My Sect Is Down to Seven People

Chapter 89: What Breaks Doesnʼt Count

The herb hoe hung at Cheng Banshanʼs waist, head pointing back, handle forward, knocking against his hip with every step. He tucked his empty sleeve into his belt; the second time he did it, the cuff slipped out again behind his back and dragged in the snow.

Daylight had only just climbed to the eaves of the Medicine Hall. The snow on the roof had melted and dripped down bead by bead, freezing again into little nubs on the steps.

Du Xiaochuan stood at the door with the basket on his back. The layer of dry grass at the bottom had been freshly changed and still smelled of the kitchen smoke.

Bai Xiaoman came around from the kitchen building carrying a bundle of firewood, set it beside the Qi-Gathering Powder furnace, and stacked it stick by stick.

”Snowʼs down, grass is up,” Cheng Banshan said, unhooking the herb hoe from his waist and letting it drop into his hand.

Shao Ming stood at the Medicine Hall door and rolled up his sleeves. ”Iʼll carry the basket.”

”Xiaochuan carries it.”

”Two people taking turns, faster.”

Cheng Banshan leaned on the hoe handle and looked at him for a long moment. ”You go up there, youʼll trample a whole slope of snow into two slopes. Packed snow turns to ice; grass under ice wonʼt push through.”

Shao Mingʼs mouth moved, but no sound came out.

”You wait on the mountain,” Cheng Banshan said. ”The herbs we dig up are for your medicine. You waiting on the mountain does more good than standing on that slope.”

Shao Ming stepped back inside and leaned against the doorframe, but didnʼt leave.

Xu Yan came over from the Accounts Room with two coarse grain cakes wrapped in oiled paper. Cheng Banshan didnʼt take them, just jerked his chin toward the basket. ”Put them in the basket, on top of the dry grass.”

”Can you make it back before dark?”

”Back by Monkey hour.”

”Itʼs cold up the mountain.”

”Coldʼs worse on the slope.” Cheng Banshan tucked his sleeve again, deeper this time, all the way into his belt. ”I know the road. Three quarter-hoursʼ walk. Iʼve walked it twenty, thirty years.”

Bai Xiaoman patted her apron. ”Iʼm not going up the slope. Iʼll watch the furnace.”

”Watch it until lamps are lit.”

”Until lamps are lit.” She nodded, then looked down at the dry grass in the basket. ”What does the herb look like?”

Cheng Banshan jutted his chin toward the outside. ”White on the underside of the leaves, grows flat against the ground. Under the snow it makes a little bulge first; the top of the bulge has a speck of white. Only if thereʼs that speck of white is there an herb under it. If there isnʼt, itʼs just rock.”

Bai Xiaoman repeated it to herself: ”White leaf backs, little bulges, a speck of white on top.”

”Moving out,” Cheng Banshan said.

West Gully lay behind the Medicine Hall, a detour northwest past the Old Herb Garden. The gardenʼs fence had half collapsed; the ground was frozen iron-hard. The few planted herbs from before were nothing now but dead stalks poking out above the snow.

The gully bed was weighed down with snow, and under the snow was rock; stepping on snow-covered rock made a man slip. Cheng Banshan flipped the hoe around, leaned his hand on the handle, and climbed one cautious step at a time. Du Xiaochuan followed in his footprints. On one misstep, his foot skidded sideways and snow slid into his shoe upper.

At the base of a steep slope, Du Xiaochuan went up half a step first, turned, and reached his hand down.

”No need.” Cheng Banshan drove the hoe handle into the snow for support and inched his way up, one foot at a time. At the top, he got his breath back before pulling the hoe free.

After that, Du Xiaochuan stopped offering his hand. He just went up first and stood above, waiting.

Three li of mountain road, walked in three quarter-hours.

The snow on the North Slope was not like the snow back at the Mountain Gate. At the gate the snow had half melted; on the North Slope it was still dry, a thin crust on the surface. Du Xiaochuan put a foot down and—crack—the crust shattered, snow up to his ankle.

”From here on, donʼt step around carelessly.” Cheng Banshan turned the hoe back to his proper hand. ”Walk around it. Once snowʼs been stepped on, it packs down hard, and the herb canʼt push through.”

Du Xiaochuan pulled his foot out of the hole and walked around it.

”Look.” Cheng Banshan crouched down, one leg braced on the slope, knee pressing into the snow, lowering his body. First he brushed aside the thin crust with his hand to expose the soft snow beneath. Under the snow, flat against the ground, were five or six leaves, their backs white—white as fallen frost. In the middle was a stem, white as bone, translucent, a thread of pale green visible inside.

