Chengyu’s Test

Xiuqin moved among the shelves with the practiced grace of one who had spent her life weaving spells from the mundane. From the long wall that ran almost the entirety of the front of her house, she retrieved herbs and other ingredients with ease, quickly grabbing a pinch of this, a smidge of that, then quickly returning each to their proper place, even if she danced between workspaces and concoctions, preparing different medicines for her most loyal customers ahead of their arrival.

When she finally completed them, she turned to Chengyu, who was startled by the intensity of her gaze.

"Now let us begin," she said, her voice a melody of challenge and instruction, as she daubed her skin with make-up to mimic the angry red of inflammation. "Tell me, Chengyu, what would you do for this ailment?"

He watched, fascinated by the way her fingers danced with precision, the fake wound appearing more realistic by the second. He reached for a jar labeled 'Jīn Yín Huā', the honeysuckle flowers within known for their anti-inflammatory properties.

"A compress," he replied, mixing the delicate petals with warm water. "To reduce swelling and soothe pain."

"Good, good," Xiuqin nodded, watching him work. He could feel the weight of her scrutiny as if she were peeling back the layers of his soul to glimpse the knowledge hidden there, but he would not yield his secrets so easily.

"An old woman complains of aching joints," she continued, her hand gracefully mimicking a tremor of frailty her weathered hands somehow lacked. "What then?"

"Willow bark," Chengyu answered without hesitation, retrieving another jar and grinding the bark into a fine powder. "For it contains salicin, which the body can use to reduce pain."

"Indeed," Xiuqin murmured, her gaze sharp, but not unkind. She tested him further, fabricating symptoms and maladies, each one a riddle for him to unravel with his assortment of botanical cures.

Finally, there came a pause, the air heavy with the scent of crushed leaves and expectancy. Chengyu wiped his brow, his mind still thrumming with the echoes of Xiuqin's challenges.

What would happen if he failed? He hadn't considered it, but since Xiuqin was spending so long pondering over it, he couldn't help but wonder what she would do with a useless assistant. Would he be sent to live in the streets? Or even banished from the village and be forced to eat squirrels?

Maybe he was being dramatic, because when he looked, Xiuqin had the ghost of a smile playing upon her lips.

"You have done well," Xiuqin acknowledged, her expression unreadable as the mask of ailments she had painted on herself earlier. "Your knowledge of herbs and medicine is satisfactory. But tell me..." She leaned closer, her eyes searching his. "Where does such understanding stem from?"

A bead of sweat rolled down Chengyu's temple, hanging precariously for a moment before it plummeted to the earth below. His fingers twitched involuntarily as he grasped for an explanation that could bridge the gap between truth and necessity.

"Ah," he began, his voice carrying the faint tremor of a leaf in the wind. "My… My grandfather, Diannao, was a traveling healer of sorts. He was present in every land and knew a lot of things and can tell you almost anything, but you just have to know how to ask. And back when I had no friends, I used to sit with him and chat, picking his mind."

He hoped the vagueness of his story would be enough to satiate Xiuqin's curiosity. Chengyu felt a momentary ripple of panic. It was a question he'd hoped to avoid, a query that prodded too closely to the truth he guarded. For a heartbeat, he considered telling her everything—about his world, so different from this one—but the words caught like thorns in his throat. There was no telling if he would mess up the space-time continuum or whatever else happened when people inadvertently time-traveled.

"I learned mostly from observation," he added, hoping his voice carried enough conviction to mask the lie. "And a deep-seated interest in the healing arts." He met her gaze, trying to project sincerity through the veil of deception.

"Is that so?" Xiuqin responded, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly as she poured them both tea, the liquid a rich amber, a visual echo of the setting sun. She handed him a cup with a grace that belied her initial skepticism.

"Indeed," Chengyu affirmed, taking the offered cup and cradling it in his hands, using the action to hide the lingering nervousness that threatened to betray him. The warmth from the porcelain seeped into his palms, grounding him.

Xiuqin studied him for a long moment as if deciding whether to peel away the facade he'd constructed. Then, with a slight nod, she accepted his answer, though Chengyu wondered if it was belief or courtesy that stayed her probing.

"The tea is brewed from the leaves of a poisonous plant," she cooly said. "Even two ounces can be lethal to the average man."

Chengyu spluttered and spat up a mouthful of the liquid, coughing into the crook of his elbow. He didn't exactly taste poison, but a sickly sweet flavor remained dancing on his tongue. Xiuqin described the plant and its effects as he wiped at his tongue.

"Why would you feed me poison?!" he asked, using his sleeve to wipe his tongue.

Dully amused, Xiuqin took another long sip. When she placed her cup down, it was entirely emptied. "Apothecaries may pursue unsightly undertakings. We must remain vigilant. If a part of this vigilance is consuming the very things we work to compress, then so be it. I want to sympathize well with my patients and offer them unfounded knowledge based purely in facts." Pouring herself another cup, she lifted the teapot, exposing an arm covered by bandages. It became clear now that she tested other types of medicine on herself, too. She quickly downed this cup too. "As such, I put twice the normal dosage in my serving."

