Song of the Silk Road

by Mingmei Yip

  7

  The Herbalist Healer

  Alex had been living with me for more than a week. The more days we spent together, the more I agonized over whether I should tell him why I was traveling alone on the Silk Road. Would he start to covet my inheritance and stop loving me for who I was? I didn’t have the slightest impression that greed could be inside his brainy head or hidden behind his innocent face. But one could never tell. Twenty-one or eighty-one, men covet the same things—money, power, status, high-fat gourmet food, pretty women, mind-blowing sex.

  Then one day Alex reminded me that his parents would be visiting soon and that he would travel with them around China. Another surprise came when he said that after the family’s vacation, he’d take me to meet them.

  I didn’t know how to respond to this. This kid was clearly serious about me. But what about his parents? Would they like me and approve of our relationship, or would they see me as the older woman who had shamelessly seduced their young son?

  The morning of Alex’s departure to meet his parents in Urumqi, after we had breakfast and I helped him pack, he drew me into his arms and kissed me with a dying-to-be-relieved desire. We ended up making love on the floor.

  When we finally finished our urgent business and were by the door about to leave, he turned to me. “Lily, I’ll miss you.”

  “I’ll miss you, too, Alex.”

  “Be safe.” He sighed heavily.

  “Something wrong?”

  “I worry about you. Anyway, I can…”

  “Don’t worry, Alex, I have Keku and her husband.”

  “All right. I’ll be back before you know it.”

  I walked Alex to the waiting donkey cart that would carry him to the next village to catch the bus to Urumqi. He hopped on, threw down his backpack, then leaned over to cup my face, kissing me deeply.

  Then I watched and waved until his windblown hair and lean body were carried away into the distance above the four rickety wheels.

  Without my young lover with me, everything felt different. The desert, once beautiful and poetic, put on an ominous mask. The birds’ calls were cries of hungry ghosts looking for carcasses; the blowing wind, sobs of a heartbroken woman; the shifting of sands, eerie funeral songs.

  I saw my landlady and neighbor Keku almost every day, my only friend in this small, dilapidated village. Sometimes she’d come to my cottage with her four-year-old son, Mito. Other times I’d knock on her door and Keku would invite me in. We’d sit on the carpeted floor by the window of her mud house, chat, and watch the sunset. Next to us, Mito would quietly play with plastic toys, desert plants, the sand under his feet, little insects, or would grasp the already-frayed hem of Keku’s dress, long worn because of his constant pulling to get motherly attention.

  When I visited Keku, sometimes her woman friends were also there. Although they didn’t understand what my landlady and I talked about, they looked happy just sitting on the brick “bed” together to sip milk tea, talk in their Uyghur language, marvel at one another’s colorful bodices and knotted headscarves, and look at me with admiration. Once in a while Keku would translate our conversation to them. Funny or not, they’d all giggle till their backs arched into pretty curves, all the time looking at me admiringly.

  I sought all the friendship I could get. The group of women was a major source for me to know what was happening in this remote village, not to mention that I was lonely and needed to be around people after Alex’s departure. But I refrained from making friends with men. Having had enough complications in my trip and in my life, gossip was the last thing I wanted. I was pretty sure Keku and the others were well aware of Alex’s existence but were too intimidated or embarrassed to inquire.

  Most nights I’d think of Alex and could not sleep. Was he having a good time with his parents? Did he miss me as I did him?

  Now all by myself, I also became very sensitive to things around me, including possible vibrations from the graveyard. I had already made a few trips there during the daytime, walking around, feeling its qi, meditating. Sometimes I’d just stare at the graves and the remnants of red paint on the thin boards. Did these belong to a family? I hoped not. What had happened?

  Feeling unbearably sad and sorry, I’d always say a prayer to pacify the dead and their living relatives, if any.

  The weeks slipped by, and so one day I decided it was time to put everything else aside and prepare for my journey. The first thing I needed to figure out was how to reach one of the highest peaks of the Mountains of Heaven to collect a special plant—snow lotus—required by Mindy Madison.

