Chapter 130 - 9: A Chance Meeting with an Old Friend — In the Temple, Nekhem at Last

Chapter 130: Chapter 9: A Chance Meeting with an Old Friend — In the Temple, Nekhem at Last

The day Lu Zhu set out was the autumn equinox.

On his back he carried the rattan chest, and in it the code’s supplement notebook, a stack of blank paper, and a few charcoal sticks. A-Yang wanted to come along. "This time," he said, "I go alone."

"Teacher," A-Yang said, "the road is long."

"Because the road is long, I go alone." Lu Zhu said. "Some places must be walked slowly. Some things must be said to oneself."

He left the settlement and walked south along the river. The river bend’s reeds were putting out their last white plumes. The wind stirred them, and the white went rolling far — like a whole river of old men’s heads.

The apprentices saw him to the landing and stood in a row.

"Teacher," A-Yang said, "the weather has turned cold. On the road, do not sleep out in the wild at night."

"I know." Lu Zhu said.

"Teacher," A-Shi said, "when the supplement notebook is used up, send word by someone, and I will bring you more."

"I know." Lu Zhu said.

The smallest one squeezed out a line too: "Teacher, the well — we clean it every day."

"Good." Lu Zhu said. "The home, I leave in your hands."

He boarded the boat. As it left the bank, the apprentices were still waving. He sat at the prow and watched the river bend’s houses grow smaller and smaller. It came to him suddenly that in this life he had seen off many people, and been seen off just as many times. Every time, the river was like this — unhurried, leaving the one seeing off and the one seen off each on their own side.

He walked slowly. By day he walked, looking at houses and granaries and walls. At night he lodged in villages and talked with the householders. Talking, old stories came out: whose family’s old house was raised in what year; which abandoned granary had half an old stele buried under it; the old shrine in the hills whose columns were single blocks of stone, cut, it was said, by a craftsman of hundreds of years ago who had chiseled three years for them.

Lu Zhu wrote all of it into the supplement notebook.

"Master," a householder who lodged him asked, "what are you hunting for, with all these old things?"

"Filling in the book." Lu Zhu said. "The new methods are all written. The old ones must also have their shadow left for the people who come after."

"Leaving the shadow is good." the householder said. "People cannot be kept, but a shadow can. With the shadow kept, the young will know what this place once had."

One day he lodged in a village called Two-Locust.

In the village stood an old house, abandoned. Half the wall had fallen; the half that stood still showed the old care: the footing was of green stone, the joints staggered and pressed tight; the windows were narrow and faced south. The village’s old people said the house had belonged to an old priest’s family, and that after the temples’ authority was overturned, the household had scattered and the house had gone to waste.

Lu Zhu circled that half wall and looked at it for a full hour. "This wall," he said, "is a good wall. The man who laid it was a good hand." He crouched and broke off a piece of the wall’s skin, and rolled it between his fingers. "Three parts lime worked into the mud. No wonder it still stands after all these decades."

In the supplement notebook he wrote: "Two-Locust Village old house — green-stone footing, three parts lime, narrow windows facing south. Worth recording."

At night he talked idly with the old man who lodged him. The old man said: "Master, tell me — should that house be mended, or not?"

"It should." Lu Zhu said.

"But no one will mend it." the old man said. "An old god’s house. Mend it, and people will talk."

"A house is a house." Lu Zhu said. "The god is gone, but the craft remains. The wall is a good wall, and it is a pity to leave it waste." He paused. "From now on, the code must hold an article — an old house, whoever’s family it belonged to, so long as the craft in it is good, must be kept."

"Written into the book?" the old man asked.

"Written." Lu Zhu said. "Good building knows no new or old, no god’s or people’s."

Lu Zhu nodded. He rubbed the patterns on that half-buried old stele onto white cloth. The charcoal stick moved over the cloth, stroke by stroke, like tracing eyebrows onto the face of time.

While he worked at the rubbing, a fine rain drifted down from the sky.

Lu Zhu did not move for shelter. He stayed crouched before the stele, stroke by stroke. The characters on the stele were mostly worn dim; only a few could still be made out. He made out one "granary" and one "lay." An old man passing by saw him in the rain and called: "Master, the rain is coming down — take shelter!"

"No fear." Lu Zhu said. "This stele has been rained on who knows how many years."

When the rubbing was done, he shielded it with his body and put the cloth inside his coat. Back at the lodging, he spread it out under the lamp. There stood the half stele, plain and clear.

"A granary of several hundred years ago." he said in a low voice. "A code of several hundred years after." He slipped the rubbing into the supplement notebook. "This counts as meeting the elders."

On the tenth day of his searching, he heard that thirty li farther east stood a small shrine.

"What shrine?" Lu Zhu asked.

"A shrine of Amun." the man said. "Very small. Just one old priest, and a shrine-keeper with him. The shrine was broken down once, and then, no one knows how, it was mended again. Mended rather well, too."

Lu Zhu said nothing. He thanked the man, and the next day went east.

The thirty li took him the better part of a day.

