On the third day after spring opened, Lu Zhu set out, north.
He carried the same rattan chest on his back. In it, the supplement notebook, charcoal sticks, a few changes of clothes, and the shoes with the "peace" character embroidered on them. Walking behind him was A-Ning. Sixteen years old, and on his first long journey.
"Teacher," A-Ning said, "is it cold in the north?"
"Colder than the river bend." Lu Zhu said.
"And the snow?"
"When you get there, you will see it."
They took the post road. The post road was Panhesy’s paving, running north to the border wall. On both sides, the wheat had just sprouted, green and downy, spreading to the sky’s edge. The farther north, the sparser the villages, the lower the houses, the thicker the walls. A-Ning looked and asked all along the way. Lu Zhu looked and answered all along the way.
"Teacher, why are the walls here thicker than the south’s?"
"The wind is stronger." Lu Zhu said. "The north’s walls keep out not only the rain, but the wind. The wind bores into the seams, and the wall ages fast. So the north’s houses have walls half an inch thicker, and grass mats hung over the doors."
"The grass mats over the doors are to keep the wind out?"
"Wind, and sand too." Lu Zhu said. "When the wind-sand turns fierce, one mat hung, and inside the house it is as still as a river bend night."
After nine days of walking, they entered the village that had once been stripped bare.
The village was alive. Roosters crowed on the wall tops, dogs ran through the lanes. An old woman was sunning dried turnips before her door. Seeing them, she narrowed her eyes. "Guests from the south?"
"From the river bend." Lu Zhu said.
"The river bend!" the old woman said. "That is a good place. They say a great master lives there, who has built houses all his life."
Lu Zhu smiled. "Your village," he said, "how many years have you been back?"
"Four years." the old woman said. "The first year back, only my household. Now more than half have returned. The doors are the same doors, the walls the same walls. But the living spirit has come back." She pointed at the village’s mouth. "See that? Under that old mulberry is where we buried our pots that year. The day we retreated, I buried my pot and did not take it. Coming back, one dig, and the pot was still there. Scrub it, and use it again."
"The pot still there, and the home is still there." Lu Zhu said.
"That is the very saying!" The old woman laughed. "Guest, you know this too?"
"I do." Lu Zhu said. "I am a house-builder."
They lodged in that village that night.
At night, the villagers heard that an old house-building master had come, and they all came with their lamps, gathered in the host’s courtyard. Some asked about cracked walls, some about leaking roofs, some about well water turning muddy. Lu Zhu listened to each one, and answered each one. Answering to the last, he said: "Tomorrow I will not hurry on. Whose house has trouble, lead me to it."
The next day, he looked at three households. The first family’s wall was cracked. He used grass-fiber mud mixed with three parts lime and plastered it in three coats. The second family’s roof leaked. He climbed up and turned the reed matting over. The third family’s well had gone muddy. He had them dredge the mud from the well’s bottom, and bedded in a layer of fine sand.
"Old master," the villagers crowded around him, "this hand of yours is worth half a code."
"I did it exactly by the code." Lu Zhu said.
"The code?" The villagers blinked. "That book — is it not said that the great Master Imhotep wrote it?"
"That book," Lu Zhu said, "everyone wrote it. I only helped copy it a little."
A-Ning, beside him, covered his mouth and laughed.
Past the village, two more days of walking. The fields beside the road grew fewer and fewer. The wild grass thickened, and the wind hardened. On the far horizon, now and then, an earth mound showed — an abandoned beacon platform. A-Ning asked what they were. Lu Zhu said they were the old smoke-signal platforms. Now that the towers had risen, they had gone to rest.
"The platforms that have gone to rest," A-Ning said, "does anyone still keep them?"
"No one." Lu Zhu said. "But standing there, they are a stretch of days." He paused. "Days are a thing you can do without using, but not do without having."
On the twelfth day, they saw the border wall.
The wall lay across the plain, horizontal, like a blue-gray seal stamped on the land. On the wall, tower after tower, one following the next. Seb met them below the wall.
"Teacher." Seb said.
He was half a head taller than before, and darker. His hands were all callus, the web of his thumb split open. But his eyes were still the eyes of those years — whatever he looked at, he seemed to measure it.
"Was the road easy?" Seb asked.
"Easy." Lu Zhu said. "The post road is flat, and the wheat is green."
Seb led them through the wall, from bottom to top.
The crenels, half a foot narrow. Seb said the first year’s north wind had taught them that. The wind strong, and a wide crenel spoils the arrow’s aim. The wall foot bedded with grass ash, a foot and a half. Seb said the frozen ground had taught them that. The grass ash drinks the damp, and the wall foot does not turn crumbly. The reed layer inside the wall had been settled on only in the third year. Reeds are tough; a cracked wall with reeds in it does not come apart.
"These three things," Seb said, "all went into the code’s Defense volume."
"I saw." Lu Zhu said. "What you wrote in your letters, I copied into the supplement, line by line."
"Not enough." Seb said. "Teacher, come up the tower and look."
The tower was of mud brick, twenty feet above the wall. They climbed the ladder. At the tower’s top, the wind was strong. Looking north, the plain ran to the sky’s edge. Outside the border wall, the Hittites’ camp-fort was still there. But its cooking smoke was thinner than before.
