Once upon a time…

When the north wind leaned on our roofs, we remembered Reed-Marking Day. Each spring, we cut river reeds and dipped them in lamp soot. The blackened reeds we planted on the floodplain showed how high the summer waters might rise. That year, the reeds charred themselves overnight, though no fire burned. Old Li said the river had swallowed a dragon’s sigh.

Mei, our best tracker, tied her hair with a cord and set off upstream. The mountains were gray like sleeping dogs. Birds flew low. She found the gorge where the river thinned and sang through sharp stones. The banks shook, and a new spring burst from the cliff, cold and strong, turning our quiet river wild.

Mei climbed above the spray with only a hooked pole and hemp rope. She jammed the pole into a crack and wedged a fallen cedar across the new mouth. The water fought her. She hummed the grinding song of millstones so she would not fear. The cedar held. The river’s rage eased.

We set our soot-reeds again. They stayed pale. At autumn, we shared millet cakes, and the wind leaned softer on our roofs.