Seb’s letter came before spring opened, brought by the north line’s boats.
The letter held only a few lines: Teacher, this spring, I have asked for three months’ leave. Not retiring. I am bringing you something. Seb.
Lu Zhu read the letter twice. The first time, he read the characters. The second time, the "three months." Could the northern border’s towers do without Seb for three months? He thought it over, and laughed at himself: those towers were long past the point of falling down for the want of any one man.
"A-Yang." he called.
"Teacher."
"When spring opens," Lu Zhu said, "your senior brother Seb is coming back."
"Coming back?" A-Yang said. "Then that is fine indeed! I will take some people and get the east room ready right away." He paused. "And put aside a jar of barley beer. The north’s drink is strong; if he cannot take ours, we will thin it with water."
"Do not thin it." Lu Zhu said. "He is long past being the boy who could not hold his drink."
This year, Lu Zhu was already very old.
His hair was all white, his back a little stooped. He walked with a wooden staff. But every morning, the moment the workshop’s chisel sounds rose, he woke. Woken, he rose, washed his face, drew water, and walked one slow circle of the settlement. How many years he had walked that circle, he could not say. Which brick had been laid by which apprentice. Which tree had been planted in which year. Which seam had been washed open by which rain. He remembered them all.
"Teacher," the apprentices urged him, "your legs are not good. Walk one circle fewer."
"Walk," Lu Zhu said. "A house needs eyes on it to look like a house. A man needs to keep moving to look like a living man."
His hands were not what they had been either. Gripping the charcoal stick too long, they trembled. But he still gripped it. Every day he wrote a few lines in the supplement notebook. The characters crooked, he wrote them again. When he could no longer write, he dictated, and A-Yang wrote.
"Teacher," A-Yang said, "you dictate, I write. Rest easy — not one character will go wrong."
"It is not wrongness I fear." Lu Zhu said. "It is that some things must be written by one’s own hand. Characters written by one’s own hand carry one’s own strength of hand. The people who come after, one look, and they know this line came out of these hands."
At the well platform, he stood a while every day. The red cloth strips on the well rail had been changed who knew how many times. Each one followed the old rule: whoever cleaned the well tied the new one. He watched the red strips fly in the wind. "This well," he said, "is still young."
"A well does not grow old." A-Yang said. "A well only runs clearer with use."
"People are the same." Lu Zhu said. "The more they are used, the more they understand."
At the west end, two new houses had risen. A-Ning’s team had built them.
A-Ning was now a craftsman who could hold one side of a job alone. With six junior brothers, from reading the ground to the roofing, hand and foot, he needed no one’s help. Lu Zhu stood at a distance and watched. Watching and watching, he remembered the first time he had seen A-Ning — thin, timid, unable to carry the water loads, crying half the night. Now, on the roof beam, he sat half a day at a stretch, steady and sure.
"A-Ning," Lu Zhu said, "this house’s roof — how do you mean to do it?"
"Double pitch." A-Ning said. "The slopes spread with reed matting, pressed over with grass-ash mud. As you taught, Teacher — a double pitch sheds rain fast."
"And the wind?"
"The wind comes off the river." A-Ning said. "This row of houses — doors facing south, windows east and west. The north wall half an inch thicker. The river wind cannot get in, and the house’s smoke can get out."
"Enough." Lu Zhu said. "My questions are done. Go on with your work."
A-Ning grinned. "Teacher, you were examining me."
"Not examining." Lu Zhu said. "You answered so fast, I had nothing left to teach."
In the workshop, the chisel sounds were as dense as rain.
A dozen-odd young people — chiseling, sawing, grinding. Seeing Lu Zhu come in, they all straightened up and called, Teacher. Lu Zhu waved a hand. "Go on with your work."
He looked them over one by one. The angle of the chisels, the straightness of the saw lines, the flatness of the whetstones. At the very back, the smallest apprentice was locked in a struggle with a stone.
"Cannot chip it?" Lu Zhu asked.
"I c-can chip it." the child said. "It is just slow."
"Slow is good." Lu Zhu said. "Stone has a hard temper. Race it for speed, and it races you for breakage. Slow down, and it starts to obey you." He took the child’s chisel and showed it against the stone. "Hold the hand one inch lower, and the strength flows one part smoother. Try it."
The child tried. One stroke, another. The stone chips fell rustling down.
"Teacher," the child lifted his face, "it really saves strength!"
"The hand one inch lower," Lu Zhu said, "was taught by the stone. Remember it, and pass it to your junior brothers later."
In the schoolhouse, A-Yang was teaching.
The lesson was the House volume. On the drawing board was drawn a house. A-Yang held the charcoal stick and explained point by point: the base must be rammed, the walls must be thick, the roof must slope, the door must be true. The apprentices below, some wrote, some asked.
"Master," one apprentice raised a hand, "why must the door be true?"
"A true door," A-Yang said, "and people pass in and out without knocking or bumping. A crooked door, and people must walk sideways through it. A man walks sideways, and his heart goes sideways." He paused. "That line is the teacher’s. The first time I heard it, I did not understand either. Later, mending the neighboring village’s livestock shed, the door was crooked by one finger. At night the ox came out and knocked the door down. Only then did I understand — one finger’s crookedness is one night’s disorder."
