Breaking Bamboo Read online

  Shih smiled politely.

  ‘Then it seems I must do it myself.’

  He parted the southern shutters. The direction had been chosen carefully. Already he sensed an excess of yin in the room, whereas a south wind could only encourage much-needed yang.

  As fresh night air cut through the sweet fog of incense, barely audible sighs of relief came from the servants. Lanterns flickered and brightened all round the long room. Dr Shih approached the bed.

  A tall boy for his age, no more than seven years, Little Tortoise was curled up on a horsehair mattress, coughing as though his lungs would drown themselves. Dr Shih immediately recognised symptoms of the dry coughing sickness, a common ailment and one he had learned to counter in all its stages, for it was prevalent in Water Basin Ward where he lived.

  But it was not his way to rush to a diagnosis.

  He sat on the bed and smoothed the lad’s forehead, sticky with sweat. The perspiration on his fingers smelt of excess metal and water.

  ‘Little Tortoise,’ he said. ‘Can you look at me? I’ve come to make you better.’

  Large, anxious eyes regarded him for a moment, then stared into empty air. Shih sensed the boy often looked away from those who addressed him – whether from pride or shyness he could not say.

  ‘How old are you, Little Tortoise?’

  The boy trembled and Shih noted the extent of the shivering.

  ‘How old you are?’

  As the boy tried to speak, Shih bent forward, sniffing his breath. He caught the word ‘seven’.

  ‘What! You are the tallest boy of seven I ever met! We can make a big, tall boy like you better before you know it. Seven, eh? How remarkable.’

  While he talked, Shih took his own pulse, accustoming himself to the balances of yin and yang. Then he rested a practised finger on the boy’s three pulses, not thinking, heeding instinct.

  He immediately judged the state of the disease to be chronic.

  Yet the volume and strength of the pulse were not entirely hopeless. He tested both left and right wrist, breathing in time to the fluttering beneath his finger, noting how the boy gasped to inhale and exhale. A clear picture of the patient’s lungs formed – a mess of rotten and putrid elements, the bargain between the two undecided. He sensed a gathering crisis.

  Though he always tried to be hopeful, Dr Shih’s misgivings were dark.

  ‘Bring a lamp closer,’ he commanded Third Tutor Hu in a soft, distracted voice.

  Under the light, Dr Shih noted white predominating in the boy’s complexion, clearly indicative of yin. Set against that was the boy’s age. Seven denoted summer and the force of yang. He began to sense a possible cure. It must involve heat. The relevant element must be fire. Little Tortoise’s lungs were drowning in their own humidity, which stood between yin and yang, just as sweet was the central flavour or kung, the cardinal musical note. He must ease the lad towards yang, while retaining those elements of yin likely to strengthen him.

  Dr Shih sniffed the wind. He had noted for several days that it blew from the west. This, too, must be counteracted. He suspected noxious air lay at the heart of the matter.

  Glancing round, he noticed an open doorway on the western side of the chamber and indicated to Tutor Hu it should be closed.

  Then Shih thought deeply, gently massaging the boy’s chest to comfort him. Above all, he felt surprised. Certainly there was a high possibility of death, a grave risk, but the case was not hopeless. Yet Dr Du Mau had stated no more could be attempted. Shih frowned at the only possible explanation – that because a cure was far from certain, Du Mau wished to avoid the Pacification Commissioner’s anger if the boy died. A fine strategy! Should Little Tortoise recover on his own, Dr Du Mau would be commended for advocating the intervention of holy men. Should he die, his judgement would be sadly confirmed. He could not lose either way. The only loser was Little Tortoise.

  His diagnosis complete, Dr Shih stood up and adjusted the silk sheets so they covered Little Tortoise up to the chest. The child blinked up at him and his shivering subsided a little.

  ‘The tallest boy of seven I ever met!’ exclaimed Shih, and he was rewarded with the flicker of a smile.

  Turning round, Shih discovered the Pacification Commissioner’s wife watching from the shadows. She had approached silently and he wondered how long she had been there.

  ‘Well?’ she asked, her eyes red from crying.