"They cannot fight on," Seb said, "so they hold. Holding and holding, the soldiers in the camp, they say, have learned to grow wheat too." He paused. "These six years, they have attacked eleven times. Not once have they crossed the wall."
"Eleven times." Lu Zhu said.
"All recorded on the wall." Seb pointed at the wooden board on the tower’s body. "Which time, which day, which hour, from which gap they came. All carved there."
Lu Zhu went close to look. On the board, row after row of carved marks, deep ones and shallow ones, like the wall’s own age.
"This tower," he said, "who keeps it?"
"A-Yan." Seb called down from the tower. A young man came up the ladder, a few steps at a bound. Seeing Lu Zhu, he stood straight and called out: "Grand-teacher!"
"A-Yan." Lu Zhu said. "You have grown so tall."
"Grand-teacher," A-Yan said, "I keep this tower now. Five soldiers under me, all of them follow me in drawing plans." He drew a roll of paper from his coat. "This is my tower plan. Grand-teacher, take a look."
Lu Zhu unrolled the plan. The drawing was still crooked, but every stroke bit into the earth. He looked at it a long while. "Crooked has its own good," he said. "The crooked places are all taught you by the wind."
A-Yan scratched his head and grinned.
"Do not grin." Seb said. "Remember the teacher’s word. The drawing crooked, the man true — that is enough."
On the tower there was also an old soldier. Gray-flecked beard, narrowed eyes, crouched by the crenel, twisting grass rope.
"Master Lu." the old soldier said. "Do you still remember me?"
Lu Zhu looked at him. After a while, he said: "The west line. On a tower."
"It is me!" The old soldier laughed, showing a half-broken tooth. "The west line’s sixteen towers, I kept four of them. Then the north line asked for men, and I put my name down and came." He patted the crenel. "The tower is still a tower. The wind has changed, and the snow has changed. Only this crouching and twisting grass rope has not changed."
"The grass rope," Lu Zhu said, "is twisted fine."
"It has to be fine." the old soldier said. "Half a tower’s work is in the rope. Twisted fine, it binds firm. On the windy nights, the lamps, the flags, the arrow-stands — all of it hangs on rope."
Lu Zhu nodded. He looked at the sky. "It is about time for the smoke." he said.
The old soldier raised his head to the sun. "Half a quarter-hour yet." He set the grass rope down and stood. "Master Lu, you have come at a good time. In a while, you can light it for us once."
Half a quarter-hour later, the old soldier took a handful of dry grass from the smoke-hole below the tower. One light, and the smoke rose. One thin thread, straight up.
"One smoke." the old soldier said. "Peace."
The smoke climbed, was blown aslant by the wind, and straightened again. Far off, on the next tower, a thread of smoke rose too.
"It is passed on." the old soldier said. "In the time of a cup of tea, it reaches the wall’s foot."
Lu Zhu watched the smoke. "This smoke," he said, "sets a man’s heart at ease more than anything."
That afternoon, Seb took Lu Zhu to see the water gate.
River-Bend Mouth. Below the water gate, the barrier chains, the stakes, the nets. The net’s mesh was the size of a fist, pressed half a foot into the mud, with potsherds hung on it. The wind passed through, and the potsherds rang, ding, ding, like strings of little bells.
"The chains, four now." Seb said. "The stakes, a third denser. All of it added over these six years, bit by bit."
At the water’s edge, an old man was mending a net with a young man beside him.
"Old River." Lu Zhu called.
The old man raised his head, narrowed his eyes, and recognized Lu Zhu. He wiped his hands on his coat front and trotted over: "Master Lu! You have come at last!"
"Come to watch you mend nets." Lu Zhu said.
"Net-mending," Old River said, "is an old trade." He pointed at the young man behind him. "Little River keeps the water gate now. I am teaching him to read the water. The work of reading water can never be fully taught. Which bend, where the high water runs and where the low water runs — all of it must be remembered in the bones."
"How much have you remembered?" Lu Zhu asked Little River.
"Seven parts in ten." Little River said. "The other three, Grandfather says, he will teach me when the great water comes this year."
"Seven in ten," Old River said, "is no small amount. At his age, I did not know three in ten." He paused. "Master Lu, that year you said the water gate’s net was the river bend’s first door. I have remembered it. These six years, that door has not slackened for one day."
"With you here," Lu Zhu said, "my heart is easy."
That evening, Horenheb came back.
He had been touring the line. Armored, on horseback, two soldiers behind him. Dismounting, the horse blew a snort. He patted the horse’s neck before he came over.
"Master Lu." he said.
"General." Lu Zhu said.
The two men stood below the wall and looked at each other a while. Horenheb’s hair had gone entirely white. But his back was still straight. His hand still rested on the sword hilt.
"The spring we agreed on," Horenheb said, "you have kept me waiting six years."
"The wall waits for no one." Lu Zhu said. "But people have been waiting for me."
"The wall can afford to wait." Horenheb said. "This half-life of mine has been given to the wall. Waiting for one man who comes to look at the wall — that I can afford." He paused. "Come. Drink."
In the barracks behind the wall, one pot of hot drink, two bowls. The drink was barley beer, warmed. The two old men spoke across the bowls.
"These six years of yours," Horenheb said, "houses mended, granaries mended, books mended. I have heard of it all, in the north. The code — the soldiers on the wall, one copy per man. The literate read it aloud to the illiterate. Heard through, they go up the wall and mend it by the book."
