Chapter 4: Wash Before You Even Think About Color
By the time the sky stopped behaving strangely and the air no longer carried that odd pressure that made his ears feel slightly blocked, Khun Ming had already decided, in a very practical and completely unhurried way, that whatever had just happened was not important enough to delay something as ordinary and necessary as washing cloth.
He stood by the stream with both bolts of fabric tucked securely under one arm while several skeins of yarn rested looped over the other, the weight distributed carefully so nothing would drag against the ground as he made his way down the narrow path. The sound of the water reached him before the stream came fully into view, a steady, familiar flow that blended naturally with the distant waterfall below the cliff, and when he stepped onto the flat stones near the edge, he paused for a moment to look at the surface as if greeting something reliable.
Then he crouched slightly and dipped his fingers into the current.
The cold spread across his skin immediately, not sharp or biting, but firm enough to remind him that mountain water never bothered pretending to be gentle, and he let his hand remain there for a few seconds longer than necessary, quietly judging the temperature the same way he always did, not by numbers or measurements but by how his fingers reacted to it.
He withdrew his hand slowly and nodded to himself with quiet approval.
"This is exactly the kind of water that act properly," he said in a thoughtful tone, as if the stream were capable of understanding and appreciating the compliment. "If it were any colder, my fingers would start refusing to work after a few minutes, and if it were warmer, I would have to start worrying about whether the fibers might loosen too quickly before I am ready for that stage, which would be inconvenient in ways that are difficult to explain to anyone who has never tried to fix uneven dye later."
He shifted his grip on the cloth slightly and looked down again at the stream, clearly satisfied.
"A rinse should feel refreshing," he continued, speaking as though he were explaining something to an unseen audience, "not like a punishment for making poor life decisions."
Behind him, the golden dog had followed without making much noise, though its presence was difficult to ignore once it reached the edge of the water and carefully settled itself onto a flat rock nearby, lowering its body into a relaxed position while keeping its head lifted, eyes fixed on Khun Ming with an attentiveness that could either mean genuine curiosity or the hopeful expectation that something edible might eventually be involved.
Khun Ming did not turn immediately, but he raised one hand slightly and pointed in the dog's direction in a calm, preemptive gesture.
"You should sit there and observe if you feel that this is an important educational moment for you," he said, his tone mild but very deliberate, "but I would like to make it absolutely clear in advance that you are not allowed to jump into the stream at any point during this process, no matter how interesting the situation appears from your perspective. One little puppy like your coat jump without thinking and now it is with my Grandma... So I warn you again not to jump no matter what."
The golden dog blinked once.
Khun Ming turned his head just enough to glance at it.
"I am not saying this because you have already done something wrong," he added patiently. "I am saying this because you look exactly like a creature that is currently considering doing something wrong in a very enthusiastic way."
The dog tilted its head slightly.
"That expression," Khun Ming continued, narrowing his eyes just a little as he studied the animal, "is extremely familiar to me, and it has never once been followed by a responsible decision."
The dog shifted its weight, then sat a little straighter, as if trying to appear more trustworthy.
Khun Ming gave a small nod.
"I appreciate the effort," he said. "However, I am still going to proceed under the assumption that supervision is required."
With that, he stepped forward and placed the cloth carefully onto a clean, flat stone near the edge of the stream, taking a moment to unroll it fully so that the fabric spread evenly under the slanting light. The fibers caught the sunlight in a soft, muted way, revealing subtle inconsistencies that would have been easy to miss if he had not been looking for them.
He crouched again and gathered the edge of the cloth in both hands.
"Before dyeing anything," he began, his voice taking on a slightly more instructive tone, though it remained relaxed and conversational, "the first step is always to wash the fiber properly, regardless of how clean it appears on the surface, because fabric has a habit of hiding problems in a way that is both impressive and deeply inconvenient."
He lowered the cloth slowly into the stream, guiding it into the water rather than dropping it, allowing the current to take hold of it gradually until the entire length of fabric sank beneath the surface and began to move gently with the flow.
"Oil from spinning, dust from storage, residue from handling, and sometimes even leftover starch from the weaving process all settle inside the fibers," he continued, pressing the cloth down slightly to make sure the water reached every part of it. "If someone decides to skip this step and then complains later that the color turned outuneven, I can assure you that the problem is not bad luck, and it is definitely not the fault of the dye."