The village at the hill’s foot was called Date-Slope. At the village’s mouth two old date trees were heavy with fruit. Under the trees, the children were knocking dates down with long poles. Seeing a stranger, they all stopped and looked at him shyly.

"Passing through." Lu Zhu said. "Going to the shrine on the hill."

"You are looking for the master in the shrine?" a bigger child said. "This hour, he is surely in the hall copying scriptures."

"Do you go there often?"

"Often!" the children spoke all at once. "The master teaches us our characters. And he shares dates with us." A little one cupped a handful of the dates just knocked down and held them out to Lu Zhu: "Grandfather says the guests who go up the hill are the master’s guests. The master’s guests are our guests."

Lu Zhu took the dates. They still carried the dew, cool, and sweet.

He asked the way. The children vied to point: "Up the stone steps, two hundred paces, and there is the shrine’s gate. At the gate stands a cypress, older than the shrine itself."

Lu Zhu thanked them and climbed. A long way up, he could still hear the children singing something behind him. The words were too far to catch. Only the tune came through, soft, like the mountain wind itself.

The small shrine stood halfway up the hill.

A flight of stone steps ran up from the hill’s foot. The steps were old, worn bright by the soles of feet, but the weeds on both sides were trimmed tidy. Lu Zhu climbed step by step. Halfway up, he turned and looked back. The village below, the fields, the river — all of it small, like a chessboard laid out in green.

The shrine’s gate stood open.

The gate was of old wood, cracked across, but the cracks were filled with wooden wedges, mended tight as skin. Lu Zhu stood at the gate a moment and reached out to feel the wood. Mended well indeed. The cracks ran with the grain and were held by the wedges; without a close look, one would take them for natural.

"Where does the guest come from?" a voice came out through the gate.

Lu Zhu followed the sound. In the small courtyard inside, an old man was sweeping fallen leaves. The broom was bound of reeds, and it moved slowly, stroke by stroke, gathering the leaves to the wall’s foot.

"The river bend." Lu Zhu said. "Passing by, begging a bowl of water."

"The well is behind the hall." the old man said. "Help yourself."

Only later did Lu Zhu learn that Old Kang had followed Nekhem close on twenty years.

Once, he had been a menial in the Thebes temple. When the rebels scattered, the others all went away; he followed Nekhem into these hills. The shrine broken, he helped mend it. The incense scant, he made it stretch. Year in, year out, coarse tea and plain food, and never one word of complaint.

"Master," Lu Zhu asked, "what for?"

Old Kang swept on. "For nothing. He was the High Priest once, and I swept floors. Now he is the master in the shrine, and I still sweep floors." He paused. "Twenty years of following, and the following has grown smooth. A man who sweeps floors fears nothing so much as a floor no one sweeps."

Lu Zhu asked no more. He watched Old Kang sweep his way to the shrine’s gate and clear the fallen leaves from the stone steps, one leaf after another, until not one remained.

"These steps," Old Kang said, "the people who come must tread them easy, so the master’s scriptures are read easy."

Lu Zhu went into the courtyard. It was not large, square on all four sides. Three halls, and two side rooms east and west. The steps before the hall were paved in green stone. In no hurry for water, he first circled the shrine and looked it over.

The columns were stone. The column bases were bedded square and true; between column and beam the old-style tenon joints were used. He crouched to look at the drainage — behind the hall, on the slope, a blind drain ran down with the hill’s lie, around the wall’s foot, carrying the water to a hollow outside the yard. The drain’s walls were laid with potsherds, smooth, and no mud clung to them.

"This shrine," he said in a low voice, "is mended with care."

"The guest knows such things?" The old sweeper had come up behind him without his knowing when.

"A little." Lu Zhu said.

"Then all the better." the old man said. "Help us look at the south wall’s foot — whether it is not time to patch it."

Lu Zhu went with him to look. At the south wall’s foot, a patch of the wall’s skin had indeed blistered under the rainwater. He knocked on it with his hand. "Patch it." he said. "One more winter’s delay, and it eats to the wall’s heart."

"How is it patched?"

"First scrape off the blistered shell. Then grass-fiber mud mixed with three parts lime, spread in three coats. The first coat thin, the second thick, the third to level it true." Lu Zhu said. "When it is patched, move the raised stones at the wall’s foot half a foot farther out. Where the water does not run along the wall’s foot, the wall does not soak."

The old man heard him out. "The guest truly knows." he said. He set down the broom. "Come in and sit. My master is in the hall copying scriptures. Seeing a guest come, he will be glad."

Lu Zhu followed the old man toward the hall.

Inside the hall it was very still. The smoke from the incense burner rose thin and straight. An old man sat at a low desk in the hall’s corner, copying scriptures by the light that fell through the window lattice.

Lu Zhu looked first at the hall’s roof.

The beams were whole timbers, black with age, but with no worm-holes. The purlins lay one over another, evenly spaced. He could see the roof was mended by the old method, yet more carefully than the old method — under the beams, damp-proofing boards had been laid.

