There was no paradise in this world, no escaping the rolling torrent.
Perhaps the fishermen in the fishing village believed the lake was the whole world—dogs barking, chickens crowing, rising with the sun and resting at sunset, digging wells for water, tilling fields for food, marriages and funerals, births, aging, sickness, and death, a quiet life dotted with trivial troubles.
Afternoon.
The girl was weaving nets at home when she suddenly heard hoofbeats drawing nearer from afar.
She rose in confusion, braced herself against the firewood-stick fence, and stood on tiptoe to look into the distance. An outsider had come down the only path leading out of the village.
It was a saber-bearing constable from town.
More and more villagers stopped working, their hearts uneasy as they guessed that nothing good could come from government men arriving at their door.
The tall horse galloped past the gate in a cloud of dust. Sweat had dried on the constable's back, leaving white salt stains. He rode straight to the village chief's house and took out something. The girl saw the old village chief accept a sheet of paper with a grim expression. The constable said much, then mounted up and left.
Before long, a slow gong sounded through the village. Rapid beats meant an emergency; unhurried beats meant a meeting.
The villagers laid down their work and returned to the village.
Grandfather returned from the lakeshore, called out a brief instruction from outside the door, and followed them as well.
The girl tidied up and went out.
She casually picked up the scrap iron. Lately, she had grown accustomed to taking the Rusty Saber with her whenever she went out, even carrying it when she went fishing.
She found the fishing boat Grandfather had half repaired by the lake.
Setting down