Chapter 117 - 11: The Trade Road Cut — Nubia’s Living Grows Hard

Chapter 117: Chapter 11: The Trade Road Cut — Nubia’s Living Grows Hard

The first boat to turn back came into the harbor at noon.

On the mast, the flag was still the merchant house’s. But the bow was empty. The man escorting the boat jumped ashore, his shoe slipping on the stone steps, and looked up to see Meru, and said only four words: "The road is cut."

Meru was crouching on the dock, checking a bundle of material. He straightened up slowly and knocked his pipe on the gunwale: "Which road?"

"The north." the man said. "Of the roads crossing the border, not one is open. The Hittites have set up barriers at the crossings. They stop every boat, and seize every load. Our boat barely made it back." He caught his breath. "Uncle Old Camel sent word: the north fleet’s boats are all held at the West Bank. The goods bound north cannot move."

The dock went still for a moment.

The unloaders stopped their hands, the carriers straightened their backs, and even the men washing boats in the water stuck their heads out.

"The people," Meru asked, "did they all come back?"

"They all came back." the man said. "The goods — three boats seized."

"Goods seized can be replaced." Meru said. "The people coming back — that is everything." He paused. "Go, and call the north fleet’s bookkeeper here. The merchant house’s stall has to be laid out again today."

The man ran off. Meru crouched back down and finished checking the bundle in his hands — the material was still good material, but the binding rope had gone damp with sweat. With the charcoal pencil he drew a circle on the manifest and handed it to the receiving man: "This bundle, air it first. Damp material into the storehouse — one bundle spoils a whole store."

"Yes." the receiving man answered. "Shopkeeper, with the north road cut, our material prices — I fear they will rise."

"Rise or not, it depends on the people." Meru said. "The merchant house’s boats are still here, and the river is still here. If the goods go around by another road, they will still arrive."

The word went through the docks of the new capital within half a day.

The cooked-food peddlers folded up their stalls; the boatmen gathered at the bank, arguing in a tumble of voices. Some said: "The Hittites mean business now." Some said: "Let them move. Behind the border wall stands General Horen." Others said: "What I fear is that the southern road gets pinched off too."

Kes squatted on a stack of sacks and heard exactly these words. The charcoal pencil in his hand stopped on his board. The north road was cut. And the south? The south road had always come and gone. His people still counted on that road — to trade for salt, for material, for medicine.

"Kes." Meru called him from the door of the account room. "What are you staring at. Come in, and learn the accounts."

"Coming." Kes tucked his board back at his waist and went into the account room. But half of his mind had already drifted across the border river.

Meru paid it no mind. He sat in the merchant house’s account room, listening to the bookkeeper report item by item. The north fleet’s cross-border business made up two tenths of the house’s profit; the incense-and-medicine fleet carried spices, ebony, and leopard skins, one trip a year, and one trip’s profit equaled three grain fleets. Now, with the road cut, the incense fleet sat at the West Bank, unable to move.

"Shopkeeper," the bookkeeper said, "these goods of the incense fleet — every day they sit is a day’s loss. Should we . . . wait a while? Perhaps when spring opens, the road will open again."

"We cannot afford to wait." Meru said.

"Shopkeeper, that is profit as white as silver!" An old hand who had run the incense road said, urgent. "One trip of the incense fleet earns enough for half a year of grain hauling! If the fleet breaks up, from now on . . ."

"From now on what?" Meru said. "We earn a few coins less."

"It is not only the profit." the bookkeeper said, weighing his words. "The incense fleet has a dozen and more old hands who have run the north road half their lives. If the fleet breaks up, where do they go?"

"They stay." Meru said. "They all stay. They change to hauling grain and material. Not one man scattered — the crew changes its trade."

"Haul grain?" The old hand frowned. "The profit on grain is only three tenths of the incense . . ."

