THE DAYS when fruit-trees grew gold dimes were over. Years of yellowing drought had emptied the valley of its rivers, draining the yams of their magic. Goats starved on sick and scattered grasses and the fruit-trees grew only bitter citrons if they managed to grow anything at all.
Delirious with thirst, Lu Shing walked all night. It was noon again and still no water. The seat the stump of a cinnamon tree suggested was an offer she couldn’t refuse, and her bones gave way to gravity, buckling under the emptiness of her water-baskets. The sun sounded around her and through her. She came into a zone. Reaching into a deep skirt pocket for the loaf of bread she forgot she ate, she pulled out a misshapen stone she couldn’t drink no matter how hard she tried.