23It was the Year of the Horse when the troubles began. The Lunar New Year had brought unusually hot, dry days. The lanes along the river were carpeted with brown leaves and the bright yellow blooms from the angsana trees. The sight cheered Weng a little. In the evenings when the air had cooled, he and his father took their rattan chairs out to the raintree by the river. While his father drank his tea and strummed his pipa, Weng played his flute. The men from the neighbouring huts gathered round for a smoke and chat. Their wives complained, but soon they too drew close, bringing out their stools and bowls of melon seeds and groundnuts to crack while they talked.
“Looks like the year of the horse is going to be bumpy,” his father said. “The fengsui masters have been very circumspect in the
