My Sect Is Down to Seven People

Chapter 52: A Great Pot of Spirit Meal

August 22, Snake hour, Xu Yan counted out forty low-grade Spirit Stones on the Accounts Room desk, stacking them into four piles of ten. When he finished, the brush tip came down.

Qi Qi leaned against the doorframe, two empty burlap sacks slung over his shoulders. Shi Po stood behind him, both hands empty.

”Septemberʼs rations.” Xu Yan pushed the four stacks to the edge of the desk. ”Two sacks of Spirit Rice, one of coarse grain. Watch the scale when they weigh it.”

”Watch the scale.” Qi Qi stuffed the Spirit Stones into his shirt. ”That grain shop hand said last time prices were going up after autumn. Autumn hasnʼt come, and heʼs already said it three times.”

”How much are they going up?”

”He wonʼt give a number. Just says they have to.”

Xu Yan finished the line: August 22, expenditure, September rations, forty stones. Balance on hand: 1,916 stones. He looked up when he finished. ”Before the Double Ninth, donʼt spend a single grain more than necessary.”

”If I do, Iʼll chop my hand off and hand it to you.”

”Keep the hand,” Xu Yan said. ”Youʼll need it for running errands that day.”

Toward the end of Snake hour, at the grain shop in Luoxia Town. The shop hand grabbed a handful of Spirit Rice and spread it across his palm, picked out two grains and popped them into his mouth, chewed, and said this yearʼs new rice carried too much moisture—youʼd need an extra half scoop of water per pot or it wouldnʼt cook through. When the three sacks were weighed, he pushed the knot on the scale beam back and looked up. ”How many people up on your mountain?”

”Twelve mouths,” Qi Qi said.

”Last time you said ten.”

”Last time was twelve too. I just undercounted.”

The shop hand chuckled and tightened the cord on the last sack. ”Buying this much—if the Double Ninth doesnʼt go your way, what happens to the leftover rice?”

Qi Qi was hoisting a sack onto his shoulder. His hand stopped there. ”If it doesnʼt go our way, Iʼll haul it back and return it to you. Every grain.”

”I donʼt take rice back.” The shop hand said. ”The rice in my shop only goes out, never comes back in.”

”Then quit thinking about it.”

Outside the town gate, Shi Po gathered all three sacks onto his back: the coarse grain sack hung across his chest, two Spirit Rice sacks stacked on his back, the cords biting into the hollows of his shoulders, pressing a groove into his clothes. Qi Qi reached to take one, but Shi Po shifted the lightest sack up higher and didnʼt let go.

”You walk ahead.”

”Watch the road?”

”Watch the road.”

So Qi Qi walked ahead, turning back every couple of steps. Half a li out, he looked back at the three sacks. ”One more sack than last month.”

”Yeah.”

”Does it press your shoulders?”

”It doesnʼt.”

”Last time you also said it didnʼt.” Qi Qi wound the empty corner of a sack around his hand. ”Then when the sack slips, you wonʼt say anything, and the rice spills all over the mountain path—weʼd be picking it up till dark and still not get it all.”

Shi Po didnʼt answer. He just hitched his shoulder up, settling the two sacks more squarely.

Ten li of mountain road, and he never shifted shoulders—shifting would wear through the sack bottoms. At the stone steps below the Mountain Gate, his back was soaked through with sweat, and it ran into his eyes, but he didnʼt lift a hand to wipe. He just raised his chin slightly, letting the sweat run down his jaw and drip onto the stone steps.

Nie Bo was sweeping leaves at the foot of the steps. The broom pushed up to Shi Poʼs feet, and he stepped aside half a pace. Qi Qi shouted up ahead, ”Riceʼs here,” and the broom never stopped.

Qian Duoduo met the rice at the kitchen door. He untied a sack, grabbed a handful and spread it across his palm to inspect, then held it to his nose and sniffed. ”This rice is dry.” Shi Po stood there without leaving, his clothes still wet at the shoulders. Qian Duoduo waved him off. ”Go change. Breakfast is still a while off.” Shi Po said, ”Let me stack the rice properly first. Damp rises—need boards underneath.”

At Mao hour on the 23rd, before the sky was light, the kitchenʼs window paper lit up first.