Then he looked at the god’s statue. The statue sat on a stone pedestal, and before the pedestal a low rim half a foot high had been built. Inside the rim lay fine sand. Lu Zhu knew that method — the incense ash fell on the sand, the damp was drunk by the sand, and the statue’s stone base never turned salt-white.

"This sand," he said in a low voice, "only a diligent man spreads."

Then he looked at the window. It was not large, and faced east. The morning light came in and fell exactly on the statue’s face. He worked out the angles and nodded to himself in secret: the window’s place had been measured. It was not opened at random.

"This temple," he said to himself, "is kept by a man who carries a measure in his heart." The man wore an old white robe. The robe was washed to whiteness, its edges frayed, but there was not one crease in it. The hand that copied the scriptures was steady, stroke by stroke, as if chiseling characters into stone.

Hearing the footsteps, he raised his head.

Their eyes met.

Both old men had grown old. Lu Zhu’s temples were whitening. The white-robed old man’s hair had gone entirely white. But the eyes were still what they had been — deep, and still, like two very old, very old wells.

"It is you." the white-robed old man said.

"It is me." Lu Zhu said.

The hall was still for a long while. The incense smoke drifted up to the beams and spread into a very thin mist.

"Sit." the white-robed old man said.

Lu Zhu sat down across from him.

"The well water," the white-robed old man said, "is behind the hall. The sweeper, Old Kang, will draw it for you."

"Not thirsty." Lu Zhu said.

The two men were still again for a while. The sunlight fell in through the window lattice and lay between them, white and bright, like a river that both divided and joined them.

"I did not think you would come." the white-robed old man said.

"I did not think it myself." Lu Zhu said. "Only halfway along the road did I understand that this journey was half for visiting the old works, and half for coming to see you."

"See me?" The old man set down the brush. "See this man in an old robe, copying scriptures in the mountains?"

"Seeing an old friend." Lu Zhu said.

The old man said nothing. He looked out the window at the mountains for a long while. "Nekhem." he said. "I have not used that name in a long time."

"Then what shall I call you?"

"The village people call me ’the master in the shrine.’" he said. "You call me that too." He paused. "Names belong to the old days. The old days have been handed over."

"Good." Lu Zhu said. "The master in the shrine."

At midday, Old Kang brought the meal.

Coarse clay bowls, two bowls of mixed-grain porridge, one dish of pickled greens.

The porridge was thick enough to stand a pair of chopsticks in. The pickled greens were cut fine and piled neat, with a few drops of oil over the top. Lu Zhu took a mouthful. "This food," he said, "tastes of home."

"Old Kang’s wife," Nekhem said, "passed away early. That he makes the food so fine, alone, is no small thing."

Old Kang stood by, rubbing his hands. "Cooking for the master must be done with care." he said. "The master eats well, and the scriptures are read well. The scriptures read well, and the days below the hill go well."

"You hear that," Nekhem said to Lu Zhu, "even the cooking in this shrine of mine is made into a truth."

"A good truth." Lu Zhu said. "Food is a man’s foundation. Eat well and sleep well, and a man has the strength to work." Carrying his bowl, Lu Zhu sat with Nekhem on the steps before the hall. The sunlight was warm, lying on them.

"This porridge," Lu Zhu said, "is boiled thick."

"Old Kang boiled it." Nekhem said. "It took him three years of learning to boil porridge thick." He paused. "Once, in Thebes, I did not know that boiling one bowl of thick porridge also took three years to learn."

"And now you know?"

"I know." Nekhem said. "In these three years I have learned many things I did not know before. What a load of firewood costs. When the well water runs clearest. When the wall’s skin needs patching. That when a scripture is copied wrong, the paper must not be thrown away, but turned over for the children to practice their characters on."

"You teach the village’s children?"

"I teach them." Nekhem said. "I teach them their characters. The characters learned, I teach them a few passages of the scriptures. Not many. A few." He drank a mouthful of porridge. "I do not urge them to believe. The characters learned, and the road widens. To believe or not is their own affair."

Lu Zhu listened and said nothing.

"Do you think," Nekhem said, "that the High Priest of Amun of those years, fallen to teaching a few country children their characters, is a laughing matter?"

"Not a laughing matter." Lu Zhu said. "I think it is a very good thing."

"Good?"

"Good." Lu Zhu said. "Characters are a man’s walls. Teaching them their characters, you are building walls for them."

Nekhem was taken aback a moment. Then he laughed. The smile was very light, like a ripple rising suddenly on the face of water.

"You are still the same." he said. "You can turn everything toward a wall."

"I am a craftsman." Lu Zhu said. "Walls are my own trade."

"Then look at this shrine of mine," Nekhem said, "and tell me how it is built."

"Built well." Lu Zhu said. "The tenons are of the old kind, the column bases are square and true, the drainage runs clear." He paused. "All along the road I have looked — of the small village shrines, nine in ten leak. Yours is not of the common kind."

"I mended it." Nekhem said. "Every brick, every tile, I set with my own hands."

