For the first few days at Uncle Kho’s, the old men admonished Sen to find something to do. He felt a slight sting of rejection at first. Yet, later, he realized that old men were catching up on a truly staggering amount of personal history. More to the point, most of it involved people that Sen did not know, usually in places that he’d never heard of, oftentimes doing things that he couldn’t make sense of. As for the parts he did understand, it just highlighted how ancient the two cultivators really were. They often talked of things that had happened a thousand years in the past. Sen suspected that many of their stories or memories of friends from their early days were far, far older than that. He did not ask. The idea of someone, anyone, living that long frightened Sen more than a little.
Yet, for all of their closed-door discussions, Sen wasn’t left entirely on his own. At one point, Uncle Kho tracked him down in the courtyard. Sen was sitting on the ground, propped up against the ghost panther, and sharing some fruit he’d found in the kitchen with the big cat. Uncle Kho had stopped short at the sight and just watched them for most of a minute.
“How did that get into the courtyard?” He asked, pointing at the cat.
Sen shrugged. “I think it mostly goes where it wants to, Uncle Kho.”
The ghost panther looked at the old cultivator, yawned, and went to sleep.
“Just make sure it doesn’t make a mess in the courtyard.”
Sen never found out what Uncle Kho actually wanted from him. The old man had stalked away, looking skyward, and muttering something under his breath about women and cats. The next day, the old man found Sen in the kitchen, looking around helplessly for something to eat. While Sen was accomplished at scavenging, most of what was in the kitchen were ingredients.
“Make whatever you like,” said Kho with an offhand gesture. “There's plenty. We won’t run out.”
Sen stared around the kitchen, baffled by the tools, the stove, by everything around him. He turned uncertain eyes on the older man. Uncle Kho frowned at the boy before the light of comprehension appeared in his eyes.
“No one ever taught you anything about cooking, eh?”
“Hmmm,” said the old man. “Well, you have to learn eventually, I suppose.”
The old man walked Sen through making rice. The whole process seemed utterly magical to Sen. Nothing but water, heat, and a bit of time could turn those hard grains into soft rice? He had stood there in the kitchen, transfixed, while nothing visible happened. When the rice was declared done by Kho’s more experienced eye, he had Sen dish up bowls for both of them. While the rice wasn’t special or more delicious than other rice, it was rice that Sen had made himself. It wasn’t stolen or scavenged. He had done it, well, he’d done it with a lot of help from Uncle Kho. Still, his own effort had made food. Kho seemed bemused by how amazed and proud Sen was with his accomplishment.
“Mind you,” said the old man, “I’m no expert, but I can probably show you how to make a few simple things.”
“I would be very grateful,” said Sen, bowing in earnest to the old man.
“Bah. You’ll have to wait for my wife to get back if you want to really learn about making food. That woman can conjure dumplings from a strong wind and almond cookies from moonlight. I can keep you from starving. She can feed you.”
Then, the old man laughed. Sen wasn’t sure why, though, so he just ate his rice.
It was on the fourth day that things changed. Sen was woken very early in the morning by Feng. The cultivator had ushered him into the kitchen and fed him some kind of porridge with fruit in it. Sen was amazed by the dish, but Feng just waved off his compliments. Once Sen had his fill, Feng poured them both some tea. Sen wasn’t sure that he actually liked the strong drink that Feng favored. It seemed a little bitter to him, but he’d learned a long time ago not to complain about free food. Sen drank his tea, waiting for Feng to say something. For his part, the cultivator seemed to savor the tea, closing his eyes, and breathing in the smell of it. He finally turned his attention back to Sen.
“Jaw-Long was very serious about teaching you to read. He seems to be taking it personally that you can’t. So, you will have lessons with him each morning. Be attentive.”
Sen nodded. “Yes, Master.”
“In the afternoons, you will train with me.”
Feng read the curiosity on Sen’s face and answered the unasked question. “Every man must know how to defend himself. You will receive training in that.”
A part of Sen was excited at the idea. What little he knew about fighting, he’d learned by trying to fight off the noble brats. He’d lost every fight. They were trained and happy to use it on him. Another part of him was leery. He’d heard stories about how that kind of training was done. Students injured or killed by careless or cruel masters. He kept those thoughts to himself. It wouldn’t matter if he approved of the methods or not. When someone as powerful as Feng declared that you would learn something, you would learn it in whatever way they decided.
The first reading lesson turned out to be painful in ways that Sen hadn’t expected. Sen knew about reading and had even managed to learn a few important words through pure exposure and repetition, yet he’d never felt like he was missing anything. While he’d kept his distance from many of the other kids without homes, he was on friendly terms with a few. None of those kids had been able to read, either. It was easy to feel like it wasn’t important, so he never put any effort into it. Yet, as Uncle Kho wrote out the basic characters and named them, Sen felt stupid. He vaguely recognized a few of them, but it had never occurred to him that they had specific names.
For all his zeal, the old cultivator was far kinder about the whole thing than Sen expected. The man didn’t expect instant understanding. He just walked Sen through the characters, occasionally circling back and asking Sen to name one. When it became clear that Sen’s concentration was wavering, the old man switched tacks and had Sen practice writing out a few of them with ink and brush. To Sen’s eyes, the results were truly disastrous. Uncle Kho’s writing was elegant, bordering on beautiful. The splotches that Sen produced didn’t look like anything. The old man gently took Sen’s hand and guided him through the motions. Sen had his doubts about that, but it did help. He still wasn’t making anything recognizable, but he had a better idea about how much pressure he should use and what kind of motions would get him the right results. Uncle Kho ended the lesson by piling paper and ink into Sen’s hands and ordering him to practice that evening.