"Three tenths, and what of it?" Meru said. "The grain profit comes every day; the incense profit comes one trip a year, and one trip carries a whole winter of risk. You reckon it — is three tenths, three trips a month, steadier, or threefold, one trip a year?"

The old hand opened his mouth, and said nothing.

A young fellow who hauled grain took it up instead: "I have reckoned it. One trip of grain, the profit is three tenths. But a boat can run three trips a month. The incense runs one trip a year at threefold — but if the load is seized once on the road, three years are worked for nothing." He paused, and his voice was not loud. "The shopkeeper is right. Only a steady trade can feed people."

"You reckon clearly." Meru said. "Bookkeeper, note it — from now on, the north line’s manifests go to him to read first."

Meru closed the ledger, rose, and walked to the door. Outside on the river, the boats came and went, all of them hauling grain, hauling material, hauling medicine.

"Look at this river." Meru said. "Four months ago, what floated on it? Boats of cut-off grain, boats carrying medicine, boat after boat of people waiting to live. In those days, the incense fleet’s profit could not save one person. Now the laws have stood, and the world wants granaries built, houses mended, medical points opened. Which of these does not need grain, material, medicine?" He paused. "The incense fleet — scattered. The boats change to grain and material. This account, I have worked it — the profit is thinner, but the boats carry goods every day, the people have work every day, and every night we sleep sound."

No one in the account room spoke.

"Shopkeeper," the old hand’s voice softened, "it is not the profit we cannot part with. It is that we ran the incense road with you half our lives, and now it is scattered, just like that . . ."

"The road is cut, and the people remain." Meru said. "The incense road — cut, and let it be cut. This road of the people’s livelihood has only just begun. From now on, you are all old hands of this road."

"We hear the shopkeeper." the old hands said.

That same day, Meru wrote to the West Bank: of the north fleet’s boats, half stay on the West Bank running the domestic lines — to Thebes, to the new capital, to behind the northern border wall; half unload and refit for grain and material. The incense fleet — stopped. The accounts, cleared within three days. And the cleared money, not one coin left over, all of it turned into the capital of the grain and material lines.

"One thing more." Meru added one line at the end of the letter. "Behind the northern border wall, material has been short since last winter. The moment the boats are freed, run three trips to the north line first. The soldiers and the people there cannot wait."

The letter had not yet gone out when Asaf arrived.

"Shopkeeper Meru," Asaf came in and looked around the account room first, "the state’s assignment has arrived."

"What assignment?"

"The north line’s stored grain, stored material, and stored medicine — the state is to check them once more, and press the stores full ahead of time." Asaf said. "The pharaoh set it with his own mouth: the grain behind the border wall may only be more than needed, never less. The merchant house’s boats must give way to this trip first."

"A coincidence." Meru held the letter up. "I was just thinking the same. Look — the letter is already written."

Asaf took the letter, read it through, and tapped his fingertip on the four words "three trips north line": "Three trips are not enough. Once the stores are checked, I judge it will take five." He paused. "Are there boats enough?"

"Boats," Meru said, "moved around a little, there are enough. It is just that with the cross-border road cut, the north line’s boats must go around by the domestic waterways. Slow — but they arrive."

"Slow is nothing to fear." Asaf said. "The people behind the border wall are waiting for the goods, not for speed."

"Understood." Meru said. "The schedule is laid tonight. The day after tomorrow, the first trip sails."

"The first trip’s goods — I will bring the manifest this afternoon." Asaf said. "Grain, six hundred dan; material, three hundred bundles; medicine, forty chests. The numbers on the manifest — not one grain off."

"They will not be off." Meru said. "The merchant house’s boats travel with manifest and goods together, and the marks are signed when the goods arrive. That is the old rule."

"One matter more." Asaf said. "With the trade road cut, I hear you mean to stop the incense fleet. Stopping it is right. The state’s projects that hire at the rates are just short of material. With your boats changed to grain and material, the projects under heaven all come alive."

