My Sect Is Down to Seven People

Chapter 50: Let Me Think It Over

The threshold of the Medicine Hall sat half an inch higher than anywhere else, and Shao Ming lifted his foot as he stepped inside.

The room smelled of old herbs, overlaid with last nightʼs lingering woodsmoke. A clay pot sat on the small stove by the door, with Bai Xiaoman crouched in front of it, fanning the flames. Each wave of the fan sent ash drifting up from the stove mouth, then settling back down.

Cheng Banshan sat behind the table, his wine gourd resting at the corner, stopper still in place.

”Your hand,” he said. ”Put it here.”

A cloth pillow lay on the table, its edges worn soft and frayed. Shao Ming pushed up his left sleeve and laid his arm across it. The sleeve went all the way to the elbow. On the inside of his forearm ran an old scar, the skin around it paler than the rest.

Cheng Banshan reached out that hand of his and set three fingers against the wrist. After a while, the fingers shifted inward and pressed deeper.

The stove hissed. Bai Xiaoman stopped fanning, then started again.

”The qi in your belly,” Cheng Banshan said. ”Raise it. From below, upward. Slowly.”

Shao Ming closed his eyes. His shoulders sank a fraction, the skin on his face drawn tight.

The qi climbed to three inches above the navel. It stopped.

”Thatʼs it?” Cheng Banshan asked.

”Thatʼs it,” Shao Ming said. ”Any higher, and it scatters.”

”Scatters where?”

”To the sides. Under the ribs.”

Cheng Banshan pulled his three fingers back from the wrist and flattened his palm, pressing down on that spot three inches above the navel. He held it there.

”Go through it again.”

The qi rose again, then split apart beneath his palm, flowing to either side. Cheng Banshanʼs hand didnʼt move. The room went so quiet you could hear the water simmering under the clay pot.

After a long while, he drew his hand back and wiped it on his sleeve.

”Over twenty years,” he said. ”The poisonʼs been sitting in your dantian for over twenty years. It can be suppressed. It canʼt be cured.”

Shao Ming looked at him.

”To cure it, youʼd need one main medicine.” Cheng Banshan picked up the gourd from the corner of the table, pulled the stopper with one hand, tipped his head back and drank. ”I donʼt have it.”

The clay pot on the stove gurgled. Bai Xiaoman pressed the fan flat against her knees and didnʼt move.

”Suppressing it,” Shao Ming said, ”is enough.”

”Enough for what.” Cheng Banshan pushed the stopper back in. ”Suppression is suppression. A cure is a cure. One bowl of medicine a day, and you canʼt miss a dose.”

”Iʼll take whatever medicine there is.”

”The medicine isnʼt free.” Cheng Banshan said, ”And one more thing: no breakthroughs for a year.”

Shao Mingʼs shoulders twitched.

”No breakthroughs, and I stay at Qi Condensation Ninth Layer.”

”Youʼre already at Qi Condensation Ninth Layer. Every time you try to break through, your qi scatters, and the poison follows the scattered path, advancing an inch deeper into your meridians.” Cheng Banshan rapped his knuckles against the table. ”When it reaches your heart, even this hand of mine wonʼt be able to hold it back.”

Shao Ming lowered his head and stared at his knees. The cloth pillow still bore the imprint of his arm.

”One year,” he said.

”One year. Not a single day less.”

”Iʼve waited twenty years.” Shao Ming pulled his sleeve back down, smoothing it out one fold at a time. ”Slow is fine.”

Cheng Banshan didnʼt answer. He turned toward the stove. ”Girl. Paper and brush.”

Bai Xiaoman had already wiped her hands on her apron. Paper spread at the corner of the table, the brush tip dipped once into the inkstone.

”Kushen root, three parts. Lycium bark, two parts.” Cheng Banshan recited the list, one ingredient at a time. ”Siler root, three parts. Bletilla tuber, two parts. Licorice root, halved, one and a half qian.”

Bai Xiaoman wrote quickly. When she finished, she looked up. ”We still have lycium bark and bletilla tuber in the herb garden out back. Siler root, kushen root, and licorice need to be bought.”

”One more ingredient,” Cheng Banshan said. ”Cnidium fruit, two parts.”

Bai Xiaomanʼs brush paused, then continued down the page. When she was done, she tallied it herself. ”Seven spirit stones per dose. Ten doses to start, seventy stones.”

”One bowl a day. Brew at the Dog hour. Boil it down to half a bowl.” Cheng Banshan said, ”Itʼs bitter. He drinks it as is, no honey.”

”If he thinks itʼs too bitter, canʼt we add honey?” Bai Xiaoman asked.

”Add honey, and the bitterness sinks to the bottom. Itʼs worse that way.”

Xu Yan had been standing at the door this whole time. Only now did he step in, laying the ledger open on the table and spinning the brush once in his hand.