He adjusted his grip and lifted part of the fabric slightly, letting the current run through it before pressing it down again.
"It is almost always impatience," he added, his tone calm but certain, "and impatience has a very consistent way of creating extra work later."
Thin clouds of faint gray drifted away from the cloth and disappeared into the moving water, subtle but visible if one paid attention.
Khun Ming watched closely, his focus not on the cloth itself but on the water leaving it.
"Do you see that?" he asked, glancing briefly toward the dog.
The dog leaned forward slightly.
"Of course you do not see it clearly," Khun Ming said with a small, resigned sigh. "That is part of the problem with this stage. Most of what we are removing does not look like anything until it decides to leave."
He lifted the cloth and squeezed gently, water streaming from the fibers in thin lines before falling back into the current.
"When the rinse is working properly," he continued, "the water will tell you long before the fabric does, because water is very honest about these things, and it does not have any reason to hide what it is carrying away."
He lowered the cloth again and let it soak a little longer, guiding it so the current flowed evenly through the weave.
The dog shifted closer, standing on his three legs, raising one front leg, clearly interested.
Khun Ming noticed without looking.
"I am aware that this process appears extremely simple," he said, "but simplicity is not the same as permission to interfere."
The dog paused, then sat back down.
"That is a good adjustment," Khun Ming said approvingly.
After a short while, he lifted the cloth again and observed the water dripping from it.
The first rinse had carried visible residue.
The second carried almost nothing.
He gave a small, satisfied nod.
"Now that is much better," he murmured, more to himself than to the dog, though he made no effort to lower his voice.
He adjusted the cloth once more, preparing to repeat the process with the same steady patience, while the stream continued flowing as it always had, quiet and reliable, completely indifferent to strange skies, distant disturbances, or the fact that somewhere far beyond this small stretch of water, the world had just experienced something it did not yet understand.
And here, beside the stream, Khun Ming continued washing cloth as if everything were exactly as it should be.
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He pressed the cloth gently between his palms once more, applying steady pressure while carefully avoiding any twisting motion, his fingers adjusting instinctively to the resistance of the wet fibers as water slipped through and fell back into the stream in thin, quiet lines.
"You might notice that I am not wringing the fabric the way most people instinctively do when they want to remove water quickly," he said, glancing toward the dog as though continuing an ongoing lesson that the animal had never officially agreed to attend. "There is a very common habit of twisting cloth like a noodle, usually out of impatience, and while it does remove water faster, it also introduces a kind of uneven stress into the threads that the fabric remembers for much longer than people expect."
The dog tilted its head again, watching closely.
Khun Ming gave a small nod, as if that reaction confirmed a shared understanding.
"I am glad you are following so far," he added, his tone calm and faintly approving, even though there was no real indication that the dog understood anything beyond the movement of his hands.
He lifted the cloth slightly and held it toward the light, allowing the damp surface to catch the sun in a softer, more muted way than dry fiber ever could. The texture appeared smoother now, less dusty, as if the water had gently cleared away a layer of quiet neglect that had settled during storage.
"Clean material always carries a different kind of brightness once the oils are gone," he said, running a finger slowly along one of the seams while studying the alignment of the threads. "It is not obvious at first glance, but if you spend enough time looking at fabric, you begin to notice that clean fiber reflects light in a much more cooperative way."
He paused for a moment, examining the weave more carefully.
"Whoever wove this did a very respectable job," he continued, his voice lowering slightly into something more thoughtful. "The tension is consistent, and the threads sit where they should without drifting or pulling in odd directions, which is not something you can take for granted. It would be quite unfortunate if I managed to ruin good weaving simply because I decided to rush a step that should not be rushed."
The stream continued its steady movement beside him, water brushing against stone in a quiet, uninterrupted rhythm that made everything else feel slightly slower.
He lowered the cloth once more for a final rinse, not because it looked necessary but because experience had taught him that certainty was often worth a little extra time, and when he lifted it again, the water dripping from the fibers ran clear and clean.
