed softly as the old cultivator stepped down onto the path, their sound clear and unhurried, untouched by wind or distance. Chún's grip tightened on his herding staff. He had not looked away, not even for a shùn—a blink of the eye—and yet he had missed the movement entirely.
Chún stepped back before he knew it, then froze. His feet refused to move, held not by fear exactly, but by something heavier and quieter. The air between them seemed to still, as though the mountain itself were listening.
Without haste, Yijing reached out and took Chún lightly by the elbow. The old cultivator's hand was firm, not forceful—and somehow, before Chún could react, he found himself upright—now seated beside him atop the stone, its surface yet untouched by the day's warmth.