Along the brine slicked streets marking Sonshan's dock side blue district perched an open-air den ringed by tall wood partitions. Within, a medley of folk paid patronage, clustered among tables atop which sat a halved white-flowered gourd, dried and hollowed, with a lit tallow wicking providing mellow light. High silk curtains lent to the facade, serving to mute the afternoon's harsh glare. A haze of smoke enhanced the effect, swirls of which spilled out onto the streets beyond.
The thick tat of palm on leather opened a resonating hum. From the crowd, stepping between tables and people with a staggering dexterity, a drummer hopped to the center. The instrument, shaped in vague resemblance of an hourglass, showed the cracking and wear of age: oiled leather tied by a simple thong along a simple, cherished frame.
It pounded the first notes of wisdom into the air and a fiddler picked up the beat. Their hands ran swift the length of a two-stringed bow to hitch a metallic twang, trilling along even as they settled to a cross-ankled squat on a copper threaded rug.
A timid third rose to join, piping out a few loose notes to an expectant crowd. This one shared small smiles over their fellows as the player moved to stand just shy of the other two. Some nearest the trio threw iron bits onto their makeshift stage while others rose a call for drink, for song, and a bolder few took to belting out notes over the pitch. It made for a raucous cacophony. A welcome one all the same.
Banuk shook a pouch of twelve-pipped dice in tandem with the beat, a wild joy splitting his lips around a high mounted pipe. His eyes twinkled with the flickering candlelight. Smoke saturated his lungs as he sucked on that pipe with nary a breath to be found. He measured those around his table, a sandaled foot propped up against the stool as he played his hand at looming.
When he spoke, he adopted a near shout to compete with the raising chorus beyond.
"A simple game to start. I toss, you call a number. Over, I win, and you sling me another round. Under, you win, same stakes," he said, rattling the pouch just above the tabletop.
"Who's game?"
The thick tat of palm on leather opened a resonating hum. From the crowd, stepping between tables and people with a staggering dexterity, a drummer hopped to the center. The instrument, shaped in vague resemblance of an hourglass, showed the cracking and wear of age: oiled leather tied by a simple thong along a simple, cherished frame.
It pounded the first notes of wisdom into the air and a fiddler picked up the beat. Their hands ran swift the length of a two-stringed bow to hitch a metallic twang, trilling along even as they settled to a cross-ankled squat on a copper threaded rug.
A timid third rose to join, piping out a few loose notes to an expectant crowd. This one shared small smiles over their fellows as the player moved to stand just shy of the other two. Some nearest the trio threw iron bits onto their makeshift stage while others rose a call for drink, for song, and a bolder few took to belting out notes over the pitch. It made for a raucous cacophony. A welcome one all the same.
Banuk shook a pouch of twelve-pipped dice in tandem with the beat, a wild joy splitting his lips around a high mounted pipe. His eyes twinkled with the flickering candlelight. Smoke saturated his lungs as he sucked on that pipe with nary a breath to be found. He measured those around his table, a sandaled foot propped up against the stool as he played his hand at looming.
When he spoke, he adopted a near shout to compete with the raising chorus beyond.
"A simple game to start. I toss, you call a number. Over, I win, and you sling me another round. Under, you win, same stakes," he said, rattling the pouch just above the tabletop.
"Who's game?"
