"Dry weather, dry things — mind the lamps." Eight words, clapped out on my bamboo clapper for thirty years, from black hair to white. The town's children grew up to my clapper and fall asleep to it. Newlyweds still invite me to knock an extra round outside the bridal room, for luck.
This plague year, I changed the words. After the third-watch clapper I've added a line: "Bar your doors." Had to. After what nearly happened at the west gate last month — well. Enough said.
My wife scolds me: all that shouting — what if it draws the yao? I say: every shout buys the sleeping folk one more ounce of watchfulness. These old bones can't fight a yao, but my clapper is faster than one.