Qian Duoduo had lit the stove fire in the dark. The flames licked at the stove mouth, and the room warmed faster than the air outside. The big iron pot was filled to eight-tenths, the rice went in, and he rolled his sleeves to his elbows and picked up the long-handled wooden ladle.

A He and A Sui came and squatted on the threshold. A He held that yellow paper, its four corners already frayed, and recited from it, one line after another.

”Slow.” Cheng Banshanʼs voice came from under the eaves. He stood at the kitchen door, the Wine Gourd dangling from one hand. ”One word, one breath.”

A He started again: ”Qi—sinks—to—the—dantian.”

”Grandpa Cheng says it has to be recited at Mao hour.” A Sui finished a round and turned toward the stove. ”Qian Duoduo, you recite too.”

”Iʼm stirring,” Qian Duoduo said.

He stirred in one direction, in circles—never reversing. Reverse, and the qi in the rice would scatter along the potʼs edge, and a whole pot of Spirit Meal would be left with nothing but aroma. Heʼd learned this rule through feel at the stove. Nobody had taught him.

He kept another ledger, too—one not written on paper. Shi Poʼs bowl was the biggest, needing three refills a meal. Shao Ming ate slowly; one bowl took him the time others used for a bowl and a half, so his had to be kept warm. The bowl for the East Courtyard cooled fast on the way—fill it shallower so it could be carried level. The twins started fighting over the pot bottom at their second bowls; the crust scraped off the bottom had to be split in two to keep them quiet. He figured all this without a brush.

The ladle skimmed along the pot bottom, the rice grains turning with it, a layer of white broth rising to the surface. He counted to three hundred and stopped counting. Heat rose at his wrist—a heat from the dantian, not the kind the stove fire gave. It traveled to the web of his thumb, down the long wooden ladle, made a circuit in the pot, and came back up through the ladle.

He thought the fire was too high and pulled a stick of firewood halfway out. The fire shrank, but the heat in his wrist didnʼt recede.

The smell in the pot changed. First rice fragrance, then something layered above it—not salt, not oil.

A Suiʼs nose twitched. She stood up from the threshold. ”Why does it smell so good today?”

”I lowered the fire,” Qian Duoduo said. ”Lower fire, better smell.”

”It didnʼt steam up this much before.” A Sui pointed at the layer of vapor above the pot. The steam climbed against the window paper and spread out among the rafters.

Cheng Banshan had A Sui recite a third time. When she forgot a line on the lower half of the paper, A He prompted her in a whisper that came out louder than the recital itself. Cheng Banshan didnʼt scold. His nose twitched, and he glanced toward the pot, then looked back at them.

East of the Main Hall, the Accounts Room window was propped half open. Xu Yan had turned back to the expenditure pages, going down line by line: poison-suppressing herbs, seventy stones; Spirit Rice, eight; rations, forty. The wind through the window carried the kitchenʼs smell in. He looked up, the brush still on the paper.

\[Credit: Qian Duoduo, Qi Condensation Third Layer.\]

\[Balance: Sect Master, Qi Condensation Seventh Layer.\]

An extra strand rose from his dantian through his meridians. The character he was writing—a ”nine”—its vertical stroke dragged out, running into the empty space of the next line. He set the brush down.

That strand climbed, up past his chest, where normally it would pause. This time it didnʼt pause; it passed through. Sweat rose across his shoulders and back, and on his palms. He sat still, waiting for the strand to finish.

Only after a good while did he open his eyes and look at that dragged-out stroke of the ”nine.” House rule: when you wrote wrong, no blotting it out—cross it with a line and rewrite. This time he didnʼt cross it.

He flipped the daily ledger to a new page and added a line: August 23, Qian Duoduo, Qi Condensation Third Layer. Came in at the stove, no sitting meditation. When he finished, he set down the brush and went to stand on the Main Hall steps for a while—smoke from the kitchen was still rising, and the sky was fully light now.

At Dragon hour, a long table was set up outside the kitchen, and Shi Po carried two benches over from the West Wing. Bai Xiaoman laid out the bowls; Huo Qing set them one by one with his left hand, then went to draw water himself. Twelve bowls in two rows.

Qian Duoduo ladled, one scoop each. Shi Po brought his own bowl—the biggest—and set it at the lowest seat.

