Chapter 131 - 10: North and South at Peace — Each Finds Their Own Road Home

Chapter 131: Chapter 10: North and South at Peace — Each Finds Their Own Road Home

In the seventh spring after the river bend was completed, Lu Zhu wrote letters to his old friends on all four sides.

The letters were very short, one line only: at the New Year, come sit at the river bend.

He wrote one and crumpled it. It was not that the characters were bad; some things would not write down. In the end he stopped writing them himself and had A-Yang copy them one by one after a list of names: Kamon on the West Bank; Asaf, Tia, Hapy, Imset, and Shafi in the new capital; Mery on the granary-touring road; Meru on the south border; the chief priest in Thebes; Seb and Horenheb on the northern border. When they were copied, he wrapped them in oilcloth and gave them to the boats passing by.

"Teacher," A-Yang said, "these letters of yours read like invitations."

"They are invitations." Lu Zhu said. "Inviting them back, to pass a New Year."

"And the ones on the northern border?" A-Yang asked. "The Hittites are still twenty li off. Can General Horen come?"

Lu Zhu said nothing. He walked to the landing’s edge and looked north. The sky to the north was as it always was, blue to the point of heaviness.

This year, his hair had gone more than half white. His back still held, but his eyes were weaker. Reading under the lamp, he had to hold the paper a little farther off. The apprentices laughed at him: "Teacher, you have read the book into the distance of a wall." He said: "Characters seen from farther off are seen more clearly. People remembered from farther off are missed more wholly."

The letters went out in the first ten days of spring. The replies came back along the one river, one after another.

In the days of waiting for the letters, Lu Zhu walked the river bend through, from one end to the other.

In seven years, the river bend had changed. The three rooms had grown into three rows. The new row at the west end was the apprentices’ graduation work — from reading the ground to the roofing, Lu Zhu had not put in a hand once. The market at the east end had gone from one day in ten to one day in five. The landing’s timber piles had grown from three to seven. The well was still the same well. The little board by the well platform had been replaced three times, but the three rules written on it had not changed by one.

Lu Zhu walked to the new house’s wall foot at the west end and crouched to look.

"This wall," he said, "who raised it?"

"A-Ning and the others." A-Yang said. "Raised last autumn. Took them half a month."

Lu Zhu ran his fingers along the wall’s seams, one after another. The seams were straight, the joints biting tight. He nodded, and then shook his head.

"Teacher," A-Yang said, "what is not right?"

"Everything is right." Lu Zhu said. "It is because everything is right that I have stood here looking half the day." He stood up and brushed the earth from his hands. "When people do the work better than you, you know it is time to give up your place."

"Then what is left for you to teach?" A-Yang laughed.

"Teach them what they have not thought of." Lu Zhu said. "The wall stands — but it must still divide the water, divide the wind, divide the people. Where the water runs, where the wind comes from, where people live easiest. These things are in the book, and still more fully in the ground."

He walked on. The schoolhouse’s drawing board had been replaced a third time. But the place where it hung had not moved. The landing’s board, its characters he touched up every year. The red cloth strips on the well rail, grown old, had been tied fresh again — some apprentice, following the old rule, had quietly changed them.

"Seven years." Lu Zhu said. "This place is still this place. And it is no longer it."

"What is no longer it?" A-Yang asked.

"The people." Lu Zhu said. "Of the first year’s apprentices, only you are left. The ones after, I cannot even keep them all in mind." He paused. "Not keeping them all in mind is no bad thing. It means the people keep coming, crop after crop."

A-Yang walked behind him and said nothing. He knew that what his teacher was saying was a happy thing.

The first reply came from the northern border.

Seb’s hand was steadier than before. The letter said: Teacher, this year, the two of us still cannot come back. The New Year on the wall is a New Year too. Sent along with the letter was a plan. The three lines, all complete. The border wall, the towers thirty li behind the wall, the two forts at the mountain pass. Seb had marked every place on the plan, plain and clear. The crenels to the north were still half a foot narrow. The wall foot bedded with grass ash was still bedded the same way.

Lu Zhu spread the plan on the desk and looked at it all night.

The next day he lifted the brush to answer. He wrote three characters and tore it up. In the end, he had A-Yang send word by the north line’s fleet: "When spring opens, I am going to the northern border, to look at the towers."

"A promised word," he said in a low voice, "cannot stay owed forever."

The second reply came from the south border.

Kes’s letter was a little longer than before. It said: the river valley’s houses were through their third batch. The market’s ferry now ran three boats a day. Mother was still hale, and went to the household-register room every day to sit a while. Teacher, he wrote, if you come, the room I keep for you is still the one facing the river. Sent along with the letter was a pair of shoes. Kes’s mother had made them. Coarse cloth uppers, thousand-layer soles, and on the toe a small embroidered character: "peace."

Lu Zhu put the shoes on and walked two circles of the courtyard. The fit was exactly right.

The third reply came from Thebes.

The chief priest’s letter was written slowly; some of the strokes trembled. The letter said: he was old, and could no longer walk a far road. But on the New Year’s day, he would light one lamp more in the temple. And the city’s days, he said, were good. Ahe could now read the code in whole passages. Dawn had entered the school. From Woser’s school, the fourth class of granary clerks would graduate in spring. Old Sun’s porridge shed would open on the New Year as always. The post road Panhesy kept had been paved to thirty li north of the city.

