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and acquaintances and strangers, all of them pulsing and powerful. These is no help for it, once again the urge has won. So with a deep breath and a stroke of his beard, hairs turning to gristle between his restless fingers, he begins: Once upon a time, in a faraway province. *** Every morning she stands at the window. Below, in the courtyard, the old man who is her father stands alone, his deer horn knives at his side. He moves to his own learned rhythms: a thrust here, a parry of his imagined opponent there. As the knives swoop and skim like cranes, they catch the first rays of sunlight, and every so often they shine straight at her, blinding her. But her father does not see her. His attention is occu- 
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pied with the intensity of his extended arms, the bow steps of his feet, the uneven circumferences he slices in the space around him. In the old days, he was known as Iron Hawk, and now he is Old Hawk, a moniker that does not displease him. Such indifference distinguishes age from youth. She watches, and even as she does so, her empty arms are describing the same circles, freeing themselves from the floppy sleeves of her gown. Tiny but unmistakable quavers (at least, unmistakable to a martial artist) color his mo- tions, while hers are broad and invincible. And while his face furrows in concentration as he performs his routine, there is unfettered joy in her rendition, as if she is growing taller for every complete set of movements, unable to be con- tained by the ceiling, the roof, the heavens.  |
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