  I had no idea how difficult, or dangerous, the trip might be. I needed to gather information from someone who knew both herbs and the mountain. Maybe an herbalist. Once during our casual conversation I asked Keku if she knew any; to my delight, her answer was yes.

  “One in next village.”

  “You’re his patient?”

  She shook her head. “No. Never saw. Only heard very good.”

  When I asked more, she said, “Go to his store and ask him. My husband, Abu, knows. He can take you there.”

  Sounds like a plan.

  * * *

  The next day I rode behind Keku’s husband, Abu, on his motorcycle to the neighboring village to visit the herbalist, who was named Lop Nor. When Abu pulled to a stop and pointed to a small store, I was surprised to find that it was not located in the middle of the village but on its edge where there were practically no people around.

  I got off the motorcycle, thanked Abu, and walked toward the store.

  As I stepped inside the small place, what entered my vision was a tall Uyghur man in his forties, standing behind a counter and cautiously weighing herbs with a dainty scale that looked comically disproportionate to his strong build. He was wearing a white shirt and a gray muslin hat.

  The man looked up and our eyes met.

  Startled, I recognized the sad-faced man from the graveyard!

  I forced a smile, stammering in Chinese. “Morning, are… you the herbalist?”

  “Yes. I’m Lop Nor. You’ve come to see me?”

  Good, at least he spoke Mandarin as I’d hoped.

  I nodded, still feeling shocked by the discovery. To calm myself, I took a few deep breaths to inhale the soothing herbal aroma. Then I looked around the small, clean store, liking what I saw. Behind the herbalist stood a red lacquered medicine cabinet with drawers labeled with names of different herbs ranging from ginseng, red date, cinnamon twig, tangerine peel, chrysanthemum flowers, angelica, to something strange sounding like gromwell, motherwort, sealwort, henbane seed, fungus caterpillar, root of membranous milk vetch. On top were tall jars containing corpses of sea creatures or bugs drowning in yucky, yellowish liquid. Against another wall were placed four chairs above which hung a blanket with pleasing, abstract Islamic patterns. I noticed we were the only people in the store.

  “Miss, please take a seat and tell me how you are not feeling well.”

  I sat across from him on the other side of the counter. “Oh, I’m not sick, I… just need some herbs to enhance my qi.”

  He looked at me intensely, probably trying to figure what kind of herbs I needed. As he towered over me, I examined this Uyghur man that I’d accidentally seen in the graveyard, noting his high cheekbones, hazel eyes, tea-laced-with-milk hair, and lined face. A mystery man. A sad man. I sensed that standing in front of me was a soul suffering from something beyond my experience and understanding.

  Sitting down, he said in his soothing bass voice, “Put your hand on the counter and let me take your pulse.”

  The glass felt cool on my skin. The herbalist, with acute concentration, pressed together his index, middle, and ring fingers on my wrist.

  The creases on his forehead read like abstruse philosophical truths etched in an esoteric language waiting to be deciphered. His eyes, though sad, also emanated strong yang energy. However, what really caught my attention and made my heart ache were his hands—large, brown, lea
thery, scarred. His fingers were thick, calloused, tipped with nails lined with faint dark ridges. What had this man done with those hands—just collecting herbs on the mountain, or digging graves to house ghosts?

  As his right hand was taking my pulse, his left stroked a big, translucent white jade pendant that hung from his neck on a leather string. A sense of déjà vu welled up inside me while my arms began to tingle. I sensed this must be something that he’d loved and lost from a previous life.

  It was an exquisite piece, and I wondered how it came to be in this bare village. Was it a priceless family heirloom?

  As I was savoring the mystery washing over me like waves from Lop Nor, he turned to pull out a few drawers, taking pinches from each and weighing them meticulously on his diminutive scale. After that, he laid a mixture of dried fruits and herbs on a sheet of white paper and pointed to one of them.