Satisfied, he laid the fabric across a nearby rock, spreading it carefully so that the weight distributed evenly, allowing the breeze from the valley to begin pulling moisture from the surface.
Droplets gathered slowly along the edge and fell, one by one, into the stream below.
The dog leaned forward again, curiosity clearly renewed.
Without turning his head, Khun Ming raised a single finger in a quiet but unmistakable warning.
"I appreciate your continued interest in the process," he said calmly, "and I would also like to remind you, in a friendly but firm manner, that we have already discussed the matter of you jumping into the stream, and I would prefer not to revisit that decision at this stage."
The dog hesitated, then settled back into place.
"Thank you," Khun Ming added. "Your cooperation is both noted and appreciated."
He reached for the cloth again and folded it loosely, taking care not to press sharp creases into the damp fiber, his hands moving with the kind of familiarity that came from repetition rather than conscious thought.
"Wet cloth should never be folded with unnecessary force," he continued, his tone returning to that steady, conversational rhythm. "Fabric has a way of remembering how it was treated, and while it rarely complains immediately, it will eventually express its dissatisfaction in ways that are extremely inconvenient, usually at the exact moment you expect everything to behave properly."
The dog watched him in silence.
Khun Ming gave the cloth one last adjustment before setting it aside.
For a brief moment, he simply stood there, looking at the stream as it moved past, his attention not fixed on any particular detail but resting in the quiet consistency of the flow.
"Dyeing is often misunderstood," he said after a short pause, speaking more to the air than to the dog, though the explanation continued all the same. "People tend to think it is about forcing color into fabric, as if the material has no say in the process, but that approach rarely produces good results."
He crouched again, reaching for the skeins of yarn.
"The actual work," he continued, lifting the loops carefully so they did not tangle, "is more about convincing the fiber that accepting color is a reasonable and beneficial decision, and most of that conversation happens during preparation rather than in the dye bath itself."
He separated the skeins slightly, loosening them just enough to allow water to pass through freely, then lowered them into the stream one at a time, guiding the loops so they sank evenly instead of collapsing into themselves.
"Yarn tends to be a little more dramatic than cloth," he added, his voice carrying a faint trace of amusement. "If you handle it carelessly, it responds by becoming a tangled situation that requires far more time to fix than it would have taken to avoid in the first place."
The fibers darkened gradually as they absorbed water, each strand shifting slightly under the current.
"As long as you move slowly and keep the loops open, the water will do most of the work for you," he continued, pressing the yarn gently beneath the surface and rotating it with controlled, deliberate movements. "If you rush this stage, you will eventually find yourself sitting somewhere with a knot in your hands, wondering how such a small mistake managed to create such a large inconvenience."
The dog stood and took a cautious step closer.
Khun Ming looked up this time, his hands still submerged in the stream as he held the yarn steady.
"I feel it is only fair to inform you in advance," he said calmly, meeting the dog's gaze, "that if you choose this exact moment to step into the water, I will have no choice but to give you a name that reflects that decision, and I assure you it will not be a dignified one."
The dog froze, clearly reconsidering its options.
"Once a name like that spreads," Khun Ming continued, his tone remaining mild but entirely serious, "it tends to follow a creature for the rest of its life, regardless of how many good decisions it makes afterward."
The dog slowly stepped back and sat down again.
Khun Ming nodded.
"That was a very sensible choice," he said. "I appreciate your ability to learn from hypothetical consequences."
He continued rinsing the yarn, repeating the process several times until the water running from the fibers carried no visible residue, then lifted everything carefully and gathered it into his arms, distributing the damp weight evenly so nothing pulled too heavily in one direction.
The climb back to the cottage was steady and unhurried, his steps adjusting naturally to the slope as the sound of the stream faded behind him and the familiar outline of the courtyard came into view through the bamboo.
Once inside, he draped the cloth across a wooden beam, smoothing it slightly so it hung evenly, then moved to the line he had strung between two posts earlier and hung the yarn loosely, allowing space between the loops so air could pass through without obstruction.
The breeze from the cliff moved gently through the courtyard, shifting the fibers in slow, quiet motion.
He stepped back and observed the arrangement for a moment, his gaze moving from one section to another as if checking for something only he could see.