Du Xiaochuan leaned in close.

The herb hoe came down at an angle. The tip left a white mark in the frozen soil; the earth didnʼt move. Cheng Banshan shifted his angle—once, twice—loosening a ring of soil around the herb. Then he worked his hand in, fingers sliding down along the roots.

”The roots run sideways,” he said. ”Donʼt dig straight down. Push down and they snap.”

His fingers found it beneath the soil, and with an outward pull he lifted a clump of herb, soil and all, out from under the snow. Every root fiber intact, white, fine, still wrapped in wet dirt.

”Open your hand.” Cheng Banshan set it in Du Xiaochuanʼs palm. ”Donʼt squeeze. Support it.”

Du Xiaochuan carried it two steps and placed it in the basket, on the dry grass.

”One,” he said.

All morning the slope echoed with only three sounds: the hoe tip striking frozen ground, snow crust cracking, and Du Xiaochuan counting. At seven, the sun swung out from behind the slope and lit the ridge across the way. The slope itself stayed in shadow.

At noon the two of them crouched behind a wind-sheltered rock and ate their cakes. Du Xiaochuan broke his in half, then half again, eating slowly. Cheng Banshan slipped the gourd flask from his waist and passed it over. ”Take a sip.”

Du Xiaochuan took a sip and choked, hunching his shoulders, coughing twice, eyes going red.

”One sipʼs enough.” Cheng Banshan took the gourd back and had a sip himself. ”Save the rest for the walk home. Itʼs cold on the way back.”

”Elder Cheng, a broken root really doesnʼt count?”

”Doesnʼt count.”

”Not even if youʼre one short?”

”One short, and it wonʼt brew.” Cheng Banshan tucked the gourd into the crook of his knee to secure it, then hung it back at his waist. ”Twenty-four stalks to a furnace batch. One short, fire burns seven days inside, and what comes out is water.”

Du Xiaochuan looked down at his own hands.

In the afternoon Cheng Banshan had him search. Du Xiaochuan crouched and copied him—first brush aside the snow crust, then feel for the bulge. He found two spots: one had rock underneath; the other truly had an herb. Cheng Banshan dug that one, then looked up at him. ”Eyes are faster than your hands. Good.”

”Hands are slow.”

”Hands can be trained. Eyes canʼt.”

Further on, Du Xiaochuan tried one himself. Cheng Banshan crouched beside him, coaching line by line: brush the snow, see which way the root runs, bring the hoe tip in from the side. He followed instructions. The soil loosened after three strokes; on the fourth he put a little too much force into it. The hoe tip went in, and there was a soft sound below.

Cheng Banshan reached in and felt it out. The root was broken in the middle; a bit of white sap oozed from the break, yellowing quickly.

Du Xiaochuanʼs face went red.

Cheng Banshan examined the break, then tossed the stalk back into the snow—not far, just beside the hole.

”Doesnʼt count,” he said.

”Couldnʼt we make do?” Du Xiaochuan asked. ”The breakʼs near the outside. The long piece is still attached.”

”Making do wonʼt work.” Cheng Banshan took the hoe back from him. ”Watch two more patches. Watch how I set the hoe.”

It was You hour when they got back to the Medicine Hall. Du Xiaochuan walked behind. Eleven stalks in the basket, and the basket still had room to spare. Cheng Banshan said nothing the whole way. Only when they reached the eaves did he wipe the dirt from his hands onto the front of his robe.

A lamp was lit in the Medicine Hall. Shao Ming stood waiting at the door and came forward for the basket.

”Gently,” Cheng Banshan said. ”Set it on the table.”

The basket came off onto the table. Cheng Banshan took the stalks out one by one and laid them in a row. Eleven stalks made two rows; the second row had only four, the other end empty.

Xu Yan stood by the table.

”Disturbed thirteen patches,” Cheng Banshan said. ”Broke two. One on me, one on Xiaochuan.”

Cheng Banshan straightened and said to Xu Yan, ”A furnace batch needs twenty-four stalks.”

He straightened the last stalk. ”Going back tomorrow.”

Xu Yan ran it through in his mind: eleven stalks, thirteen more needed tomorrow. He spread the ledger open on the corner of the table and wrote an entry at the bottom of the Eleventh Month page: 21st, North Slope, eleven stalks of herb, two broken.

