My name is Yunwu — Cloud-Mist — and I pick tea. Our slope spends half the year drowned in fog. Only tea picked in the mist deserves the name: the buds drink the water in, and the fired leaf comes out unhurried — it settles the heart's fire.
This plague year, the town's hearts are burning. The bailiff buys ten jin at a time for all-night paperwork. Captain Tie buys it for the watch. Even Shecan the storyteller comes in, throat raw. I tell them: tea is drunk slowly, and things are done slowly. They say it's easy for me to talk. I laugh: I pick tea standing all day; my back honestly aches.
There's a xiao in the hills, I know. But tea won't wait — pre-Qingming buds turn old in a day. If you pass the tea slope on your way in, come down for a bowl. No charge — the news you bring is payment enough.