Chapter 4: Wash Before You Even Think About Color

  By the time the sky stopped looking strange and the world stopped behaving like it had been shaken inside a jar, Khun Ming had already decided that whatever that odd pressure in his ears had been, it was not urgent enough to interfere with laundry.

  He stood at the stream with both bolts of cloth tucked under one arm and skeins of yarn looped carefully over the other, looking down at the water and calculating in the most practical way possible whether the temperature would cooperate.

  He dipped his fingers in again.

  Cold.

  Not mountain-glacier cold. Just honest running water cold. The kind that stiffened joints if you stayed too long but would not numb them instantly.

  He nodded to himself.

  "Good," he said thoughtfully. "This is exactly the kind of temperature that behaves sensibly. If the water were any colder, my fingers would stop cooperating, and if it were warmer I would start worrying about scouring too early. A rinse should feel refreshing, not like punishment."

  The golden dog followed him to the water's edge and settled onto a flat rock nearby, watching with an attentiveness that suggested either deep curiosity or the mistaken belief that something edible might happen.

  Khun Ming pointed mildly at the dog.

  "You may observe the process if you like, but you are absolutely not allowed to jump into the stream. I know you look innocent sitting there, but that expression is exactly the one dogs make right before they decide to turn careful work into chaos."

  The dog blinked at him.

  "That was not a suggestion," Khun Ming continued calmly. "That was a preventative policy. I have seen dogs develop sudden enthusiasm for water at the worst possible moments."

  He set the cloth on a clean stone and unrolled it fully under the slanting light.

  "Before dyeing anything," he said conversationally, glancing at the dog as though delivering a lecture to a very small apprentice, "we always wash the fiber. I do not care how clean the cloth looks. It may appear spotless, but appearances are extremely unreliable when it comes to fabric preparation."

  He lowered the cloth slowly into the stream and pressed it down until it surrendered completely to the current.

  "Oil from spinning, dust from storage, residue from human hands, and sometimes even leftover starch from weaving all hide inside the fibers," he continued. "If someone skips the washing stage and then complains that the color came out uneven, that person is not experiencing bad luck. That person is experiencing the consequences of impatience."

  Tiny threads of cloudy water drifted downstream as surface particles loosened.

  He lifted the cloth and squeezed gently.

  "Do you see that?" he asked.

  The dog tilted its head.

  "Of course you do not see it," Khun Ming said with a small sigh. "That is precisely the problem with invisible dirt. It does not look like anything until the water politely carries it away."

  He rinsed the cloth again, letting the stream carry the loosened particles downstream. Water flowed through the weave in thin ripples, the fibers darkening as they absorbed moisture.

  Khun Ming watched the water leaving the fabric more carefully than the cloth itself.

  "If the rinse is doing its job properly," he said thoughtfully, "the stream will tell me long before the fabric does. Water is extremely honest about these things."

  The first rinse had carried faint gray clouds downstream. The second carried almost nothing.

  "Now that is much better," he murmured.

  He pressed the cloth between his palms again, careful not to twist.

  "You will notice that I am not wringing the fabric like a noodle," he added, glancing again at the dog. "People twist cloth because they are impatient and want to remove water quickly. Unfortunately, fabric remembers that kind of abuse. If you twist it too aggressively, the threads stretch unevenly and you end up wondering why your cloth behaves strangely later."

  The dog considered this with another mild tilt of its head.

  Khun Ming nodded as if the animal had offered a thoughtful response.

  "I am glad you agree," he said.

  He lifted the cloth toward the light.

  Wet fiber reflected sunlight differently than dry fiber—softer, less dusty. Clean material always carried a faint brightness once the oils were removed.

  He ran a finger along the seam.

  "Whoever wove this did a very respectable job," he said quietly. "The tension is consistent, and the threads sit neatly without drifting. It would be rather unfortunate if I ruined good weaving simply because I decided to hurry."

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  The stream continued whispering over stone.

  He rinsed once more for certainty, then laid the fabric across a nearby rock to drain.

  Wind pushed droplets slowly toward the edge.

  The dog leaned closer.

  Without looking up, Khun Ming raised one finger.

  "I appreciate your curiosity," he said calmly, "but I would also appreciate you remembering our earlier agreement about not jumping into the stream. If you suddenly develop the urge to help, please resist it with great determination."

  The dog settled again.

  "Thank you," Khun Ming said. "Your cooperation is noted."

  Satisfied, he folded the cloth loosely rather than sharply.

  "You should never fold wet cloth with sharp pressure," he added thoughtfully. "Cloth remembers stress. It may not complain immediately, but eventually it will express its dissatisfaction in extremely inconvenient ways."

  The stream flowed steadily beside them.

  Sunlight climbed higher over the trees.

  For a moment he simply watched the water.

  "Dyeing," he said slowly, "is not really about forcing color into fabric. That is a common misunderstanding. The real work is convincing the fiber that accepting color is a good idea. Preparation handles most of the negotiation."

  He nodded once to himself and reached for the yarn.

  He paused before dipping it.

  "Now yarn," he said thoughtfully, "is slightly more dramatic than cloth. If you panic while handling yarn, it immediately decides to become a tangled disaster."

  He separated the skeins slightly to allow water penetration, then lowered them one at a time into the stream.

