My name is Axi — Tide. My father fished all his life, and named me for the tide: a daughter should be close to it.
Three generations of my family have kept this fish stall at the town gate. I can smell the tide turning a day early — something in the salt of the wind changes. Can't explain it; I just know. So before the boats go out or stay in, they ask me first.
The yao plague is in the hills, but the sea isn't quiet either. Since last month the fish come up with green in their eyes, and the East Sea traders say something is moving down below. Am I afraid? Why? People who eat from the sea take what the sea gives. But I still say it from my stall: for news from the East Sea, come to me — I'm ten days ahead of the county's paperwork.