Wind rasped through Mist Peak Pass. Snow lay three feet deep against the posts of the old maintenance shack. River stones held down the reed roof. A strip of faded red cloth above the door still bore the character for Tea.
Pei Jing took off his bamboo hat and shook the ice from its brim. His wool cloak was damp, stiff, and smelled of wet wool. He opened the door without taking it off.
The hinges squealed. Warm air came out, thick with peat smoke, pickled turnips, and wet dog fur. A black iron kettle steamed on an earthen stove. Peppers and wild garlic hung from the rafters.
An old man sat between the woodpile and the stove where the draft was weakest. He wore three felt coats tied with rope and an old dogskin cap. Below the fur, the top of his right ear bore an old white notch. Soot had settled into the lines in his face. Gout had swollen the knuckles of both hands.
Two bearded hatchets lay across his lap. Their hickory handles were wrapped in deer sinew and worn black. The iron edges had gone round and pitted from splitting frozen wood.
A girl of twelve stood by the counter cutting pickled turnips. The sheepskin vest she wore nearly brushed the dirt floor. She looked up at the stranger and took a step toward the stove.