At the letter’s end, the chief priest wrote his two old lines as always: "The incense burns unbroken, the lamp stays lit."

Lu Zhu folded the letter and laid it in the rattan chest.

One more thing came, from Date-Slope. Old Kang sent a small bag of dried dates by the boats below the hill, with one line: "The master in the shrine asks after the master of the river bend. The master says: it is the New Year, and the shrine’s dates are for the river bend’s children to taste."

Lu Zhu tipped the dates out. Red, every one.

"Keep them." he said to A-Yang. "On the New Year, divide them among the children."

The first to reach the river bend was Kamon, with Nefer.

Before the boat had even come to shore, Lu Zhu recognized the two of them. Kamon stood at the prow, his hair gone entirely white. Nefer stood behind him, the cloth pouch still at her waist.

"Seven years." Kamon came off the boat, and his first words were these.

"Seven years." Lu Zhu said.

The two old men stood on the landing, looking each other over. Neither spoke first. In the end it was Kamon who laughed. When he laughed, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes were deep enough to pinch a grain of sand.

"You have grown old." Kamon said.

"You have grown old too." Lu Zhu said.

"I was old long ago." Kamon said. "From the year I came out of the West Bank, I was old." He crouched down to feel the landing’s timber piles. His knees gave a "crack." He himself started at it first, then laughed. "You hear that? That sound rings louder than a chisel."

"Get up." Lu Zhu said. "The ground is cold."

"Not cold." Kamon said. "I have felt the ground half my life. The ground knows me."

Nefer, beside them, swung her bundle up onto her shoulder. "Stop crouching in the way. The people are here — where is the work?"

Lu Zhu laughed. These two were still their old selves. One crouched feeling the timber piles; the other bustled about moving things into the house.

"Nefer," Lu Zhu said, "is the work on the West Bank still so busy?"

"Busy!" Nefer said. "The women’s workshop — half the West Bank’s reed mats are woven by us now. Mud bricks, we fire them too." Walking as she spoke, she counted on her fingers. "Reed mats, mud bricks, cooked food, laundering. Not one of them can do without hands." She paused. "Kamon’s workshop — the orphans he has taken in can all work on a wall now. A few of them, their hand-work is stronger than the old masters’."

"Then that is fine indeed." Lu Zhu said.

"Fine, nothing!" Nefer said. "The more people, the more mouths. Material accounts, wages, lodgings — which one does not wear a mouth out?" She gave Kamon a sideways look. "And this one still reckons the material with me every day. One extra strand of grass fiber, and it goes into the book."

"Material is material, and account is account." Kamon crouched by the timber pile, his head not lifting. "The wall keeps out the outer blade, and the shed keeps off the inner wind. The material not reckoned clear, and the wall is hollow."

"You hear him!" Nefer said. "Still that same line!"

Lu Zhu listened, his heart warm. Some bickerings, he thought, bickered half a lifetime and never bickered apart. That was more solid than any words.

"Master Lu," Nefer went into the courtyard and came back out, a piece of cloth in her hand, "this is indigo from the workshop’s new dyeing. I had a jacket cut for you. Coarse cloth, for working in."

"I have clothes enough." Lu Zhu said.

"Enough, nothing." Nefer said. "Those few of yours — the cuffs are worn white." She pressed the jacket into Lu Zhu’s hands. "Put it on. You are the river bend’s face. A worn face, and the apprentices lose face with it."

Lu Zhu had no choice but to take it. The jacket was indigo blue, dyed even, thick to the touch.

"The West Bank workshop," that night, Kamon sat with Lu Zhu in the courtyard, speaking slowly, "keeps forty-odd orphans now. The big ones are past twenty; the small ones are eight or nine." He rubbed the edge of a chisel. "There is one child, called A-Wa. When he came, he would not say a word. Ask after his parents, and he shook his head. I set him first to sharpening chisels. He sharpened three months, and wore two whetstones flat. One day, sharpening away, he suddenly said: ’Uncle, I want to learn to lay walls.’"

"And then?"

"Then he learned to lay walls." Kamon said. "This spring, the craftsmen’s village’s seventh house — the walls were laid by him. The day it was done, he stood at the wall’s foot and felt it a long while. ’Uncle,’ he said, ’this wall is sturdier than my parents’ home.’" Kamon paused. "I heard it and did not answer. I was afraid that if I answered, my throat would close up."

Lu Zhu said nothing either. The wind over the river’s face blew over, gently.

"The craftsmen’s village," Kamon said after a while, "has raised twenty-odd houses. All after Hapy’s house-pattern drawings. Flat roofs with rims, bent flues. A-Wa and the others, work by day, and come back to the village at night. The village has a well, and a yard. And a communal stove, kept by Nefer’s people." He looked out over the river. "The displaced people of those years have all become people with a village now."

"That is family inheritance." Lu Zhu said.

"It is." Kamon said. "I am old. But this inheritance has hands to take it up. Even in my sleep I can hear the village’s ramming."

"And the guild?" Lu Zhu asked.

