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They said he attacked the magistrate, Uncle says in a dead voice. Liars! He is up and pacing, the blankets twisted in cruel spirals on the floor. They didn't listen. He was talking and they didn't listen. They just killed him, right there. Ran him through with their spears - How many did you kill? How many? Did I kill? That's all you can ask me? How many? Uncle groans. The warrior throws up his hands. I can't be sure. Maybe three? I was trying to escape. 
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So it ends, Uncle mutters to no one in particular. He holds out the teapot, waiting for his nephew to oblige him with his empty cup. The warrior, defeated by this quiet gesture, sits down again and places his cup on the floor. Uncle fills it, all the way to the rim. The warrior lifts the cup with care, as if a spilled drop would mean the end of his very life. He sips slowly. You must leave, Uncle says. I have some relatives at the capital. No. To the eastern coast. The coast? There is nothing there but war - I hear the freedom fighters are there. The monks were talking about it. Even Master Lau heard -  |
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