My Sect Is Down to Seven People

Chapter 23: The Old Herb Garden on the Back Mountain

The firewood pile by the Medicine Hall door came up nearly to her chin.

Bai Xiaoman arrived before dawn. The Medicine Hall door stood open a crack, leaking out a thread of firelight and the smell of herbs boiled for years. She set her cloth bundle on the threshold and glanced both ways. No one.

”Split.”

The voice came from below the steps. Cheng Banshan sat on a wooden stump against the wall, one hand resting on his wine gourd, watching her the way heʼd watch a furnace that hadnʼt yet come to temperature.

She pulled the chopping knife from the top of the woodpile, stood a log upright, and struck. The blade skidded sideways and glanced off the flagstone with a sound.

The second strike skidded too.

She righted the log, crouched, and turned it half a circle until she found the pale grain. She brought the blade down along it. The wood split with a clean crack, all the way through.

”Who taught you to split wood like that.”

”I worked it out,” she said. ”Wood has grain. Against it takes three strokes; with it, one.”

Cheng Banshan lowered the gourd from his lips. ”You figured right. Your hands arenʼt there yet.”

”Theyʼll get there.”

He said nothing, stood, and kicked the back basket by the door to her feet. ”Finish the pile, then carry it.”

One incense stick later the pile had shrunk, and two blisters had risen on her palms. She wiped her hands on her clothes, hoisted the basket, and followed him around the Medicine Hall.

Behind the hall, a half-collapsed stone staircase climbed the hill, grass pushing up through every seam, swallowing the steps one by one. Twenty-some steps up, the path ended. A whole field of grass stood taller than a person.

Cheng Banshan stopped two or three paces short and stamped a clump down with his foot.

”I came up once, three years ago. Pulled weeds half the day. Never came back after.”

Bai Xiaoman hitched the basket higher and pushed into the grass. The ground suddenly went soft underfoot—years of fallen leaves over loose soil. She crouched, pinched off a leaf, crushed it, and brought it to her nose.

”Astragalus Root.”

She reached to pull it.

”Wait.”

Her hand froze in midair.

Cheng Banshan crouched and scratched a circle in the dirt three inches from her fingers with the tip of his herb hoe. ”Loosen the soil first. The rootʼs the part worth money. Yank it out in one go and it snaps off in the ground; leave half behind and it wonʼt sell.”

She worked the soil loose inside that circle, bit by bit, then drew upward. The root came out whole, two fingers long, a worm trailing from the dirt. She flicked the worm back into the earth.

Farther in, a stone ridge ran beneath the grass, sideways, mostly buried under turf, smooth and even to the touch. Beyond it lay another.

”These are beds,” she said.

”They were. The founderʼs generation opened them.” Cheng Banshan tapped the ridge with his herb hoe. ”The landʼs still here. The people arenʼt.”

”How many years gone wild?”

”It was this wild the year I came up the mountain.” He handed the hoe back to her. ”The old Sect Master said something once—said this garden was opened by the founder, hoe by hoe, leading the disciples himself. Once it was opened, nobody tended it. Grass doesnʼt know names.”

She didnʼt answer. She switched the hoe to her other hand and moved deeper into the grass.

In the shade, a plant with three leaves to a stem grew flat against the ground. She knew it. Her hand moved toward it.

”Itʼs raw,” Cheng Banshan said. ”You get the juice on your hands, donʼt rub your eyes. You wonʼt open them for a day.”

She wiped her hands on the grass before digging, laying plant after plant into the corner of the basket.

”Pinellia Tuber. Whatʼs it for.”

”Dissolves phlegm, stops retching,” she said. ”Raw, itʼs for external use. It only goes into medicine once itʼs processed.”

”What about Astragalus Root?”

”Tonifies qi. Half the formulas in existence donʼt work without it.”

”Gastrodia Tuber.”

”Calms wind, treats the head.” She paused. ”Aged roots are better than new.”

Cheng Banshan grunted through his nose, which passed for approval.

One clump had no leaves at all, just a single sprout. She stared at it for a while, then knelt and worked her fingers down along the sprout. An inch deep, her fingertip hit something hard.

”Gastrodia Tuber.”

”Right. Three years to grow one that size.” He plucked a sprout and held it up in front of her. ”Wild ones are thinner than bought. If you mean to use it in place of that one ingredient, add two more. Donʼt tell me one for one.”

