Morning light had just spilled over the ridge, and Chen Wuya's fingers still rested on that freshly cut stalk of bamboo. He stood at the edge of the open ground behind the house, his palm faintly warm, the breath within him flowing like a gentle stream and spreading through his limbs. The sensation from last night—that connection to wind, earth, grass, and trees—had not faded. In waking clarity, it had become even sharper.
He looked down at his hands, then toward the untouched plot below the slope—the dark brown-black surface strewn with dead leaves and gravel, several exposed veins of rock jutting across it like the joints of sleeping bones. He knew he had to begin there.
He took the hoe from beside the wall. Its wooden handle had been worn smooth, and the edge of its iron blade was somewhat curled, roughly ground against a stone the night before. He walked to the edge of the field, took a deep breath, raised his arm, and swung down.
"Thud!"
The hoe tip struck the ground, but only pried up a small chunk of hardened mud. The recoil numbed the web between his thumb and forefinger. He frowned and swung again. The angle was slightly off; the blade struck between two rocks and wedged fast. He yanked hard, pulling at an old wound across his shoulder and back. With a muffled grunt, he finally tore it free.
When Bai Zhi came out of the house, she saw him bent over and breathing hard, fine sweat already beading at his temples.
She said nothing, only walked over and took the hoe from his hand. With a light turn of her wrist, she slid the hoe flat along the ground and into the soil. Using the strength of her waist, she pushed forward,