"The guild, I have handed to A-Ken." Kamon said. "The one who was first to register for hire on the West Bank, that year." He paused. "The day I handed over the seal, I read the charter through from the beginning to the end. When I came to ’taking no part in religion, devoted only to craft,’ the young men newly joined below — their eyes went wide. They said: so our craft has had such a line all along."

"That line," Lu Zhu said, "has stood half a lifetime."

"And it must go on standing." Kamon said. "As long as there are craftsmen, someone must read that line." He rubbed the chisel. "In the workshop now, I am only the man who takes people in. Taken in, taught out. When I can no longer teach, I watch them teach. Watching and watching, my heart rests."

The things Kamon brought filled two rattan baskets.

The first basket held the West Bank workshop’s first kiln-load of bricks. Fired bricks, square on all four sides, ringing "dang, dang" when knocked.

"Fired by the new method." Kamon said. "The flue changed, and it saves three parts in ten of firewood. What you taught back then — the brick must be fired through, and the fire must be even. We did as you said." He paused. "The first kiln-load, I would give to no one. I kept it for you."

"For me?" Lu Zhu said.

"For you." Kamon said. "Your houses, your granaries, have used mud bricks half a lifetime. Now they should use your own craft’s bricks."

Lu Zhu felt the brick. Cool, solid, heavy.

The second basket held earth. West Bank earth, kept in a small clay jar.

"This is earth from under the West Bank settlement’s wall foot." Kamon said. "I thought to myself, a man like you can live anywhere. But the root, you must keep a handful of." He passed the clay jar to Lu Zhu. "Take it. From now on, the earth under your wall foot and the West Bank’s earth, mix them together when you use them."

Lu Zhu took the clay jar, and was long silent.

"Kamon." he said.

"Mm."

"The West Bank courtyard — do you still keep it for me?"

"I keep it." Kamon said. "Facing south, three rooms. I sweep it for you every day." He looked out over the river. "Whenever you come back to the West Bank, the charcoal fire is always warm."

Hapy came the next day.

He came along the new capital’s post road, carrying a bulging bundle. Into the courtyard, he first set the bundle down and took things out one by one.

"Teacher," he said, "these I brought you. Straw sandals, three pairs. The camp’s old women stitched them, close needlework."

"You and your old ways again." Lu Zhu said.

"Not old ways." Hapy said. "That pair on your feet — the soles are worn through." He set the new shoes down at Lu Zhu’s feet. "Try them."

Lu Zhu tried them. They fit.

"How is the quarry camp?" Lu Zhu asked.

"It is up." Hapy said. "On the mountain east of the city. The wage rules, posted on a board for all to see. The quarrymen, every man a safety rope. On the grounds — rest sheds, a medical point, all there." He paused, and his voice dropped. "My father fell off the cliff because he had no rope. Now, the men in the camp feel for the rope before they go up the cliff. If my father had lived to see this rule . . ."

He did not finish. Lu Zhu did not ask.

"Last autumn," Hapy said after a while, "a young craftsman slipped on the cliff. Half his body was over the edge, and the rope held him. He hung in midair, and the men below hauled on the rope and drew him back, bit by bit. When he landed, his legs were too weak to stand. His elder brother, down below, held him and wept." Hapy paused. "Afterward, that craftsman washed his rope clean and hung it at his bed’s head. This is not a rope, he said. It is half my life."

"A rope hung at the bed’s head," Lu Zhu said, "and a man’s heart has one wall more."

"Right." Hapy said. "Now, when I lead men, the first thing is checking the ropes. The rope there, the life is there."

"Teacher," Hapy took out one more roll of paper, "the camp’s ground plan — I have revised it to the third version. Take a look, especially the material yard’s drainage."

Lu Zhu took the plan and, by the lamp, went over it point by point. When he had seen it, he took the charcoal stick and added two lines to the plan. "The material yard on the east — add a shallow channel. The summer rains come fast, and a shallow channel lets the water pool in the low ground. The material soaked, and the wages are soaked with it."

Hapy nodded and put the plan away. "I will revise it when I get back."

Mery came on the grain boat.

When the boat came to shore, Mery was standing at the prow, a bulging sack over his shoulder.

"Teacher!" he called. "I have come carrying grain for you!"

The line from that granary-touring letter of his, all those years ago — he had remembered it until now. Now he truly carried a sack of new grain on his shoulder, standing on the river bend’s landing.

"Is it heavy?" Lu Zhu said.

"Not heavy." Mery said. "Only with the granary full does a man’s heart not feel empty." He set the sack down and brushed the earth from his hands. "This is the south’s first batch of new wheat this year. I kept it for you."

Mery was now the official granary-and-construction consultant. The better part of every year he spent on the granary-touring road. His ledger went wherever he went. Lu Zhu turned through his ledger — line by line, all the granaries of the land.

"The whole country’s Ever-Normal Granaries," Mery pointed at the ledger, "two hundred and ninety-six. Of the first batch of thirty-seven, apart from the one that was rebuilt, not one has had an incident."

"The one that was rebuilt," Lu Zhu said, "is the one that collapsed."

