An ordinary day (revised)

An ordinary day.

Loa woke before dawn had fully broken.

He lay on his plank bed, listening to Old Jack's familiar cough next door. The coughing stopped, followed by the rustle of clothes as the old man dressed. Loa sat up too and pulled on his clothes in the dark. His trousers were too short again, leaving his ankles exposed to the chill.

He pushed open the door. Outside, everything was gray. The eastern horizon had only just begun to pale, the color of a fish's belly. The air was damp, carrying the smells of earth and firewood. He went to the water jar, scooped out a dipperful, and washed his face. The water made him shiver, driving away every trace of sleepiness.

Old Jack was already busy at the stove. His back hunched, the old man poured water into the pot and tossed in a handful of coarse rice. The firelight flickered over his deeply wrinkled face.

"Going up the mountain today?" the old man asked without turning around.

"Mm." Loa went to the corner and picked up the cloth bundle he had prepared yesterday. Inside were a small packet of salt, flint, hemp rope, and two flatbreads left over from last night. He slung the bundle over his back, then checked the sword at his waist-the one he had forged himself. Its edge was extremely sharp, its blade polished smooth as a mirror, and its hilt wrapped in cloth strips to keep it from slipping out of his hand.

Breakfast was thin rice porridge and pickled vegetables. They sat facing each other, slurping their porridge. Old Jack drank too quickly, choked, and broke into another fit of coughing. Loa set down his bowl and patted his back.

"I'm fine." The old man waved a hand and caught his breath. "Go early and come back early. Don't go too deep."

"I know."

By the time they finished eating, it was light. Loa washed the bowls, picked up his bundle, and left.

Wushan Town had not quite awakened in the early morning. The flagstone road was wet with the night's dew. Now and then, an early-rising woman pushed open a wooden window with a creak. The scent of wheat drifted from the bakery beside the smithy, where old Baker was baking his first batch of bread.

As Loa turned onto the mountain path, the sun rose over the eastern ridge. Golden light spilled down, filling the Forest with brightness. Dewdrops on the grass glittered like a scattering of silver fragments.

He broke into a jog. His strides were short but steady. His breathing followed his pace, in and out, and the mass of energy in his chest circulated along with it. After about a quarter of an hour, his body was warm and fine beads of sweat covered his forehead.

A small slope lay ahead. He picked up speed and charged up it, took a deep breath at the top, then walked slowly down to let his heartbeat settle. He had read this method in an old military manual, which said training this way could improve endurance.

Once he reached the Forest, he switched to another kind of training—climbing.

He found thick, sturdy trees and climbed them using both hands and feet. He used no battle aura, relying only on physical strength. The rough bark scraped his palms red. Halfway up, he looked down; the ground was already some distance away. He hugged the trunk and rested for a while, then slowly slid down. His palms burned, but it felt good.

After training like this for over two hours, the sun had climbed high. Loa found a rock to sit on, untied his bundle, and took out his waterskin for a few swallows. He had filled it that morning, and the water was still a little cool.

It was time to get down to business.

He took out his homemade shortbow, nocked a wooden arrow, and walked slowly through the Forest. His eyes searched everywhere, his ears alert. Today's prey could not be too big, or he would not be able to carry it. Pheasants and wild rabbits would be just right.

His luck was good. Beside a little stream, he came across two rabbits drinking. They were wary, their ears swiveling back and forth. Loa crouched low and crept closer under cover of the bushes. About twenty paces away, he stopped and drew his bow.

His first arrow missed, flying past a rabbit's ear and sticking into the soil. Startled, both rabbits turned to flee. Loa quickly nocked his second arrow, taking steadier aim this time. He released, and the arrow struck one rabbit squarely in a hind leg.

The rabbit struggled to escape, but its wounded leg kept it from running fast. Loa caught up and pinned it down. It kicked in his hands with considerable strength. He gripped its neck and twisted hard. The rabbit stopped moving.

The other one had long since vanished.

He tied up the rabbit and hung it at his waist. Then he followed the stream downstream, hoping to find a pheasant. The water was clear enough to see the pebbles on the bottom. Little fish swam back and forth, darting into gaps between the stones at the sight of a human shadow.

