Medicine with Adverse Effects

Chengyu's fingers hovered over a mortar and pestle, his movements measured as he demonstrated the fine art of medicine making to Hua, whose eyes shimmered with an earnest desire to master the craft. Although he'd been called over solely for the task, he'd stalled Chengyu for a good hour, hiding things, then singing and strumming that annoying pipa of his. After convincing him it was tea, Chengyu calmed Hua down with a mix of sedative herbs and was finally able to begin his lessons.

"Like this, you see?" Chengyu said, voice low and patient as he crushed the mixture. "Each ingredient responds differently. It's all about the pressure and rhythm."

Hua nodded, mimicking the motion with less finesse but equal fervor. "I think I understand," he replied, though his brows knitted in concentration betrayed his uncertainty.

Xiangcui clapped her hands, summoning their staged customers. "Let us begin," she announced, masking her concern for the activity's success with a practiced smile.

The first 'customer,' a robust man with feigned coughs, approached the window, knocking on it to call attention to Hua, who greeted him with a tentative but hopeful gaze.

In the early hours of the morning, Chengyu had ventured around the village, offering pieces of copper to anyone willing to play pretend. Anything Hua made today likely wouldn't be safe for consumption, so he'd also instructed them to leave their medicine in a pot just outside the gates. However, if they wanted to take the concoctions, he had no problem with it—it would only ensure a loyal, returning customer.

"Good evening, good sir. What seems to be your ailment today?" Hua asked, parroting the phrases he'd been coached on.

"Ah, it's my chest, young master," the man played along, his voice a convincing rasp. "Feels as if a great weight is resting upon it."

Chengyu watched from a distance, the corner of his mouth twitching upward despite the gravity weighing on his heart. He glanced towards Xiuqin's quiet form, resting on a mat in the corner of the room. Her breath was shallow, almost imperceptible, and a twinge of guilt pinched at his conscience each time he turned away from her to oversee Hua's practice.

"Try the willow bark and licorice root mix," Chengyu interjected, gently nudging Hua towards the correct remedy. He poured himself into the task at hand, if only to distract from the sinking feeling that Xiuqin's condition was beyond the reach of any concoction.

"Thank you, Teacher Chengyu," Hua replied, his voice a brushstroke of gratitude in the quiet room.

As the day waned, the line of pretend patrons continued, and Chengyu flitted between his dual roles as mentor and caretaker. With every glance at Xiuqin, his heart clenched tighter, her stillness a stark contrast to Hua's animated attempts at conversation and healing. Xiangcui caught his eye, her look laden with unspoken words, but they both knew now was not the time.

"Are you certain this will help?" The next customer, a woman with an air of skepticism, questioned Hua, breaking Chengyu out of his reverie.

"Absolutely," Hua replied, confidence wavering ever so slightly under scrutiny. His hands shook as he handed over the bundle of herbs, tied neatly with twine.

"Thank you, young master," the woman said, her tone softening as she accepted the medicine.

Chengyu managed a smile, pride mingling with concern. Hua was trying, truly trying, and perhaps that was worth more than precision at this moment. He turned back to Xiuqin, placing a cool hand upon her brow. There was no response, just the fragile rise and fall of her chest.

"Teacher Chengyu," Hua called out, seeking approval or reassurance—perhaps both. He'd taken to calling Chengyu that, but even if it was intended as a joke, it struck Chengyu's ego.

"Very well done," Chengyu replied, hoping his voice carried the encouragement Hua needed. Once Hua turned away, he leaned in and whispered to Xiangcui, "We'll have Lin Hu keep an eye on him while we're away."

He could allow himself a moment of hope, couldn't he? In this small space where life and learning intertwined, where every second counted twice – once for the knowledge gained and once for the time slipping away from Xiuqin. Chengyu felt the pull of duty, the need to trust in the hands of those less skilled, because sometimes, faith was the most potent medicine they had.

The soft amber glow of the afternoon sun filtered through the rice paper windows, casting a gentle warmth over Xiuqin's humble abode. The air was thick with the scent of dried herbs and the pungent aroma of simmering concoctions. Chengyu stood by the wooden counter, his eyes flitting between Hua's eager hands and the unmoving figure of Xiuqin on her cot. The old woman's breaths were shallow, barely rustling the thin blanket that covered her.

"More ginger root... no, not that much," Chengyu directed, the words falling from his lips with the weight of responsibility. He turned to the next 'customer,' an old man whose eyes lingered too long on Hua's delicate features, a sign of his youth.

Chengyu didn't know how old Hua was. Perhaps he'd ask, perhaps he wouldn't. It didn't really matter, and he didn't want to find out he'd been regarding someone older than him with such disrespect.

"Apothecary Hua," the elder drawled, a cunning twinkle in his eye as he presented a handful of coins. "These should suffice for the medicine, shouldn't they?"

Hua's laugh was like the clear ring of a temple bell, disarmingly innocent. "Of course! Your generosity warms my heart."

Chengyu's gut clenched as he watched Hua accept the coins without counting, his attention ensnared by the elder's flattery. The sum was far less than the medicine's worth. It happened again with another – this time a widow who batted her lashes and cooed over Hua's complexion while slipping away with more salve than she'd paid for.