"It is." Mery said. "The matter of the collapsing granary that crushed men — I have it written in the register. From now on, when I lead men, the first lesson is that granary." He paused. "A foot of crushed stone at the wall’s foot, rammed, and then measured. That word ’measure’ — every granary craftsman in the land can recite it now."

Lu Zhu nodded. He looked at Mery. The youth of those years, sensitive to stored grain — now, speaking of granaries, the light in his eyes was heavier and steadier than before.

"One more thing." Mery said. "River-Channel Village, by the river bend — do you remember it?"

"I do." Lu Zhu said. "The granary there was in your hands."

"That granary’s young keeper," Mery said, "his keys never leave his body, and the opening always takes two men. Keeping it all these years, not one grain has ever gone wrong. Last year, when Woser’s school came south to take in students, I recommended him. Now he keeps the granary by day and learns reckoning on the side." He smiled. "Woser’s school, the fourth class of granary clerks, graduates in spring. From now on, the granaries and the people both have roots."

"The Granary volume," Mery drew a sheaf of papers from his coat, "I have added a few articles. The north’s grass mats, the south’s stilted houses — all written in. Give them your eye. If they stand, they go into the supplement."

Lu Zhu took them. "Tonight," he said, "I will look them over carefully."

By the time Meru arrived, the day had darkened toward night.

His boat was the merchant house’s. At the prow stood the banner reading "Through to the South." Meru stood at the stern, his pipe in his mouth. The pipe was a new one.

"Master Lu!" He came off the boat and first tapped his pipe. "This landing of yours — the characters on the board are still bright."

"The board is old." Lu Zhu said. "The characters, I touch up every year."

"Touched up well." Meru said. "’Boats coming and going may all rest here. Water, in the well.’ — with these dozen-odd characters alone, the river bend’s landing is the best-trading landing in all Egypt." He narrowed his eyes, smiling. "Men of trade know such a place best of all."

"A new pipe?" Lu Zhu asked.

"Shunzi gave it to me." Meru said. "That lad leads the south line now. Before he left, he got me a new one. Said the old one had been knocked over ten-odd years, and knocked bald." He felt the pipe. "I would not take it. He said, a pipe is like a man — it should rest a while." Meru sighed. "So I took it. And taking it, I felt myself grow old."

"And Shunzi?"

"He leads the south line. Two trips a month, never once late." Meru said. "Kes’s river valley — three rows of houses now, one market, one ferry. The clan’s goods — ebony, leather, fragrant herbs — all pass through his hands." He paused. "I plan, next spring, to hand over the head account as well."

"Can you hand it over with a settled heart?"

"Settled." Meru said. "I reckoned it up. Of the accounts he has checked for me, not one entry has gone wrong." He tapped his pipe. "What a man of trade hands over in the end is not boats, not goods. It is trust. Shunzi has trust."

Meru drew a plan out of his coat. It was not large, and drawn dense.

"Kes drew it." he said. "The river valley’s plan. Three rows of houses, one market, one ferry, and a ring of low wall." He pointed at one place on the plan. "Here, the medical point. Set up before Tuxi left. Here, the Old Spring. A platform built around it. Here, the grain-sunning ground — moved down to the slope’s foot."

"Moved?" Lu Zhu said.

"Moved." Meru said. "The old ground sat in the village mouth’s low ground, and one rain waterlogged it. Kes said: after the master’s teaching, look at the water first. He looked, and moved the ground to the dry place below the slope." He paused. "Master Lu, your apprentices can make the ground obey them anywhere."

"It was not my teaching." Lu Zhu said. "It was the ground teaching him."

"One more thing." Meru said. "Kes’s mother asked me to bring you a message."

"What message?"

"She said: ’The shoes, I stitched them. The soles — Kes fell on his face for three years before he learned to stitch a sole flat.’" Meru paused. "The old woman also said: ’The craft you taught Kes, our family will remember for all our lives.’"

Lu Zhu looked down at the shoes on his feet. The soles were thick, the stitching even. He seemed to see, under the river valley’s lamp, an old woman stitching, stitch by stitch. What she was stitching was not a sole. It was a road.

That night, Meru and Lu Zhu checked accounts by the lamp half the night. Not money accounts. Road accounts. How many south lines, how many north lines, which river channel shallowed in autumn, which ferry froze in winter. Lu Zhu took the charcoal stick and marked the map, place by place. When he had marked it, Meru said: "This map, I will have a copy made for the merchant house. This map of yours is worth more than money."

Asaf and Tia arrived the day before the New Year.

The two came off the Civil Affairs Bureau’s boat, each carrying a rattan chest. In Tia’s chest were documents. In Asaf’s chest was the pharaoh’s gift.

"Master Lu." Asaf said. "The pharaoh has a verbal decree."

"This servant is listening." Lu Zhu said.

"The pharaoh says: it is the New Year, and he cannot come. But the river bend’s porridge, he tasted it last year, and he remembers it. He asks — is the river bend’s well still sweet?"

Lu Zhu was taken aback a moment. Last spring, the pharaoh had left the palace in plain clothes and spent half a day at the river bend. He had looked at the schoolhouse, looked at the granary, and stood a long while at the landing. Leaving, he had said only one thing: "Imhotep, this place of yours is like a little country." That matter, Lu Zhu had not spoken of to many people.