”That main medicine,” he asked. ”Whatʼs it called?”

Cheng Banshan hung the gourd back at his waist. ”Iʼve gone through every method that might cure it, one by one. His isnʼt among them.”

”Then Iʼll make a note.” Xu Yan lowered his head and wrote a line in the ledger.

August 17. Asked Elder Cheng: Shao Mingʼs old poison in the dantian—can be suppressed, cannot be cured. Main medicine: none.

”Youʼre recording that too?” Cheng Banshan glanced over.

”Yes. It only shows up when you flip back to look.”

Shao Ming had stayed where he was, and only spoke once theyʼd finished. ”Seventy stones.”

”The medicine comes out of the sectʼs funds,” Xu Yan said. ”Uncle Shao, you donʼt need to do the math on this one.”

”When I came up the mountain, I said it myself: no monthly pay.”

”No monthly pay, but you still eat.”

”That wonʼt do.” Shao Ming set his hands on his knees. ”In twenty years, Iʼve never eaten off anyone for free.”

Xu Yan set the brush down. ”Then Iʼll put it on your account. From now on, when thereʼs work on the mountain, you do a task, I deduct a sum. When itʼs all paid off, Iʼll cross it out.”

Shao Ming studied him for a moment, then took his hands off his knees and straightened his back. ”Fine. What work?”

”The three plots in the Back Mountain.” Bai Xiaoman had already tucked the paper and brush away. ”They need turning. The soilʼs gone hard, the roots canʼt get down. Tomorrow at the Dragon hour, Iʼll take you there.”

”Dragon hour,” Shao Ming confirmed.

As he rose to leave, Cheng Banshan called after him. ”Donʼt miss a dose of the medicine. Save the dregs. I want to look at them.”

Shao Ming pulled his cuff down to cover the scar and walked out of the Medicine Hall.

Bai Xiaoman followed him out with the paper in her arms, then turned back at the door. ”Elder Cheng, that cnidium fruit—does Huichun Hall carry it?”

”Go ask,” Cheng Banshan said. ”Donʼt take his first price. Ask three times.”

Xu Yan closed the ledger and made to leave, when Cheng Banshan suddenly spoke from behind.

”Little Xu.”

”Yeah.”

”This manʼs got more wrong with him than just the dantian. Two injuries on the ribs, about as old as the poison.”

Xu Yan stopped.

”Write it down,” he said.

August 18. The sky hadnʼt fully brightened, and the stone steps of the Mountain Gate were still damp. Nie Bo swept below the steps, his broom scraping across the flagstones with a soft shh-shh.

Qi Qi slung the cloth sack over his shoulder. Seventy low-grade spirit stones weighed it down hard. At the bottom of the steps, Nie Bo drew the broom aside, and Qi Qi edged past. ”Nie Bo.”

The broom kept sweeping.

Ten li of mountain road. He walked fast, and by the time he reached the town gate, the sun had just climbed above the rooftops. Huichun Hall had one door panel already taken down. Sun Youfu sat inside, working an abacus, slowly, bead by bead.

”Qingya.” Sun Youfu glanced up but didnʼt invite him to sit.

Qi Qi set the cloth sack on the counter, untied it, and slid over the prescription Bai Xiaoman had written. ”Ten doses.”

Sun Youfu took the prescription and held it up to the window, checking it ingredient by ingredient against the herb cabinet. Drawers opened and shut. He weighed each item on a small scale, then poured it onto paper and wrapped it. Only after all the packets were wrapped did he reach across the counter for the spirit stones, sliding them one by one to the other side.

Around the fifty-somethingth stone, he paused and lifted his eyes to Qi Qiʼs hands.

Qi Qi spread both hands flat on the counter.

”I canʼt touch the things inside your cabinet anymore,” he said.

Sun Youfu didnʼt smile, didnʼt get angry. He counted the rest, all seventy, then slid them back and into the drawer. Those char marks along the drawerʼs edge were still there.

”Medicine is medicine. Men are men,” he said. ”That debt from before—I remember it.”

”Good that you remember,” Qi Qi said.

Sun Youfu placed the herb packets on the counter, added another layer of paper, and bound them twice with hemp rope. ”Itʼs damp on the road.”

”Much obliged.”

”Donʼt thank me.” He pushed the drawer shut. ”Business is business. Who you owe money to is none of my concern. The cost of medicine, not one coin less.”

”Not one coin less.” Qi Qi picked up the bundle.

Sun Youfu spoke again, suddenly. ”That girl. Sheʼs still up on your mountain?”

”She is.”

”She copied the ledger from my counter once.” Sun Youfu said. ”Not one entry wrong.”

He paused, his hand resting on the drawer. ”The day she left, she said the gastrodia and the tangerine peel had been filed in the wrong compartments. I moved them later.”

Qi Qi didnʼt answer. He shifted the bundle to his other hand.

