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K'ang 12
As told by Jerry M. Pickard
K’ang was perched on a rock not far from the pool he had created near his spring. The flax he grew had ripened, been pulled, soaked and pounded, and he sat cross-legged, his gnarled fingers twisting the fiber into rope and string. Softly, while he worked, he chanted.
Mahica, his old white cat occasionally batted at the drop spindle, made of a reed and a ball of dried clay. K’ang had long ago given up trying to unsnarl any but the worst knots, knowing that the villagers below were famous for weaving fine fabrics of linen. His intent was only to make the utilitarian binding to fit his simple needs.
“Gutha! It would be easier to milk a duck!”
The boy looked at K’ang, shocked at first, and then he smiled. K’ang smiled as well, and then they began to laugh together. After a few moments K’ang wiped the tears of laughter from his wrinkled visage, and said, “Boy, will you do this? Then make tea, I have something that needs to be done.”
The boy took K’ang’s place and adroitly began to spin, as K’ang disappeared behind his dwelling.
When K’ang came back, he had with him a staff and presented it to the boy.
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