Chapter 13: Ink And Foundations
We cleared the training ground in two days.
Hao did most of the heavy work because Hao always did most of the heavy work. He tore out scrub brush with his bare hands, leveled the uneven patches by dragging a flat stone across the surface, and hauled river gravel to fill the soft spots where standing water collected after rain. I measured, directed, and hauled what I could without slowing him down, which wasn’t much.
The flat ground east of the river cleaned up better than I’d expected. Forty meters by twenty-five of packed earth, smooth enough for footwork and firm enough to hold form during exercises. The river ran along the southern edge, close enough that I could feel the qi in the moving water from the center of the field. The tree line screened the northern side completely. From the village road, you couldn’t see the training ground at all. You’d have to walk the river path past the eastern plots and through a gap in the willows to find it.
On the third morning, before dawn, Hao and I stood at the center of the cleared ground and I taught my brother how to cultivate.
It was step one of a process that I’d tested on myself for weeks and was now trying to translate into instructions another person could follow.
“Close your eyes,” I said. “Press your hands together.”
Hao formed the prayer sign. The focus came immediately for him, that gathering of attention I still had to work for. His breathing slowed without being told.
“Don’t reach for the qi. Let it come to you. Soften your attention. You’re not pulling water uphill. You’re opening a channel and letting it flow downhill.”
“Principle four,” Hao said.