  Dr Shih knew he should say Dr Du Mau was right, that nothing more could be done. His whole future depended on such prudence. And he was about to say it, being no hero by nature, when his eye fell on the boy’s pale face. He had seen that same look of longing for reassurance many times, as one longs for comfort from a parent. The knowledge that someone in this cruel, fickle world will nourish you, keep you safe.

  ‘There is no certain remedy for his illness,’ he said. ‘The pulse has a red appearance and the cough is obstinate. Without doubt, air has gathered in the boy’s heart, and he must not eat until it has been dispelled. The disease has come about through noxious air, we may be sure of that.’

  ‘How would you cure him?’ she asked, eagerly.

  ‘With fire,’ he said. ‘Water will always subjugate fire. In the process of quenching, Little Tortoise’s essential breaths might find a balance and then his qi will grow strong again.’

  The Pacification Commissioner’s wife abruptly swept from the room, banging the door behind her. Dr Shih looked at Third Tutor Hu in alarm.

  ‘She’s seeking Wang Ting-bo’s permission to let you try,’ said the man. ‘And why not?’ he added. ‘Why not, indeed?’

  Half an hour passed. Shih remained by the bedside, massaging the boy’s chest because the lungs are connected with the skin and rule over the heart. He was rewarded by gobbets of mucus when the lad coughed, but noted the secretion was black with stale blood. Too much yin, always with Little Tortoise, too much yin.

  He looked up as Wang Ting-bo entered the room, accompanied by his wife. The Pacification Commissioner seemed angry.

  ‘I hear you wish to attempt a cure,’ he said.

  His eyes avoided his perspiring son, yet were drawn to him against his will. Dr Shih rose and, to the amazement of the servants who were on their knees, led Wang Ting-bo to one side.

  ‘It is perhaps better if Little Tortoise did not hear us discussing him, sir,’ he whispered. ‘It might cause agitation. I will try my best to heal him, if that is your pleasure.’

  ‘My pleasure!’ Wang Ting-bo snorted. ‘I take no pleasure in any of this.’

  Dr Shih bowed respectfully.

  ‘I must tell you, young man, that Dr Du Mau has once more advised against further intervention. I do not know what to do.

  My wife argues for another attempt at a cure but she is a mother and a woman. One would expect that. I do not know what to do. Is that not strange?’

  As he spoke the boy coughed and wheezed.

  ‘Let me be frank, Your Excellency,’ said Shih. ‘Your son may die, indeed it is likely, I cannot pretend otherwise. Yet I have had success with the dry coughing sickness. . .’ He paused before adding, with a wisp of irony: ‘Among humble folk with humble lungs, admittedly.’

  Wang Ting-bo’s gaze was cold.

  ‘Do not fail,’ he said.

  ‘Your Excellency, I may fail,’ replied Shih, patiently. ‘As I have said . . .’

  ‘Do not!’ The Pacification Commissioner had turned red.

  ‘No one makes a monkey of me, young man!’

  He stalked from the room and Dr Shih remembered that the common people often referred to great officials as monkeys in high hats.

  Little Tortoise’s crisis was fast approaching. Under Shih’s orders the incense burners and tables laden with food were carried out. He insisted the mother sit beside her son, though she was reluctant. The lady’s expression indicated she considered herself very brave.

  Apprentice Chung had been sent back to the shop for the ingredients of a herbal draught useful in such
cases, as well as the case of needles. But as the boy’s breath whooped and clutched for air, Shih knew there was little time left. They should have called him earlier; now he must resort to desperate measures.

  ‘I am afraid we must cause your son distress,’ he told the mother. ‘You will hold both his hands firmly and fix your gaze on his face, saying reassuring things all the while.’

  She nodded miserably, then burst out: ‘There is an evil influence in my house, doctor! She is the cause of all this. But I shall make that fox-fairy trouble us no more! Doctor, I have forced a promise from my husband that if our son recovers he will send her away forever!’

  The Pacification Commissioner’s wife subsided into sniffling.

  Dr Shih frowned. This was hardly the occasion to air such grievances.

  ‘I will apply moxa to Little Tortoise’s back,’ he said. ‘By this means yang shall be restored and his qi stimulated.’