"This stage requires patience," he said, more to himself now. "If the fabric is not allowed to dry naturally before proper scouring, the preparation becomes inconsistent, and that inconsistency has a habit of showing up later when it is far more difficult to correct."
Satisfied, he turned and walked into the cottage, setting an iron pot onto the stove before arranging the firewood he had prepared earlier with careful attention to spacing and airflow.
"Fire is not a tool for demonstrating enthusiasm," he said thoughtfully while adjusting the position of a small log. "It is a tool for demonstrating restraint, and it responds much better when treated that way."
He lit the flame and watched it catch, adjusting the wood slightly until the fire settled into a steady, controlled burn rather than an aggressive one.
"Anyone can create a large fire," he continued, glancing at the pot as it began to warm, "but that does not mean the dye bath will appreciate the effort, and in most cases it will behave much worse if the heat is excessive."
After a moment, he stepped back outside and moved toward the small ash pile left from earlier test burns, crouching down and sifting the fine gray powder between his fingers as if evaluating something delicate.
"Hardwood ash tends to behave in a much more predictable manner," he murmured, examining the texture. "Softwood ash can be used, but it often feels slightly temperamental, and I prefer materials that do not require unnecessary negotiation."
He gathered a bowlful and returned inside, adding it slowly to the pot of water.
The moment ash met liquid, the clear surface shifted into a cloudy gray, swirling gently as he stirred it with a wooden stick in slow, controlled circles.
"This mixture requires time," he said calmly. "It should warm gradually and become properly alkaline, but if it is pushed too quickly, the entire bath becomes unpleasant in ways that are difficult to correct afterward."
Steam began to rise in thin, steady threads, curling upward into the air as the quiet rhythm of the cottage resumed, unchanged and undisturbed, as though the strange events that had shaken the wider world earlier had never reached this place at all.
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He dipped his fingers briefly into the warm liquid and rubbed them together with a small, thoughtful motion, paying close attention not to the temperature this time, but to the way the water moved across his skin.
A faint smoothness had already begun to develop, subtle but unmistakable once you knew what to look for, and he nodded with quiet satisfaction as he withdrew his hand and let the droplets fall back into the pot.
"This is exactly what we are aiming for," he said, his tone calm and assured, as if confirming a small but important agreement between himself and the materials he was working with. "When the water starts to feel slightly slippery between the fingers, it usually means the ash has settled properly and is doing what it is supposed to do, which is always a reassuring sign."
Outside, the cloth had already lost most of its surface dampness after hanging in the breeze, the fibers no longer clinging together with that heavy, saturated weight they carried earlier, and when he brought it inside, the fabric felt noticeably lighter in his hands, easier to handle without resistance.
He lowered it slowly into the warm ash water, guiding it beneath the surface with deliberate care rather than forcing it down, allowing the liquid to seep into the fibers at its own pace.
"As expected," he continued, watching closely as the cloth darkened slightly when the solution spread through it. "This stage removes whatever the first rinse did not manage to take away, including oils, leftover sizing, and any residue that decided to be particularly stubborn."
He pressed the fabric gently with the wooden stick, making sure every section remained fully submerged.
"If the fibers remain too tight or closed," he explained, shifting the cloth slightly so the water could move more evenly through it, "the dye later on will have difficulty entering properly, and then people spend a great deal of time staring at the result in confusion while blaming the color, which is unfortunate, because the color is rarely at fault in those situations."
Near the doorway, the dog had settled into a comfortable position, its body stretched along the wooden floor while its head rested near its front paws, watching the slow movement of steam rising from the pot with an attention that suggested either deep curiosity or a very patient kind of boredom.
Khun Ming stirred the mixture slowly, the wooden stick moving in steady circles that kept the water in gentle motion without disturbing the fabric.
"This part requires a certain level of patience," he continued, his voice steady and unhurried. "Thirty minutes is usually sufficient for most materials, although there are times when the fiber behaves in a slightly stubborn way and requires closer to forty, which is not ideal but still manageable."
He adjusted the fire beneath the pot with a small movement, shifting one piece of wood slightly to maintain a consistent heat.
"In situations like this, experience tends to be more reliable than any measuring tool," he added thoughtfully. "If the water trembles gently but shows no interest in boiling, that is generally a good indication that the temperature is appropriate."