"Do they read it right?" Lu Zhu asked.
"Right or not, the wall knows." Horenheb said. "The year before last, a palm-sized piece of the east section fell in. One construction soldier, following the book, patched it in three days. I inspected it. The joints bit tighter than an old craftsman’s."
"The construction soldiers," Lu Zhu said, "have learned it through."
"Learned it through." Horenheb said. "Mu-A — do you still remember him? The first one to stop me and demand the password."
"I remember." Lu Zhu said.
"He is a squad leader of the construction soldiers now." Horenheb said. "Two hundred men under him. Last autumn, his mother came up from the south to see him. He led her up the wall and pointed at the west section: ’Mother, this stretch, I laid it.’" He paused. "His mother felt the wall and wept half the night."
Lu Zhu held his bowl and said nothing. Outside the wall, the wind creaked the barracks’ door, yee-a, yee-a.
"General," Lu Zhu said after a while, "how long do you plan to keep this border?"
"Keep it until I can no longer keep it." Horenheb said. "I am old. But the wall stood here before me. I keep it not for this one lifetime. I keep it to hand it to the people of the next." He looked out the window. "Do you remember what I once said to you? This servant will not come home in triumph. This servant will stand in the north until he is old."
"I remember."
"That word," Horenheb said, "I am still living in it." He raised his bowl. "Master Lu, in this life I have bowed to no one. Only to you. You are no soldier, but the things you build are harder than soldiers."
"General," Lu Zhu said, "you are no craftsman either. But the things you keep are warmer than walls."
The two old men knocked bowls. A little of the drink spilled onto the table, and in no time soaked into the wood’s grain.
The next day at noon, the construction soldiers drilled wall-laying below the wall.
Two hundred men, in four lines. One line mixed the mud, one passed the bricks, one laid, one checked. Mu-A stood before the lines, his voice shouted hoarse.
"Lay!" he shouted. "The mortar full! The joints biting! The work in your hands — no fudging! Fudge the wall, and you fudge your lives!"
Lu Zhu and Horenheb stood on the slope and watched.
"This lad," Horenheb said, "the year he stopped me to ask the password, he could barely get a sentence out. Now he drills louder than I do."
"A man with a trade of his own," Lu Zhu said, "and his spirit rises."
When the drill was done, Mu-A ran up the slope and saluted Horenheb first, then Lu Zhu.
"Master Lu!" he said. "Take a look — does our line lay well or not?"
Lu Zhu went down the slope to the wall’s side. The newly laid stretch was still wet. He ran his finger along the seams, one by one. When he had felt them, he said: "It will do. The joints bite solid. Only the first course’s mortar could still be half a part fuller."
"Half a part!" Mu-A slapped his own head. "I knew something was short!" He turned and shouted: "First course, more mortar! Tear down half a foot and re-lay!"
The soldiers said not a word against it, tore down half a foot, and laid again. The mud splattered them all over, and no one so much as frowned.
"Mu-A," Lu Zhu said, "is your mother well?"
"She is well." Mu-A said. "She came to see me last year and stayed half a month. Leaving, she said: ’My son, the wall you laid — your mother has felt it. Solid.’" He paused, and his voice dropped. "My father died early. My mother raised me alone, half her life. Now she tells everyone she meets: my son builds walls for the country."
"Those words," Horenheb said, "weigh heavier than any reward."
Mu-A nodded, his eyes a little red. He rubbed them. "General, Master Lu, talk on. I will go back to the drill." With that, he ran down the slope and shouted again: "The mud mixers — keep your hands moving!"
"The construction soldiers," Horenheb said, "are half the wall now. Half the wall is brick, and half is men. The men trained up, and the wall is alive."
Lu Zhu looked at the two hundred dirt-faced soldiers. "General," he said, "this wall, handed into their hands — your heart can rest."
"It can." Horenheb said. "That is why I dare say I will keep it until I cannot keep it. The day I cannot, they keep on keeping it."
The next day, Seb took Lu Zhu to see the second line, thirty li behind the wall.
Six towers, one every five li. Tower could see tower. Seb said that at night, the lamps on the towers passed from one to the next. One full circle, and one hour had gone. One hour, and what happened in the north was known in the south.
"The third line’s Mountain-Pass Forts," Seb said, "were finished last year. Two forts, holding the mountain’s mouths. This spring, I am sending two of my disciples to live in them." He paused. "My four disciples now hold the four corners. The north one keeps the water gate. Old River is getting on, and Little River has taken over. Old River’s net has been passed to Little River."
"And Old River?"
"Still here." Seb said. "He goes to the river every day and sits. He says hearing the water settles his heart. A boatman cannot leave the water in one lifetime."
Lu Zhu crouched below a second-line tower and looked at the tower’s footing.
"The footing," he said, "who set it?"
"I did." Seb said. "You taught that for a tower to stand, the base must sink deep. The north’s ground freezes and thaws, freezes and thaws. So the base goes two feet deeper than the south’s, with crushed stone bedded below, and mortar poured over."
"Right." Lu Zhu said. "Frozen ground moves. The base must sink below the frost line, or the tower leans."
"All of it," Seb said, "I have written on the plan. Every number on the plan was measured with a life."
Lu Zhu nodded. He took out the supplement notebook and wrote down Seb’s tower base, the mortar, the frost line, one article after another.