"Why?"

Nekhem thought it over. "Once, when I built a shrine, I built the majesty of Amun. Now, when I mend a shrine, I mend a place that keeps off the wind and the rain." He looked toward the gate. "The god lives inside it. People come inside it too. The god wants a hall; people want an eave. Both must be built well."

"This is your new way." Lu Zhu said.

"It is not new." Nekhem said. "It was there long ago. Once, I built the god too high, and forgot to leave an eave for the people." He paused. "You said something close to it in the West Bank, years ago. I have remembered it until now."

"Which line?"

"You said: ’The gods dwell on high, and men below. But what keeps off the rain is the low eave.’" Nekhem said. "In those days, I thought you were making war on the god. Now, in these mountains, watching the children who come to the shrine to shelter from the rain, I understand that you were right."

Lu Zhu said nothing. He looked at the green-stone steps before the hall. On the steps were a few worn hollows, trodden out by countless feet.

"But," Nekhem said, "what I believe has not changed."

"I know." Lu Zhu said.

"Divine authority is Egypt’s order." Nekhem said. "Pharaohs succeed pharaohs, dynasties fall. But while the temple stands, men still have something to fear, something to revere, something to believe. A man who fears nothing and reveres nothing will destroy everything." He paused. "That is why I fought you in those years. And I still think so now."

"I have not changed either." Lu Zhu said. "I think men must first eat their fill, live warm, have their walls built firm and their fields planted well. Only then can they speak of fear, of reverence, of belief." He paused. "A man with an empty belly cannot believe in the god for long."

"So," Nekhem said, "you built the granaries to every corner of the land."

"So," Lu Zhu said, "you keep this shrine, and leave the children below the hill a place where they can learn their characters and shelter from the rain."

The two men fell still again.

That afternoon, the children came.

Seven or eight of them, the big ones ten and more, the small ones five or six, running up from the hill’s foot. At the shrine’s gate they first scraped the mud from their shoes on the stone steps before coming in. Seeing Lu Zhu, they looked him over with curiosity.

"This is the master from the river bend." Nekhem said. "A great craftsman who builds houses."

"A great craftsman!" The children’s eyes lit up all at once. One child asked: "Master, did you build the northern border’s wall?"

"My apprentice built it." Lu Zhu said.

"Then teach us, master," the child said, "our house’s wall is cracked."

"First learn your characters." Nekhem said. "The characters learned, then learn the wall." He spread out a sheet of old paper. On it stood a few characters: sky, earth, water, fire, house.

The children sat in a circle and read after him. They read in step, in their milk-voices. When the reading was done, Nekhem had the smallest child come up and point out the characters. Pointed out right, and the child won a date.

"This character," Lu Zhu said after watching a while, "is ’house.’"

"Right." Nekhem said. "The house of a dwelling-house. The sign for a person on one side, and the sign for ’square’ beside it. A person living inside a thing foursquare — that is a house." He paused. "This is my way of teaching the children their characters. Speak one, take it apart."

"A good way." Lu Zhu said. "A character taken apart is remembered firm."

"Who among you can say," Nekhem suddenly asked, "how the character ’wall’ is remembered?"

The children looked at one another, and all shook their heads.

"Master, you tell us." one child said.

"’Wall,’" Nekhem said, "has ’earth’ on the left and ’thrift’ on the right." He paused. "Earth is the wall’s material. Thrift is the thrift of saving." He looked at the children. "The man who lays a wall knows thrift best. One brick, one handful of mud — none of it wasted."

"Well said." Lu Zhu took it up. "Let me add one line for you." With the charcoal stick he wrote the character "wall" on the ground. "Earth on the left is the material. Thrift on the right is the heart. Material sparing, heart true — only such a wall stands firm."

The children half understood, half not, but one by one they took up twigs and copied the character on the ground. Written crooked, it was written again. That character "wall," stroke by stroke, landed on the dirt before the shrine like little trees just sprouting.

The lesson over, the children bowed to Nekhem, and bowed to Lu Zhu too. Then, in a rush, they ran down the hill. A few steps on, they turned and shouted back: "Master, we will come again tomorrow!"

"Come again tomorrow!" Nekhem answered.

He stood at the shrine’s gate and watched the children run far. The setting sun drew his shadow long. It fell on the stone steps and lay folded together with the shrine’s own shadow.

"Once," he said, "I taught priests. Now I teach children." He paused. "Priests are hard to teach. Children learn at the first teaching."

The children gone, the hall fell still again.

"The south wall’s foot," Nekhem said, "you said it should be patched."

"It should." Lu Zhu said.

"Then patch it today." Nekhem stood up. "You, or me?"

"Together." Lu Zhu said.

The two men, one with the scraper, one mixing the mud. The mud was grass-fiber mud, and Lu Zhu watched Nekhem mix in the lime — three parts, neither more nor less.

"You have learned this?" Lu Zhu asked.

"I copied your code." Nekhem said. "It is written in the House volume." He mixed on, stroke by stroke. "Three parts lime, two layers of grass fiber. I copied it seven times, and the hand remembers."

