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Translator: Silavin
In the hazy moonlight, Hansheng felt an itch in his nostrils. He carelessly wiped it with his hand, breaking the mycelia of the White Mountain Beard. Even so, these hair-like strands were so fine that they fell out without him noticing.
Looking up at the sky, he saw thick clouds drifting over from the northwest.
[I need to hurry…] He thought.
Hansheng gripped the iron shovel, inserting its blade into the cracks of the coffin lid and pressing down hard. With a *creak*, the partially rotten wood gave way.
Clearing away the broken splinters, he shone his flashlight into the dark void of the coffin.
A human-shaped object covered in white ‘hair’ lay silently inside…
Hansheng was startled. [How can a thousand year old corpse be covered in white hair?]
Looking closer, he felt a chill run through him. The white hair was actually growing! Furthermore, these spider-silk-like white strands were reaching towards the opening.
Glancing at the corner of the coffin, he saw a rectangular wooden box, about thirty centimetres long covered in fine dust.
At that moment, his heart pounded rapidly. He carefully extended the shovel to scoop up the wooden box. As he withdrew the shovel and grasped the box, he discovered that the frantically growing white strands had almost filled the coffin.
With no time to examine the box closely, he leaped out of the pit.
Under the moonlight, those White Mountain Beard strands swayed as they extended out of the coffin, continuing to climb into the air. Seeing this, Hansheng was greatly alarmed. He quickly put down the wooden box, grabbed the shovel, and desperately filled the pit with soil, covering those white organisms.
By the time the grave had been completely filled, raindrops were falling from the night sky, leaving no trace of the thousand year old coffin. Hansheng wiped the sweat from his face and finally breathed a sigh of relief.
It was pitch black all around, impossible to see his hand in front of his face. Hansheng tried to turn on the flashlight, but the filament only glowed red before going dark – the battery had finally run out.
The rain grew heavier, making the bamboo leaves rustling overwhelming. Hansheng placed the wooden box into the cloth bag containing 27 hand bones, and groped his way back in the dark while he carried his shovel. The Ghost Fire in the bamboo forest had disappeared. He felt his way forward, occasionally bumping into thick bamboo stalks, scattering a shower of raindrops.
An hour later, Hansheng finally stumbled back home.
※※※
The yellow dog, Dummy, unlike usual, seemed to be whining in fear. He even trembled as he retreated into a corner of the main room.
Hansheng was too excited to pay attention to Dummy’s unusual behaviour. He walked into the west room and saw that his Father had not returned, as expected.
Lighting an oil lamp, he did not bother to remove his soaked clothes before eagerly taking out the wooden box from the cloth bag and examining it closely under the light from the lamp.
The dust on the wooden box had been washed away by the rain. It revealed a texture of blackish red – it was a box made of Rosewood.
The box was heavy, without hinges or locks. It had a sliding lid. The edges of the sliding groove were sealed with wax, to prevent moisture from getting in, completely sealing whatever was inside. Hansheng tried to pull it but he couldn’t. So, he went to the kitchen to find a small knife and carefully scraped off the sealing wax under the lamp.
He sat down, took a deep breath, and then carefully slid open the lid…
Inside the box was a white linen package that looked coarse. On top of the package lay a yellowed piece of paper with brownish black writing. Hansheng carefully picked up the paper and held it under the oil lamp. It turned out to be a letter written in official script – an ancient style of calligraphy used during the Han Dynasty. It was written in a vigorous and ancient calligraphic style. Having read some ancient medical books since childhood, he could roughly recognize it.
The letter reads: ‘In the autumn of the 13th year of Jian’an (time period of 196AD), the Prime Minister, Cao Cao, beheaded Hua Tuo in Xuchang. In prison, Hua Tuo entrusted a copy of the Classic of the Black Satchel and one Luban Ruler to me. At the time, he told me, ‘He who obtains this Classic can save lives.’ I am from Nanshan, Wuyuan, Huizhou Prefecture. I’ve instructed my descendants to bury this Classic with me. If this Classic sees the light of day in the future, the one who obtains it should seek out and practice medicine to help the world. Its origins must never be revealed, not even to one’s parents and children. Remember, do not fail Hua Tuo’s trust. Do not let Hua Tuo’s legacy end here.
