China by Edward Rutherfurd (historical books to read TXT) 📕

“Well,” I said sourly, “you can tell him we can’t pay.” I wasn’t sure he even heard me. “The medicine’s too expensive,” I shouted at him. “Your grandson’s going to die!”

He heard that all right. He blinked at me. But he hardly even paused. “I’ll talk to him,” he said.

I watched my father speak to the old man. Then I saw the old man shake his head.

“He said he’s sorry. He told us it was expensive. The herbs are very rare. He can’t give them away. He says there’s another apothecary not far away.”

So we went outside, and half an hour later we were at the other apothecary. It was much smaller and the doctor there was a younger man. After listening to our case he said: “I can give you a different medicine that does almost the same thing.” And he named the price, which was a third of what the old man had wanted. When we agreed to that, he went and attended to the order himself, making the assistants bring every ingredient for his inspection.

“It had better work,” I said, “because it’s still all the money we’ve got.”

“It’ll work,” said my father.

—

We’d been back at home only two days when my little boy started to show signs of improvement. At work, every time I saw my master, I thanked him again for sending us to Beijing. And though he didn’t show it, I’m sure this made him happy.

It was on the tenth day that my father showed up at the workshop. He came by at noon, when we were all eating and having a rest. “I had an errand in the village, so I thought I’d look in,” he told me cheerfully. After bowing politely and greeting the other craftsmen, he asked me what I was working on. As it happened, the piece on my table wasn’t that interesting, though he examined it admiringly. “Can I see some of your finished work?” he asked.

“I suppose so,” I said, and I took him over to the storeroom.

I always loved showing people the shelves of finished work. You’re just so proud of what you produce when you work in a place like that. Sure enough, when my father saw the rows and rows of beautiful treasures, he was quite amazed. I showed him a few small things I’d done, which weren’t too bad. “You really are a craftsman,” he said, and he looked so pleased and proud. Then he asked some questions that weren’t at all stupid about some of the more complex and valuable pieces and the skill that went into them. And I was feeling really pleased that he’d come when he suddenly turned to me with a serious face.

“I didn’t come in here to look at the lacquer work,” he said. And while I stared at him, he went on. “I needed us to be alone.”

“What’s all this about?” I asked.

“I didn’t want the other men to hear us. I didn’t want them to know—especially after your master gave you time off to go to Beijing.”

“What are you talking about?” I said.

“You’ve got to ask your boss a big favor.” He gave me a wise nod. “Never ask a man for a favor in public—because if he does it for you, then everyone else will want the same from him. So if ever you need to ask a favor, son, always do it in private.”

“What favor?” I asked. I didn’t like the sound of this.

“He needs to lend you some money,” he says. He gazed at me sadly. “It’s Zi-Hao. Our little boy.”

“What are you saying?” I felt my heart sink.

“It happened soon after you left this morning. He was sick, the same way as before. And then he just lay there. He didn’t move all morning. He’s pale as a ghost.” My father looked so wretched. “I don’t think the medicine’s working anymore,” he said.

“What do we do?” I cried.

“That’s exactly why I came,” he said. He sounded quite eager. “All your master has to do is lend you the money for the right medicine—the one from the old man that we couldn’t afford. Go to him right away. Tell him what’s happened and ask for the loan. He’ll trust you. You’re a good worker. You’ll pay it back over time.”

“He wouldn’t like it,” I said. “I don’t think I can.”

“You’ve no choice,” he told me, “if you want to save your son’s life.” For once he was right. “Go and see him now. I’ll wait for you here.”

So I did as he said. My master was in his house. When I went to the door and asked to speak to him, he saw me at once. He gave me a friendly welcome, but I saw a trace of caution in his eyes.

I’d never told him the detail about our buying the cheaper medicine from the other doctor. But now I had to tell him about that and about what was happening to my son.

“Have you any suggestion about what I should do, master?” I asked. Because I thought perhaps he might offer something, and if he did, it would be better than my asking for a loan. Perhaps I was wrong to go about it that way. I don’t know.

He didn’t keep me waiting long. “You should go to the temple and make an offering,” he said. “Sometimes that works.”

“I was thinking,” I said in desperation, “that if he had the expensive medicine, it might cure him. If you could give me a loan, you know I’d pay it back. I’d do extra work. Anything you want.”

He looked at me silently for a few moments. “Do you remember,” he said, “what I told you about children? You must be prepared to lose a few. We all do. It’s very sad”—he sighed—“but that’s the way of things.”

“I have to try to save him,” I said.

“Sometimes,” he answered me, “we just have to let go.”

So I