At the grain shop, a shop hand was stacking sacks of rice onto the shelves. Qi Qi called out his order: two dou of spirit rice, eight stones. The hand took the money and poured the rice into Qi Qiʼs sack, saying as he poured, ”Itʼs going up again after autumn. Once Linchuan raises prices, we follow.”

”Two dou for now,” Qi Qi said.

On his way out of town, the old vegetable-selling woman whoʼd pressed two scallions on him last time was packing up her stall. She looked up and asked, ”Whoʼs sick up on the mountain?”

”An uncle of mine.”

”Medicine costs more than rice,” the old woman said.

”It does.” Qi Qi replied, and set off on the mountain road.

He reached the Mountain Gate after noon and set the herb bundle and the sack of rice beside the desk in the Accounts Room, giving his report. ”Medicine, seventy. Rice, eight.”

Xu Yan opened the running ledger and set it down line by line.

August 18. Expenditure: poison-suppressing herbs, ten doses, 70 stones. Expenditure: spirit rice, 2 dou, 8 stones. Balance on hand: 1,854 stones.

He checked the figures once more, then added a small note in the margin.

Short of 2,100 by 246 stones.

”There are four market days before the fifth,” Qi Qi said, looking over his shoulder. ”A hundred and ten per market.”

”Yeah.”

”Thatʼs enough,” Qi Qi said.

”Enough.” Xu Yan closed the ledger.

Afternoon sun slanted into the kitchen, falling on the big iron wok. The bottom of the wok gleamed.

A He crouched on the threshold peeling garlic, skins piling at his feet. A Sui was washing a wooden basin, water sloshing over the rim and splashing onto the threshold stone. Qian Duoduo stood at the stove, ladle hooked over the wokʼs edge, wiping his hands on his apron front and back, twice each.

Xu Yan pulled over a small stool by the stove and sat down, picking up a head of garlic.

”There are six people on the roster now,” he said. ”On Evaluation Day, the Rank Evaluator will question each one.”

”Question what?” A He set the garlic down.

”Your name. Whether you came willingly.”

”Servants donʼt count,” A Sui said. ”Qian Duoduo said so.”

”Servants donʼt. Only those written under your own name count.” Xu Yan picked at the garlic skin in his hand. ”So Iʼm asking you: are you willing to become disciples?”

A He stood up. ”I am!”

Two cloves of garlic rolled off his lap and across the floor, coming to rest by the stove base.

”I am too!” A Sui set the basin down with a thump, water sloshing across the floor again.

Qian Duoduo said nothing. He took the ladle off the wokʼs edge, set it on the stove platform, and wiped his hands on his apron again.

”Sect Master,” he said. ”Iʼm just a cook.”

”Cooking counts too,” Xu Yan said. ”Up at the Mao hour. Elder Cheng teaches breathing. You still cook.”

”Being a disciple... does it mean standing out in front of people?”

”It does. The Rank Evaluator questions each one.”

”When I stand in front,” Qian Duoduo said, rubbing his hands together, ”I canʼt speak.”

”The question is whether you came willingly,” Xu Yan said. ”Not whether you can talk.”

Qian Duoduo stared down. The water in the wok came to a boil, white steam rising. He didnʼt lift the lid.

”Let me think it over tonight,” he said.

”Think.”

”Same if I answer tomorrow?”

”Same. It only counts once youʼve answered.”

”Sect Master,” Qian Duoduo asked again. ”If I become a disciple, do I still get to eat?”

”Yes.”

Qian Duoduo hung the rag over the wokʼs handle and nodded. ”Then Iʼll think on it.”

A He crouched back down and picked up the scattered garlic, peeling as he asked, ”So I write my name tomorrow?”

”Finish the garlic first,” Xu Yan said.

He left the kitchen. In the front courtyard, the sun had already sunk to the top of the wall. From the East Courtyard came two sounds of swordwork—a pause—then two more.

At night, when he came out of the Accounts Room, the front courtyard was dark. Only the kitchen window glowed.

The door stood half open, light spilling through the crack and laying a bright strip across the ground. Qian Duoduo crouched inside, back to the door, sleeves rolled to the elbows. There was water in the wok. He ran the rag through it, wrung it out, pressed it against the wokʼs rim, and wiped from left to right.

”Sect Master?” He didnʼt turn; heʼd only heard the footsteps.

”Lamp oil costs money,” Xu Yan said.

”I know.” Qian Duoduo ran the rag through the water again. ”One more wipe, then Iʼll sleep.”

The wok gleamed, bright enough to reflect the dark outside the window.

Xu Yan stood in the doorway for a while, watching, then went back to the Accounts Room.

That strip of light through the door crack stayed lit. The rag lifted from the water, wrung out, pressed to the wokʼs rim, wiped from left to right—the wok had been clean long ago, but he wiped again, from right back to left.