– Late winter of the 7th year of Huangchu (227AD) in the Wei Dynasty.’
As Hansheng read on, he grew more and more astonished. Cold sweat ran down his cheeks.
Since childhood, he had heard his Father tell stories about the Classic of the Black Satchel. It was reportedly authored by the divine doctor, Hua Tuo during the period of the Three Kingdoms. At that time, he was imprisoned by Cao Cao, sent on the death row in Xuchang, the capital of Wei Dynasty. Knowing his life was nearing its end, he wrote down his lifetime of medical knowledge in a book called the Classic of the Black Satchel and gave it to a jailer. He had hoped it would be passed down to future generations.
The jailer secretly took it home, but his wife, fearing the implication of obtaining this book, burned it. Regrettably, that was when a generation of divine medical skills was lost.
[Could it be that Hua Tuo’s long lost Classic of the Black Satchel still existed?] Under the oil lamp, Hansheng’s trembling hands slowly unwrapped the package…
※※※
Layer by layer, the linen package was opened, revealing a stack of yellowed paper slips. There was also a green ruler lying diagonally at the bottom of the box. The paper was thick and coarse, covered on both sides with tiny characters.
At the top of the first slip was scribbled ‘Classic of the Black Satchel.’
[Is this really the Classic of the Black Satchel!?] Hansheng remembered from his studies that papermaking first appeared during the Western Han Dynasty (206BC). During that time, the paper was called jute paper.
However, the paper used for this Classic of the Black Satchel before him was not made of jute. It was possibly made of tree bark fibre improved by Cai Lun, an inventor born in 57AD. During the Late Eastern Han Dynasty, with warlords dividing up the territory and people being displaced, paper was a scarce commodity among the common people.
Imprisoned, Hua Tuo could only cobble together a few scraps of paper, writing in tiny characters to save space, with no possibility of binding it into a book.
[It seems like on these few dozen rough and poor-quality paper slips, it is really Hua Tuo’s original handwriting.] Hansheng continued reading, and what was recorded next in the Classic convinced him that this was indeed the Classic of the Black Satchel, lost for over 1,700 years.
It records: “The main ingredient of Anaesthetic Powder is Datura Flower. Its taste is pungent, warm, and toxic. Harvest Datura Flowers in autumn and dry them in the shade. Use one litre of the drug, along with 12 grams each of raw Kusnetzoff Monkshood, Angelica Sinensis, Angelica Dahurica, Ligusticum Striatum, and 3 grams of fried Arisaema. Mix 12 grams with hot wine and administer. It will cause intoxication and make the consumer unconscious, allowing for the cutting open their abdomen and back for removal of accumulations. If operating on the intestines and stomach, cut and wash beforehand to remove disease and filthy matter…”
Reading to this point, Hansheng felt his blood rush up to his head. His eyes were brimming with hot tears. ‘Anaesthetic Powder’ or ‘Ma Fei San’ was something that the best medical masters and itinerant doctors had dreamed of for thousands of years. He knew that Datura Flowers were also called ‘Yang Jin Hua’, widely distributed in the wild across the country. Who knew this common herb had such marvellous uses?
Hansheng read on, intoxicated, until the rooster crowed thrice and the sky had fully brightened.
At this moment, the yellow dog Dummy started barking softly on his own, and someone was standing at the courtyard gate, shouting, “Doctor Zhu, my small team is going around notifying all Families need to start moving graves today!”
Hansheng hurriedly put the Classic of the Black Satchel into the box and stuffed it under his bed. He rubbed his eyes and walked out the door.
The visitor was in his thirties, of medium build with a broad back and strong waist. Hansheng recognized him as Zhu Biao, the team leader of Nanshan Village.