”How do I record it in the ledger?”

”Mark down two.”

The sun climbed, and the dew dried off the leaves. The basket held Astragalus Root, Gastrodia Tuber, Pinellia Tuber, Bupleurum Root, and a small handful of Licorice Root scraped from between stones. The weight pulled her backward a step before she caught herself.

Back at the Medicine Hall, Cheng Banshan spread a bamboo mat under the eaves. ”Wash, cut, spread them out. Set the Pinellia aside. Iʼll handle it.”

She went to the Kitchen first to beg ginger.

Qian Duoduo was kneading dough at the worktable, both hands white with flour. When she asked for ginger, he fished a piece from under the table, broke off half, and handed it over, then frowned. ”Pinellia? Isnʼt that stuff poisonous?”

”Raw, yes. Cured with ginger, no.”

He grimaced and shoved the other half at her. ”Take the rest of it then. Process yours. Iʼll need some tonight.”

She went out with the ginger and heard Qian Duoduo mutter behind her: ”Now even ginger on this mountain has to be snapped in half.”

By noon the Pinellia was in the pot, the ginger slices simmering until the water nearly cooked off. Ginger water splattered onto the two blisters on her palm. Her hand jerked, fingers curling into her sleeve, and only after a moment did she reach out and keep turning. Cheng Banshan leaned in the doorway watching. After a while he said, ”Tomorrow, keep splitting.”

”Mm.”

”A month of splitting, those blisters turn to calluses.”

”A month.”

”Too long?”

”Not long.” She lifted the soaked-through Pinellia out and spread it on a bamboo tray. ”It takes three years to grow one Gastrodia Tuber.”

In the afternoon, Cheng Banshan pulled the furnace door open. Flames lashed out. This batch had gone in on the eighteenth and burned through to today; this last half-day of fire mattered most. He stuffed a palm fan into her hand.

”The fire canʼt be too hot, canʼt be too low. Too hot scorches the medicine; too low and it never truly cooks.”

She fanned for half an incense stick until her wrist ached, then switched hands. The fire shifted from yellow to a whitish yellow, then began to ease back. Every so often Cheng Banshan prodded the firebox with the tongs, then stepped back and let her watch.

”Too hot.”

She slowed the fan.

”Too low.”

She lifted it again.

At Monkey hour, a scent rose from the furnace, bitter with a sweetness underneath. He opened the door halfway and had her bring over ten empty porcelain vials, lined up on the stone slab. Heat rolled over her, blowing the hair back from her forehead. He filled the vials one by one, steady-handed, not a drop spilled.

Ten vials in a row. She counted them, then counted again.

”Ten vials.”

”You thank me?”

”I thank you.”

”Thank those herbs.” He raked the dregs from the bottom of the furnace aside. ”Medicines from the Back Mountain go in the furnace today. That charcoal pile by the wall is only enough for three burns. The batch we just pulled counts as one. The other two—did you dig enough?”

”Enough.”

Xu Yan stood at the Medicine Hall door and entered this batch into the ledger: June 23, one batch of Qi-Gathering Powder, ten vials, herbs from Huichun Hall, six Spirit Stones paid out on the seventeenth. Below that, another line: second batch in furnace, herbs wild-harvested from the Back Mountain, no Spirit Stones spent. Farther down, he started a new line: ”Charcoal, three batches”—noting how many burns the pile by the wall could still supply: the one just finished counted as the first, two remained. Then he worked out the sum: three batches of thirty vials at three stones apiece, ninety stones. Where the charcoal after those three batches would come from, the ledger had no line for yet. He flipped to the back, where that thin account book sat pressed beneath the others. For this day, nothing had been added to it.

The twenty-fifth was hot. Dust rose from the dirt of the Market under peopleʼs feet.

Shi Po carried the pot and firewood by himself. Qian Duoduo carried the ingredients. Bai Xiaoman held the wooden box, all ten vials packed with straw between them. The stall went up in the same spot diagonally across from Huichun Hall; Lu Shoutian had already set the door panel in place for them.

The Snake hour had barely passed when customers arrived. The ones whoʼd hung at the back watching last time pushed forward first, laying two Spirit Stones on the door panel. Qian Duoduoʼs ladle moved fast, and his mouth didnʼt stop.