"Teacher Chengyu, did I do well?" Hua asked, his gaze shimmering with the hope of a child showing off a new skill. If Chengyu had known this quality of Hua's, he would have charged Xiangcui with the task.

"Ah, yes... you did," Chengyu replied, the words tasting of ash on his tongue. He couldn't bring himself to dim the brightness in Hua's eyes, not when they reminded him of stars taking their first breath at dusk.

"Your words mean the world to me," Hua said, beaming, completely oblivious to the errors of his transactions.

Chengyu looked away, focusing on the intricate grain of the wooden counter, feeling each line as though it were etched into his own skin. He cursed himself for his cowardice, for allowing Hua's beauty and charm to eclipse his judgment.

"Maybe we could focus on the quantities next time," Chengyu suggested, his voice careful to maintain an encouraging tone. "Accuracy is as vital as kindness in our trade."

"Of course, Teacher Chengyu, your guidance is invaluable," Hua replied earnestly, his head bowed in a gesture of respect that felt too heavy for such slender shoulders.

In the corner of the room, Xiangcui shifted uncomfortably, her arms crossed as if trying to hold herself together amidst the chaos of training and tending. Chengyu caught her gaze, a silent exchange passing between them – worry for Hua's naivety mingled with fear for Xiuqin's fading vitality.

"Let us try once more," Chengyu said, drawing in a deep breath that did little to fill the hollow space inside him. His fingers brushed against the vials and packets of herbs, each one a testament to the knowledge he yearned to pass on.

"Again, Teacher Chengyu?" Hua's voice was ripe with enthusiasm, undeterred by the setbacks.

"Again." Chengyu confirmed, his heart aching as it mirrored the resolve in Hua's voice.

"Very well," Hua nodded, rolling up his sleeves with a renewed vigor that somehow made the task ahead seem less daunting.

As the shadows grew longer and merged with the twilight, Chengyu knew that time was slipping through their fingers like the finest sand. But in this moment, he chose to believe in potential rather than dwell on imperfections, because sometimes, faith was the only thing stronger than fear.

Chengyu let out a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the day's trials, his breath a foggy whisper in the cool air of the apothecary. The shelves around him were crowded with jars and bundles of herbs, their scents mingling into an olfactory web as complex as the thoughts weaving through his mind.

"Xiangcui," he said, turning towards his old friend with a weariness that tugged at the corners of his eyes, "I really think we'll have to ask Lin Hu to keep an eye on Hua while we're away. I'm scared he might accidentally blow himself up somehow."

Xiangcui's expression was etched with concern, her eyes tracing the lines of worry that framed Chengyu's face. "But can we trust him to be vigilant?" she asked, the skepticism clear in her tone.

"Despite his rough exterior, Lin Hu is capable and sensitive enough to deal with Hua," Chengyu admitted. "And Hua… well, he has a zeal for this craft that cannot be denied." He watched as Hua, oblivious to their conversation, leaned over Xiuqin's resting form, speaking in hushed tones filled with a fervor that belied his lack of experience. "See how eagerly he takes to each task, no matter how small."

With a reluctant nod, Xiangcui conceded, "Indeed, there is fire in him. Though I fear it may need more time to kindle into even the smidging of skills."

A smile flickered across Chengyu's lips, but it did not reach his heart. He turned back to observe Hua, who had now excused himself from Xiuqin's bedside to grind a new batch of medicinal powder. The pestle rocked clumsily in Hua's delicate hands, spilling flecks of herb onto the worn wooden counter. It pained Chengyu to see such ineptitude, yet the buoyancy in Hua's movements, the way his eyes lit up when the texture of the powder finally started to even out—there was something endearing in that effort.

"His technique is abysmal," Chengyu muttered under his breath, his voice barely carrying over the rustle of dried leaves and the soft clink of glass vials.

"Yet he is excited," Xiangcui pointed out, her gaze softening. "Perhaps this great enthusiasm can make up for what he lacks in finesse."

"Perhaps," Chengyu echoed, the word lingering in the space between hope and reality.

He could not help but feel a sting of regret as he considered leaving Xiuqin, frail and fading, in the care of someone so untested. But there was no other choice; duty called him elsewhere, and time was a river that flowed without concern for the needs of mortals.

"Remember, Hua," Chengyu called out, his voice steady despite the turmoil within, "precision is key. Each grain matters just as each second does."

Hua looked up, his face aglow with gratitude for any morsel of guidance. "I will remember, Master Chengyu," he replied, the promise hanging in the air like a lantern in the dusk, fragile yet earnest.

Still, Chengyu couldn't help but sigh. "Stop calling me that already." He was unworthy of such grand titles.

***

As night crept into the room, Chengyu watched the exchange of knowledge like a sacred ritual, a transfer of legacy that transcended words. His heart ached with the beauty of it all—the raw, untamed potential of youth and the solemn grace of age. With a final look at Xiuqin's serene countenance, he whispered a silent vow to return before the last leaf fell, before the last breath waned.

"Let us hope," Chengyu murmured to Xiangcui as they prepared to leave, "that our absence will be the crucible in which Hua's true abilities are forged."

"Let us hope indeed," Xiangcui agreed, her hand resting briefly on Chengyu's arm—a fleeting comfort amid the uncertainties that lay ahead.