"Teacher," Seb said, "what are you writing these for?"
"For the south to read." Lu Zhu said. "The north’s methods, the south cannot use. But the north’s principles, the south can use. Principles are not divided into north and south."
"Then let me tell you one more thing." Seb said. "In winter, the frozen ground. Before digging, first light a fire and warm the ground soft, half a foot down. Half a foot of soft earth is easier to dig than a foot of hard. This method, the northern border’s soldiers worked out over three winters."
"A good method." Lu Zhu said. "Fire warms the ground, and men save their strength. It is one principle with firing bricks."
"One principle with firing bricks?" Seb thought it over and laughed. "So it is. Why did I not see it?"
"You did see it." Lu Zhu said. "You only did not know that the south calls this ’the fire road.’"
That night, Seb sat with Lu Zhu below the second line’s tower for a long while.
The lamps on the towers lit one by one. Master and disciple, one old, the other no longer young either.
"Seb," Lu Zhu said, "your father — do you still think of it?"
Seb was silent a moment. "I do." he said. "Every year, once." He looked at the sky to the north. "My father died on the post road. To his death, no one ever gave him an accounting. The year you took me in, I cried at night. Cried for my father, and for myself. Then, following you and building walls, the crying grew less."
"And now?"
"Now," Seb said, "I do not cry." He paused. "My father was seized to build roads. Now the corvée law has been raised. The post roads are built with money, and the road-builders have wages and food, and no one is seized in the busy season." He looked at Lu Zhu. "Teacher, my father’s life was not lost for nothing. His death went into the law’s account. That account, all Egypt keeps for him."
Lu Zhu said nothing. He reached out and patted Seb’s shoulder. Seb’s shoulder was broad and hard, like a section of rammed earth.
"If my father were alive," Seb said, "seeing me draw towers now, he would surely say: ’Drawn crooked.’"
"And you?" Lu Zhu said.
"I would answer him: ’The crooked is taught by the wind.’" Seb laughed. "Teacher, do you know? Teaching my disciples now, I tell them this line too. The drawing crooked, the man true — that is enough."
"Good." Lu Zhu said. "Pass that line down. The farther it is passed, the better."
The lamps on the towers flickered. The wind came from the north, carrying the smell of the Hittites’ campfires. But that smell was already very faint. Faint as a very old dream.
"Teacher," Seb said, "tell me — will the north fight again?"
"I do not know." Lu Zhu said. "But for every day the wall stands, the people are at peace for a day. The wall is built by men. Men are what the heart rests in. Soldiers whose hearts rest can win a battle."
"And if one day the wall is not there?"
"The wall not there," Lu Zhu said, "the towers are still there. The towers not there, the forts are still there. The forts not there, the men who know how to build walls are still there." He paused. "As long as men can build, the wall is always there."
Seb nodded. He took that sentence and wrote it into his heart, character by character.
The day of leaving, the wind was strong.
Seb saw them ten li out. Horenheb did not see them off. He stood on the wall, straight as a post. The wind blew his white hair into a tangle. Toward Lu Zhu, he pressed down on his sword hilt — the soldier’s salute.
"Teacher," Seb said, "the year I can no longer draw towers, I will come to the river bend and draw houses with you."
"That word," Lu Zhu said, "you said it six years ago."
"Saying it now," Seb said, "it is truer."
"No hurry." Lu Zhu said. "The towers are still young. You are still young too. I will stay at the river bend, going nowhere. Whenever you come, there is hot food."
Seb nodded. From his coat he drew out one thing and pressed it on Lu Zhu — a small wooden board. On the board was carved a tower. Below the tower, a few crooked characters: "River Bend in Sight."
"The day the first tower stood," Seb said, "I carved it. I meant it for you. But I always thought, I would wait until you came to give it."
Lu Zhu put the wooden board inside his coat.
"You draw the towers," he said, "and I draw the granaries."
"I hold the country," Seb said, "and you feed the people."
Both of them laughed. The wind carried their laughter far. So far that the man on the wall heard it too.
Back from the northern border, Lu Zhu’s "searching" became the days themselves.
Every year, when spring opened, he went out. At the autumn equinox, he came back. The roads he walked grew longer year by year. The old works he looked at grew older year by year. The supplement notebooks, one after another. Broken steles, broken columns, old granary bases, old channel slopes. Imset’s institute, each time it received a roll of an ancient book, copied it and sent the copy by boat to the river bend. Lu Zhu read them under the lamp, page by page. Some he could make out, some not. What he could make out went into the code. What he could not was tucked into the supplement notebook, for the people who came after to make out.
That notebook of "Notes on the Road Home" — he always carried it.
What was recorded in it was another matter. Doors of another land, rivers of old days, those points on the star charts that could not be told. He searched them out one by one. Searching to one place, it was a wild grave. Searching to another, a wild pond. Searching to another, the characters on the stele had long been ground smooth. He did not vex himself. A place searched, and he drew a small circle after that line. The circle meant "been there."
Sometimes A-Ning went with him. Sometimes A-Yang. Sometimes he went alone. Walking alone is slow. Slow has its own good. Seeing a good house, he stopped and begged a bowl of water from the master, and asked three questions: What year was this house raised? Who raised it? Has it ever fallen? Asked through, he crouched at the wall’s foot and looked. Looked his fill, wrote two strokes, and walked on.