The two men crouched at the south wall’s foot. One scraped the shell, one spread the mud. The first coat thin, the second thick, the third to level it true. At the third coat, Nekhem’s hand was very steady. He spread the mud exactly as he copied scriptures.

"Done." Lu Zhu said.

Nekhem straightened up and looked at the newly patched wall. "This wall," he said, "can stand another thirty years."

"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." Nekhem said. "When some child can lift the scraper, I will teach him."

The two men washed their hands. The well water was cool, and the cool ran from the fingertips all the way to the heart. Old Kang brought two bowls of water. The three men stood at the wall’s foot, no one speaking. The newly patched wall, in the afternoon sunlight, glowed a faint green.

"This well," Lu Zhu said suddenly, "is built well."

"How so?" Nekhem asked.

"The mouth is high, so the rain cannot get in. The rim is sloped, so the dirty water runs away." Lu Zhu said. "The same as I teach my students."

"Old Kang built it." Nekhem said. "He says a man who sweeps floors knows the well platform best. A dirty platform, and the water turns unclean. Unclean water, and people sicken." He paused. "Half this shrine’s living was taught me by him."

Old Kang stood by, laughing quietly. "The master flatters me. I am only a floor-sweeper."

"A floor-sweeper," Nekhem said, "sweeps the root of the whole shrine."

Watching this master and servant, Lu Zhu suddenly felt that the days in these mountains were more solid than the halls of the new capital.

The mountain wind came in from outside the hall and blew the incense smoke aslant. The sunlight had moved from the hall’s center to the threshold.

"We fought half a lifetime." Nekhem said.

"Half a lifetime." Lu Zhu said.

"The first time," Nekhem said, "was in the West Bank."

"In the West Bank." Lu Zhu said.

"I had my eye on a stretch of waste ground. You wanted that ground, to raise your settlement." Nekhem said. "In those days I thought this little priest from foreign parts had come to snatch land from the temple."

"That ground was unowned." Lu Zhu said.

"Only later did I understand that what you wanted was not the ground. It was a place on the ground where people could live." Nekhem said. "The temple fenced land, and fenced property. You fenced land, and fenced people." He paused. "How much grain one mu of ground can grow. How many generations one man can raise. That account, in those days, I could not reckon against you."

"You reckoned a different account." Lu Zhu said. "The temple’s land feeds the priests, the incense, and the god’s name."

"Right." Nekhem said. "I reckoned the god’s account. You reckoned the people’s." He looked toward the statue in the hall. "Two accounts. Now I understand both."

"The second time," Lu Zhu said, "was in the new capital."

"The new capital." Nekhem said. "Your temple was open. Mine was shut. You thought the god’s light should fall on every person. I thought the god’s hall should keep the god’s rules."

"And then?" Lu Zhu asked.

"Then," Nekhem said, "your sunlight fell into the altar. You brought the whole city to see through the ’miracle.’" He smiled a bitter smile. "That time, I lost to you the last shred of dignity in my life."

"That was not a loss." Lu Zhu said. "That was a false thing being let go, in public."

"False or not," Nekhem said, "it was a thousand-year-old thing. You tore it down, and how many people could not sleep that night." He paused. "Including me."

"The third time," he went on, "was the country."

"The country." Lu Zhu said.

"When I raised troops, I thought the new policies would lead Egypt into a ditch. The god gone, and men lose their souls. A country without souls does not last." Nekhem said. "I was wrong. Your laws rose one after another. Granaries, medical houses, dwellings, corvée. Men ate their fill, lived warm, could afford a doctor — and their souls came back instead." He looked at Lu Zhu. "You won. But I was not wrong to the end either — men still need something to fear and something to revere. Those two, your code cannot give."

"So," Lu Zhu said, "you keep your shrine. I mend my houses."

"So," Nekhem said, "the two of us each patch his own. The god guards the people, and the people revere the god. Missing half of it, this country cannot stand long."

"Thinking on it now," Nekhem said, "you wanted the people, and I wanted the god. But the people and the god were never meant to be two things. People revere the god, and the god guards the people." He paused. "The wall in between — I built it, and you tore it down."

"The wall torn down," Lu Zhu said, "the shrine still stands."

"The shrine still stands." Nekhem repeated. He looked toward the statue in the hall. The statue was old, its gold flaking off, but its face was still merciful.

"Lu Zhu." Nekhem suddenly called his name.

"Here."

"Let me tell you of my days these years." Nekhem said.

"I am all ears."

"The first year," Nekhem said, "I did not even go out the gate. The statue in the hall, I polished it. Polished it once, and again. I felt that as long as the statue still shone, I was still the High Priest." He looked toward the hall’s corner. "Then one day, a child from below the hill split his head open. His mother carried him up the hill, running, and knelt at the shrine’s gate. Not to beg the god. To beg me — ’Master, save the child.’"

"Did you save him?" Lu Zhu asked.