Chengyu looked at her with wide eyes. Despite her apparent frailness, she held a seemingly innate fierceness.

"Observation is a powerful tool," she finally said, her tone holding layers of meaning like the pages of an ancient tome. "It can uncover truths not readily seen."

Chengyu could only nod, grateful for the reprieve and aware of a new bond of respect weaving between them. In this place of herbs and healing, under Xiuqin's tutelage, perhaps he could find a semblance of purpose amidst the strangeness of this world.

Xiuqin watched him over the rim of her own cup, her scrutiny softening as she took a delicate sip. "No matter my poetic waxing. Your grandfather must have been quite skilled to impart such knowledge."

"Skilled and wise beyond his years," Chengyu murmured, crafting his lie like a potter molds clay. Silence settled between them, not uncomfortable, but heavy with unspoken understanding.

They walked then, side by side, to the sliding door that led to her courtyard where an ancient apricot tree stretched its limbs toward the heavens, casting dappled shadows across the stone path. The delicate scent of its blossoms lingered in the air, a perfume for the ages, as they settled onto a worn wooden bench beneath the boughs. The rest of the area was empty, save for the clusters of plants and herbs clinging to the walls.

"Ah, to rest one's weary bones," Xiuqin sighed, leaning back against the trunk. Her gaze wandered upwards, following the intricate dance of leaves and light. "There is a simple pleasure in these quiet moments after a day's work."

Chengyu nodded, savoring the tranquility that enveloped them. There was something almost sacred about this time, this place, suspended between the wisdom of the old and the vigor of the new. As the gentle rustle of leaves whispered secrets only the wind could know, Chengyu found solace in the presence of his mentor, the keeper of remedies both for the body and perhaps, in some small way, for the soul.

"Indeed," he finally spoke, his voice barely above a murmur, lost in the symphony of nature. "There is no better remedy than rest, under the watchful eye of this ancient guardian." He gestured to the apricot tree, its presence as comforting as the steady heartbeat of the earth itself.

"May it watch over us for many more years," Xiuqin responded, her words tinged with reverence, echoing the sentiment of generations past and those yet to come.

Chenyu felt honored that she would include him in her well-wishes. Granted, he hoped he wouldn't remain here to witness the next generation, but it was a sentiment he appreciated.

The cup hovered just shy of his lips as a breeze teased the fringes of his sleeves. The steam rose in gentle spirals, carrying with it the earthy scent of jasmine which mingled with the lingering fragrance of herbs from Xiuqin's apothecary.

"Can you feel it?" Xiuqin asked, her voice low and melodic, a testament to years of speaking healing incantations over bubbling concoctions. "The way the tree seems to soak up the day's toils, leaving nothing but peace in its roots?"

Chengyu took a sip, letting the warmth spread through him, mingling with thoughts that spun new maps in his mind. He could feel it—the invisible threads of this world tugging at him, weaving him into the fabric of lives he never knew he could touch.

"Sometimes," he began, placing the cup back on the table with a soft clink, "I wonder if the tree isn't just absorbing our weariness but also giving something back in return." He reached out, fingers grazing the rugged bark, feeling the pulse of years within.

"Perhaps," she mused, a smile curving her lips as she too touched the tree, "it offers us its strength so we may face tomorrow."

In the dappled light, Chengyu saw the lines etched into Xiuqin's face, each one a story of trials and compassion. Here was a woman who had dedicated her life to easing others' burdens. And as he watched her, a realization dawned upon him like the first sliver of sunrise cutting through a night sky.

Maybe if I really get the chance to help people, he thought, tracing the patterns of his own future, I won't mind living like this too much. It might even be nice.

"Teaching someone your craft is the truest form of legacy, Chengyu," she said, breaking into his reverie. "To pass on knowledge that heals... there is no greater gift."

"Then I am fortunate," he replied, his own legacy a bridge yet to be built, "to have such a skilled mentor."

As they both gazed into the courtyard, where shadows played tag with the fading light, Chengyu felt an unfamiliar contentment settle within him—a sense of belonging to something greater than himself. It was a strange contrast to the cold precision of his previous life, where numbers and logic ruled supreme, and human touch was secondary to the click of a keyboard.

Here though, beneath this ancient apricot tree, surrounded by the tools and trappings of an apothecary's life, he discovered a different kind of truth—one that was grounded in the tangible; in the soil, the leaves, in the very air they breathed.

"Helping others..." he whispered, more to himself than to Xiuqin, "maybe that's the real magic we wield."

Xiuqin glanced at him, eyes gleaming with unspoken understanding, as if she glimpsed the shadow of another world behind his words. But she merely nodded, allowing the comfortable silence to once again envelop them.

The tea in their cups grew cold as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of lavender and gold. A quiet evening unfolded around them, promising the rest that would fortify their souls for the morrow. And in that moment, Chengyu realized that perhaps this world—with its simple pleasures and profound mysteries—wasn't just a place to exist, but one where he could truly live.