One year, by an old channel upriver, he saw half a stone sluice. The gate was gone; only two stone grooves remained. In the grooves, the mortar still showed its recipe. He lay on the channel’s edge and, with the charcoal stick, sketched the mortar’s color and grade. Later, that half sluice’s method went into the code’s Road volume.
"Teacher," A-Ning asked, "a broken sluice is worth recording too?"
"It is." Lu Zhu said. "Good building knows no new or old. A broken thing does not necessarily have no principle in it. It broke because it grew old. But why it could stand in its year — that principle matters more than whether it is broken."
"Then will this book of ours not grow thicker and thicker?"
"Thicker and thicker is right." Lu Zhu said. "However big the ground, the book must be that thick."
Another year, in the mountains to the east, he found a ruined shrine. Half fallen, half a room left. In the rubble he turned up three inscribed bricks. The characters he could not make out fully. He wrapped them in cloth and carried them back. Later, Imset wrote to say that the characters on the bricks were granary rules from several hundred years before. Lu Zhu added what he could make out into the Granary volume.
"In this world," he told the apprentices, "no road is walked for nothing. You crouch down and look, and there is something there. You walk past without looking, and there is nothing."
The apprentices took it to heart, and loved to crouch and look at things when they went out. Seeing an old wall, crouch. Seeing an old well, crouch. Seeing the landing’s timber piles, crouch too. Crouching and crouching, they began to see the way of things.
"Teacher," one apprentice said, "my mother says that when I walk now, I walk like a shrimp."
"A shrimp is good." Lu Zhu said. "A shrimp hugs the ground and sees clear."
One year, he went south.
Kes’s river valley could no longer be recognized. The three rows of houses had become five. The market’s stalls had gone from a dozen-odd to several dozen. The ferry’s boats ran three a day. Outside the low wall, two small towers had risen too, after the northern border’s fashion.
Kes met him at the ferry. Kes was darker too, and taller. His laugh was still as simple and honest.
"Teacher," Kes said, "you are thinner again."
"Thin is light for mountain roads." Lu Zhu said.
Kes’s mother had grown old. Her hair was all white, but her ears were still sharp and her eyes still clear. She still kept the household register. In the register room, the books were stacked neat, one after another. Seeing Lu Zhu, she set down her brush. "Great master," she said, "the craft you taught Kes — our family will remember it all our lives."
"Elder sister," Lu Zhu said, "Kes earned it himself."
"He earned it," Kes’s mother said, "because someone pointed out the road for him." She brought out a bowl of date tea. "The road is pointed out by people. The tea grows out of the ground. Drink."
Lu Zhu stayed in the river valley three days. By day, Kes walked him through the houses, the granary, the medical point, the low wall. At night, master and disciple sat by the river and talked. Tuxi’s medical point now had four medical boys. All of them, Kes said, were the river valley’s own children.
"Teacher," Kes said, "that road you search for — let us help you search. The clan’s old people will tell you all the old stories. The old temple’s broken columns, the bird patterns on the boundary steles, and the legends from across the river."
"Thanks." Lu Zhu said. "But I am not searching for the road any more."
"Not searching?"
"I still search." Lu Zhu said. "But the search is no longer for going back. It is only for walking. For looking at the road."
Kes said nothing. After a while, he said: "Teacher, I understand. You are not searching for a road. You are walking one."
"Right." Lu Zhu said. "Walking."
The river valley’s market day fell on the third day.
Before daylight, the river flat was already covered with stalls. Some sold fish, some sold dates, some traded salt, some sold herbal medicine. Below the low wall, a row of wooden boards, marked one, two, three, four. Kes said those were the market zones, drawn after Meru’s market rules. One stall for the fish-sellers, two for the grain-sellers, and none crowding another.
"Look at those two wooden stakes." Kes pointed them out to Lu Zhu. "They are the market’s head and tail. Opening, three knocks. Closing, two."
"A good method." Lu Zhu said. "Who set it?"
"The clan’s old people." Kes said. "They say a market has a market’s rules. Rules are not set for the goods. They are set for the people."
Tuxi’s medical point stood at the market’s east end. Before the door, a wide eave. Under the eave, two rows of grass stools. The people lining up for treatment were from the river valley, and from across the river too.
"From across the river too?" Lu Zhu asked.
"They come." Tuxi said. "The far side of the river lacks medicine. The boat over takes half a day. The master and Mistress Shafi say: the medical point’s door does not close, and whoever comes gets seen." He paused. "The medicine money — those who have it, give it; those who do not, it goes into the book. When they have their harvest in autumn, they can pay it back. No hurry."
"And the accounts?" Lu Zhu asked.
"All kept." Tuxi opened a register. "Who, what sickness, how many doses, paid or not. Page by page, all in order." He paused. "Uncle Kes says the river valley’s medicine accounts are like the granary accounts. Only what is true wins trust."
Lu Zhu turned a few pages. "Your Mistress Shafi’s way of keeping accounts," he said, "you have learned it through."
"Still far from it." Tuxi said. "Mistress Shafi says: one entry wrong in a medicine account is one life."
The market broke up. Lu Zhu and Kes sat on the river flat, watching the boats.
"The old clan chief," Lu Zhu asked, "is he still with us?"