  “These are red dates, good for nourishing your blood, soothing your nerves, and replenishing your vital energy.” He cast me an intense look. “Miss, it’s your tension that depletes your qi.”

  Then he lifted up a dark pink perforated plant. “This is raw lotus root to clear your heat, especially now that you’re in the desert. It’ll also stimulate your appetite.” He went on, pointing to some mushroomlike plant. “White fungus has a cooling effect and is excellent for women’s skin and complexion.”

  He wrapped up the herbs with his scarred hands. “Back home, you put all these together with a piece of lamb and cook them in a water-filled pot for two hours. Drink the soup and eat the meat.”

  Finally, he pointed to some dried, yellowish flowers. “This is chrysanthemum. Just pour hot water over it, let it brew for ten minutes, then drink it. It is slightly sweet, so it’ll help soothe your eyes in the desert heat. You understand?”

  “Yes. Thank you so much for these, Mr. Lop Nor.”

  He cast me a curious glance. “You’re Chinese?”

  “Yes. I am Lily Lin.”

  “Miss Lin”—his owl-like eyes shot out a few suspicious sparks—“what makes you come all the way to this village to see me?”

  “Oh… I come here to research a book on the desert. I’m a writer.”

  Without responding to what I’d said, he handed me the packages. “Come back if you feel unbalanced and need more herbs.”

  “I definitely will, Mr. Lop Nor.” As I took it from him, my hand brushed against his rough one and I felt a minuscule jolt.

  “You can just call me Lop Nor.”

  “Thanks, Lop Nor.”

  I paid him, thanked him again, and took leave.

  This was an encouraging start.

  8

  Chinese Herbs

  In the two weeks that followed, I visited Lop Nor four times. Sitting inside his store permeated with the fragrance of herbs—dried or cooking in a pot—we chatted about various things: the Silk Road, politics in Urumqi, happenings in the desert villages, and his favorite subject, and now mine also, Chinese herbs. Although I had not been particularly attracted to Chinese medicine, Lop Nor’s erudition on the subject and his enthusiasm unexpectedly sparked my interest.

  Of course I enjoyed this solemn-mannered gentleman’s company, but I had to admit that my goal was selfish—picking his brain about snow lotuses in the Mountains of Heaven. However, I never left his store without buying a few herbs—usually the more expensive kind—as a token of my appreciation for his knowledge and his willingness to share and, most important, to bond with him.

  One time, when I bought some very expensive ginseng from him, he said, “This herb is extremely hard to obtain, its price is astronomical, and what you can get in most stores is fake….”

  “Fake? How?”

  “They mix it with thin wires to increase the weight so the store can charge more. But when you buy from me you always have your money’s worth. And you get the real herbs, some I even risked my life for.”

  It didn’t matter whether I believed him, just whether I could get more information about herbs on the Mountains of Heaven out of him. However, I was glad but also surprised that our friendship could develop so easily. Was I really that interesting? Or maybe he was simply lonely?

  One morning after entering Lop Nor’s store, I found that he was not, as usual, sitting behind the counter fussing with his herbs and the tiny scale.

  “Lop Nor, Lily’s here,” I called, but no one answered.

  I looked around, then went through the store to the backyard. There was Lop Nor, bare-chested and wearing kung fu pants fastened at the ankles. He was standing with his muscular feet wide apart on the thin rim of a large, round, water-filled urn, seemingly focusing hard on his martial arts stance.

  I stopped to watch, trying my best not to make any noise that might break his concentration. Lop Nor’s hands were alternately pushing forward and drawing back huge, imaginary waves. Then, about fifteen minutes later, to my utter amazement, the water inside the urn started to bubble, emitting a gurgling sound. Gradually, the sound increased in volume and the bubbles in ferocity. It was then I realized that the water was boiling by itself with no fire under it!

  A loud, involuntary “Wah!” shot out from my mouth.

  Swiftly Lop Nor jumped down from the urn, his eyes drilling holes in mine. “Miss Lin, what are you doing here?!”