The old Rogue Cultivator with the sword came as usual, one bowl. Before sitting, he looked around behind the stall.

”Whereʼs that girl who could keep accounts?”

Bai Xiaoman looked up from behind the wooden box. ”Here.”

”Good.” He slapped two Spirit Stones on the door panel. ”Iʼll pay for this one myself. Save people the trouble of working it out.”

Laughter rippled around him. The old Rogue Cultivator didnʼt laugh. He put his head down and drank to the bottom, set the bowl on the door panel, got up, and left.

An Old Woman with a grandchild in her arms squeezed up to the stall and asked if they had anything for a cough. Bai Xiaoman shook her head and said the pot held Spirit Meal; it fed Spiritual Power, not coughs. The old woman said ”oh,” and carried the child away, glancing back once at the row of vials.

”Nobody in town sells cough medicine?” Bai Xiaoman asked Qian Duoduo.

”Huichun Hall does. A packet costs a tael of silver.” Qian Duoduo set a bowl at the far edge of the door panel. ”In this town, a tael of silver is half a monthʼs rice.”

She filed that away and said nothing more.

The young man from the martial hall brought three fellow disciples, five bowls. They didnʼt leave after eating. The four of them huddled beside the stall counting Spirit Stones, counted twice, then looked up and asked what was in the vials.

”Qi-Gathering Powder.”

”How much.”

”Three stones.”

They huddled again and bought one. The young man tucked the vial against his chest and walked away afraid to take long strides.

The ten vials sold down to two by the time the second pot scraped empty. A passing Rogue Cultivator bought both. When he dug out his Spirit Stones, there was a knife wound across his hand and dirt black under his fingernails. He wrapped the two vials in his sleeve and asked, ”Bringing more next time?”

”Yes,” Xu Yan said.

By the Snake hourʼs end, the ladle scraped bare. Qian Duoduo scooped out the last of it, straightened up, braced one hand against his lower back, and looked toward the Market Gate.

”Cao Hu didnʼt come today.”

Shi Po shifted the pot higher on his shoulder. ”Didnʼt come.”

”Him not coming makes me more nervous.” Qian Duoduo wiped the door panel with his rag, then glanced that way again. ”Shi Po, those two are still standing there.”

”Standing.”

”Why donʼt they buy?”

”Theyʼre not buying.”

Xu Yan gathered the last Spirit Stones from the door panel into the box and didnʼt add to that.

Bai Xiaoman ran the abacus once and reported: ”Forty bowls of Spirit Meal, eighty stones. Ten vials of medicine, thirty. A hundred and ten.” She packed the ten empty vials one by one, straw between each, back into the wooden box. ”The vials have to go back. Not one can break.”

Qian Duoduo clicked his tongue and counted the Spirit Stones in the box again.

Over by the cloth sellerʼs awning at the Market Entrance, those two Outer Court disciples from Chixiao stood all morning. One leaned against a post with his arms crossed; the other squatted at the base of the wall shelling peanuts. At one point, one of them walked a couple of paces toward the Qingya stall, looked over the row of empty vials, then turned and went back. The wooden tablets at their waists were recognizable from across the entire Market.

By noon the Market had emptied by half, and Xu Yan went to the grain shop for rice.

The shop hand dragged two cloth sacks out from the back and shook them. ”This Linchuan rice is nearly gone. The next cart comes after autumn; the price will have to be renegotiated.”

”How much more?”

”The Shopkeeper hasnʼt set it.” The shop hand dropped the sacks on the counter. ”Once he does, it wonʼt be up to me.”

Xu Yan counted out eight Spirit Stones on the counter and slung the sacks over his shoulders, one front, one back.

Back at the Market, Shi Po was already packing up the pot, and Qian Duoduo had tied the unsold firewood into a small bundle. Xu Yan set the rice down and ran the dayʼs accounts through his head: a hundred and ten in, eight out, a hundred forty-seven in the box.

At the Market Entrance, the peanut-sheller was on his feet now, standing in front of Lu Shoutian. Lu Shoutian clutched his small scale, one hand braced on the door panel, shaking his head at every sentence.

As the disciple spoke, he lifted an arm and pointed at the Qingya stall.

Xu Yan took two steps forward, rice sacks in hand.

The disciple saw him, cut the conversation short, turned, and left.

Lu Shoutian shook his head at Xu Yan and said nothing at all.