Tending to Xiuqin’s Garden

Chengyu's fingers traced the ancient characters etched into the yellowing pages, the ink faded but the wisdom enduring. Xiuqin's books were a tapestry of traditional knowledge, weaving across time to land in his hands, and he was the humble artisan tasked with bringing their patterns to life. With each turn of the page, he could almost hear the whisper of her voice, explaining how each herb interacted with the human body, like delicate threads intertwining to form the fabric of health.

He paused, his gaze lingering on a complex chart that mapped out the meridians and their corresponding ailments. Xiuqin had a gift for distilling the esoteric into the comprehendible, her charts more intricate than any modern schematic he had encountered. Chengyu added his own notes to the margins of his journal, his handwriting a stark, orderly contrast to the swirls and flourishes of her diagrams. In this quiet moment of study, the air thick with the scent of dried herbs and musty paper, he found a joy that transcended time.

"Excuse me," came a hesitant voice from the doorway. The sound pulled him from his reverie, and he realized with a start that dusk had crept upon the room, painting it in soft shadows.

"Coming," Chengyu called, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear as he stood. He moved through the cramped space, stepping over scattered pouches of roots and vials of tinctures, making his way to the front where the villagers waited.

After a few days of working with them, he had already begun to memorize some names. One would've thought everyone in this part of town was addicted to cough medicine with how often it was requested.

"Ah, Mr. Liang, Mrs. Zhou," he greeted, offering a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "What can I help you with today?"

"Xiuqin usually gives me the cough syrup for three coppers," Mrs. Zhou said, her tone expectant as she presented a handful of coins.

"Times are changing, Mrs. Zhou." Chengyu pulled a small bottle from the shelf, feeling the weight of responsibility settle on his shoulders. "Five coppers now. With me here, the cost of labor has risen, you understand."

Mrs. Zhou frowned, but after a moment's hesitation, she handed over the two extra coins. Chengyu watched her leave, her back stooped, her steps slow, and he felt a twinge of guilt. Xiuqin would have only charged three, but then again, it was clear that Xiuqin hadn't been eating properly ever since his arrival.

"Thank you, Chengyu," Mr. Liang said, placing his payment on the counter for some pain-relieving salve. "You're doing well by her."

"Thank you, sir," he replied, though he wondered if that was entirely true. As the door closed behind the last customer, Chengyu leaned against the worn wood, allowing himself a moment of reflection. As he had quickly discovered, Xiuqin's generosity was boundless, a river that nourished all who drank from it, yet she rarely took a sip for herself.

He thought of her house, its walls bowed with age, the roof that let in the rain, and the way she had welcomed him without reservation. It pained him to see her give so much while asking for nothing in return. Perhaps, he mused, raising the prices was not just about sustaining the apothecary but protecting Xiuqin from her own boundless compassion.

"Take care of yourself, too," he whispered into the empty room, knowing full well the words were meant for both Xiuqin and himself.

As Chengyu continued his work, the afternoon sun soon came to spill a golden warmth over the apothecary, diffusing the potent scents of herbs and dried flowers into something almost ethereal. Chengyu sat at his wooden table, fingers wrapped around a cup of steaming tea that spiraled with whispers of steam. The liquid was a rich amber, and he watched the leaves settle at the bottom, contemplating the future they might foretell if he believed in such things.

A sudden commotion shattered his reverie as the door burst open with a clatter that sent a shiver through the glass jars lining the shelves. A small figure, no higher than the counter, stood panting in the doorway, her breath uneven with urgency.

"Big brother," she gasped, her voice a desperate warble. "Please, come quick!"

He set down his tea, the cup clinking softly against the saucer, and turned to face her. A bandage covered one eye, stark against her dirt-smudged face, while the other—a cloudy orb—searched his with mute appeal.

"What's wrong?" Chengyu asked, his voice calm despite the sudden intrusion.

"Father… he's sick," she stammered, hands twisting the hem of her threadbare dress. "You must help."

Without another word, Chengyu rose, pushing back the chair with a scrape that echoed off the stone floor. He moved swiftly to a cabinet filled with vials and pouches, each labeled in Xiuqin's meticulous hand. Glimpses of her charts flashed across his mind—the possible ailments and their remedies—as he selected a miscellany of bottles containing tinctures and powders. Time was not a luxury they could afford.

"Lead on," he said, his voice a beacon of resolve.

The girl turned, and he followed her out the door. They wove through the village, past familiar homes and faces, until the cobblestones gave way to dirt and the neat rows of houses crumbled into a haphazard sprawl. Here in the slums, the air hung heavy with the weight of lives lived on the edge of survival. Chengyu's heart clenched as he took in the sagging roofs and the children whose play was muted by the oppressive fatigue that cloaked the place like a shroud.

Xiuqin's kindness knows no bounds, he mused silently, his chest tight with an emotion he couldn't name. Yet in the shadow of such widespread suffering, what can her efforts truly mend?

The little girl stopped before a shack leaning precariously to one side, its timbers groaning with resignation to the inevitable pull of time and neglect. He hesitated for just a moment, taking in the stark reality of this hidden corner of the world that he, ensconced in his world of healing and herbs, had never truly seen.

"Here," the girl's voice broke through his thoughts, small but firm.

"Of course," Chengyu replied, stepping forward with renewed determination. Of all the lessons contained within Xiuqin's books, none were so poignant as the one unfolding before him. It was a lesson of disparity and need, a call to heal more than bodies, but spirits worn down by relentless hardship.

