The afternoon was scorching, without the slightest breath of wind.
At the height of summer, farmers gathered beneath the trees in twos and threes, chatting about household matters. Some twisted rope, some wove baskets, while the dogs lay sleeping on the ground. When the shade shifted with the blazing sun, they had to get up and move again.
Only the children were happiest, naked as they leaped from the rocks into the water to play, utterly unconcerned about being baked dark.
Suddenly, a tremendous boom came from downstream.
With a thunderous crash, trees somewhere in the distance swayed and shook.
The sleeping dogs were startled awake. The villagers said a tree must have fallen. There had originally been a hundred-year-old tree there, its wood hard and its blossoms beautiful. After discussing it for a while, they moved on to other topics.
After about the time it took to burn an incense stick, a beaver swam ashore, limping as it climbed the stone steps into the courtyard.
It lay against the threshold and peered inside. Seeing that the lady of the estate was absent, it quietly squatted outside the main hall. Its tiny bean eyes were utterly calm, its heart without a ripple, as it allowed everyone in the mansion to gather around and discuss it.
The stifling hours slowly slipped away, and before anyone realized it, about half a shichen had passed.
Just as the villagers were preparing to head into the fields, a carriage guarded by more than ten burly men approached. As it passed through the shade, a servant at the front kicked a soundly sleeping dog to the roadside, making the local mutt whimper. Yet with so many people around, it did not dare rush forward and bite his calves.
The soldiers at the checkpoint questioned them