[h1]Sü[/h1]

The sun was setting below the horizon as Nyutien returned to his home. The glowing golden light of the sun illuminated the sky with such great hues it was an inflamed spectacle of oranges, reds, and pinks. And in the highest corners, and those areas closest to where the moon had already risen skyward there was a deep sullen blue, nearly purple where thin wispy clouds caught the very weak frills of the setting sun's light.

Nyutien stopped briefly to check on the condition of his garden, a raised terraced lot that hung off the side of the house and where a steeply inclined wall marked the edge between it and the dirt roads that ran around it.

In the center of town the conglomerate mess of houses stood in tightly packed fortresses of wood and stone as dirt and hard-packed clay roads divided each island with a enough space for a creek to flow. Already the multitude of generational, veteran family units were settling into their evening routines and the soft lights of candle sticks and lanterns fueled from fish oil cast a golden flickering light that punctuated the deep purple of late evening. There was a subdued song of chattering in the streets as families gathered for the night and the sounds of their prayer, song, and argument flowed out into the streets from open windows.

Turning from his garden with a handful of large wrinkled squash. The bitter fruit, a long green melon would be fried the next morning for breakfast. Nyutien stepped into his century-old home, and was greeted with the leathery and earthly aroma of the wood and the furnishings. From somewhere the tiny pluck of a harp sang from some upper floor as Nyutien milled about, passing by a small red-painted shrine he turned and bowed, offering a small flower from his pockets into a blue ceramic bowl. To his father and grand-father, and the nameless ancestors that predated them. On a wooden plank the names of his ancestors dating back to Bangyu, written in the scratched-out, blocky characters of their native writing.

Leaving the shrine, he placed the long withered fresh-green melons onto a rough hewn table and made his way up naked wooden stairs to the floors above. The wood creaked and groaned under his weight as he ascended the steps. “Nyutien.” a voice said softly in the dim candle light of the upstairs hall. Turning slowly Nyutien came face to face with his younger brother, bowing formally he greeted his kin.

“Yung, how was your day?” he asked as he walked around his brother's side and down the hall, Yung followed at his side, holding his hands at his stomach.

Yung was stouter than his older brother. And as someone four years his junior he looked the part. His face looked fresher, almost pale in complexion and undaunted by the sun's heat. Although scars of illness put sunken scars in his face, he retained still a broader physique still in its prime. His hair likewise was thicker and freshly shaven stubble rung his chin.

“It was a good day.” his brother responded. As well as being Nyutien's brother, Yung was his house-keeper and the second husband to his wife. In this arrangement, there would be someone to take care of Nyutien's wife and youngest children should he pass away, affirmed by a status of brother-co-husband. 

At the end was a small room, not much larger than the parapet of a watch tower and half as open. It was an office room with a small desk at its center. It overlooked one of the main drags of the village's center. Silken curtains hung from polished wooden poles hung over windows consisting of little more than open frames with a latticed net of a saplings to form a rough screen. Through this the sweet air of night drifted in and gave the second-floor office a balcony feel.

The table itself was positioned low to the ground and both men sat on the ground opposite of each other as Nyutien produced a scroll of light, soft wooden stakes. Taking a small brush, he began to write on the planks.

“I watched the new home go up today.” Nyutien said flatly.

“Oh, did you? I had heard about the marriage.” said Yung, he kept his hands folded in his lap, “I would have gone, but the walk was not  for me.”

Nyutien nodded knowingly. Yung was an unfortunate case of misfortune. At a young age his hand had been crushed in a game when another youth knowingly or mistakenly smashed his hand with a rock. The broken bones never healed right and the crooked mangled hand was always kept covered by a sheet of cloth.

Though while his hand was smashed, he could still use a spear in hunting game. But it had been a trip ten years ago that had struck Yung with another great injury when hunting troubling wolves in the country-side one had attacked them. Yung had fallen onto his back and a particular large and deadly beast had tried to drag him of by the ankle, nearly tearing the foot clean off. Nyutien had managed to save him, but his brother was mangled. Over time the wound had healed, and while he could bare passing up and down stairs at a slow pace, or at times crawling he would never wander far from the house, preferring to stay within the block.

And hoping to not nearly lose so many more limbs, he never exerted himself much more beyond the duties. Helping to keep the large communal home in order. And taking messages.

“By the way, I got a message from Yu Fung.” Yung announced, “He comes complaining that the men who work at the edge of our fields are being harassed by strange men. Foresters report having stones thrown at them as the venture south to cut trees. The men who work the fields report seeing dark-skinned men trying to steal off with food stuff.”

Nyutien gave him a cursory look up and nodded. “I'll have to seek him out tomorrow. How worried was he?”

“I don't know, he didn't come in purpose. He sent his youngest son as a messenger. But he said he wants permission to raise a small levee and hunt these perpetrators down.”

“I imagine I will.” Nyutien sighed, “Was that all.”

“That is.”

“Very well, thank you.”

“You're welcome, and good night brother.” Yung smiled, standing up and shuffling out the door for his room.