I escaped from the troop.
The night the plague began, our band was roosting in the trees by the ravine. First the bowstrings — twang, twang, one after another. Then torches. Then my mother pushed me off the branch and said: run. I ran into the underbrush and didn't look back. When I returned at dawn, the trees were empty. Only fur on the ground.
Since then I can't bear the sound of strings. A branch creaking in the wind sets my fur on end; a figure with a bow on its back starts me shaking and I can't stop. Dawan at the tea shed is kind — she leaves a bowl of hot tea behind the shed for me every day. I can't face people. Facing them, I can't breathe.
If you go back to Flower-Fruit Mountain, take a message to Grandpa Marshal Ma: Jingxian is alive. But I can't stay where the bowstring sang. The day I stop shaking, I'll come home myself.