After a hundred paces or so, he heard a flutter. Looking up, he saw a pheasant fly out of the grass and land in a low tree nearby. Its colorful plumage was quite pretty.

Loa took out his last arrow and quietly approached. The pheasant was preening in the tree and had not noticed him. At about fifteen paces, he drew the bow fully and aimed.

This time, he did not miss. The arrow passed through the pheasant's breast. It flapped a few times and fell from the tree.

That was enough. A rabbit and a pheasant would feed them for several days. Loa tied up the pheasant too and washed his hands by the stream. Sweat and dirt had mixed together on his hands, and it took a good deal of rubbing to get them clean.

It was time to head back. But instead of leaving straight away, he found a flat rock beside the stream and sat down.

The stream rushed along, its sound quiet but constant. As he listened, the restlessness stirred up by rising early, traveling, and hunting slowly settled.

He closed his eyes.

The wind reached his ears first. Not a loud, howling wind, but a gentle breeze brushing the treetops and blades of grass. Its sounds were soft and scattered, like someone whispering in his ear, or hushed words drifting from far away.

The sounds of the water grew clearer too. It was not simply a rushing noise after all, but several different sounds-the murmur of water over level ground, the slapping as it struck stones, the gurgle as it swirled around a bend. Together, they formed a melody unique to this little stream.

There were birdcalls too. Nearby came crisp, brief chirps; farther away, long, lilting trills. Occasionally, he heard the flutter of wings, probably birds hopping among the branches.

He simply sat there, thinking of nothing, only listening.

After an unknown length of time, his mind seemed a little clearer. He could not say exactly what had changed; he simply felt more alert, his hearing and sight sharper. When he opened his eyes, things seemed clearer-the veins in the leaves, the patterns of moss on the rocks, the tiny ripples on the water. He could make them all out distinctly.

He remembered a passage in Essentials of Basic Swordsmanship, which said that when striking with a sword, one needed "a still mind and clear eyes." He had never quite understood what "clear eyes" actually meant. Now he seemed to have caught a glimpse of it.

It was not that his eyesight had truly improved. With his mind still, he looked at things more closely.

The sun was nearly overhead. Loa stood, stretched his legs and feet, numb from sitting, and prepared to head down the mountain.

He walked slowly on the way back. For one thing, the game on his back had some weight to it; for another, he wanted to see more of the mountain scenery. Spring had truly arrived. Green was everywhere, in shades both deep and pale. Some trees had blossomed, their small clusters of white and pink unassuming but pretty.

Passing a patch of wild celery, he stopped to pick a handful. The tender stems and leaves had a fresh fragrance. Old Jack liked it and said it made good soup.

Going down was faster than climbing up. In less than two hours, Wushan Town's rooftops came into view. Cooking smoke rose from the chimneys. It was lunchtime.

Inside the smithy, Old Jack was repairing a hoe. Seeing Loa return, the old man glanced up at the game hanging from his waist and nodded. "Not a bad haul."

"Mm. A rabbit and a pheasant." Loa took down the game. "I picked some wild celery too."

"Keep the rabbit skin," Old Jack said. "Once it's cured, we can make gloves. Stew the pheasant tonight, with mushrooms."

"All right."

Loa went to the backyard to draw water and wash his hands, and dressed the game while he was there. Skinning a rabbit was delicate work, and he took it seriously. The skin had to come off whole, without holes. His little knife cut carefully between skin and flesh, separating them bit by bit. He had done it often enough to know just how to handle it, skinning it quickly and cleanly.

Plucking the pheasant took more effort. It had to be scalded first, with the water at just the right temperature, or the feathers would not come out cleanly. He tested the water, decided it was right, and soaked the pheasant for a while before pulling out the feathers by the handful. The warm feathers felt strange in his hand.

Lunch was simple-last night's leftover meat broth, reheated with a few fresh wild greens and eaten with rye flatbread soaked in it. They sat facing each other, slurping with relish. Old Jack had a good appetite and ate two large bowls.