"How would I save anyone?" Nekhem said. "I only knew scriptures. But the child’s face was running with blood. Looking at him, I suddenly remembered what a man told me many years ago — the god cannot save the person before your eyes. It must be done with the hands." He paused. "I carried the child into the hall, washed the wound with well water, tore my own white robe, and bound him up. The next day I went down the hill to the neighboring village and found a man who knew wounds."

"The white robe," Lu Zhu said, "torn."

"Torn." Nekhem said. "From that day, I was no longer the High Priest. I was the master in the shrine."

"And the child?"

"He healed." Nekhem said. "Now he comes often. He is the biggest of that afternoon’s children." He smiled. "He even asked whether he should move one of his family’s date trees into the shrine. I said the shrine’s dates are for the god to eat, and your family’s dates are for people. Each eats its own, and all is well."

Lu Zhu listened, and was long silent. Outside the hall, the mountain wind rang the bells at the eaves, ding, ding.

"I have lost." Nekhem said. "Thirty thousand men’s torches, and in the end I alone walked back to the shrine in a white robe. That was the blackest night of my life." He paused. "But I do not repent. I guarded what I believed. Now I still guard it. Only the way of guarding has changed."

"I have lost too." Lu Zhu said. "For many years I searched for a road back. I could not find it." He looked at the sky outside the hall. "But later I thought it through. A man’s one lifetime — wherever he has raised a wall, that is home."

"So, you no longer search?"

"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."

"Let me tell you something." Lu Zhu said.

"Tell it."

"I used to dream of a river." Lu Zhu said. "The river was very wide, and the water very clear. On the far bank stood a city. In the city was my home." He paused. "In my first years in Egypt, I dreamed of it every night. Then the dreams grew fewer. Then the dreams were gone."

"Why gone?"

"Because this side came to have a river too, and a city, and a home." Lu Zhu said. "I have built houses half my life. Building and building, I built myself into this land as well." He looked at the mountains outside the hall. "Tell me, what does a man live one lifetime for? For nothing but a place where his roots can go down."

"The West Bank, the new capital, the river bend." Nekhem said.

"The West Bank, the new capital, the river bend." Lu Zhu said. "All home."

"And the far bank?"

"The far bank," 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."

Nekhem laughed too. This time his laugh was a little bigger than the ones before. It rippled the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes wide open.

Nekhem nodded. He set down his bowl. "Walk a while, and look at the road." he said. "Good."

When the sun slanted west, Lu Zhu rose to take his leave.

In the evening, the two men sat on the stone steps before the hall, looking at the mountains.

The mountains rose layer on layer, from green to blue-green, from blue-green to deep blue. Below the hill, the village’s hearth smoke was rising. The smoke was thin, thread by thread, climbing slowly through the dusk. Far off, a herd boy drove the cattle home, and the cowbells rang across the hills, ding, ding, ding.

"This place," Lu Zhu said, "is truly still."

"Only in the still can a man hear his own heart." Nekhem said. "Once, in Thebes, it was too loud. Both ears full of voices, bells, torch-fire. I listened half a lifetime and never heard myself."

"Now you hear it?"

"I hear it." Nekhem said. "It goes ’thump,’ ’thump.’ Like a wooden clapper in a shrine. And like ramming earth."

"Ramming earth." Lu Zhu said. "That is the most solid of sounds."

"It is." Nekhem said. "When I tire of copying scriptures, I go down the hill and watch people build houses. Watch them ram the earth. That rammer, blow by blow, beats the disorder in my heart flat."

"Lu Zhu," Nekhem suddenly asked, "what do you believe in?"

"What do I believe in?" Lu Zhu thought it over. "I believe in substance."

"Substance?"

"Earth is substantial. Ram it, and it is substantial. A wall is substantial. Build it, and wind and rain can do nothing to it. Grain is substantial. The granary full, and the heart does not fluster." Lu Zhu said. "This one life of mine — I believe in this one word."

"And the god?" Nekhem asked. "Do you believe in the god?"

"I do not know." Lu Zhu said. "I have never seen the god. But I have seen people who believe in the god live their days better. And I have seen people who borrow the god live their days to ruin." He paused. "So I think: the god’s affairs to the god. The people’s affairs to substance."

Nekhem looked at the statue in the hall for a long while. "The god’s affairs to the god. The people’s affairs to substance." he repeated. "That sentence, I will remember when I copy the scriptures."

"Remembered or not," Lu Zhu said, "it is an honest sentence."

"An honest sentence." Nekhem said. "My shrine serves the god. Your book serves substance. The god and substance were never meant to fight."

"Nekhem." Lu Zhu said.

"Mm."

"We have both grown old."

Nekhem felt his white hair. "Old. My eyes copy scriptures worse than before. A day, and I can only copy half a page."

"I ram the earth," Lu Zhu said, "and after three blows I must straighten up and rest."

"But the hand is still steady." Nekhem said. "Look at the wall you patched."

"Your characters are steady too." Lu Zhu said. "I saw your scriptures. Stroke by stroke, the strength goes through the paper."