The apprentices laughed.
Lu Zhu stood outside the window and listened a while. A-Yang taught slowly, but with substance. Every sentence carried eighteen years of the smell of earth. Lu Zhu nodded, and quietly walked away.
In the granary, two apprentices were turning the grain.
The grain was last year’s harvest. They turned it, and smelled it. One took a handful and sniffed under his nose. "No mold." he said. The other pushed his hand into the grain heap and tested the warmth. "Not hot either." he said.
"When this heap is turned," Lu Zhu said from the doorway, "take the reed matting out from the granary’s bottom and sun it. A damp mat, and the grain turns damp."
"Yes, Teacher." the two apprentices answered.
"One more thing." Lu Zhu said. "Sun the matting on a windless day. With wind, the matting’s dust all blows back into the granary."
The two apprentices looked at each other, and one stuck out his tongue. "Teacher, you even keep this in hand."
"In a granary’s affairs," Lu Zhu said, "there are no small matters." He paused. "One grain gone to mold is half a day’s food for one family. What you are turning is not grain. It is days."
In the medical hut, there were no patients. The apprentice on duty was airing the medicines in the sun. On the medicine rack, drawer after drawer, all stacked neat. Seeing Lu Zhu, the apprentice hurried to his feet.
"Teacher," he said, "no patients today."
"No patients is a good thing." Lu Zhu said. "Medicine idle is better than people sick." He looked at the rack. "This rack is due for a coat of linseed oil. Before you oil it, move the medicines away first. Oil smell into the medicine, and the medicine is ruined."
"Taken down." the apprentice said.
"One more thing." Lu Zhu said. "Tuxi’s last letter says the river valley’s medical point wants two more medicine racks. Write him back and say the river bend’s old racks, we will spare him two. Old racks, their wood settled — better for holding medicine."
"Then I will answer as the teacher says."
"Answer." Lu Zhu said. "Medicine is not divided into north and south. And medicine, neither."
The river bend’s landing had grown. Seven piles, now nine. Meru’s merchant house sent material every year. The landing’s board had been replaced too. The words on it were still the two lines: "Boats coming and going may all rest here. Water, in the well." The characters, Lu Zhu touched up every year. This year, he could no longer touch them up. A-Yang did. When it was done, Lu Zhu looked. When he had looked, he said: "Your characters are better-looking than mine."
"The teacher’s characters have strength." A-Yang said.
"My characters were practiced with a charcoal stick." Lu Zhu said. "Yours were practiced with the ledger. The characters of the ledger are the most solid of all."
On the landing, an old boatman was patching a pile. He hummed a work chant as he worked, wrapping hemp rope around the pile, round after round.
"Old master," Lu Zhu said, "how many more years will this pile serve?"
"Another ten." the old boatman said. "The pile was driven by good hands. The day it was driven, I watched. Every blow fell on solid earth." He patted the pile’s body. "A pile — solid or not, one knock tells all. Listen —" He took his hammer and tapped once, lightly. The pile gave a "wong," deep and even.
"A good sound." Lu Zhu said.
"The same sound as knocking a good wall." the old boatman said. "Both solid at the heart."
"Old master," Lu Zhu asked, "how many years have you worked this landing?"
"Eight." the old boatman said. "My first day, the landing had three piles. Now, nine." He narrowed his eyes. "I have counted — in these eight years, seventeen hundred-odd boats have rested here. Not one has had an incident here."
"Seventeen hundred-odd." Lu Zhu said. "You keep the count clear."
"In this trade, other things I cannot remember." the old boatman said. "But boats, I remember clearly." He went on wrapping the hemp rope. "One boat is one family’s days. The boat comes to shore, and the hearts come to ground. What my piles hold is not only boats. It is days."
In the market, people pressed against people. Fish-sellers, date-sellers, salt-sellers, mat-sellers. An old flatbread seller, seeing Lu Zhu come, shouted at the top of his lungs: "Old master, hot flatbreads! Fresh out of the oven!"
"One." Lu Zhu said.
The old man wrapped it in a lotus leaf and held it over. "Old master, I have sold flatbreads here six years now. The first year, it was you who taught me — the bread must be thin, the fire even, the pan wiped bright."
"Now," Lu Zhu said, "you bake better than I do."
"Heh-heh." the old man laughed. "Thanks to your good fortune. That stove of mine, I changed the flue after your word too. Now, two hundred a day."
"Two hundred," Lu Zhu said, "feeds half a market."
"Not enough." the old man said. "On the New Year, even five hundred would not be enough."
On the road home, A-Yang handed over a letter.
"A-Shi’s." A-Yang said. "This morning’s boat."
Lu Zhu opened it right there by the roadside. A-Shi’s characters were still slow, stroke by stroke. The letter said: Teacher, my mother is gone. Last month. Before she went, she had me support her and walk one circle of the house. This house, she said, is good. My son, she said, has made something of himself. At the letter’s end stood: Teacher, the house, I keep it. The fields, I work them. The village’s children who want to learn the craft, I teach them. Rest easy.
Lu Zhu read it through, folded the letter, and put it inside his coat.
"A-Shi," he said, "has made it too."
"Senior brother A-Shi," A-Yang said, "is the number-one craftsman of his village. Last time senior brother Mery passed through on the granary tour, he came back saying that for ten li in every direction, they all ask senior brother A-Shi to build."
"In those years," Lu Zhu said, "he copied the House volume with the most heart. He said: once I have learned, I will build my mother a house." He paused. "The house he built for his mother — his mother lived in it."
"She lived in it." A-Yang said.
"That is enough." Lu Zhu said. "A man learns the craft, and the first house he builds is for his mother. Built, and he can never put the craft down. It must be passed on. His mother, up in the sky, is watching."
Lu Zhu chewed the flatbread and walked up the slope. The bread was still hot. The lotus leaf’s fragrance mixed with the wheat’s.
The slope stood behind the shoal. Not high. But from its top, one could see the whole river bend, the river, the fields on the south bank, and very far to the north.
Lu Zhu climbed the slope, step by step.
On the slope was a stone. The stone was worn bright from sitting — his sitting. These years, whenever he was free, he climbed the slope to sit. Watching the water, the boats, the people, the smoke.
"It has even been sat into a hollow." he said, feeling the stone. "Stones know people too."
He sat down. The wind came off the river, soft.
On the river’s face, boats came and went.
The boatmen’s work chants rose, one after another. One for weighing anchor, one for turning, one for coming to shore. The chants had no words, yet every line landed solidly on the oars.
"How many years have these chants been sung?" Lu Zhu thought. On the West Bank, they had been there already. In the new capital, they had rung louder. Now, on the river bend’s landing, they could be heard from morning to night. The chants unbroken, the river does not grow old.
One boat, deep in the water, was a grain boat. Its prow pressed down the waves, slowly, northward. He remembered that many years ago, the boats had been the same. The siege of Thebes — Meru’s boats crossed the battle lines by night. The bottoms scraped along the riverbed. That night’s moon had lit the river white and bright.
Another boat carried material — lime, grass fiber, timber piles. The boatmen worked bare-backed, shouting the chants. He remembered the West Bank’s first house. In those days, proper timber was beyond buying. The walls were mud brick. The roof was reed matting. He had led people in ramming, brick by brick. Ramming done, he stood below the wall and said: "From now on, this is home."
On the south bank, the fields lay green, patch after patch. On the field banks, someone drove the cattle. He remembered the new capital’s Great Ceremony. The day the sunlight filled the altar, the whole city looked up. He had stood in the crowd, feeling that the sunlight had shone through everything.
To the north, the sky was clean. The wall could not be seen. But he knew the wall was there. The towers were there. He remembered the northern border’s wind and snow. Seb’s letters said the ice on the wall was a span thick. The men who held the wall, one man, one spear, stood like nails.
He watched, and remembered. The wind lifted his white hair, and let it fall.
He remembered arriving on the West Bank the first time. Burned ground as far as the eye could see. No houses, no granaries, no wells. People in the wild ground, wrapped in rags, pressed together. In those days, he had not known what he could do. He only knew he could mend houses. Then mend them. The day the first wall rose, the displaced people gathered around it and felt it, again and again. An old woman felt to the wall’s top. "This wall," she said, "is truly warm." That was the sun’s doing. But in her heart, it was the breath of life.
He remembered the new capital’s whole-city plan. The central axis, the four functional zones. One plan, drawn in three months. The pharaoh came to see it in person, and when he had seen it, said: "This is the new capital We wanted." How many people lived in that city now, he did not know. He only knew that the city had been raised by "people can live, grain can be stored, goods can move, sickness can be treated." A city standing, and its people have roots.
He remembered Thebes’s city wall. In the siege days, day and night, the emergency mending. Arrows over the head, earth down from the baskets. Kamon shouted his voice hoarse, Hapy’s hands were worn raw. But the wall grew taller, foot by foot. The city’s old people said: "This wall was fed with lives." He had not argued. He only said: "The wall stands, and the lives were not fed for nothing."
He remembered the northern border’s wind and snow. Seb’s letters wrote that the ice on the wall was a span thick. The soldiers who held the wall, one man, one spear, stood like nails. He had never seen that wind and snow. But he had drawn that wall’s plan. He knew that behind every foot of wall there was a man, his hands warmed in his coat, his spear held to his chest.
He remembered the law stele of the twelve characters. Before the palace gate, wind and rain had beaten it. Those twelve characters: "No levies in the busy season. Paid labor in the idle season. Every requisition kept on the books." Carved into the stone. The children passing by touched them with their hands. Touched enough, and the characters shone bright.
He remembered the south border’s river valley. Kes’s letters said the Old Spring’s water had run clear. The grain-sunning ground moved below the slope, and no more waterlogging. Outside the low wall, two small towers had risen after the northern border’s fashion. The night watchers, one smoke to report peace. That river valley and the river bend were a thousand li apart. But the rules were the same rules.
"All of it has stood up." he said in a low voice.
The wind came off the river, carrying the water’s damp and the reeds’ fragrance. The fields on the south bank shone green. The sky to the north stood high without an end.
He suddenly understood one thing. All these years, he had thought it was himself mending Egypt. Mending houses, mending granaries, mending walls, mending laws. In truth, it was Egypt mending him. Mending a man full of the wish to go back into a man who could put down roots anywhere.
"Roots," he said, "once down, cannot be pulled up."
He stood up. His knees gave a click. He did not mind. Leaning on the wooden staff, he looked down the slope. The river bend below was steaming warm. Stove smoke, market voices, chisel sounds, reading sounds — like a pot of porridge simmering on a slow fire, bubbling, fragrant.
"In this bustle," he said to himself, "is hidden the peace of the next hundred years."
"Old uncle!"
A child ran up the slope. Seven or eight years old, barefoot, a twig gripped in his hand.
"Old uncle," the child said, "what are you sitting here watching?"
"The river." Lu Zhu said.
"What is there to watch in a river?" the child said. "It flows every day, and every day it is the same."
"The same," Lu Zhu said, "is exactly what is good to watch."
The child cocked his head, not understanding. He came closer. "Old uncle, are you from the river bend?"
"I am." Lu Zhu said.
"Then have you seen the great Master Imhotep?"
Lu Zhu was taken aback a moment.
"They say," the child said, "that he lived here once. He built so many, many houses, so many, many granaries." The child’s eyes shone bright. "My pa says the great Master Imhotep is the best house-builder under the sky. Have you seen him?"
"I have." Lu Zhu said.
"What sort of man is he?"
Lu Zhu thought it over. "A . . . house-builder." he said.
"Just that?" The child was disappointed. "My pa says he can make walls grow by themselves."
"Walls do not grow by themselves." Lu Zhu said. "Walls are rammed up by people, brick by brick."
"What about you?" the child asked. "Can you build houses?"
"A little." Lu Zhu said.
"Then teach me!" The child raised the twig. "I draw houses on the ground with this. Look — is it right?"
The child crouched and drew on the dirt with the twig. A square frame, a triangular roof, a door.
"The door is drawn crooked." Lu Zhu said. "The door must face south. A south-facing door lets the sun in."
"Oh!" The child rubbed the door out and drew it again.
"One more thing." Lu Zhu said. "A house cannot have only a door. It must have windows. With windows, the wind can get in. The wind in, and the people living there do not feel stifled."
The child added windows. Drawn, he lifted his face: "Old uncle, what about this time?"
"This time," Lu Zhu said, "it looks like a home."
The child ran off happily. A few steps on, he turned and shouted back: "Old uncle, I will come again tomorrow!"
Lu Zhu waved him off. He watched the barefoot child run far, watched the small row of footprints he stamped in the shoal. It came to him suddenly that on this river bend slope, there would be someone to sit after him. On this river bend shoal, there would be someone to draw houses after him.
The next day, the child truly came. And brought two more.
Three children, in a row, crouched on the slope, one twig each, drawing houses.
"Old uncle," the first one said, "look at mine. The door faces south now."
"It faces south." Lu Zhu said. "But you forgot the flue. Without a flue, the cooking smoke all pours into the house."
"What is a flue?"
"That slanted one behind the roof." Lu Zhu drew it on the ground with a twig. "The smoke goes out this way. Bend it around, and the wind cannot blow it back. The fire burns bright, and the house stays clear."
The three children copied it. Drew and rubbed, rubbed and drew. The slope’s dirt was covered with their drawings, patch after patch.
"Old uncle," the smallest one asked, "tell me — why must a house not fall down?"
"Because the base is laid well." Lu Zhu said. "The base is the house’s root. The root deep, and the wind cannot blow it down, the water cannot wash it away."
"Then is my base deep?" The child drew a small square frame.
"Your base," Lu Zhu said, "still floats on the earth’s surface. Come, I will teach you to ram."
He had the child pick up a flat stone. Taking the stone, he patted the drawn base line, blow by blow.
"Do you see?" he said. "Ram. One ram, and the earth is three parts more solid. Three rams, and nine parts. The earth solid, and the base is steady. A house on a steady base — only then does the man living in it sleep sound."
The children copied him, patting the mud lines with stones. They patted the dust into clouds, and every one of them became a little flower-face.
"Old uncle," the first child said, "my pa says that when the great Master Imhotep taught people to build houses, his first lesson was ramming earth too."
"Your pa has seen the great Master Imhotep?"
"No." the child said. "My pa heard it from my grandpa. My grandpa used to live on the West Bank." He lifted his face. "Old uncle, tell me — did my grandpa see the great Master Imhotep?"
"Perhaps." Lu Zhu said.
"Then my grandpa is amazing!" The child preened. "Like having seen a god!"
Lu Zhu laughed. He did not say that he was, at that very moment, sitting before them. He only put the twig back in the child’s hand. "Go on drawing." he said. "Drawing houses, the hand must not stop."
When the sun slanted west, A-Yang came up the slope to find him.
"Teacher," A-Yang said, "the wind is cool on the slope. Come back."
"Sit a while more." Lu Zhu said.
A-Yang sat down beside him. Two men, one white-haired, the other with white in his hair too.
"A-Yang," Lu Zhu said, "how many years have you followed me?"
"Ten and more." A-Yang said. "From the Thebes guild to the new capital, and then to the river bend."
"Ten and more." Lu Zhu said. "The first year, you were a green lad. You could not even dig a well straight."
"Now," A-Yang said, "the well is under my keeping."
"From now on," Lu Zhu said, "the affairs of this place — you decide."
A-Yang turned to look at him. "Teacher . . ."
"Do not panic." Lu Zhu said. "I am not leaving. I mean that this place has long been yours." He looked out over the river bend. "The well was cleaned by you, the walls patched by you, the granary kept by you, the books copied by you. Me — I am only the gatekeeper. A gatekeeper, one day, must hand over the key."
"You are still hale." A-Yang said.
"Hale or not," Lu Zhu said, "the key must have hands to take it. You take it, and my heart rests."
A-Yang said nothing more. The two men sat still. Below the slope, the river bend lit its lamps. One, two, a whole stretch. In the workshop, the chisel sounds still rang. In the schoolhouse, the reciting still rose. By the landing, the boatmen’s chants still carried.
"A-Yang," Lu Zhu said after a while, "do you remember the first account you ever kept?"
"I do." A-Yang said. "That day, the market took in eleven copper pieces. I wrote down eleven copper pieces — right. But the goods’ names, I wrote three wrong. You did not scold me. You had me go to the stalls, one by one, and ask about the three wrong ones."
"And you asked?"
"I asked." A-Yang said. "From that day, I knew that every character in an account must stand against one real thing."
"Now," Lu Zhu said, "every character in your account stands against a real thing. Your account could go into the household-register model. Your lessons, the apprentices love to hear. Your walls, I cannot find fault in them." He paused. "A-Yang, I am not handing the river bend to you. I am handing it back to itself. You are only the first to put out your hand and take it."
"Teacher," A-Yang said, "rest easy. While I am here, the river bend is here."
"While you are here," Lu Zhu said, "the river bend is here."
"A-Yang," Lu Zhu said, "listen."
"To what?"
"To these sounds." Lu Zhu said. "Chisel sounds, reciting sounds, chant sounds, water sounds. These sounds are more solid than anything."
"Teacher," A-Yang said, "you are taking the river bend’s pulse."
Lu Zhu laughed. "Right. Taking the river bend’s pulse. The pulse steady, and the people are at peace."
In the days after spring opened, Lu Zhu went to the landing every day.
"Teacher," A-Yang said, "senior brother Seb said spring. He did not say which day. You go every day, and you will sit through the landing."
"It will not be sat through." Lu Zhu said. "I am only going to look at the boats." He paused. "The north’s boats, one after another. Whichever boat he stands at the prow of, I will know it at one glance."
"And if he comes by the dry road?"
"By the dry road," Lu Zhu said, "he comes by the post road. From one li off, he can be seen." Lu Zhu looked north. "No hurry. He said he would come, and come he will. A man like Seb keeps his word. Since the age of fourteen, he has never once broken it."
He said no hurry with his mouth, but he went every day. To the landing, and sat a while. Talked with the boatmen, watched the water, watched the northern sky. A boat from the south came, and he asked: "How is the north?" The boatmen said: "Good. The wall good, the towers good, the people good." He nodded, and went on sitting.
"Old master," one boatman teased, "are you waiting for a son?"
"A disciple." Lu Zhu said.
"Then all the more worth waiting." the boatman said. "A disciple is half a son."
On the tenth day after spring opened, Seb arrived.
When the boat came to the landing, Lu Zhu was already standing there. Seb stood at the prow, white in his hair too. He jumped off the boat, walked to Lu Zhu, knelt first, and kowtowed once.
"Teacher."
"Get up." Lu Zhu said. "The road was hard."
"Not hard." Seb said. "All along the road, good days."
What Seb had brought was an oilcloth packet. He opened it layer by layer. Inside was a roll of plan.
"Teacher," he said, "I have drawn you a house plan."
Lu Zhu unrolled it.
On the plan were three rooms. Facing south. One open hall, two inner rooms. The workshop to the east, the schoolhouse to the north. The well, drawn below the slope. The landing, drawn on the shoal’s south. At the plan’s corners stood the measurements. At the plan’s upper right stood a small tower, and beside the tower a line of characters: "The tower, I give to the northern border. The house, I give to my teacher."
"You have drawn towers half your life," Lu Zhu said, "and your houses are drawn just as fine."
"A tower is keeping." Seb said. "A house is peace. Keeping is for the sake of peace." He paused. "Up north, drawing towers, drawing and drawing, I understood. The tower stands there not to hold anything back. It stands so that the people behind it can draw their houses, safe and steady."
"Good." Lu Zhu said. "That line is worth more than the plan."
"Teacher," Seb said, "keep the plan. This time I have come, there is one more matter."
"Say it."
"I want to stay at the river bend," Seb said, "three months. Not resting. Working with you, going over all the supplements you have written these years. The north’s methods, the south’s methods — what I can add, I will add it all in."
"And the north’s towers?"
"A-Yan keeps them." Seb said. "He draws the plans, and my heart rests. Besides, my four disciples hold the four corners. Three months without me, and the wall will not fall down."