That afternoon, they worked at the forge as usual.

They had taken a job that day to make a billhook for Old John at the eastern end of town. The iron was ready, but it needed to be reforged into shape. Loa worked the bellows while Old Jack wielded the hammer. The fire roared, and the iron glowed red. The old man swung his hammer down with ringing clangs, sending sparks flying.

After an hour of hammering, the billhook had begun to take shape. Old Jack handed Loa the tongs. "You give it a try."

Loa took them and, copying the old man, used a small hammer to refine the shape of the edge. He worked carefully, blow by blow, with even force. Under the hammer, the iron slowly grew thinner, revealing a sharp edge.

"Keep your wrist supple," Old Jack instructed from beside him. "It's not all brute strength. You need to know how to use the force."

Loa nodded and adjusted his grip on the hammer. Sure enough, it felt much easier.

Once the edge was shaped, it was time to quench it. The red-hot billhook went into cold water with a hiss, sending up white steam. Quenching had to be quick and steady, or the blade could crack. Loa worked carefully, submerging the entire blade and waiting a while before taking it out.

After quenching came tempering. The blade was placed beside the furnace to heat slowly in the residual warmth and relieve its internal stresses. This work required patience; it could not be rushed.

Once the billhook had cooled completely, Loa picked it up to test how it felt. Its weight was moderate, its blade straight, and its edge sharp. He lightly scraped his thumb across the edge, producing a rasping sound-sharp enough.

Old Jack took it and looked it over, then nodded. "Ready to hand over."

Toward evening, Old John came to collect his billhook. The old fellow took it, tested the edge with a finger, and grinned in satisfaction. "Fine workmanship!" He paid and left happily.

Dinner was pheasant stewed with mushrooms and wild celery. The mushrooms were dried ones, soaked beforehand and stewed until soft, full of broth. The fresh fragrance of wild celery seeped into the soup, making it savory without being greasy. The pheasant had cooked off the bone, falling apart at a touch of the chopsticks.

Old Jack ate three bowls of rice and scraped his bowl clean at the end. Loa ate plenty too. Running up and down the mountain that day had certainly left him hungry.

After dinner, the old man sat by the furnace smoking his pipe. Once Loa had cleared away the bowls and chopsticks, he took out the rabbit bones he had deliberately saved rather than thrown away while skinning it that morning.

He found a small whetstone and slowly ground the bones by the light of the fire. He ground one long leg bone into a slender spindle shape, intending to make an arrowhead. Another, shorter bone he ground into a flat piece and drilled a hole through its center. It could serve as a thumb ring-worn when drawing a bow to keep the string from digging painfully into his thumb.

Grinding bone took patience. Stroke by stroke, the rough surface gradually smoothed, revealing the fine texture within. The fire crackled, bluish smoke rose from the pipe bowl, and the room was quiet.

"What are you fiddling with those for?" Old Jack exhaled a puff of smoke.

"Nothing else to do," Loa said. "Once they're ground down, I can make a few little things."

The old man said nothing more. He only watched Loa's profile as he worked in the firelight, his gaze softening a little.

By the time Loa finished grinding the bones, it was completely dark. He put away the finished bone arrowhead and thumb ring, then drew water to wash up.

As he lay in bed, the night watchman's clapper sounded outside-clack, clack, clack. It was the third watch.

He closed his eyes but did not fall asleep at once.

The feeling from the mountain that day remained. That state of keen hearing and clear sight had faded somewhat, but he could still feel it. His mind was fresh and clear, as though washed by mountain spring water.

He thought he would try practicing his sword in that "quieted" state during tomorrow's morning training, to see whether anything would be different.

Old Jack's steady snores came from next door. Outside the window, the moon had risen. Moonlight filtered through the window paper, casting a pale patch of light on the floor.

It had been an ordinary day.

Climbing the mountain, hunting, forging, eating, sleeping. Nothing special had happened. He had encountered no danger and found no treasure.

But Loa felt that a day like this was quite nice too.

Wasn't this how life went? Day by day, month by month, people grew up and grew stronger without even noticing.

He turned over. Outside came an owl's call, hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo-