Chapter 214: Restarting the Furnace

"Don't channel qi into it yet." Bai Xiaoman wound the leather cord once more around his arm, cinched it, then smoothed the sleeve down over it. "Let it sit on its own. See if it scatters."

Cheng Banshan lifted the hand to eye level, turned it over, then back again. That faint glow in the palm was still there, dimmer than the night before, but not out. He settled it back on his knee and waited. After a while, the point of light drifted toward the knuckles on its own, traveling until it stopped at the third joint.

"It moves by itself."

"Slowly," he said. "Good enough."

The workbench by the window in the outer room of the Medicine Hall had been cleared. Chisels, plane, cover plate, leftover scraps of wood—all stowed in an old wooden tray in the corner. Twenty-three days of wood shavings swept from that bench had filled over a dozen baskets. Du Xiaochuan swept one every two days; Qian Duoduo collected them for kindling. The kitchen fires had been a little easier these days thanks to that. On the wood stove against the inner wall, a batch of Qi-Gathering Powder simmered, flame kept low, the decoction bubbling in small blisters at the bottom of the pot. Du Xiaochuan crouched by the stove feeding in firewood, glancing back at the hand on the bench after every stick, peering a moment, then adding another.

Bai Xiaoman wiped the bench surface twice, the last pass with her sleeve. She straightened, then turned to look at the hand resting on Cheng Banshan's knee.

"Bring a bowl," Cheng Banshan said.

Du Xiaochuan fetched a coarse bowl from the kitchen and set it on the bench. Cheng Banshan rose, walked over, and spread the wooden palm as wide as it would go. The five segmented fingers opened to either side of the bowl's rim, then slowly closed, the thumb pressing down on the lip. The bowl came up, half a foot off the bench, steady. He held it a while, then set it down.

"Full one, too."

Du Xiaochuan ran out again and came back with half a bowl of cold water, poured into the first bowl right up to the brim. This time he lifted it lower, four fingers gripping the wall, thumb braced on the lip. He carried it to the window, held it to the light a moment, then carried it back and set it down. A shallow ring spread across the water's surface. Not a drop touched the bench.

"That hand can earn a living," Qian Duoduo said from the doorway.

"No it can't," Cheng Banshan said. "Can't hold chopsticks."

Qian Duoduo came in from the kitchen side, both hands cradling a big bowl, steam rising off the rim. "Elder Cheng—porridge—"

Cheng Banshan reached for it. The wooden palm took the bowl from underneath, the fingers closing up from both sides, and the bowl settled into his hand.

"Hot!" Qian Duoduo yelled. "Just off the fire!"

Bai Xiaoman stepped forward and lifted the bowl from his hand, setting it on the bench on two layers of old cloth. Cheng Banshan drew the hand back and turned it over to look. The wood hadn't changed color, hadn't creaked. The glow in the palm was steady as ever.

"It doesn't know hot," he said.

"Then if someday at the stove, or the furnace—" Qian Duoduo caught himself halfway, glanced at Bai Xiaoman, swallowed the rest, and turned back to the kitchen for his own bowl.

"Where are the seeds?" Cheng Banshan asked.

Du Xiaochuan took down a small dish from the shelf. Inside lay a few jet-black seeds, gathered from the old herb garden in autumn. Cheng Banshan tried to pinch one with the wooden hand. Two fingers closed together; the seed rolled in the gap and slipped out, skittering half a circle across the bench. He tried again. The seed got pinned to the bottom of the dish, then sprang free when he relaxed. On the third attempt he moved the dish into the light and slowly drew the two fingers together—the seed slid off the fingertips and dropped to the floor.

Du Xiaochuan bent to pick it up, blew it off, and placed it back in the dish.

"Can't pinch," Bai Xiaoman said quietly.

"Can't pinch anything fine." Cheng Banshan pushed the dish back. "Note it down."

"Noted."

"Tray."

The shallow wooden tray by the wall was brought over and placed on the bench. Cheng Banshan flattened the wooden palm and supported the tray from beneath, five fingers spreading against the rim, closing. He raised the tray to brow height, turned in a full circle, then back the other way. Not a tilt.

"That one's steady," Bai Xiaoman said.

"For catching pills," Cheng Banshan said.

The charcoal stove by the Medicine Hall door sat idle. Its lid had a ring, normally lifted with an iron hook. Cheng Banshan walked over and pressed the wooden palm onto the lid, fingers spread, bearing down. He pushed east; the lid shifted a full inch without slipping. Then he moved the hand to the lid's edge and pried upward. The lid lifted only a crack.

"Ring's too fine," Bai Xiaoman said. "Let me do the hooking."

She hooked the ring with the iron rod and swung the lid aside. Cheng Banshan planted the wooden palm against the lid's edge and held it steady until she withdrew the hook.

"This way of bracing works," he said.

"Want to run through catching the pills once?" Bai Xiaoman asked.

Cheng Banshan didn't answer. He pressed his own hand against the furnace door. A thread of heat slipped between his fingers, and the empty firebox flared once before dimming—just enough to show the old ash at the bottom. He murmured "Up," and the wooden palm reached over, five fingers hooked on the lid's rim, and drew the cover onto the lip of the furnace. Then the hand flipped over, took up the shallow wooden tray, and held it below the furnace mouth.

The furnace mouth gaped empty. He set the tray back on the bench and fitted the lid back on.

"Good," Bai Xiaoman said. "Hand's quick enough."

"Fire control's not there yet," Cheng Banshan said. "Just now, I held the fire half a quarter-hour suppressed. A real pill catch, you can't spare a single breath."

"Can this hand sit by the furnace seven days?" he asked.

Bai Xiaoman had already thought that through. "There's a thin piece of wood shimmed under the cover plate. With the seam sealed, heat can't get in. Wood dries and cracks when it meets fire, so I wrapped the sleeve in a layer of oiled cloth." She reached out and straightened the cloth. "Roasting won't hurt it. If it really does crack, I'll carve another section."

"Is there wood left?"

"Yes. And the diagram's still here."

Cheng Banshan studied the cloth on the sleeve and asked no more. Bai Xiaoman came from the kitchen with half a bucket of water, sloshing all the way to the wall. Cheng Banshan reached for the bucket handle. The wooden fingers closed around it, drew together, lifted—the bucket didn't move. He put in more strength. The wood slipped on the handle, the fingers split apart, and the bucket knocked against the ground, splashing half its load.

"Can't lift it."

Bai Xiaoman rushed forward and steadied the bucket.

"Catching pills doesn't need carrying water." Cheng Banshan looked at the half bucket. "Doesn't need pinching seeds either." He let the hand drop to his side, the five joints hanging loose. "It's enough."

Bai Xiaoman crouched and spread the spilled water along the base of the wall with her foot. When she stood, she said, "Started the carving on the sixteenth day of the First Month. Twenty-three days, as of today."

Cheng Banshan said nothing. He lifted the hand off, laid it straight on the bench, and studied the point of light in the palm. Bai Xiaoman drew the Formation Hand diagram from the wooden box beneath the bench and spread it open. She added a few strokes in the margin with the brush, then pressed the ink dry with her finger.

Two heads poked in at the Medicine Hall door. A He in front, A Sui behind, one high and one low as they clutched the doorframe.

"Grandpa Cheng," A Sui said, "is that wood?"

"It's wood."

A He reached out to touch it and A Sui snatched his hand back. "Don't."

"Looking's fine." Cheng Banshan pushed the hand on the bench a little closer.

A Sui extended one finger first, tapped the back of the wooden finger once, drew back, and giggled. Only then did A He plant his whole hand on it, stroking from the sleeve down to the fingertips.

"Cold," A He said.

"Cold," Cheng Banshan said.

"Then in winter, wearing it," A Sui asked, "will it be cold?"

"Wood doesn't get cold," Cheng Banshan said. "What gets cold is the hand."

A Sui tilted her head and thought for a while without figuring it out, then turned to her brother. A He had already run off, calling for her from the veranda. The two argued over who'd touched it first, their voices carrying to the kitchen, until Qian Duoduo shouted and the noise dropped to a murmur.

Xu Yan stood at the door. He didn't come in. He studied the hand on the bench for a while, then looked at Bai Xiaoman. She was bent over, sliding the chisels back one by one into the old wooden tray. Only when the last one was set in place did she look up.

"Light the furnace on the eleventh," Cheng Banshan said. "Buy charcoal on the tenth. A dan and a half."

"Understood," Xu Yan said. He paused, then asked Bai Xiaoman, "What are you short?"

"A new bench surface." Bai Xiaoman slapped the table. "This one's been chewed by chisels."