The two men suddenly both laughed. The laugh was not loud; it turned lightly in the hall.

"Old is good too." Nekhem said. "Only when old does a man know what to fight for and what to let go." He looked at the sky outside the hall. "When I was young, I gripped everything in my hands. Now my hands hold one brush, one roll of scriptures, one shrine. And I am, instead, settled."

"My hands," Lu Zhu said, "hold one ruler, one line, one roomful of plans." He paused. "Settled too."

The two men sat there on the stone steps, neither speaking any more. The mountain wind blew soft. The incense smoke in the burner was changed for the last burnerful. The dusk, little by little, gathered in the shrine, the mountains, and the two old men.

Nekhem saw him to the shrine’s gate. Old Kang held out a small bag of dried dates and pressed it on Lu Zhu: "Master, take them for the road."

"Many thanks." Lu Zhu said.

He walked out the gate and down the stone steps. Halfway down, he turned back.

Old Kang followed a few steps. "Master," he said, "when you pass this way again, come. This shrine’s gate is kept open for you."

"Kept." Lu Zhu said. "Sweep the floor a little more for me."

"Sweep!" Old Kang said. "I sweep every day. Swept bright and clean, waiting for you to come again."

Lu Zhu waved to him too.

Nekhem was still standing at the shrine’s gate. The setting sun came from the west and dyed his old white robe a very faint gold. He stood there, like one more stone column before the shrine’s gate — old, but standing very straight.

"Lu Zhu." he called.

"Here."

"Your code," Nekhem said, "I copied a passage of it. ’The house is man’s vessel.’ Well written." He paused. "From now on, if the children below this hill want to learn house-building, I will send them to the river bend to find you."

"Good." Lu Zhu said. "If anyone wants to learn their characters, I will send him to your shrine."

Nekhem said nothing. He raised a hand and waved it to Lu Zhu.

Lu Zhu waved to him too.

Then he turned, and walked into the dusk below the hill.

Nekhem saw him all the way down to the hillside’s middle.

"Only to here." Nekhem said. "Any farther down, and by the time I walk back, the sky is fully dark."

"Go back." Lu Zhu said.

The two men stood on the mountain path. The wind came up from the valley’s floor and lifted the hems of both their robes.

"Lu Zhu." Nekhem said.

"Here."

"From now on," Nekhem said, "if you have the time and still want to talk, come. This hill is not high. This shrine does not move."

"You too." Lu Zhu said. "The river bend is by the river. A boat arrives, and one shout, and someone will answer."

"Shout what?"

"Just shout," Lu Zhu said, "’Here to learn the craft.’"

Nekhem laughed. This time he laughed aloud. The laughter rolled a few turns through the valley and scattered into the wind.

"Good." he said. "I will remember."

The wind came up from the valley and stirred the grass on both sides. The grass-waves rolled toward the shrine, one after another. The man at the shrine’s gate still stood there. He stood a long while, until the dusk, little by little, gathered him into the mountain’s shadow.

Lu Zhu walked far before he stopped and looked back.

The shrine could no longer be seen. Only halfway up the hill burned one point of very faint light — the shrine’s lamp, lit.

"It is all past." he said in a low voice.

But he knew some things were not past. They had only changed shape, and gone on living. Like that lamp halfway up the hill, and the lamp of the river bend, and the lamp of Thebes, and the lamp of the new capital — different brightnesses in the same night.

He walked on. In the rattan chest, the supplement notebook lay open.

The road down the hill was lighter than the road up.

In Date-Slope Village, a few lamps were already lit. The date-knocking children had long scattered. Only the two old date trees stood at the village’s mouth, black and silent, like two dozing old men.

He left the village and took the post road. The night thickened. He looked back — halfway up the hill, that point of light was still burning.

"Until we meet again." he said in a low voice.

He knew this parting might be the last. Two old men, one in the mountains, one at the river bend. From now on, divided by hills, by water, by each one’s way of living. Yet he felt there was no need to meet again. Some words, once spoken through, are a meeting. Some accounts, once settled, are a parting.

He quickened his pace. The rattan chest knocked lightly on his back. The night wind came from the valley, carrying the smell of grass, the damp of dew, and, from very far away, a bark or two of dogs.

After the small hours, he saw a river.

It was the Nile. The water lay white and bright under the moon, running north. He stood by the river and watched a while. Then he took off the rattan chest, crouched, cupped a handful of water, and washed his face.

"Home," he said, "is not far now."

On the third day’s evening, he saw the river bend’s landing.

On the landing, a few fishing nets hung drying. The red cloth strips on the well rail were still tied there. In the schoolhouse’s direction there was lamplight. From far off he could hear the apprentices reading accounts — the night lesson.

He stood on the shoal’s head and listened a while. The sound was young and even, like a crop rustling in the wind.

"Teacher!" Someone, he did not know who, saw him first. The shout rose, and the apprentices in the schoolhouse all poured out.

"Teacher is back!"

"Teacher, the road was hard!"

