I herd cattle, and I carry a short flute. While the cattle graze, I sit on the big rock at the crossroads and play.
Travelers ask: kid, which way to Aolai Town? I don't answer — I play the Going-Home Tune and jerk my chin east. For the ravine, I play the Flowing-Water Tune and point west. For the deep peach wood — I stop playing and shake my head. Not because I won't tell you. It isn't safe there lately, and a kid doesn't lead people into that.
My tutor taught me the poem: I ask where the tavern is; the shepherd boy points to Apricot Blossom Village. He says the poet was a genius — the boy says not a word and gives the way. I think: that's because the boy never met me. I don't point. I play.
When you come back out of the hills, sit on my rock a while. I'll play you the Safe-Return Tune. That one I only play for people who come back whole.