"The well is still sweet." Lu Zhu said. "Answer the pharaoh: where the water is good, the people are good."

Asaf nodded. He opened the rattan chest and took out one thing — a bag of seed.

"This is new wheat seed from the royal fields." Asaf said. "The pharaoh says: the river bend first. Grown there, then the whole land." He paused. "The pharaoh also says: the three characters ’I will come see it’ — he has said them for seven years. Last year, he finally kept them. From now on, he will not say them any more."

Lu Zhu put the seed away carefully. "Thank the pharaoh for me." he said.

Tia, beside them, had already spread her documents over the desk.

"Master Lu," she said, "the Four Laws have gained three articles more this year." With the charcoal stick she pointed them out one by one on the paper. "The first: granary clerks are examined once every three years. Those who pass stay in office. Those who fail go back to Woser’s school for half a year more. The second: the merchant house’s rule of ’supplying only works that hire at the full price’ is written into the corvée decree. The third: the construction soldiers’ inspections — a great repair every five years, a small repair every year, an inspection every ten days — the articles are fixed." Her brush tip paused on "an inspection every ten days." "These three articles are all real situations reported up from every quarter over these seven years. The pharaoh approved them with his own hand, and changed not one character."

"The first article," Asaf said, "was reported up from Thebes. Woser’s school has sent out four classes of granary clerks. But the men keeping granaries in the various places — some have kept them ten-odd years, and the granaries grow older while the men grow slacker. So Woser sent up a memorial: granary clerks must be examined too. What is examined is the granary, and the heart as well. To fail is no shame; come back and study again. Learn it through, then go back to keeping. The pharaoh read the memorial and approved it with three characters: ’Do as it says.’"

"The second article," Tia said, "is a rule Meru’s merchant house set for itself. When they supply a work, they first check the wage accounts. A work that hires at the full price, they supply. A work that presses the price down, they do not. Three years on, the merchant house’s goods stand hard wherever they go. A rule like that belongs in the law."

"The third article," Asaf said, "was reported from the northern border. General Horen said: the wall must be looked at often. And the men who look must have a charter. Five years, one year, ten days — three layers of looking, and no crack in the wall can hide."

Lu Zhu listened. "The law," he said, "grows article by article, just like this."

"Right." Tia said. "The law is not written. It is walked. The people walk in front, and the law follows behind, pressing the road flat." She paused, and her brush tip scratched once on the ledger page. "In a few more years, these four laws will have grown again. How big they grow depends on how far people walk."

Lu Zhu nodded. He wanted to ask about the deep mansion. The words came to his lips, and he swallowed them back.

Asaf said it himself.

"The old noble," he said, "sent up his resignation last autumn. Retired, and returned to his home ground. The pharaoh granted it. Bestowed fields and a house for his old age, in the south." He paused. "On the memorial, he wrote four characters: ’The board is put away, the players are gone.’"

"The board is put away, the players are gone." Lu Zhu repeated.

"That board," Asaf said, "is put away at last. The deep mansion is empty. A few of his nephews still hold office. But the two characters ’ancestral order’ — no one speaks them any more." He looked out over the river. "The new policies’ things, one by one, have all stood up. Once they stand, there is nothing left to fight over."

Lu Zhu said nothing. He remembered the grinding of teeth in the new capital’s deep mansion, many years ago. Now all of it had scattered into the southern fields.

"Scattered is good." he said. "Once scattered, the nights are quiet."

Imset and Shafi came last, at midday on the New Year’s day.

Imset leaned on a wooden staff. He was old. But his back was still straight. Shafi walked behind him, carrying a medicine chest. Behind the chest walked a young man — Tuxi. The river valley’s medical boy of those years, now carrying a medicine chest, walking steady and sure.

"Master Lu." Imset said. "The road is long, and we walked it slowly."

"Not late." Lu Zhu said. "Just in time for the New Year meal."

"The New Year meal can wait." Imset said. "First, the proper business." From his sleeve he took an oilcloth packet, and opened it layer by layer. Inside were a few pages of yellowed paper.

"The ruined shrine’s manuscripts." Imset said. "Fragments. I have found a few pages more. Together with what I gathered before, all of it to you." He laid the oilcloth packet into Lu Zhu’s hands, with ceremony. "You search for your road home, and I search for my old things. Now the old things are nearly all found. They are all handed to you."

Lu Zhu took them. Those pages weighed almost nothing. Yet holding them, he felt them heavy.

"Master," he said, "you have taken great pains for me all these years."

"No pains." Imset said. "What a man who searches fears most is that when the searching ends, there is no one to take what he found." He looked at Lu Zhu. "The old things I searched for have found their keeper."

"The institute is up." Imset sat down and spoke slowly. "In the new capital. Three rooms of library, four medicine storehouses. The library’s floor is raised a foot. The bookshelves all have gaps left between them. The medicine storehouses’ racks, after your method, are raised half a foot." He paused. "The ancient books gathered number more than three hundred rolls. Half of them can be read through. The half that cannot are hung on the walls, to be read slowly."

"The half that cannot be read," Lu Zhu said, "is the work left for the people who come after."