Lu Zhu was crowded around and walked into the courtyard. The well was still the same well. The wall was still the same wall. He set down the rattan chest. "Do not all crowd around." he said. "Heat water. I will wash my face."

"Heated!" A-Yang said. "Heated long ago, waiting for you to come back."

The hot water’s steam rose and swirled up. Lu Zhu washed his face, washed his feet, changed his clothes. Then he sat under the lamp and spread out the supplement notebook.

"This road," he said, "I saw some good things on it." He opened a fresh page. "All of it goes into the code."

Under the lamp, he wrote the article "A temple, too, is an eave" into the House volume’s supplement, stroke by stroke.

When it was written, he thought it over, and added one line beside it:

"Under the eaves of gods and men alike, there is rain."

The apprentices crowded around to look. One child read it out. "Teacher," he said, "what does this line mean?"

"It means," Lu Zhu said, "that when the sky sends rain, no one can escape it. But if the eaves are built well, the god does not get wet, and the people do not get wet." He paused. "This is the one sentence a man who builds houses must remember most."

The night deepened. The river bend’s lamps burned on, one by one. The wind came off the river, carrying the water’s damp. Far off, the sky to the north lay heavy and dark. And farther still, in the little shrine halfway up the hill, a lamp was burning too.

Two lamps, divided by mountains, divided by water, each burning on its own — like two old men of this land who would not sleep.

The next day, Lu Zhu wrapped a copy of the code in three layers of oilcloth and sent it north by the boats, to Date-Slope.

With the book went a short note:

"To the master in the shrine: A copy of the book, for you. You copy your scriptures; I fill in my code. Both are left for the people who come after. Lu Zhu."

Half a month later, the boats brought back an answer. It was a sheet of old paper, and on it stood:

"The book received. The characters are better than the scriptures’. The children below the hill have one more thing to learn. Nekhem."

Lu Zhu put the old sheet into the supplement notebook. The paper rustled, carrying the faintest smell of the hills’ incense smoke.

That night’s lesson, Lu Zhu told the apprentices of all he had seen on the road.

He told of the Two-Locust old house, of the "granary" character on the half stele, of the mountains’ stone footings, of the river valleys’ stilted houses. At the last, he told of the little shrine halfway up the hill.

"That shrine," he said, "is not built large. But the columns are true, the drainage runs clear, the wall’s foot is dry." He paused. "The man who mends it — guess who he is?"

The apprentices shook their heads.

"An old man who copies scriptures." Lu Zhu said. "It took him many years to understand one thing — a shrine is not only for the god. It is for people too." He looked at the lamp. "However high the god’s hall, it is still an eave. Whatever you build from now on, do not forget to leave the people an eave. Where there is an eave to shelter from the rain, the people’s hearts are warm."

"Teacher," A-Shi said, "then do the houses you build count as shrines too?"

"They count." Lu Zhu said. "Every place where people live is a shrine. What the shrine serves is the days."

The lamp flower flared once. The roomful of young people fell silent. They understood, and yet seemed not to understand it all. But they all remembered that night’s lamp — yellow and glowing, like the last ripe date of autumn.

The lesson over, Lu Zhu stood alone in the courtyard.

The moon had risen. The river bend’s water lay white and shining. He looked north — the mountains’ shadows were long out of sight. But he knew the shrine lay in that direction. The man in the shrine, at this hour, was probably not asleep either.

"All is well." he said in a low voice.

The wind came off the river and blew the red cloth strips on the well rail, gently. The strips were old now, their color faded. But the way they flew was still full of spirit.

Lu Zhu went back to his room and blew out the lamp. But he did not sleep at once. He sat in the dark, listening to the river — hush, hush, like the oldest waterwheel in the world, turning, turning, neither hurried nor slow.

This water sound he had heard half a lifetime. And he would go on hearing it.

Listening, listening, he fell asleep. In the dream stood a small shrine, halfway up the hill, its lamp burning. At the hill’s foot, someone was ramming earth. Blow, blow, steady and sure, like the pulse of this country.

Near daylight he woke. Outside the window, mist had risen over the river’s face, white and vast, spreading to the sky’s edge. Today, he thought, would be another fine day. Fit for ramming earth, fit for sunning grain, fit for drawing out, one by one, all those plans not yet finished. On a fresh page he wrote only one line:

"A temple, too, is an eave. Under the eaves of gods and men alike, there is rain."

In the night wind, that line went quietly with him, all the way south.

The lamp halfway up the hill grew smaller and smaller, until it was a single bean of light. Lu Zhu walked on through the night, the rattan chest knocking lightly at his back. He thought of many years ago, on the waste ground of the West Bank, the first time he had seen the man in the white robe. In those days, one of them wanted to tear a wall down, and the other to build one up. Now the wall was torn down, and the shrine still stood. The god was in the hall, and the people under the eave. And he himself still had one road left unwalked. That road led to a place far, far away — so far that even he could not say where. But he knew he would keep walking it. Not to go back. Only for the wind along the road, and the lamps along the road.

(End of Chapter 9)