Chapter Thirty-Six: Encountering the "Quack Doctor" Again

Chapter Thirty-Six: Encountering the “Quack” Once Again

It was late autumn, the mountains aflame with crimson, the forests drenched in color, the scenery so breathtaking it filled one’s heart with joy. Thus, wherever Zhang Qian walked along the road, he would encounter groups of scholars traveling together—some reciting poetry, others engaging in spirited debates, gesturing grandly as they discussed matters of the realm, each one animated and elegant in manner.

By comparison, Zhang Qian and Zijuan seemed a little out of place. In terms of looks and complexion, anyone with half an eye could tell that Zhang Qian was no common herbalist. Those who often braved the elements gathering herbs in the wild simply did not remain so fair-skinned. Nor did those accustomed to hardship grow so tall and stately.

But then again, the sons of noble families raised in luxury—fair and tall as they were—when they ventured out for excursions, who among them did not ride splendid horses, dressed in fine clothes, surrounded by an entourage? How could any of them, like Zhang Qian, travel on foot with only a maid and a servant for company, carrying on his back an enormous medicine basket?

In other words, at this moment, Zhang Qian’s attire and bearing were like wearing shorts to a grand seaside banquet—attention-grabbing, yes, but drawing no admiration, and certainly not inviting any strangers to approach him.

Fortunately, his purpose in coming out today was not socializing. So, he amused himself by digging up a few wildflowers here and there, occasionally hooking half-ripe persimmons or black dates from the trees, perfectly content. Now and then, he would unearth from the soil a pottery shard, or a rusted bronze bowl, still in decent shape, and such finds made the trip even more worthwhile.

After half a day, he had found only a handful of wildflowers suitable for extracting essential oils, but his basket was half full of persimmons and black dates. Seeing the sun beginning its descent and his stomach starting to rumble, Zhang Qian called to Ren Quan and Zijuan, and the three of them began to make their way back.

The return path was all downhill—not particularly steep, but enough to put a spring in their steps. As they strode along, feeling refreshed, a loud voice suddenly called out from behind, “Master Zhang, is that you ahead? I am Sun Anzu! My greetings!”

“Imperial Physician Sun?!” Zhang Qian was both surprised and delighted to run into an acquaintance while out gathering wildflowers. He quickly stopped and turned. “What brings you out here, sir? Forgive me, I was focused on the road and didn’t notice you!”

“No matter, no matter, Master Zhang, you are too polite!” Sun Anzu leapt from his horse with surprising agility for his age, quickly catching up and saluting Zhang Qian. “The Double Ninth Festival is nearly upon us, and some old friends dragged me out to enjoy the autumn scenery. We’ve been to Mount Zhongnan too many times, so this time we came northwest of the city. Never did I expect to encounter you here—what a happy coincidence!”

“Double Ninth Festival?” Zhang Qian blinked, only now noticing that Sun Anzu, looking quite dapper in his old age, had tucked a branch with bright red berries into his round cap.

That must be dogwood.

When Zhang Qian had crossed over, his elementary school Chinese teacher was still alive, and so he remembered well the verse: “Though I know my brothers are climbing high, wearing dogwood everywhere, I am the one missing.” In that instant, a wave of loneliness welled up within him, but he forced himself to turn aside and return Sun Anzu’s greeting: “You are too kind, Imperial Physician Sun. I never expected to meet you here either. I am no immortal master, nor do I hold any official credentials from the Tang court. Please, just call me Young Master Zhang, or Thirteenth Son.”

“Then, Thirteenth Son, you mustn’t call me elder!” Sun Anzu, ever easygoing, immediately followed suit and changed his address, “I am but a physician, and a lay Daoist practicing at home. You may call me Physician Sun, or Old Daoist Sun—no need for formality between us.”

“Layman Sun!” Zhang Qian cupped his fists in the Tang custom at once.

“Thirteenth Son, you truly are the scion of a noble house—so quick to learn!” Sun Anzu’s mind flashed back to their first meeting, when Zhang Qian had stumbled over his Tang dialect, and he laughed heartily. “Are you out gathering herbs with your servants? What rare medicine could require your own hands? If it’s anything common, just send for it from the Sun Family’s clinic in the city—I’ll have it prepared for you, as much as you want, free of charge. Please don’t stand on ceremony!”

“How could I possibly deserve such generosity?” Zhang Qian was moved by the old physician’s magnanimity and quickly bowed with a smile. “Besides—”

“You’re being too distant!” Sun Anzu waved a large hand with the frankness of a man of the world. “The other day when you taught me your sect’s secret for suturing wounds, I never got the chance to thank you. Were it not for the fact that I know you come from a distinguished lineage and have a bright future ahead, I’d have recommended you for the Imperial Medical Institute long ago. Compared to such a skill, what’s a few herbs? Think nothing of it!”