"Exactly." Imset said. "At the institute’s gate I set up a board: ’Books do not fear being old; they fear having no one to read them.’" He looked out over the river. "This half year we have walked seven medical points. The farthest one was in the mountains. Three days’ walking. Getting there, the medical point’s wall was cracked. The medicine rack was damp. Just one old physician, keeping a roomful of medicine."

"And then?"

"Shafi led people to raise the rack and patch the wall." Imset said. "When we left, the old physician saw us to the mountain pass. ’Once you are gone,’ he said, ’this medical point will have only me again.’" He paused. "I turned back and told him: ’No. From now on, the people who come every year will be more and more.’"

"That word," Shafi took it up, "was not said to comfort him. The physicians’ rotating training now runs two classes a year. The mountain medical points line up and wait their turn."

Shafi passed over a thin booklet.

"Master Lu," she said, "this is the new medicine register. The rules of medicine storage have gained a dozen-odd articles more. The damp-proofing, the worm-proofing, the zoning — all written in substance." She paused. "The zoning method you taught is now in use at every medical point in the land."

"All of it you made." Lu Zhu said. "I only opened the head."

"The opening is the hardest." Imset said. "You opened the head, and the people behind dared to follow."

"Tuxi," Lu Zhu turned to the young man, "is the river valley’s medical point still open?"

"It is." Tuxi said, his voice not loud but clear. "My mother — that is, Uncle Kes’s mother — still helps keep the household register. The medical point’s accounts, page by page, are all in order." He paused. "In my years of studying medicine, I go back every year. The river valley’s people say: Tuxi is back, and there is someone to see the sickness."

"Good." Lu Zhu said. "A man who has learned, and is willing to go back. That is the best of medicines."

On the New Year’s day, Lu Zhu led them all through the river bend.

It was not politeness. He asked each of them to look at their own trade.

Before the well platform, Kamon crouched and looked a long while. "The mouth is high, so the rain cannot get in. The rim is sloped, so the dirty water runs away. A good well." He stood up, and his knees cracked once more. "The West Bank’s wells are built the same way. Four of them."

Below the north wall, Kamon felt the wall seams, and Mery looked at the granary. Into the granary Mery went, and out, three times. The first time to feel the walls, the second to look at the windows, the third to check the floor.

"This granary," Mery said coming out, "can store another thirty years."

"You built it." Lu Zhu said.

"I built it." Mery said. "That is why I know it can store another thirty years." He paused. "A man’s own work — his own heart keeps the count of it."

In the medical hut, Shafi looked at the medicine rack. The rack was raised half a foot, the partition boards left with gaps. She pressed the back of her hand to a shelf. "Dry. The gaps are left right." Tuxi followed behind, writing things down one by one.

"Tuxi," Lu Zhu said, "what are you writing?"

"Methods." Tuxi said. "The river valley’s medical point still has the old rack. When I go back, I will change it after this one."

In the workshop, Hapy looked at the material racks, the tools, the lamp oil. When he had looked, he checked the lamp-oil account. Checked through, he said: "Teacher, this place of yours burns less lamp oil in a year than the material yard."

"The apprentices are thrifty." Lu Zhu said. "Lamp oil is money, and it is heart too."

In the cookhouse, Nefer looked at the fire, the pots, the water vat. When she had looked, she rolled up her sleeves. "Tonight’s meal," she said, "is mine."

"Please, no." A-Yang said. "You are a guest."

"Guest, nothing!" Nefer said. "The stove’s work, I have done it half my life. The New Year’s meal, I make half of it." She paused. "You men build houses and granaries. We women make the food fragrant. The food fragrant, and people have the strength to go on building."

In the schoolhouse, Asaf looked at the drawing board on the wall. Tia turned through A-Yang’s account.

Tia turned through it very slowly. The charcoal stick was not in her hand, but her fingertip ran down the account pages, line by line. At the last line, she closed the book. "Not one entry wrong." she said.

"Tr-truely?" A-Yang’s face flushed.

"Truly." Tia said. "Your account could go into the household-register model." She paused. "If every county’s household register in the land were like this book of yours, my work would be half as heavy."

A-Yang scratched his head and grinned. Lu Zhu watched from the side. "The account house," he said, "has come into its own."

At the landing, Meru looked at the board, the berths, the water’s depth. When he had looked, he said: "Master Lu, this landing of yours can take two piles more next year. The merchant house’s boats run more and more, and they all like to rest at your place."

"Add them." Lu Zhu said. "Pile timber, the river shoal has plenty."

"The material is on me." Meru said. "The piles, let your apprentices drive them. It will be my New Year gift to the river bend."

Last, Imset stopped in the courtyard. He raised his head and looked at the houses, the eaves, the tiles.

"Master Lu," he said, "these houses of yours — the eaves are all wide."

"The eave wide," Lu Zhu said, "and the people who shelter from the rain are many."

"Good." Imset said. "Where there is an eave to shelter from the rain, the people’s hearts are warm. That line, you wrote it into the code."

"I wrote it." Lu Zhu said.

"Well written." Imset said. "Of all the medical points I have walked, the best ones all have a wide eave before the door."

On the New Year’s night, in the river bend’s courtyard, a bonfire was lit.