The dog let out a long, unrestrained yawn.
Khun Ming glanced over, one eyebrow lifting slightly.
"I understand completely," he said, a hint of dry amusement entering his tone. "This stage is not particularly exciting to observe, and I agree that it may appear unnecessarily slow, but unfortunately it is often these quieter steps that determine whether the final result looks respectable or deeply disappointing."
The dog blinked slowly, then settled its head more comfortably against its paws.
Khun Ming continued stirring for a while longer before eventually lifting the yarn out for rinsing, his hands moving with practiced ease as he guided the fibers back into clean water, washing away the alkaline residue until the strands felt noticeably lighter and more responsive.
When he carried the yarn back into the courtyard and hung it once more along the line, the fibers shifted gently in the breeze, no longer weighed down by hidden oils or residues, moving more freely as the air passed through them.
By then, the sky had already begun transitioning into the soft gold of early evening, the light stretching across the courtyard in long, warm tones that caught along the edges of the cherry tree leaves and settled quietly across the stone.
Khun Ming stepped back and rested his hands lightly on his hips, taking a moment to look around without focusing on any one thing in particular.
The cottage stood quietly behind him.
The cherry tree near the gate drifted with the occasional falling petal.
The ginkgo leaves reflected the fading sunlight in muted flashes of gold.
The stream below continued its steady, familiar whisper along stone.
The cloth and yarn moved gently in the wind.
And near the doorway, a very large golden dog occupied its position with the calm confidence of something that had already decided it belonged there.
Khun Ming let out a small, contented breath.
"You know," he said thoughtfully, turning his head slightly toward the dog, "considering that this morning began with the sky behaving in a rather unusual way and the entire world feeling as though it had been briefly shaken out of alignment, I would say that this has turned into a fairly productive day overall."
The dog's ears lifted at the sound of his voice.
Khun Ming studied it for a moment, his expression shifting into quiet consideration.
"There is also the matter of your name," he continued, his tone thoughtful rather than urgent. "You arrived here without one, which I have allowed for the time being, but I do not think that situation can continue indefinitely without becoming inconvenient."
The dog sat up slightly, as if sensing that this part of the conversation might involve something important.
"You are, for example, very clearly yellow," Khun Ming observed, folding his arms loosely as he considered the matter with surprising seriousness. "However, naming you something as direct as 'Yellow' would suggest a disappointing lack of effort, and I would prefer something that carries at least a minimal level of dignity."
The dog wagged its tail carefully, as if trying not to influence the decision too much.
"We will think about it properly later," Khun Ming decided after a moment. "A name should not be chosen carelessly, and I would rather avoid creating something that we both regret."
With that, he turned and walked back toward the stove, adjusting the remaining embers so the heat settled into a slow, steady warmth rather than fading too quickly.
Beyond the cliff, far outside the quiet boundary of the cottage, discussions were still unfolding.
Sect elders exchanged careful observations.
Pigment Guild alchemists continued adjusting their reactions to materials that no longer behaved as expected.
Ancient beings considered possibilities with increasing attention.
Yet none of those movements reached this place.
No one looked toward the bamboo cottage.
No one paid attention to the gentle steam rising from a simple alkaline wash inside a quiet workshop.
And Khun Ming, who had unknowingly disturbed systems far beyond his understanding, found himself far more concerned with whether the yarn would dry evenly before morning.
He stepped out into the courtyard one last time and reached out to touch the cloth lightly, testing the remaining moisture with the back of his fingers.
It was still slightly damp, but no longer heavy.
"That is a good sign," he said quietly. "It means the fibers are behaving properly, which is all I can reasonably ask for at this stage."
He withdrew his hand and looked briefly toward the sky, where the last light of evening was beginning to fade.
"Tomorrow we can begin preparing the mordant," he continued, his voice soft but steady. "And if everything continues cooperating the way it has today, the first color experiments should finally become possible."
The dog remained where it was, resting calmly, its breathing slow and even.
Khun Ming stood there for a moment longer, then nodded once to himself.
"Preparation always comes first," he said.
Then he turned and went inside, because before color, there must always be preparation.
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Chapter 4 complete.