"Done." Lu Zhu said. "Stay. The east room has long been got ready for you."
Master and disciple walked toward the courtyard. Seb walked very slowly, very steadily, as if walking along a line of his own drawing. Watching his back, Lu Zhu suddenly thought: on the West Bank’s burned ground all those years ago, the boy crouched at the wall’s foot drawing — now he has become a wall himself.
That night, Seb told of the north.
"General Horen," Seb said, "is still hale. Only his knees have gone. The wall-touring has changed to horseback. The horse is old too, and the man is old; one man, one horse, slow and easy. The soldiers say: wherever the general tours, that stretch of wall stands especially straight."
"And Mu-A?" Lu Zhu asked.
"Mu-A has risen." Seb said. "He keeps the construction soldiers’ four squads. Last autumn, the pharaoh commended the border army, and he won a bronze plaque. He nailed the plaque to the first stretch of wall he ever laid. ’The wall remembers for me,’ he said, ’and I remember for the wall.’"
"And A-Yan?"
"A-Yan," Seb said, "has taught out seven disciples. His tower plans, the north’s soldiers fight over. Once I examined him: ’If a tower falls, what do you save first?’ He said: ’First the people. Then the plans. The plans gone, they can be drawn again. The people gone, and the plans have their root cut.’" Seb paused. "I heard it and was long silent. That line sounded like me, and yet not."
"Like you." Lu Zhu said. "You taught him."
"And Old River." Seb said. "Last year’s great water, he kept watch by the river three days and three nights. Little River urged him home; he would not go. He said the water gate’s net, he had watched it being hung. When the great water comes, he must watch the great water go." Seb drank a mouthful. "The water receded, and the net held. Old River went home and slept two whole days. His first words on waking: ’The net is still there.’"
"All there." Lu Zhu said. "You are all there."
Seb settled in at the river bend.
On the second day, Seb gave the apprentices a lesson.
It was on the tower.
"A tower," he drew a circle on the drawing board, "is the wall’s eye." He drew the wall, the tower, the lines. "The wall is horizontal, the tower vertical. The horizontal holds, the vertical watches. The earlier the seeing, the firmer the holding."
The apprentices listened, spellbound. One child asked: "Uncle-master, why are the towers all built so tall?"
"Tall, to see far." Seb said. "The north’s towers stand twenty feet above the wall. On a clear day, they see thirty li." He paused. "But a tower tall, and the wind is strong. So the tower’s body must be half a foot thicker than the wall. The base, two feet deeper. These are numbers measured with lives."
"With lives?" The children’s eyes went wide.
"The first batch of towers," Seb said, "one night of great wind, the lamps on the tower all went out. Not that the lamps were bad — the wind poured in through the watch opening and blew the flame back on itself." He added two strokes to the drawing with the charcoal stick. "After that, the watch openings were changed to face south. And a wind baffle was added. From then on, however great the wind, the lamps do not go out." He looked at the children. "Remember this. Every stroke on a plan has eaten a loss. Eating a loss is nothing to fear. What is to be feared is eating a loss and not learning from it."
"Uncle-master," A-Ning asked, "can the northern border’s wall really hold back so many people?"
"It holds back no people." Seb said. "What it holds is hearts. The people come, and the wall is there. The wall there, and the men who hold the wall are there. The men who hold it do not leave, and the wall cannot be pushed down." He paused. "My teacher said: the wall is built by men. As long as men can build, the wall is always there."
The apprentices nodded. Lu Zhu sat in the room’s corner and listened to the whole lesson without one word.
"Teacher," Seb asked when the lesson was over, "did I teach it all right?"
"All right." Lu Zhu said. "You teach better than I do. What I teach is principle. What you teach is life."
"Principle and life," Seb said, "are one thing."
"They are one thing." Lu Zhu said. "Principle is what the people before bought with their lives. Life is what the people after keep by the principle."
By day, master and disciple checked plans in the workshop. Seb drew, Lu Zhu looked. At a place that mattered, Lu Zhu added one stroke with the charcoal stick. Seb understood at once. Of the three months’ leave, two went by before they had gone through the supplements once.
Checking to the "wall," Seb said: "The north’s wall foot, grass ash, a foot and a half. The frozen ground taught that. But the east’s river-shoal ground — grass ash does not work there. The shoal’s earth eats the ash. There you must bed the bottom with crushed stone, then spread the reed matting."
"Right." Lu Zhu said. "That is why the code writes ’read the soil before you choose the material.’ The north’s ash, the south’s stone, the east shoal’s reeds. The soil different, and the recipe different." He paused. "The worst thing a book can write is ’everywhere is the same.’ Everywhere the same equals everywhere wrong."
Checking to the "well," Seb said: "The north’s wells are shallow. In winter they freeze, so they must be dug deeper, and a grass shed raised over the well mouth. The south’s wells are deep. In the hot days, the well water turns warm. Two trees must be planted beside the well platform, for shade."
"All of this of yours," Lu Zhu said, "was walked out."