There was a gash on the back of Cheng Banshanʼs hand where a rock had scraped him. The blood had frozen, a dull red. Xu Yanʼs eyes paused there a moment, and Cheng Banshan drew that hand back into his sleeve, covering it.

Bai Xiaoman came over from the furnace and stood before the table, studying the two rows for a long while. ”Iʼll watch the furnace tomorrow,” she said. ”White leaf backs—Iʼll remember.”

Only then did Shao Ming step in and stand beside the table, looking down at the herbs. He looked for a long time.

”Thatʼs all,” he said.

”Thatʼs all,” Cheng Banshan said. ”Twenty-four stalks, brewed out, gives you ten days.”

Shao Ming asked nothing more. He folded his hands behind his back.

Qian Duoduo brought in a basin of hot water and set it at Cheng Banshanʼs feet. ”Elder Cheng. Your hand.”

”Whatʼs wrong with my hand.”

”Soak it.”

Cheng Banshan didnʼt touch the water. First he moved the stalks apart on the table so none touched another. Qian Duoduo stood by a while, pushed the basin a little closer to his foot, and went out.

The next day before dawn, the trail of footprints on the slope had frozen hard. Feet no longer sank in. By the time they reached the North Slope, both menʼs shoe uppers had stiffened.

The day went smoothly at first. Du Xiaochuan searched ahead for bulges; Cheng Banshan dug behind. Each one found, he crouched and worked the hoe one-handed while Du Xiaochuan knelt beside him, ready to receive. By noon they counted seven.

In the afternoon snow fell again—didnʼt melt where it landed on the shaded slope, didnʼt melt where it landed on their sleeves. Cheng Banshanʼs empty sleeve slipped out of his belt and froze stiff; with every step, it swept across the snow.

By Monkey hour the slope was growing dark. Du Xiaochuan had counted to twelve.

”One short,” he said.

Cheng Banshan didnʼt answer. He followed a rock face downward. At the base, out of the wind, the snow lay thick; the bulges were so small they were almost invisible. He rammed the hoe handle into the snow, crouched, and swept his hand across inch by inch.

At the third spot, his fingertips found a leaf back—white, cold.

”Here.”

Du Xiaochuan knelt and scraped away the snow. The herbʼs roots wound around a stone that sat square in the middle: dig from the top and the roots snap; dig from the side and you hit rock.

Cheng Banshan turned his body sideways, kneeling one leg into the snow, working the hoe at an angle, shaving away soil along the edge of the stone bit by bit. It took four passes before the ground loosened. He reached in, pinched the root between two fingers, and pulled outward slowly. Halfway out, he stopped, shifted direction, pulled again.

The whole stalk came free—every root fiber intact, bent in a curve, still carrying a pinch of wet soil from beside the stone.

Du Xiaochuan held it in his hand and counted. ”Thirteen.”

”Enough,” Cheng Banshan said.

The snow grew heavier on the way back. Thirteen stalks in the basket, pressed under the dry grass. The basket was still half empty. Du Xiaochuan walked steadier than yesterday.

By lamplight, the Medicine Hall was crowded. On the table, twenty-four stalks were laid in three rows, eight to a row, all roots facing one direction, soil still clinging. The lamp flame danced on the table.

A Sui poked her head around the doorframe, stretching a hand toward the herbs. Du Xiaochuan swung the basket sideways to block her. ”Donʼt touch.”

”Can I eat those?”

”Theyʼre medicine.”

”Medicine can be eaten too.”

Cheng Banshan brushed her hand back. ”Donʼt shake the soil off. Shake it, and the roots dry out.”

Jiang Wan stood just inside the threshold and swept a glance over the table. ”Enough?”

”Enough.”

”Seven days?”

”Seven days,” Cheng Banshan said.

Jiang Wan stood on the threshold a while, then turned and left. From under the veranda, that soft thud still sounded.

Xu Yan came in last and stood by the table, looking over the three rows.

”Charcoalʼs under the back wall,” he said. ”Two loads.”

”Half a load for the furnace, half as backup in case the fire falters.” Cheng Banshan straightened the stalk nearest the edge, its leaf back turned to the lamp, glowing white. ”Once the batch starts, the fire canʼt be left alone.”

No one answered. The lamp flared; outside, under the veranda, that one sharp push and pull still sounded.

”If this fire goes out, we wait until next yearʼs first snow.”

Cheng Banshan finished speaking, pulled the empty sleeve from his belt, and shook the snow off it.