The fire burned high. The wood was split by the apprentices. Around the fire sat a ring of people. Kamon, Nefer, Hapy, Mery, Meru, Asaf, Tia, Imset, Shafi, Tuxi. And A-Yang, and a dozen-odd new apprentices.

The drink was barley beer from Meru’s boat. One bowl to a person. The bowls were the river bend’s coarse clay bowls.

"This bowl," Kamon held his up, "is the same as the West Bank’s."

"Both are made of earth." Lu Zhu said.

"They are." Kamon said. "Bowls of earth hold beer of earth, to toast the people who scratch their living out of the earth." He lifted the bowl. "Come. To the New Year."

"To the New Year."

A ring of bowls knocked together, ringing, ding, ding.

The firelight reddened every face, and showed up every head of white hair, plain and clear. Looking at them, Lu Zhu suddenly thought: these heads of hair, a few years ago, were not yet like this.

The dates were divided up, a few to each person. The children’s shares were bigger. The apprentices could not bear to eat theirs, and tucked them inside their coats. One of the smallest ran up to Lu Zhu, a date gripped in his fist: "Teacher, are these the dates from Date-Slope?"

"They are." Lu Zhu said.

"Where is Date-Slope?"

"Very far." Lu Zhu said. "At the foot of a mountain. On the mountain there is a shrine, and in the shrine there is a master."

"Will that master come to our place?"

"He will not." Lu Zhu said. "He can no longer walk far. His mountain can no longer walk either."

The child half understood, and ran off.

"That year on the West Bank," Meru said, "our first gathering. It was on burned ground. Not even a table. Squatting on the earth, dry flatbread and well water."

"Well water was already good." Kamon said. "That year, the water was all mud."

"Then the new capital," Hapy said, "the day of the Great Ceremony. The whole city came out to watch the sun. I stood in the crowd, and the light fell on the altar, and the tears came down."

"You cried?" Mery said. "I do not remember that."

"I cried on the quiet." Hapy said. "You were staring at your granary that day."

Everyone laughed.

"The siege of Thebes," Meru said, "our boats crossed the battle lines by night. The boat bottoms scraped along the riverbed. That night’s moon, I will never forget in this life."

"The northern border’s wind and snow," Lu Zhu said, "Seb’s letter says the ice on the wall is a span thick."

At the mention of the northern border, everyone went still a moment.

"General Horen," Asaf said, "did not come back this year either."

"The New Year on the wall is a New Year too." Lu Zhu said. "That is the line from Seb’s letter."

"That line, General Horen taught him." Imset said. "With his temper, soft words never come out of him. But that one line is softer than any soft words."

In the fire, a stick burst with a "pop," and a spark flew.

"We have all grown old." Kamon said suddenly.

"Old." Meru said.

"Old," Nefer said, "and still working. Tomorrow morning, the stove is waiting for me to raise the dough."

Everyone laughed again. The laugh was not loud, but it carried far. The wind over the river’s face sent the laughter out, wave after wave.

"Tell us about this year." Lu Zhu said. "The year through, what has everyone done."

"This year I," Kamon said, "raised two houses, took in seven orphans, changed three flues. That is all." He rubbed the bowl’s rim. "Not much. But not one thing of it was fudged."

"This year I," Mery said, "toured forty-seven granaries. Two had gone bad, and both were mended. Taught out eleven granary craftsmen. Those eleven, next year, each keep a district."

"This year I," Hapy said, "the camp gained thirty men more. The ropes were changed once, all new. No man fell off the cliff." When he had said it, he added one line more. "The first time, in a whole year, that not one fell."

"This year I," Shafi said, "added fourteen articles to the medicine register. Walked seven medical points. Spoiled medicine, not half a part in ten."

"This year I," Tia said, "checked three counties’ hiring accounts. Found one false report. The man was taken. The account was squared."

"This year I," Asaf said, "memorialized the pharaoh three times. Three times, all granted." He smiled. "Not because my memorials were well written. Because the affairs below them all stood up."

"This year I," Meru said, "six north-line trips, twelve south-line trips. The boats, not overturned once." He tapped his pipe. "For a man of trade, the boat not overturned is a good year."

"This year I," Nefer said, "made no trouble."

Everyone laughed again.

"You say yours too." Lu Zhu lifted his chin toward the young people.

A-Yang stood up, and sat back down. "This year I . . . kept the accounts. Kept the well. Kept the apprentices." He paused. "The accounts, squared. The well, clean. The apprentices, not one ran off."

"This year I," Tuxi said, "followed the master and Mistress Shafi to seven medical points. Learned seventeen formulas. Made one mistake, and was punished with copying three times over."

"Well punished." Imset said. "A formula wrong once is a life."

From the apprentice heap, one child said quietly: "This year, I learned to look at water."

"Look at water?" Kamon’s interest rose. "How do you look?"

"First the color." the child said. "The clear from the muddy, the sweet from the bitter. Then the place. The high from the low, the near-river from the far-river." His voice grew louder as he spoke. "The teacher says: the water seen right, and the well is dug right. The well dug right, and the people settle right."

"Good!" Kamon slapped his knee. "This child is better than we were. In our day, we only knew how to dig. Whatever came out, we drank."

"But you dug good wells too." the child said.