As he entered the dimly lit interior of the shack, the scent of illness and decay hit him, and he fought against the instinct to recoil. This was his purpose, his duty. Xiuqin had taught him the value of a warm heart, and now, in the face of such poverty, he understood the depth of her compassion.

The shadows of the shack clung to each other like desperate secrets, and Chengyu felt his presence intrude upon them as he stepped over the threshold. The air was thick, laced with the sour tang of sickness, and he swiftly tied a strip of cloth over his nose to guard against the stench. His eyes roamed the cramped space, settling on a figure huddled beneath a threadbare blanket on a makeshift bed.

"Father," the girl's voice trembled, "this is the healer."

"Thank you, little sparrow," came a hoarse whisper from the bed. Chengyu approached cautiously, not wanting to startle the man whose face was etched with lines of pain and fever-bright eyes.

"Tell me where it hurts," Chengyu said, kneeling beside the shivering form, his hands deftly unearthing vials and packets from his bag.

"Everywhere," the man breathed out, "but mostly... my chest. It burns."

The healer's fingers danced across the man's wrist, feeling for the pulse that would sing the body's troubled song. His mind raced through the pages of Xiuqin's charts, the intricate dance of symptoms and remedies chasing each other in his thoughts. As if summoned, her voice whispered in his memory, guiding him through the labyrinth of ailments described in her meticulous handwriting.

"Your breaths are shallow," Chengyu observed aloud, taking note of the labored rise and fall of the man's chest. "A lung affliction, perhaps. We need to reduce the inflammation and clear your airways. Please, give me a moment and let me see what I can do," he murmured, more to himself than to the anxious eyes that followed his every move. It was so dark that he could hardly see their faces. "And let me bring some light into this place, however fleeting it may be."

And with that, Chengyu set to work, determined to offer what solace he could, armed with nothing but his knowledge and the medicines clutched in his steady hands. He mixed a concoction with practiced ease, the mortar and pestle grinding herbs into a paste that carried the sharp scent of mint and eucalyptus. He administered the medicine gently, coaxing the man to swallow despite the obvious difficulty.

"Rest now," Chengyu instructed, setting aside the empty bowl. "This should ease the worst of it."

He prepared additional doses, wrapping them with care. "Give him this twice a day, morning and night. I've made enough to last a week."

"Will he get better?" The girl's voice was small, her good eye gleaming with hope and fear mingled together.

Chengyu met her gaze, his own reflecting the gravitas of his role. "I believe so. But you must come back if it runs out or if he worsens. Can you do that?"

She nodded, clutching the bundle to her chest as if it were the most precious treasure. The healer stood, brushing off his knees, his thoughts turning inward. How many more shacks like this one were scattered throughout the village? How many more souls awaited relief from their silent suffering?

Chengyu lingered for a moment at the threshold of the dilapidated shack, his eyes tracing the sun's dance on the uneven wooden planks. The light carved shadows that seemed too delicate for this place of stark reality. He exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding and turned to the little girl who stood framed in the doorway, her one visible eye wide with a mixture of gratitude and concern.

"Remember, come back if there's any trouble," Chengyu reiterated, his tone gentle yet firm.

The girl nodded, a mute bobblehead doll, her fingers white-knuckled around the medicine bundle. With a deep, weary sigh, Chengyu knew that he could not ask for payment. It was his weak echo of Xiuqin's way, a path he found himself hurtling down despite his hesitancy. Unlike her, he was selfish; such was the way of modern people, where community was whoever lived in the apartment next to you and sometimes, not even them.

"Take care of him," he said softly, then smiled—a little curve of his lips that struggled to be brave and kind. He waved goodbye, the gesture sweeping through the heavy air like the flight of a bird long caged.

As he stepped outside, the light seemed harsh, the world outside too bright and too real. Yet, he knew his path was irrevocably intertwined with those who dwelled in the darkness, those who needed the touch of healing hands and the kindness of an open heart.

"Apothecary big brother! Wait!" Her voice, a sudden sharp note against the drone of distant village life, halted Chengyu's retreat as she ran after him, her small hand catching hold of his shirt. She held up something small and brightly wrapped, her offering simple but weighted with significance. "For you."

He paused, examining the piece of candy she presented. It was a tiny gesture, but in the girl's outstretched palm, it shimmered with the earnestness of a child's heart. With the dying sunlight reflecting off its shiny edge, he thought that it almost glimmered like a coin. But far more valuable, it was a token of sweetness in a world often bitter and unforgiving.

"Thank you," Chengyu said, accepting the candy with a tenderness that belied his calloused healer's hands. Unwrapping it, he popped it into his mouth, the sugary flavor bursting across his tongue, a stark contrast to the dust and despair that filled his senses only moments before.

As he walked away, alone now with his thoughts, Chengyu rolled the candy in his mouth, savoring its simplicity. Xiuqin's generosity, her warm heart that lit even the darkest corners of their village, seeped into his understanding like the warmth from a fire on a cold night. How little she charged the people they served; how much she gave of herself.

He shook his head, partly in wonder, partly in a silent promise to uphold her legacy. His strides grew more purposeful as he contemplated the herbs and roots he'd combined to soothe the man's ailment. The little girl should be stopping by soon again, so they would need replenishing soon. Already, he was cataloging locations in the nearby forest where he might find them.

"More of the willow bark, perhaps some angelica root," Chengyu murmured to himself, the words weaving into the rhythm of his steps. The importance of his unwitting mission settled onto his shoulders—not as a burden, but as a mantle he was reconfiguring, growing increasingly proud to bear. Xiuqin had planted the seeds of selflessness within him; it was now his turn to nurture them to fruition.