"He left the autumn before last." Kes said. "Ninety-three when he went. That night, he had himself helped up the high ridge, and looked at the lights half the night. Coming back, he said one thing: ’I can die with my eyes shut now.’" He paused. "After he went, the clan buried him on the high ridge. Facing the village. Facing the river."
"Facing home." Lu Zhu said.
"Facing home." Kes said. "Teacher, tell me — is that not all a man asks of one lifetime?"
Lu Zhu looked at the river’s face. "It is." he said. "That one word."
Shunzi’s boat came to shore on the fourth morning. At the prow stood the "Through to the South" banner. Shunzi was much darker now, but his mouth was as quick as ever.
"Master Lu!" He jumped off the boat. "Uncle Meru has me bring you word — the river bend’s New Year gift, the merchant house’s pile timber, the material is all ready. Go back, and you can drive them any time."
"Thank him for me." Lu Zhu said.
"One more thing." Shunzi felt in his coat and brought out an oiled-paper packet. "If your supplement notebook runs out — this stack of paper, the new capital’s. Thin, and good to write on."
Lu Zhu took it. "Shunzi," he said, "you are a figure of some account now."
"A figure, nothing." Shunzi laughed. "Just a boat-runner. Running and running, I have run the north and south into one line."
"One line," Lu Zhu said, "is one lifeline."
"Master Lu," Shunzi said, "that line, we keep for you. Whatever you want to see, step aboard any time. North and south, both open."
Lu Zhu patted his shoulder and said nothing. The oars went into the water, stirring ring after ring of ripple. The ripples spread, wider and wider, until they could no longer be seen.
Another year, he went to Thebes.
The chief priest truly brewed tea. Wild mint tea, cool and faintly bitter. The two old men sat in the old temple’s courtyard. The courtyard was swept clean. The incense burner’s smoke rose thin.
"Master Lu," the chief priest said, "the year you left, I said: come sit in the temple, and I will brew tea. That waiting has lasted quite a few years."
"The tea," Lu Zhu said, "is brewed just right."
"The craft of brewing tea," the chief priest said, "I only practiced it these years. Once, I only knew how to light lamps." He refilled Lu Zhu’s cup. "The lamps, I still light. At the New Year, seven lamps. One of them, on behalf of all of you who are not in Thebes."
"Seven lamps," Lu Zhu said, "you keep count."
"I keep count." the chief priest said. "An old man’s memory fails. But some people need no remembering. They light up by themselves."
That night, Lu Zhu climbed Thebes’s city wall alone.
The wall was still the wall. Where the joints interlocked, Kamon’s handiwork was still there. He felt the wall and walked, step by step. The wind came from the south, carrying the river’s raw smell. The city’s lamps, one after another. Old Sun’s porridge shed had long closed. But the school north of the city was still lit — Woser’s granary clerks’ school, the night lesson.
"This wall," Lu Zhu thought, "remembers those years for me."
Those years — blood and fire, arrow rain, grain carried by night, grain stored with the people. Now all of it was still. Still as this wall, steady, holding a city’s lamps in its arms.
The next day, Ahe came to see him.
The boy of those years had grown into a sturdy young man. In his arms he held a thick book, its leather cover worn and curled.
"Master Lu," Ahe said, "look. This is a copy of the code. I copied it."
Lu Zhu took it and turned through it. The characters were neat and even, stroke by stroke, all of them carrying strength.
"How many times have you copied it?" Lu Zhu asked.
"Three." Ahe said. "The first time, to learn the characters. The second, to remember it. The third," he scratched his head, "because I like it."
"Like what about it?"
"I like that everything it says is true principle." Ahe said. "Like ’The house is man’s vessel.’ And ’The wall does not fall, the roof does not leak, the fire does not rise.’" He paused. "My mother says that when I was small, I did not know one character. It was Sister Shafi who said I should learn them. Now I can not only read — I can copy."
"Good." Lu Zhu said. "Characters are a man’s walls. This wall of yours stands high."
"Master Lu," Ahe said, "Grandfather Chief Priest said you had come. I asked for leave, to walk you through the city."
Ahe led Lu Zhu through half the city. The official granary, the school, the medical house, the dwellings, the market. At every place, Ahe could tell a passage: this granary, Grandfather Woser watched over its building. This school, the fourth class of granary clerks has just graduated. This medical house, one room added last year. This row of houses, built by the code, lived in three years, and not one crack in the walls.
"What is your work now?" Lu Zhu asked.
"Assistant teacher at the granary clerks’ school." Ahe said. "By day, I help Grandfather Woser lead the new students. At night, I study reckoning myself."
"And Woser?"
"Grandfather Woser," Ahe said, "is old enough to have lost his teeth. But every morning, the first to the school. He says the granary clerk’s first lesson must be given before sunrise. The man who rises before sunrise is the man who can be trusted to keep a granary."
Lu Zhu laughed. "Still his old ways."
"His old ways work." Ahe said. "The fourth class of graduates are now scattered across the land. Three in the south, two in the north. Their letters home all say: what the school teaches and what the granary holds are exactly the same."
Passing the porridge shed north of the city, Ahe said: "Old Sun’s porridge shed is the public’s now. Renamed, and still called the porridge shed. On the New Year, it still opens. Old Sun says: the porridge shed’s pot must not go cold."
"And Old Sun?"