Cheng Banshan drank the last mouthful from his bowl, knocked the bottom against the table, and looked up. ”Little Xu, how many breakthroughs have you had this month?”

Xu Yan said, ”Itʼs in the ledger.”

Cheng Banshan looked at him for a moment and didnʼt press. He held his bowl toward the pot. Qian Duoduo took the hint and ladled him another scoop. He finished that bowl too.

”How many circles did you stir this morning?” Cheng Banshan turned to ask.

”I didnʼt count. Stopped counting at three hundred.”

”Show me your hands.”

Qian Duoduo wiped both hands on his apron twice, then held them out, palms up. A layer of white vapor floated over his palms—thicker than usual, and steadier.

Cheng Banshan studied the vapor. ”Youʼve entered the Third Layer.”

Qian Duoduoʼs hands were still outstretched. He took a half-step back, his apron brushing the edge of the stove platform. ”I didnʼt do sitting meditation.”

”You stir a thousand-odd circles a day.” Cheng Banshan said. ”What do you need meditation for?”

Qian Duoduo stood there thinking for a while. ”So do I still memorize the formula?”

”Memorize it.” Cheng Banshan pulled the stopper from his Wine Gourd. ”If your qi wanders off course, Iʼll still rub you down with medicine for three days.”

”Memorize it,” Qian Duoduo said. ”Iʼll memorize it.”

Cheng Banshan set the Wine Gourd on the table and said half a sentence toward Xu Yan: ”His path is in the ladle, not the pillar. If you force him to sit in meditation at Mao hour, heʼll suppress himself right back down to the Third Layer.”

Xu Yan said, ”I wonʼt force him.”

”Good.” Cheng Banshan picked the gourd up again.

Shao Ming had been sitting by the wall the whole time. Now he set his bowl down. ”Thereʼs something at the bottom of this pot.”

Qian Duoduo startled and looked toward the stove. ”Is it burnt?”

”Not burnt.” Shao Ming said. ”Itʼs qi. I bought Spirit Meals at the foot of the mountain for twenty years. Never bought one like this.”

Huo Qing pushed his empty bowl forward half an inch. ”Another bowl.”

Qian Duoduo ladled for him. His hand was still trembling; the ladle clinked against the bowl rim twice, and a few grains of rice spilled onto the table. He picked them up one by one and put them back in the pot.

”Shi Po got three refills,” Bai Xiaoman reported. She set her bowl down when she finished, saying she was going up the Back Mountain today to check the Formation Eye. The dirt in the grooves had to be swept out first, or the stones wouldnʼt seat properly.

Qi Qi swallowed what was in his mouth. ”That grain shop hand asked—if the Double Ninth doesnʼt go our way, what happens to the leftover rice.”

Xu Yan said, ”Itʼll go our way.”

”I said if it didnʼt, Iʼd haul it back and return it. He said his rice only goes out, never comes back in.”

”Then donʼt return it.” Xu Yan finished his bowl. ”On the ninth, thereʼll still be a sack of rice left.”

A Sui came back from the East Courtyard carrying an empty bowl—clean. She squatted back on the threshold and said, ”Senior Sister asks—did we change the rice today?”

Qian Duoduo froze for a second. ”Itʼs still that same bag of new rice.”

”She says it tastes different.”

Qian Duoduo didnʼt answer. The corner of his apron was balled up in his fist, clenched tight for a while before he let go.

The pot was empty. A He and A Sui thrust their bowls forward at the same time—one from the left, one from the right—and the two bowls clinked against the pot rim.

”I reached first.”

”You got an extra half scoop last time.”

Qian Duoduo took both bowls and set them on the stove platform. With the long-handled ladle he scraped along the pot bottom once, skimming up half a scoop of crust mixed with the remaining broth. He split it in two and poured it into their bowls. Then he lifted the pot, walked to the water vat, and scooped a ladle of cold water into it. The pot bottom hissed.

A He asked, ”Youʼre not eating?”

”I tasted for seasoning till I was full.”

”That doesnʼt count as eating,” A Sui said.

Qian Duoduo smiled and said nothing more, leaving the pot to soak at the edge of the water vat. The fire in the stove had died to a single red ember, and he didnʼt put it out.

A He and A Sui squatted on the threshold, each holding half a bowl, eating one mouthful at a time, neither saying a word.