"A blind cat that ran into a dead rat." Kamon said. "All thanks to Master Lu’s eyes." He raised his bowl toward Lu Zhu. "Master Lu, this cup is to you, for that one extra look you took, all those years ago."

"Looking at the ground," Lu Zhu said, "is a lifetime’s work. From now on, look more, ask more, crouch more. The ground does not cheat people."

Wood was added to the bonfire twice. The young people sat in the outer ring, listening to the old people in the inner ring talk. Some of the words they understood. Some they did not. But they all listened very quietly. The firelight shone in their eyes, bright.

"You all speak of this year." Imset said. "Let me speak of the years to come." He looked at the bonfire. "When I can no longer walk, I will sit in the courtyard and read those ancient books no one can read, page by page, aloud to whoever will listen. Read until when? Until someone takes up the reading."

Lu Zhu held his bowl and said nothing. He looked at the ring of people around the fire. Every one of them was in the place he ought to be in. Kamon on the West Bank, keeping the workshop. Meru between north and south, keeping the trade road. Asaf and Tia in the new capital, keeping the law. Imset and Shafi on the road, keeping the medicine. Hapy on the mountain, keeping the quarrymen. Mery on the road, keeping the granaries. Horenheb and Seb on the northern border, keeping the wall. Kes on the south border, keeping the river valley.

"Each at peace on their own road home." he said in a low voice.

"What?" A-Yang, sitting beside him, asked.

"I said," Lu Zhu said, "that a man’s one lifetime seeks exactly this. Each at peace on their own road home."

"Teacher," A-Yang said, "what of your road home?"

Lu Zhu did not answer. He looked at the fire. The firelight jumped and threw everyone’s shadow on the wall. The shadows were long, swaying, like a courtyard full of people who were still young.

That night, when the fire broke up, the people all went to sleep.

Lu Zhu did not sleep. He sat under the lamp and opened the rattan chest.

At the chest’s bottom lay, one by one, the old things gathered over the years. The chief priest’s incense ash, in a small clay bottle. Kes’s letters, a thick sheaf. Seb’s tower plans, rolled into one roll. Imset’s fragments, wrapped in oilcloth. Nekhem’s old paper, tucked into the supplement notebook.

He looked at them one by one. At the last, his hand stopped at the deepest place in the chest’s bottom.

There, pressed down, lay an old notebook. Leather cover, worn to fuzz. He took it out and opened it under the lamp.

In the notebook were written down lines of clues, one after another. Half-sentences copied from somewhere, rumors heard on the road, star charts he had drawn himself, signs whose names he could not say. On the first page stood four characters: "Notes on the Road Home."

This notebook had followed him half his life. On the West Bank, it had lain under his pillow. In the new capital, locked in a chest. At the river bend, pressed at the rattan chest’s bottom.

He turned a few pages, and closed it again.

Outside the door came footsteps. It was Imset. The old man, a robe thrown over him, stood at the door.

"Not asleep yet?" Lu Zhu said.

"Cannot sleep." Imset said. "On the New Year’s night, I do not sleep much." He came in and sat down before the lamp. "The fragments I gave you — have you looked at them?"

"Three pages." Lu Zhu said. "The writing I cannot make out fully. A few places, like drawings, and yet not."

"Those pages are the old temple’s things." Imset said. "What is recorded on them are matters that cannot be told clearly. Doors of another land. Rivers of old days." He looked at the lamp. "I know that what you search for is exactly these."

Lu Zhu said nothing.

"After all these years of searching," Imset said, "is there any lead?"

"None." Lu Zhu said. "One by one, they have all come to nothing."

"Then do you still search?"

Lu Zhu lowered his head and looked at the old notebook at the chest’s bottom. After a long while, he said: "I still search. But the search is no longer for going back. It is only for walking. For looking at the road."

"Good." Imset said. "What a man who searches fears most is not finding nothing. It is finding it, and turning back, and seeing that he has walked away from all the days behind him." He stood up. "The days behind you, you have not walked away from one of them. The houses are there, the granaries are there, the people are there, the law is there. That is better than finding anything."

When he had said it, he walked slowly away. Under the lamp, Lu Zhu was alone again.

Outside the window, the sky to the north lay heavy and dark. But he knew that after daylight, that road going north was there.

"When spring opens," he said, "to the northern border."

He put the notebook back at the chest’s bottom and closed the lid. The lid’s clasp gave one soft click.

In the courtyard, the bonfire had already gone out. Only a few embers still glowed in the wind, now bright, now dim — like a few far stars that had fallen to the ground of the river bend.

The New Year’s night deepened. The river bend’s lamps went out one by one. The last one was Lu Zhu’s. He blew out the lamp, but did not sleep. In the dark, he heard the river — hush, hush — running north. To the north there were walls, and towers, and snow, and two men who kept their New Year on the wall. He thought of the line in Seb’s letter: "The New Year on the wall is a New Year too." Near daylight, he rose and packed his things. The supplement notebook, the charcoal sticks, a few changes of clothes. And the shoes with the "peace" character embroidered on them. He picked the shoes up and looked at them a long while, then put them down again. The shoes were to be kept for the road. The road opened tomorrow. The road north, he had put off for six years. This time, he could not put it off again.

(End of Chapter 10)