  Dr Shih rummaged in his bag and produced a wooden box decorated with fortunate spells. From this he took a cone of artemisia leaves, placing it on the exact point on the boy’s spine corresponding to the lungs. Taking a glowing taper he lit the dried leaves. They smouldered slowly. As the fire touched nerves, the boy cried out and Shih ordered Third Tutor Hu to hold him steady. Finally, Little Tortoise coughed up a great gobbet of green-black phlegm.

  ‘Good,’ muttered Dr Shih.

  He let the sobbing child rest for a while before applying moxa to another area of skin corresponding to the heart.

  Yet the boy was still slipping, his coughs ever more violent.

  He had reached a point of balance. Nothing more could be done until Chung arrived. Even then it would take half an hour to prepare the medicine.

  Dr Shih leapt up as his apprentice entered the room.

  ‘The ingredients,’ he said, eagerly. ‘I must have them at once.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said the youth, fearfully watching the Pacification Commissioner’s wife.

  ‘Pay attention to me, not Her Ladyship,’ commanded his master.

  ‘Sir, Madam Cao has already prepared the mixture! She heard on the street that the Pacification Commissioner’s son has the dry coughing sickness, so she knew what to do. Madam asked me to tell you that she followed your usual instructions exactly.’

  Dr Shih almost laughed with relief. There was so little time!

  And now Cao had anticipated him, as she always did.

  ‘Give it to me.’

  He propped up the boy and made him drink the mixture of herbs in one draught by holding his nose. The medicine took effect almost immediately, Little Tortoise lolling into a drugged doze. Shih knew he would sleep in this way for some time.

  After a while the boy’s mother grew restless and left the bedside to report back to her husband. ‘I have faith in you, Dr Shih,’ she whispered. ‘Save my poor boy!’ Third Tutor Hu held the door open for her as she hurried out.

  ‘Keep a close watch on Little Tortoise,’ Shih told the apprentice, once she had gone. ‘At the slightest change, send for me. I will be outside. I need to empty my head.’

  Dr Shih stepped out into a small garden adjoining the boy’s chamber and took a deep lungful of night air. Stars glittered above the Twin Cities. Dawn was only a few hours away and, with dawn, Little Tortoise would enter a more favourable time of day. Shih’s thoughts circled and tumbled. Had he considered everything? How would he know until it was too late? The boy’s breath was labouring frantically to fill his lungs and exhale, draw a little life into his lungs then breathe out again, lest he drown in his own mucus.

  Dr Shih realised he was no longer alone and turned to discover a man wearing splendid silks in the entranceway. He was sleek and handsome, a decade or so older than Shih.

  Unblinking brown eyes indicated a fierce will and much irony.

  Yet when the stranger spoke his tone was full of concern: ‘Ah, doctor! I have been sent to ascertain how the unfortunate child progresses.’

  Shih shook his head.

  ‘He is by no means safe,’ he said. ‘We will know soon enough.’

  ‘ By no means safe . . . I see.’

  The strange gentleman watched him intently and Shih’s discomfort grew.

  ‘You are a brave fellow,’ remarked the man with a narrow smile. ‘No doubt you are wondering why I call you that? Let me explain. Dr Du Mau says you have over-stepped yourself and his displeasure is sure to have consequences. And, of course, His Excellency will hardly welcome the fact that his heir’s condition has deteriorated. Probably due to your treatment. That is why, doctor, one might call you a brave fellow.’

  Dr Shih felt suitably unnerved.

  ‘Please inform His Excellency the disease is at a point of crisis,’ he said. ‘I shall know very soon whether my cure is effective.’

  ‘From your expression, I fear the worst,’ remarked the man.

  ‘It seems Dr Du Mau was right.’

  ‘I did not say that, sir,’ replied Shih.

  Now the strange gentleman smiled again.

  ‘You do not recognise me, do you?’ he said. ‘If you did you’d be on your knees. Yet I am sure the name of Wang Bai is familiar to you. Oh, now you know me! And I know you.

  Good night, Dr Yun Shih. No, don’t bother to kneel. It is rather late for that.’

  The man left as suddenly as he had come. Shih realised he had been conversing with the most powerful man in Nancheng after Wang Ting-bo. The Honourable Wang Bai was the Pacification Commissioner’s nephew and Second Heir. As the Prefect of the Twin Cities, Wang Bai was responsible for all civil concerns. Worse, Shih realised that neglecting to fall to his knees, as was proper before so high an official, was generally punishable by harsh strokes of the bamboo.