"Put it on the books," Xu Yan said.

"What should I put?"

"One bench surface."

Bai Xiaoman smiled and carried the tray to the corner. Xu Yan looked once more at the hand on the bench, then turned and walked the veranda toward the Accounts Room.

The tenth's market day went as usual. Before dawn, Qian Duoduo and Du Xiaochuan carried a pot of Spirit Meal down the mountain. At the Dragon hour, the Qi-Gathering Powder came out of the furnace; Qi Qi tucked ten vials into his robes and hurried into town. At the Market, Xu Yan kept the ledger, Shao Ming watched the gate and the scale. The fair broke up at the end of the Snake hour; the Market gate closed at the end of the Horse hour; and by the Monkey hour, Xu Yan was at the wharf.

The wharf was still covered in a layer of charcoal dust that crunched underfoot. The charcoal boat lay alongside the stone steps. The boatman shoveled charcoal from the hold into baskets, weighed it, and passed it up to shore. The baskets were old, black packed into their seams. Emptying them sent up dust that made a man step back.

"A dan and a half," Xu Yan said.

The boatman glanced at him, shoveled two baskets, then threw two more spadefuls into the second. The scale beam dipped, rose; the weight swayed on its string.

"A dan and a half."

Fifteen coins changed hands. Two baskets of charcoal were dumped into the pair of empty baskets against the wall. Qi Qi took his carrying pole off his shoulder, threaded it through the rope loops, crouched, and stood. The two baskets left the ground, the pole bowing on his shoulder.

"Under the back wall," Xu Yan said.

From wharf to town gate, from town gate to mountain road, straight on up. Qi Qi led the way, the pole creaking, charcoal dust sifting from the basket seams and leaving a gray trail on the stone steps. Halfway up the mountain, Xu Yan took the load for a stretch, and after the steepest bend, they swapped back. Up at the Mountain Gate, Nie Bo was sweeping. The broom went stroke by stroke until it stopped above the steps, and he stepped aside to let the two baskets through.

"This charcoal's heavier than Spirit Rice," Qi Qi panted. "A dan and a half—how many days will it burn?"

"Seven."

"Seven days on a dan and a half." Qi Qi worked it out in his head. "That's less than half a small basket a day."

"As long as the fire doesn't collapse."

Back at the Mountain Gate by the Monkey hour. The two baskets were stacked beneath the back wall of the Medicine Hall. Du Xiaochuan threw a woven grass mat over them and pinned the corners with stones.

On the eleventh, at the Mao hour, the sky was still dark. The charcoal stove's lid sat off to the side by the Medicine Hall door. The old ash in the firebox had been cleaned out the day before, and fresh charcoal lined the bottom. Cheng Banshan fitted on the hand, cinched the leather cord, and stood before the furnace for a long moment.

He pressed his hand to the furnace door. Through the iron, a thread of heat passed between his fingers. The bottom of the firebox reddened in one patch, then spread. The kindling charcoal at the very bottom caught and glowed, licking upward. The darkness at the Medicine Hall door was pushed aside by that spark of fire. Shadows appeared on the wall: the drying medicine pouches, the old broom in the corner.

"Fire's ready," Du Xiaochuan said.

The packet of elixir ingredients came down from the shelf. The oiled paper was untied, and a bitter smell mixed with a hint of sweetness drifted out. Cheng Banshan cradled the package on the wooden palm and lifted it to the furnace mouth. The hand fed the medicine in layer by layer, the wooden hand steady beneath it, carrying all the way to the last layer.

The lid was pushed back and sealed.

"These seven days I'll sleep in the outer room," Cheng Banshan said. "Call me if the fire collapses."

"I'll keep watch until the Hai hour at night," Du Xiaochuan said.

Bai Xiaoman crouched nearby watching the flame. Xu Yan stood at the door and asked, "Seven days. Can you hold out?"

"I held seven days brewing the antidote," Cheng Banshan said.

"Someone was feeding the fire for you then."

"Someone's feeding it now, too," Du Xiaochuan said.

The sound of a pot lid came from the kitchen. Day hadn't fully broken; the window paper everywhere else on the mountain was still gray. Cheng Banshan sat down on the low stool and watched that red line in the furnace door's seam.

"Thirty years, and I never once brought a pill furnace to completion."

Du Xiaochuan passed a piece of charcoal toward his hand and said nothing.