Song abandoned his quest and darted for the edge of the forest. Ignoring the danger, he raised his head above the handcart, straining to scan the terraced fields beyond the village. Yet he could not find the face he sought. Neither did it linger on two small children who led a long-haired goat by a string around its neck, nor on the man who mended a hemp fishing net. His glance skipped over an old woman sitting in the dirt before her hut, weaving a basket out of willow strips. Above him, Mount Kamiratan rose like a great green father, and across the river, the smaller heads of the Kindoli range peered at him over one another’s shoulders. The hot, rainy season was past and the high waters had flowed away to the sea, leaving the steep banks dry and lush and fragrant. Song could see the river through a border of vegetation. In both directions the path rambled along the curves of the mighty Chin-Yazi River, the lifeblood of the village. There, he could overlook the dirt path that wandered in one side of the village and out the other, connecting it to other settlements far away. He hiked his tunic above his knees and crept behind a wooden handcart. Song had completed his task, but he paused, searching the village, seeking that one face that drew him despite the danger. All around him the forest opened like a wide, clay bowl, with a score of bamboo huts lying like pebbles in its bottom. Song knew he was foolish to linger, but his feet refused to acknowledge the fear tapping on his shoulder.
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