  Dr Shih sniffed the air. The breeze, little as it was, had turned to the east, yang’s foremost direction.

  Back at Little Tortoise’s divan, he found Chung drooping.

  ‘Is the breath more even?’ asked Shih.

  Chung yawned and shrugged.

  ‘I cannot be sure, Master.’

  ‘You must pay closer attention,’ chided Dr Shih, still unsettled by Wang Bai’s warning. ‘I will attend the patient until dawn. Make sure the case of needles is to hand. We may need them at short notice.’

  A gong in the palace was ringing the third hour of night when Little Tortoise awoke. At once he retched bile and phlegm into the bowl Shih held out. The doctor praised each foul-smelling globule of mucus, calling him a strong boy and making up silly rhymes about tortoises, so that the child laughed even at the height of his misery. Shih listened frequently to his little, heaving chest, afraid the draining was less than he had expected.

  The hour before dawn brought the final onset. Shih had prepared his needles in readiness and applied them at once. With each inhalation he inserted, twisted, and extracted in time to the next exhalation. Little Tortoise’s breathing was so uneven, a series of wild gasps, that Shih struggled to anticipate the out-breath.

  Then, almost unexpectedly, it was over. The boy’s breath grew more regular, chest rattle lessened. When Shih took the pulse it swelled with yang. As dawn brought soft light to the bedchamber Little Tortoise fell asleep and the doctor half-dozed beside him.

  Third Tutor Hu snuffed out all the lanterns except one and glanced severely at the other servants, who were struggling to stay awake.

  ‘Prepare a fine breakfast for Dr Shih and Apprentice Chung,’

  whispered the Third Tutor. ‘A breakfast worthy of a prince.’

  Day took possession of the room. Shih slept lightly, dreaming of his twin brother, Guang, in far off Wei Valley. As ever when he imagined Guang, emotions contended – just as the shadows of leaves dance in bright sunlight, alternating between dark and light. Yet this time a greater darkness seemed to swallow Guang whole, extinguishing all his brightness, and Shih cried out in fear. Then his dream turned to Cao, sipping tea in their shop at dawn, awaiting his return to Apricot Corner Court, her thoughts reaching out to embrace him so that he
felt comforted and dreamed no more.

  Little Tortoise curled himself into a tight ball beneath the silk sheets, his burned and punctured body gaining strength with each dear breath.

  *

  Dr Shih woke with a start. Light reached through the open windows of Little Tortoise’s bedchamber. A faint breeze was still blowing from the east, trailing scents of morning. Birds twittered and flitted around the eaves of the Pacification Commissioner’s mansion.

  His eyes instinctively sought unwelcome signs in his patient, but Little Tortoise slept as babies sleep, small fingers clenched, breath bubbly with life. Dr Shih detected a faint rattle of lungs, nothing much, only what one might expect.

  He rose and was surprised to find Third Tutor Hu still crouching in his corner, watching intently. The other servants were asleep. Even for those accustomed to dutiful waiting, it had been a long night.

  ‘Do you have a message for His Excellency? Or Honoured First Wife?’ asked Third Tutor Hu.

  ‘Tell them their son is recovering rapidly. One should never underestimate how the young bend and spring back.’

  ‘Like green bamboo,’ added Tutor Hu, smiling faintly.

  Dr Shih bowed in acknowledgement, for the words came from one of his Great-grandfather Yun Cai’s most famous poems, the long one about the lotus.

  The servant left and Dr Yun Shih stepped outside into the enclosed garden. He listened to the sounds of the palace – a drone of gossip as two servants passed down an adjoining corridor believing themselves unheard. A vague hum from the city surrounding Peacock Hill.

  Then he was disturbed by two voices arguing in a nearby apartment. Their words were indistinct; not so the fierceness on either side. The voices belonged to the Pacification Commissioner and his wife. Shih felt an irrational, childish desire to hide and remembered his father and mother arguing bitterly one rainy, monsoon afternoon when he was Little Tortoise’s age. At once he felt dejected and weary. Third Tutor Hu stepped into the garden.

  ‘Doctor! You look faint, sir! You must eat.’