“Layman Sun, you flatter me—on that occasion, it was you who took charge of cleaning and suturing the wound. I wasn’t even qualified to assist!” Zhang Qian blushed, hastily waving his hand.

“Thirteenth Son, do you object to my using your master’s secret techniques on others?” Sun Anzu was briefly taken aback, his expression turning crestfallen. “If so, I have overstepped. These secrets are not to be passed on lightly—”

“No, no, not at all!” Realizing a misunderstanding was brewing, Zhang Qian waved his hands with urgency. “Please, Layman Sun, do not misunderstand. I would be delighted for you to use this technique to help others. I just feel that I don’t deserve any credit for instruction. Your medical skill far surpasses mine—I merely chanced upon a small trick for treating wounds and pointed it out to you…”

When Zhang Qian had first met Sun Anzu, he’d dismissed him as a quack who had infiltrated the Imperial Medical Institute, after Sun had so hastily pronounced Ren Qiong a lost cause. Yet, witnessing Sun’s deft handling of wounds, Zhang Qian came to realize it was not that the man’s skills were mediocre, but rather that the medical standards of the Tang era were far below those of the twenty-first century, leading to his own misjudgment. If he set aside his preconceptions and thought carefully, Sun Anzu’s abilities might well rank among the best in the Tang dynasty; it was only the era’s limitations that narrowed his vision and thinking.

Thus, hearing that Sun Anzu wished to spread the suturing technique, Zhang Qian was only too glad—how could he possibly hoard such knowledge?

“To you, it may be a thin layer of paper; to me, it was a city wall. Without your guidance, I would have spent my life cauterizing wounds, never conceiving of using needle and thread. Even if I had, I wouldn’t have known to provide a channel for pus to drain.” Sun Anzu spoke from the heart. The leap from cauterizing wounds to suturing with needle and thread seemed simple, but without Zhang Qian’s hint, no physician in the Tang would likely have devised it in a hundred years. For Sun, Zhang Qian’s guidance was invaluable; whether the technique was executed expertly or clumsily was merely a matter of practice.

Yet the more earnestly Sun Anzu spoke, the less Zhang Qian felt he could accept the credit. After some thought, he smiled and explained, “Actually, cauterization does have its merits. I reflected on it—the suture method works only when the wound is clean and the ‘evil poison,’ or bacteria as we call it, can be dealt with. Cauterization, however, burns away the poison in the wound. The only issue was that the physician who first treated Master Ren didn’t cauterize deeply enough, leaving the bacteria—the poison—in the wound, which nearly led to disaster.”

“Bacteria? Your sect calls the evil poison bacteria?” Sun Anzu was quickly drawn to this unfamiliar term, furrowing his brow and muttering, “Cauterization can kill the poison? I had not thought of that. No wonder wounds have always been treated that way. And washing with strong brine is to cleanse the poison? But ordinary families can scarcely afford enough salt to wash wounds repeatedly, which is why the old physicians favor cauterization—to stanch bleeding and kill poison at once—how efficient!”

“Exactly so.” Seeing Sun Anzu’s seriousness in scholarly matters, Zhang Qian found his respect for the man growing. “That day, I happened to have a medicine that suppressed the poison, so I dared ask you to suture Master Ren’s wound. Without it, if you can’t be sure the wound is clean, or there isn’t time to wash it well with saltwater, cauterization is still the best choice.”

“A conversation with you is worth ten years of study!” Sun Anzu, his mind still half-occupied with medical contemplation, sighed absently.

He was so engrossed in discussing the merits of cauterization and suturing with Zhang Qian that he forgot all about his three companions and servants, who waited by the roadside. These men, having never met Zhang Qian, could neither join the conversation nor abandon Sun Anzu. Bored and restless, they finally began to cough quietly, one after another: “Ahem, ahem…”

“Sir, your friends are waiting!” Zhang Qian, eager himself to return home for his second meal of the day, smiled and whispered a reminder.

“Oh, yes, yes—please excuse me! Another day I’ll call on you for instruction.” Sun Anzu snapped back to himself, saluted Zhang Qian, then hurried toward his companions. As he walked, he apologized awkwardly, “Gentlemen, forgive me. Young Master Zhang has taught me much, and I had not yet thanked him. Thus, when we met by chance today, I lingered in conversation. I beg your understanding!”

“So this is the young immortal you’re always talking about—the one who hauled Ren Qiong back from the gates of hell with four miraculous pills? So young! Such a handsome face! But how did he end up with such a black heart?!” Even before the words were finished, one among them had already fixed his gaze on Zhang Qian, his tone laced with unmistakable disdain.