"All of it." Seb said. "The first two years, I took the soldiers from well to well, looking. Looked enough, and the way of it came out." He smiled. "Teacher, is our craft not just this? Seeing more, thinking more, erring more, and in the end, getting it right more."
"It is." Lu Zhu said. "The craft — half in the hands, half in the errors."
Checking to the "lamp," Seb stopped. "Teacher," he said, "the ’lamp’ section, I want to write two lines more."
"Write."
"The north border’s lamps," Seb said, "are of two kinds. The tower lamps are for outside the wall to see. The camp lamps are for inside the wall to see." He lifted the brush. "’Tower lamps like spears, camp lamps like home.’ That line, I want to write in."
Lu Zhu heard it and was long silent. At last he said: "Write it. These eight words are enough for the people who come after to remember all their lives."
"Tower lamps like spears, camp lamps like home." he repeated. "Seb, what you write now is no longer a book. It is life."
When the last article was checked through, Seb stacked the sheaf of papers neat and square. "Teacher," he said, "this round, I will copy three sets. One stays at the river bend, one goes back to the northern border with me, one goes by boat to the new capital’s State Construction Archive."
"Three sets." Lu Zhu said. "Good. A book must be passed on so. One set in hand, two on the road. The book on the road — that is what passing on means."
"Teacher," Seb said, "these supplements of yours are enough for half a book."
"Write it." Lu Zhu said. "You write. When it is written, take it back north, and let the soldiers on the wall copy a passage each."
"I cannot write it well." Seb said.
"You write it." Lu Zhu said. "What you write, the soldiers can read. What I write is for the people who come after. What you write is for the wall that stands now. Both are needed."
So Seb wrote. At night, he sat under the lamp, writing stroke by stroke. Lu Zhu sat beside him, watching. Watching and watching, he fell asleep. Seb laid a coat over him, and went on writing.
In the second month, master and disciple patched a wall.
At the west wall’s foot, a patch of the wall’s skin had blistered in the winter’s freeze. Lu Zhu had seen it early. "I waited for you to come, to patch it together." he said. Seb asked why. Lu Zhu said: "The wall you patch and the northern border’s wall are one principle. Patch one in the south, and you understand why the north’s soldiers patch the wall every year."
So Seb set to work. Scraping the shell, mixing the mud, three parts lime. The first coat thin, the second thick, the third to level it true. His hand was as steady as drawing a line.
"Teacher," he said as he spread, "the northern border’s wall is patched twice a year. Once when spring opens, once after autumn. In spring, the freeze-cracks. After autumn, the rain-washes."
"Patching a wall," Lu Zhu said, "patches the wall, and the heart too. The seam on the wall patched, and the soldiers sleep. Your heart, too, settles."
"It does." Seb said. "One year, the east section cracked a seam. I slept badly for three days. The fourth day, patched, and I came back and fell straight asleep. A-Yan laughed at me: senior brother, you treat the wall as your own house. I said: behind the wall live several hundred thousand people. Whose house is that big?"
Lu Zhu laughed. Master and disciple, one scraping, one spreading, and by noon the west wall’s foot was patched flat and even.
"Look." Lu Zhu stepped back two paces.
Seb stepped back two paces too. The two men stood side by side, looking at the newly patched wall.
"It can stand another thirty years." Seb said.
"Thirty years is the wall." Lu Zhu said. "Later, when the wall grows old, it will be patched again. And the man who patches it must also have someone to teach him."
"Teach." Seb said. "The north’s construction soldiers — their first lesson is patching the wall."
One evening, master and disciple went up the slope.
It was Seb’s first time on this slope. He stood at the top and looked north. The northern sky lay heavy and still. He looked a long while.
"Teacher," he said, "the north, seen from this slope of yours, is different."
"How different?"
"What the north sees is the wall." Seb said. "What you see from here is the days." He paused. "From the wall, I watch the river, and it is a road for carrying grain. From this slope, you watch the river, and it is water that feeds people."
"Both right." Lu Zhu said. "One river feeds two ways of watching." He pointed at the river’s face. "Look at that boat."
On the river’s face, a grain boat was slowly heading north.
"That boat," Lu Zhu said, "carries grain, and carries lives too. You keep the wall, and the wall keeps the people. The people grow the grain, and the grain feeds the wall back. That circle is the days."
"Teacher," Seb said, "I did not understand before. I always thought of drawing the towers well and building the wall high. Only now do I see that the towers and the wall all exist for this circle of days."
"Understood is good." Lu Zhu said. "Understood, and the towers are drawn higher, and the wall is built firmer."
On the last night before the leaving, master and disciple sat under the lamp again.
Outside, the rain had begun. Not heavy — rustling against the reed-mat roof.
"Teacher," Seb said, "these three months are the best-slept three months of my recent years."
"In the north, you do not sleep well?"
"I sleep unsteady." Seb said. "At night there is always wind. The wind rises, and I think — the lamps on the wall, are they out or not." He paused. "At your place, the wind sound is the wind sound. Listening and listening, I fall asleep."
"Then come more often." Lu Zhu said.
"I will." Seb said. "From now on, once a year. Bringing plans."
"Good." Lu Zhu said. "At the river bend, I keep a lamp for you."