  "As long as you move slowly and keep the loops open, the water can pass through naturally," he continued. "If you rush this stage, you will spend the next hour trying to undo knots while questioning your life decisions."

  The yarn darkened as it absorbed water.

  He pressed gently and rotated slowly.

  "And under absolutely no circumstances should anyone twist yarn like they are wringing noodles," he added firmly. "That tightens the fibers and ruins the structure."

  The dog stood and took one step closer.

  Khun Ming looked up without moving his hands.

  "I should inform you in advance that if you step into the stream right now, I will be forced to rename you something embarrassing," he said calmly. "And once a name like that spreads, it will follow you for the rest of your life."

  The dog froze mid-step, then retreated and sat again.

  Khun Ming nodded approvingly.

  "That was a wise and dignified decision," he said.

  After several rinses, he gathered everything and carried it back uphill, damp weight balanced evenly across his arms.

  In the courtyard, he draped the cloth across a wooden beam and hung the yarn loosely along a rope he had strung between two posts earlier.

  The breeze from the cliff moved through the fibers.

  He stepped back and observed.

  "This stage requires patience," he said. "The fabric should dry naturally before proper scouring begins. If someone rushes ahead while the fibers are still holding excess moisture, the entire preparation becomes inconsistent."

  Inside the cottage, he placed the iron pot on the stove and stacked the wood he had cut earlier.

  "Fire," he said thoughtfully, "is not a tool for demonstrating enthusiasm. It is a tool for demonstrating restraint."

  He lit a small flame and adjusted the wood until it burned steadily.

  "Temperature control matters more than excitement," he continued. "Anyone can build a roaring fire, but that does not mean the dye bath will appreciate the effort."

  Then he stepped outside to the small ash pile from earlier test burns.

  He crouched and sifted it between his fingers.

  "Hardwood ash behaves much better for this purpose," he murmured. "Softwood ash works, but it tends to feel temperamental, and I prefer materials that cooperate."

  He collected a bowlful and returned inside.

  When ash met water in the pot, the liquid turned cloudy gray.

  He stirred slowly with a wooden stick.

  "This mixture needs time," he said calmly. "It should warm gradually and become properly alkaline, but if it boils aggressively the whole bath becomes unpleasant."

  Steam began to rise gently.

  He dipped his fingers briefly.

  "Good," he said with satisfaction. "That is exactly the slippery texture we want. When water starts to feel slightly smooth between the fingers, the ash has done its job."

  Outside, the cloth had dried enough to lose its surface dampness.

  He brought it in and lowered it into the warm ash water.

  "As expected," he said, watching the fabric darken slightly. "This stage removes oils, leftover sizing, and whatever stubborn residue the first rinse did not catch."

  He pressed it down with the stick.

  "If the fiber stays tight and closed, dye cannot enter properly," he explained. "Then people stare at the cloth in confusion and blame the dye, when the real problem is that they skipped half the preparation."

  The dog lay near the doorway, watching steam drift upward.

  Khun Ming stirred slowly.

  "This part requires patience," he continued. "Thirty minutes is usually reasonable, though occasionally the fabric behaves stubbornly and requires closer to forty."

  He adjusted the fire slightly.

  "Experience is better than thermometers," he said. "If the water trembles but refuses to boil, that is usually the correct temperature."

  The dog yawned.

  "Yes," Khun Ming said, glancing over. "I agree that this stage is extremely boring. Unfortunately, boring steps are often the ones that decide whether the final result looks respectable or embarrassing."

  When the yarn emerged and was rinsed, it felt lighter in his hands.

  He hung it again.

  The sky had shifted into early evening gold.

  He stood in the courtyard, hands resting on his hips.

  Cottage.

  Cherry tree.

  Ginkgo leaves catching fading light.

  Stream whispering along stone.

  Drying cloth.

  A very large golden dog occupying the doorway as if it had signed a long-term lease.

  Khun Ming looked around and sighed contentedly.

  "You know," he said thoughtfully, "considering that today began with the sky behaving strangely and the world feeling like it had been shaken loose, I would say this turned out to be a fairly productive day."

  He glanced at the dog.

  "You also require a name eventually," he continued. "I realize you arrived without one, but that situation cannot continue indefinitely."

  The dog's ears lifted.

  "You are very yellow," Khun Ming observed carefully. "However, calling you 'Yellow' would demonstrate a disappointing lack of imagination, and I prefer names that feel slightly more dignified."

  The dog wagged cautiously.

  "We will think about it later," he decided.

  He turned back toward the stove and adjusted the final embers.

  Above the Earth Realm, sect elders continued quiet discussion.

  Pigment Guild alchemists recalibrated spirit-stone reactions.

  Ancient beings considered implications.

  No one looked at a cliff cottage.

  No one noticed the alkaline wash steaming gently inside a bamboo structure.

  And Khun Ming.....who had unsettled systems he did not know existed....was far more concerned with whether the yarn would dry evenly overnight.

  He stepped into the courtyard one last time.

  He touched the cloth.

  Still slightly damp.

  "Excellent," he said quietly. "That means the fibers are behaving sensibly. Tomorrow we can begin thinking about mordants, and if everything continues cooperating, the first color experiments might finally become possible."

  The dog rested its chin on its paws.

  Khun Ming looked at the sky.

  "Preparation always comes first," he said softly.

  Then he went inside, because before color, there must be preparation.

  Chapter 4 complete.