"Still here." Ahe said. "His back is failing. But every day, he still walks one circle around the stove. He says smelling the porridge settles his heart."
Lu Zhu nodded. He looked at the city’s lamps, and thought: in this city, every person is by their own pot, their own granary, their own wall. Each in their own place. This is peace.
On the day of leaving, the chief priest saw him out of the city. The two old men walked very slowly. Outside the city gate, the chief priest stopped.
"Master Lu," he said, "I will not see you farther. I am old, and cannot walk far." He paused. "But here at the city gate, I can still stand. When you turn back, I will still be here."
Lu Zhu turned back and looked. The chief priest stood at the city gate, thin and spare, like a stick of incense that had burned a very long time.
"Go back." Lu Zhu said. "The wind is strong."
"You go." the chief priest said. "I will watch."
Lu Zhu walked far, and turned back again. There at the city gate, that stick of "incense" was still standing.
Another year at the autumn equinox, he went up Date-Slope.
Nekhem had grown older still. The hand that copied scriptures trembled a little. But the characters he copied were still steady. Old Kang’s porridge was still thick. The children were a new batch. The shrine’s date tree had grown again.
"You came." Nekhem said.
"I came." Lu Zhu said.
The two men sat on the stone steps before the hall. Below the hill, the village’s hearth smoke was rising.
Old Kang brought two bowls of water. "Master," he said, "the well water is still that well water. Taste it — is it still sweet?"
Lu Zhu drank a mouthful. "Sweet. Still that sweetness."
"Then good." Old Kang said. "The well unchanged, the shrine is unchanged. The shrine unchanged, and the days below the hill are unchanged." He smiled. "Only my back is bent. The sweeping is a little slower."
"Slower is good." Nekhem said. "Swept too fast, and the loose dust flies up."
The three old men sat on the stone steps, watching the mountains. The mountains rose layer on layer, from green to blue-green, from blue-green to deep blue. In the village below the hill, a few new houses had risen. Nekhem said those were the children, building for their own families after the code.
"The first one," Nekhem said, "was the old miller’s family. His son went to the West Bank and studied half a year, came back, tore the mill down, and raised it new. Two months of raising. The day it was done, he feasted the whole village. ’This house,’ he said, ’can house three generations.’"
"A house that can house three generations," Lu Zhu said, "is a house."
"The children," Nekhem said, "are in two groups now. One group learns characters with me, one learns house-building. Both are good." He paused. "When I teach them their characters, I often think of you. You teach people to build houses, and I teach people their characters. In the end, both of us are people who hand out ladders."
"The ladders are different." Lu Zhu said. "But both of them carry people upward."
"Upward." Nekhem repeated. "Good. People walk toward the high places. But do not forget — the people on the heights must still leave an eave for the people below."
"Your road," Nekhem said, "have you found it?"
"No." Lu Zhu said.
"Still searching?"
"Still searching." Lu Zhu said. "But the search is no longer for going back. It is only for walking. For looking at the road."
Nekhem laughed. The laugh was light, like the mountain wind.
"That sentence of yours," he said, "you said it years ago."
"Back then, it was ’no longer for going back.’" Lu Zhu said. "Now even the words ’no longer’ have faded."
"Good." Nekhem said. "Obsession — gripped in the hand, it is an illness; loosened, it is medicine." He looked at the village below the hill. "You loosened yours earlier than I did. It took me three years to loosen those thirty thousand men’s torches. It took you half a lifetime to loosen a road that cannot be walked back."
"Half a lifetime." Lu Zhu said. "And worth it."
"Worth what?"
"Worth the houses, the granaries, the walls, the people along the road." Lu Zhu said. "Had I gone back early, I would have seen none of them."
Nekhem nodded. The setting sun threw the two old men’s shadows on the shrine’s wall. Shadow against shadow, like two travelers resting under the same eave.
At the leaving, Old Kang saw him down to the hillside’s middle. Into Lu Zhu’s bundle he stuffed a bag full of dried dates.
"Master," Old Kang said, "you are getting on in years. Walking, do not hurry. Tired, find a tree and sit a while." He paused. "My master says: come again, and it will be that same bowl of porridge."
"Thank your master for me." Lu Zhu said.
"My master also said," Old Kang’s voice dropped, "he said that with you, he is afraid it is one meeting fewer with every meeting."
Lu Zhu stood on the mountain path and said nothing. The wind came up from the valley’s floor and rustled the grass on both sides.
"Go back," Lu Zhu said, "and tell him. One meeting fewer with every meeting. But every meeting is solid and real. That is enough."
Old Kang wiped his eyes. "I have taken it down. Master, walk slowly."
That autumn equinox, Lu Zhu came back to the river bend.
At night, he took out "Notes on the Road Home" and turned through it, page by page.
The clues recorded on it — one, two, several dozen. Behind every one, a small circle. He turned to the last clue. Behind the last one, a circle too.
"All been to." he said in a low voice.
He turned to the first page. The four characters "Notes on the Road Home" — he had written them on the West Bank, all those years ago, stroke by stroke. The characters had all faded.
He looked the clues through once more, one by one.
The first clue was half a sentence copied from the West Bank old priest’s fragments, speaking of a "door of the sun and the moon." He had gone to search. He found an abandoned sundial platform, grown over with grass.