The rain stopped. The moonlight leaked through the clouds’ seams and silvered the courtyard.
"Teacher," Seb said, "there is one question I have always wanted to ask."
"Ask."
"Do you regret it?" Seb said. "Staying in Egypt. Not going back."
Lu Zhu said nothing. He looked at the moonlight outside the window. After a long while, he said: "No regret."
"Why?"
"Because here," Lu Zhu said, "there are houses, granaries, walls, laws. There are all of you." He turned to look at Seb. "A man’s one lifetime — to have stood up this many things on one stretch of ground, what is there left to regret."
"And home?" Seb said. "You no longer think of it?"
"I think of it." Lu Zhu said. "And thinking of it, I turn this side into home. A man cannot live his days while looking back over his shoulder. Look back too long, and the road runs crooked."
Seb nodded. Master and disciple sat long in the moonlight. Neither spoke any more. The river outside ran hush, hush, as if speaking for them the words they had not said.
The three months full, Seb was to leave.
Two days before the leaving, Seb still helped the market mend two stall frames. One stall’s leg had gone spongy with water. He re-jointed it with mortise and tenon. Joined, he pushed at it. "Another five years." he said. The stall-holder was a date-selling woman; she pressed a double handful of dates on him. He would not take them. The woman said: "Take them. The north has none as sweet as ours."
Seb took them. He wrapped the dates in cloth, one by one, and tucked them into his pack.
"For the soldiers on the tower." he said. "Let them taste, too, the south’s sweetness."
At the landing, A-Yang had packed him a bundle of food. Lu Zhu saw him to the boat’s side.
"Teacher," Seb said, "take care of yourself. Next year, I will come again."
"Come." Lu Zhu said. "Bring your plans. Tower plans, house plans — either will do."
"One more thing." Lu Zhu said. "The year you can no longer draw towers, come to the river bend. The river bend’s houses are waiting for you to draw them."
"That line," Seb said, "I have said it for quite a few years."
"Now," Lu Zhu said, "it is my turn to say it."
Seb laughed. He boarded the boat and stood at the prow, waving to Lu Zhu. The boat left the bank, the oars creaking. Lu Zhu stood on the landing until the boat became a small point on the river’s face.
The apprentices gathered around. "Teacher," they said, "come back."
"Back." Lu Zhu said.
He walked back, and halfway, stopped. He turned and looked north. The northern sky was blue to the point of heaviness. The boat could no longer be seen. But he knew the boat would go on north, until it saw the wall, saw the towers, saw the white-haired old general on the wall.
"A lifetime of master and disciple," he said in a low voice, "is sending people, one by one, to the places they ought to go."
"Teacher," A-Yang said, "you have it backwards."
"How backwards?"
"It was you who first built them into people who could go to those places." A-Yang said. "Sending is sending. But first there must be someone worth sending."
Lu Zhu smiled and said nothing. Leaning on the wooden staff, he walked slowly toward the courtyard. The staff tapped the ground, once, once. That sound and the ramming sound of many years ago were one rhythm.
That night, Lu Zhu did not sleep.
He sat under the lamp and spread Seb’s house plan on the desk. The three rooms on the plan, the well, the landing, the tower. He looked at them one by one. Looking and looking, he smiled.
"This child," he said in a low voice, "has drawn the river bend into a second northern border. And drawn the northern border into a second river bend."
He walked to the wall and took down one thing — the old ebony ruler. Its corners were worn round. Taking the ruler, he measured the door on the plan.
"The door’s width," he said, "is exactly right."
He blew out the lamp. In the dark, he heard from the workshop one small sound. Some apprentice, chiseling something through the night. Once, once, steady — like the pulse of this country.
He lay in the dark and thought: this sound will be passed on.
From the river bend to the West Bank, from the West Bank to the new capital, from the new capital to Thebes, from Thebes to the northern border, from the northern border to the river valley. Wherever it is passed, there someone is awake. The waking ones chisel, lay, ram. This generation can no longer chisel, and the next takes it up. The next can no longer chisel, and the next after.
"The flame passed on." he said in a low voice.
Those two characters, he had written them in his book. Now, he heard them.
Outside the window, the moon climbed up. The river bend’s water lay white and shining. The wind came off the river and swayed the courtyard’s clothesline, gently. On the line hung an apprentice’s jacket. The jacket was old, patched with two patches. But washed clean.
"All is well." he said.
He closed his eyes. The water sound, the chisel sound, the wind sound — together, they made the most solid night in the world.
The moon had risen. The river bend’s lamps were out. But the river still ran, the boats still moved, the chisel sounds had not stopped. Lu Zhu lay in bed, listening to that sound, once and again — as if hearing, from the West Bank’s burned ground of many years ago, the first ramming. In those days, only a few people stood around him. Now, this sound traveled from the northern border’s wall to the south border’s river valley, from the new capital’s craft school to Thebes’s school. He turned over, facing in. He knew that waking tomorrow morning, there would be new walls to raise, new granaries to fill, and a new child to ask him: "Old uncle, can you build houses?" He would say, yes. Then he would crouch down, and stroke by stroke, teach the child to draw a door, draw a window, draw a home that looked like a home.
(End of Chapter 12)