The midday recess belonged not to the elders, but to the children who had never seen an open field.
Qiao Ming sat cross-legged upon the eastern edge of the Great Parchment Roll, his oilskin coat spread flat across the white hemp to protect the thick parchment from sweat and dust. His bare feet were tucked beneath his shins, the yellow calluses of his heels resting against the border map point line. In his hand he held a smooth stick of soft willow charcoal, sharpened to a wedge point with his bone knife.
Gathered around him on the white parchment sat twelve children, the youngest four years old, the eldest fourteen. They wore tunics of bleached hemp patched with dried eelgrass, their hair tied with thin strands of dried willow bark. In their laps they carried small collections of river-pebbles, broken mother-of-pearl shells, and bits of colored sea-glass they had retrieved from the shallow drainage pools of the upper halls.
A-Yuan sat closest to him, her knees pressed against the margin of the first river valley. In her small palm lay a smooth, oval pebble of red jasper, polished to a dull sheen by ancient tides.
“Sounder Qiao,” the little girl asked, her voice quiet and earnest. “How does a river know where to go?”