The second was heard from a traveling merchant: "North of the great river, there is a city hanging in the air." He had gone to search. The northern border’s people laughed, and said it was a mirage — common over the river in summer.
The third was a star chart he had drawn himself. He had compared it for over ten years. Egypt’s stars were still Egypt’s stars. Not one direction pointed anywhere else.
He looked at one, and struck it out. No, he did not strike it out. He only looked. When he had looked, he drew one more small circle behind it. Circle beside circle, like a road. A road that, walked to its end, still had no door.
"Walked to the end." he said in a low voice. "That is good too. A road walked to its end, and a man knows to turn and look back."
He closed the notebook and wrapped it in three layers of oilcloth. Then he opened the rattan chest and laid the notebook at its very bottom. Above it, pressed down, lay the code’s supplement notebook.
"Teacher." At the door stood A-Ning.
"Not asleep yet?" Lu Zhu said.
"Teacher," A-Ning said, "this notebook of yours, you have locked it away. From now on — no more searching?"
"I still search." Lu Zhu said.
"Then why lock it away?"
"Locking it away is not searching no more." Lu Zhu said. "It is putting it away properly. The search is for when I am walking. When I am not walking, I put it away. Put away, and the heart does not fluster."
A-Ning half understood.
"A-Ning," Lu Zhu said, "tell me — what does a man live one lifetime for?"
"For . . ." A-Ning thought it over. "For eating his fill, and living warm."
"All right." Lu Zhu said. "One step higher: for a place. For a place where his roots can go down." He looked out the window. "The West Bank, the new capital, the river bend. All home."
"And the teacher’s old home?"
"The old home," Lu Zhu said, "let it be a place in the dream." He smiled. "A man cannot dream forever. Waking, he must still ram the earth."
The lamp flower flared once. A-Ning topped up the oil for him.
"A-Ning," Lu Zhu said, "when I can no longer walk, this road — you walk it for me. Not searching. Walking. Walk where you walk, look at what you see. See something good, write it down and bring it back."
"Bring it back for what?"
"To add into the code." Lu Zhu said. "This book, when I can no longer write it, you go on writing it. The people who write it, generation after generation; the things it writes, one after another. Then this book will live longer than any man."
A-Ning nodded hard.
That night, the river bend’s lamps burned very late.
The next morning, Lu Zhu rose earlier than usual.
He drew water at the well and washed his face. Then he walked one circle of the settlement. At the granary, he saw its door open. The apprentices were inside, turning the grain, airing it. At the schoolhouse, he heard the reciting. At the landing, he saw the boatmen patching a pile.
"Teacher," A-Yang came up, "you look well today."
"I slept a good sleep." Lu Zhu said.
"Is it because . . . you are searching no more?" A-Yang asked carefully.
"Not searching no more." Lu Zhu said. "Putting it down." He looked out over the river. "The thing searched for half a lifetime — put down, and a man turns light. Light, and he can sleep."
"Then from now on," A-Yang said, "will you still go out the gate?"
"I will." Lu Zhu said. "The gate must be gone out, and the road must be walked. Only from now on, wherever I walk is wherever I am. And wherever I am, that is the road."
A-Yang laughed. "Teacher, that sentence could go into the code."
"It cannot go in." Lu Zhu said. "That sentence needs no writing. The people who walk come to understand it by themselves."
When spring opened, Lu Zhu was going out again.
This time, he did not carry the rattan chest. The chest stayed for the schoolhouse. He carried a small bundle — one thin supplement notebook, two charcoal sticks. A-Ning walked behind with the water skin.
"Teacher," A-Ning said, "which way this time?"
"East." Lu Zhu said. "There is a river channel I have not yet been to."
"Still going to look for . . ."
"Not searching any more." Lu Zhu said. "This time, not searching for a road. Just looking at this river."
They walked to the landing. The boats on the river came and went. Grain boats heading south, material boats heading north, small boats carrying passengers. The boatmen’s work chants rose, one after another, drifting far along the river.
Lu Zhu stood on the bank and watched a while. Then he lifted his foot and stepped onto a boat.
"Boatman," he said, "east."
The boat left the bank. The oars creaked, once, and again. The river bend’s landing grew smaller and smaller. The red cloth strips on the well rail were still there, floating lightly in the wind.
He sat at the prow, watching the water. The water was muddy, thick, running north, neither hurried nor slow. Watching and watching, he suddenly remembered the first time he had stood by this river, many years ago. In those days, his heart had been full of the panic of having no way back. Now, sitting on this river, his heart was quiet and still.
"The river," he said in a low voice, "is still this river."
The boat went on. The fields on both banks were new green. The far villages, hearth smoke. The river’s face, wide and bright, like a road. A road that could be walked on, without ever turning back.
The boat went east. The river bend fell away behind, smaller and smaller, until only that point of red on the well rail remained. Lu Zhu sat at the prow, his hands resting on his knees. The wind came off the river and lifted his graying hair, and let it fall. A-Ning sat behind him, copying his way, watching the water. The water ran on, and the boat ran on. Ahead there were still river channels not yet visited, ferries not yet seen, villages not yet met. He no longer thought of the far bank. What he thought of was the next landing — stop a while. Go ashore, look around. See how this river has raised the people on both its banks. The oars creaked, once, once, unhurried — like the days of half a lifetime, falling into the water, and floating up again.
(End of Chapter 11)