  His voice was loud and harsh. He had never before talked to me like that.

  “Sorry, Lop Nor, I didn’t see you in the store so I came out and found you here.”

  He slipped on his thin jacket while still penetrating my eyes with his tigerlike ones.

  “Sorry,” I added nervously, “but the door was unlocked.”

  “I must have forgotten to lock it. When you come back to this courtyard next time, please alert me right away. I don’t want to be put off balance by the presence of feminine energy,” he said, swiping away big beads of perspiration on his broad forehead with a white cloth.

  “You’re able to sense that?”

  “Yes, but I didn’t want to break off the qi in the middle of my practice. Not until you cut it off. I’m done now. Let’s go back to the store.”

  Both awed and intimidated, I humbly followed this qi-boiling-water master back into his shop.

  After we sat down by the counter, I asked, “Lop Nor, how can you make the water boil without fire?”

  “I focus my qi.”

  I was too stunned to say anything.

  He smiled a little. “Actually I borrow it from the universe.”

  “How can someone do that?”

  “It takes many years of bitter practice plus a profound understanding of qi distribution in the cosmos.”

  He went on to tell me some amazing stunts of qigong masters. His grandfather could direct qi from his fingertips to extinguish five lit candles and send a row of people stumbling back without even touching them.

  “With qigong, you control all the energies of the universe.”

  I knew even if I asked more it would be to no avail. My Westernized, ignorant mind was too shallow and unprepared for anything so grandiose. So, after some silence, I changed our conversation to what was most on my mind—visiting the Mountains of Heaven for the special snow lotus.

  When I mentioned my desire to seek this peculiar herb, an alarmed expression fleeted across my healer friend’s face.

  “Miss Lin, just let me know what you want, and I’ll get them for you. It’s not suitable for a young woman like yourself to travel there alone. The trip could be very dangerous if you don’t know your way.”

  “But I must go there by myself.”

  He studied me as if I were from another planet. “Do you speak Uyghur?”

  “Of course not!”

  “If you’re three thousand meters above sea level and get sick, do you know what to do? Do you have any experience living in uninhabited wilderness?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Can you climb up icy cliffs and gather plants between their cracks?”

  I shook my head, now feeling t
otally defeated.

  “Then what makes you think you can get there by yourself?”

  I sighed. “Because I have to.” I suppressed the rest of my thought—to get the three million dollars.

  “No, that is very foolish of you.” He widened his eyes. “Let me get it for you. Or if you like, I can go with you.”

  That didn’t seem such a bad idea, but should I trust him? Why not? Since he was a healer, I didn’t think he’d harm or cheat me. Besides, I believed there was already some kind of bond established between us.

  “Anyway, I plan to visit the Mountains of Heaven soon, and the Black Dragon Pond to visit my relatives.”

  “They live by the pond?”

  “No, they are buried there.”

  “What happened?” This revelation caught me by surprise; he’d never mentioned a family. My heart started to pound, awaiting something beyond my imagination, or reason.

  “I’ll tell you when we’re there,” Lop Nor said while reaching to stroke the white jade pendant he always wore against his chest. I’d been noticing this habit of his and the luminous jade pendant for some time. A unique, exquisite piece. He seemed quite attached to it, but should he ever be willing to part with it, I would happily pay a lot.

  “It’s a beautiful pendant. Is it old?”

  My friend didn’t answer my question, but stood up and went to the small kitchen area next to the counter. “Now I’ll cook some dang gui with lamb to invigorate you, so you’ll have enough energy for your trip to the Mountains of Heaven.”

  Even though I was Western educated, I had heard of dang gui. In the famous Cantonese opera Princess Chang Ping, every day the princess had her maid cook dang gui—dang means ought and gui means return. So the name is a synonym for “time to come home.” The princess believed that the cooking of this herb would speed up her husband’s return.

  Ridiculous, I almost blurted out, but stopped myself just in time.

  Instead I asked, “Why is dang gui good for women?”