“My Father went to help with a delivery, I’ll wait for him to return,” Hansheng told him.
“Alright, but your Family should be more proactive. Don’t fall behind the Revolutionary Committee,” Zhu Biao said with a forced smile before turning and leaving.
[Hmph, what a petty man,] Hansheng grumbled inwardly. Because of their different backgrounds, Zhu Biao was always finding fault with his Father. Their Ancestors had been rural doctors, but during the Land Reform, they were classified as rich peasants, reportedly because his Grandfather had cured the illness of a Kuomintang County Magistrate, considered serving the Reactionaries.
(Silavin: Kuomintang is a political party, made up of ‘Reactionaries’ that later fled to Taiwan.)
The day passed into dusk, and his Father still had not returned.
[Should I tell him about the Classic of the Black Satchel?] Hansheng remembered the letter from the owner of that ancient tomb and finally decided not to say anything for now. Since the person who entrusted this book to him had stated his requirements, he should abide by them. After all, being honest was fundamental to being a person.
Hansheng continued reading, neglecting food and sleep.
As the sky gradually darkened, Hansheng lit the oil lamp, preparing to read through the night.
The yellow dog started barking again, and hurried footsteps could be heard in the courtyard.
Hansheng quickly hid the Classic and went out to greet the visitor. He saw a middle-aged man covered in sweat. He remembered he was from the Family of the pregnant woman, who had come seeking medical help yesterday.
“Doctor Zhu asked me to come for medicine,” the man said breathlessly, holding a note. It was the prescription his Father had written.
“What? She still hasn’t given birth?” Hansheng asked.
“That’s the issue, she just can’t deliver. We don’t dare take her to the hospital. We are afraid she would not be able to endure the dozen or so kilometres of mountain road,” the man explained, his face reddening with tears about to fall.
“Alright, wait a moment. I’ll go prepare the medicine right away,” Hansheng took the note, quickly gathered the medicinal herbs, packaged them, and brought them out.
“I’ll go with you.” Hansheng stated, worried about his Father’s health and he personally wanted to help.
The two hurriedly left home, leaving the yellow dog to watch over the house.
The journey to the pregnant woman’s home required travelling for about seven or eight kilometres of mountain road. Fortunately, the moon was bright and the stars were clear, making the mountain path easily discernible. This allowed them to make quick progress. Along the way, the man gave a general account of the pregnant woman’s condition.
This was her second pregnancy. The day before yesterday, at noon, she had gone to deliver food to the fields and fainted in an area of abandoned graves in the mountains. Since then, she has remained unconscious, and her water bag has broke. She showed symptoms suggesting impending labour. After Doctor Zhu arrived, he tried many methods but was unable to wake the woman.
As for the baby, it had entered the birth canal but would not show its head, leaving the whole Family extremely anxious.
After about an hour, they arrived at the pregnant woman’s home. The thatched house was nestled in a bamboo forest, with an oil lamp lit inside and shadows occasionally moving across the window.
Entering the door, Hansheng saw his Father with dark circles under his eyes, wearily leaning against a bamboo chair, seeming to have aged considerably overnight.
“Dad?” Hansheng felt a pang in his heart. He was momentarily at a loss for words.
“Ghost Foetus,” his Father said softly.
“What?” Hansheng did not understand.
“This pregnant woman fainted in the graveyard. The Yin Energy there must have invaded her womb, causing her nervous system to go into disorder, prolonging her labour. If this continues… Haaaaaa, just go and prepare the medicine first,” his Father sighed.
[Ghost Foetus?] Hansheng went to the kitchen, pondering as he decocted the medicine.
The Yin Energy in that graveyard must be powerful – to suppress the Yang Energy of high noon and even harm the living.
[How strange…] He had often heard his Father speak about the effects of burial Feng Shui on human physiology. It seemed to have been proven true this time.
Looking at the bubbles rolling in the medicine pot, Hanshen wondered if these ordinary herbs would be effective. From his own observations, his Father did not seem to have much confidence either.
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