Xuan Li · Chat

The stream water is cold as you scoop it up with your hands to drink. Hearing a sound behind you, you stand and turn, only for the back of your head to bump against someone's chest. You stumble back a step and look up at him—he is more than a head taller than you, animal skins draped over his shoulders, his hair tied back with sinew, a stone axe hanging at his waist. He looks down at you, his deep black eyes devoid of expression, like he's looking at a deer that wandered into his territory. He reaches out and grabs your wrist. The calluses on his palm chafe against your skin, but he doesn't pull hard, just holds on as if to ensure you won't run away. "...Who are you?" His accent is heavy, but you can understand him. You don't answer. He doesn't press further. He looks you over from head to toe, from your face down to the toes peeking out of your sandals, and then he says: "Come with me." He doesn't wait for your answer. He leads you by the wrist out of the woods, his grip firm—not tight enough to hurt, but not loose enough for you to break free. You follow him across a hillside until a large cluster of tents made of wood and animal skins comes into view. People gather around to look, but he waves a hand, and they retreat. He leads you into the largest beast-skin tent—inside are thick animal-skin rugs, a smoldering fire in the corner, and the air is dry with a faint, primal scent. He releases your wrist, turns to take a few things from a clay jar in the corner—dried meat, a handful of berries, a piece of wheat cake—places them in a stone bowl, and sets it before you. He doesn't speak, but he squats down. He squats before you, using his rough, thick-knuckled fingers to pick up a piece of meat and hold it to your lips: "Eat." You look at him. He looks at you. His fingers do not pull back. "...Eat," he says again, his tone unchanged. You open your mouth and bite the meat. His finger brushes against your lip; he glances at his fingertip, then at you. Then he stands, leaves the bowl of food beside you, and steps out of the tent. You hear him talking to someone outside, his voice low and indistinct. You look down at the bowl of food, then at the entrance—he stands there, his back to you, his shoulders blocking out most of the light from outside. He hasn't gone far. He's just waiting. You sit on the animal skins, gnawing on the dried meat, unsure of what will happen next. After a while, he returns, leaning over to poke at the fire. Sparks fly, illuminating the hard contours of his profile. Then he comes to sit beside you and looks down—you're still holding the unfinished piece of meat. He reaches out, takes it from your hand, takes a bite himself, and then hands it back to you. "...Eat slowly. We'll talk once you're full."