"What I am keeping is exactly this living road." Meru said.

The letter sent, Meru tucked his pipe back at his waist: "Kes."

"Uncle Meru." Kes came running from the dock. These days he followed the merchant house’s boats every day to learn the checking of cargo, his cuffs stained with half-dried river mud. He had just learned to verify manifests — a material manifest in hand, look first at the material’s name, then at the numbers, then at the seals. All three in order, and only then is the cargo received.

"Come with me to the south." Meru said. "The border."

"The border?" Kes’s eyes lit.

"Right." Meru said. "The north road is cut, so the south road must be doubly steady. The merchant house has a transit storehouse at the border. It is old. It must be repaired, and changed." He paused. "You have wanted to go back to Nubia, have you not? Go and look first."

"I will go." Kes said. "I will pack right away."

"Uncle Meru," two steps on, Kes turned back, "is the south road not still open?"

"Open, it is open." Meru said. "But it comes and goes. Once the north is cut, all Egypt’s boats will crowd south. The south road will not hold for long." He looked out over the river. "And so, while there is time now, the south’s foundations must be tamped firm. The storehouse is a foundation, the road is a foundation, and the accounts are a foundation too."

"I understand." Kes said. "First tamp the foundations, then speak of the rest."

"Right." Meru said. "The same principle as the granaries your teacher raised."

"Wait." Meru said. "Bring Shunzi too. He has studied the accounts half a year now — just in time to travel with the boat, and practice the south line’s accounts."

"Shunzi!" Kes shouted. "Uncle Meru has called you!"

On the dock, Shunzi stuck his head out from behind a pile of sacks, half a charcoal pencil still in his hand: "Coming, coming!" He ran over and wiped the sweat from his face. "Uncle Meru, the south line’s accounts — I was just wanting to get my hands on them."

"Get them on." Meru said. "This trip, from the sailing to the return to harbor, every manifest passes through your hands. One wrong entry, and when we are back, you copy accounts for three nights."

"Copy I will." Shunzi said. "The more accounts I copy, the more awake I get."

The southbound boat set out on the third day.

The boat carried salt, timber, medicinal herbs, and half a hold of wheat bran for the livestock. Kes squatted at the bow, checking the cargo item by item. At the timber, he stopped, and pressed his hand on the end of a length: "Uncle Meru, this material is dry. The people at the border have been waiting half a year for this."

"Which is why it is loaded full to the brim." Meru said. "Going, the cargo weighs the hold; coming back, we load the border’s goods again. The boat never runs empty, and the people have food."

"That is how a trade road lives." Kes said.

"A trade road," Meru said, "is a road of people. Where the people go, the goods go."

The first stop was the West Bank. Old Camel was waiting at the dock, and when he saw Meru, he handed over a page of the clean roster first: "The north fleet’s boats are all laid out. Running the domestic lines, eight; refitted for grain and material, five. The incense fleet . . ."

"Scattered." Meru said.

"Scattered." Old Camel said. "I have chanted the incense sutra half my life. From today, I chant the grain sutra instead." He smiled. "Just as well. The grain sutra — chanting it sets the heart steady."

"The north line’s five trips — when can they sail?" Meru asked.

"The first trip, the day after tomorrow." Old Camel said. "The material manifest from behind the border wall has been in my robe three days now. Just waiting for the boats to free up. The four trips after, one pressing on the next, and all of them sail before spring opens."

"Good." Meru said. "The state’s storehouses cannot stand empty. And the people behind the border wall can wait even less."

They stopped one night at the West Bank. Shunzi was not idle. He squatted in the hold and counted the salt on the boat, packet by packet, against the manifest, copying it three times. At the third copying, he suddenly said: "Uncle Meru, this salt — it is still the rule you set in those years. Official salt at the even scale; private salt, one packet, a fine of ten. The numbers on the manifest match the cargo."

"They match — then sleep." Meru said.

"Not sleeping." Shunzi said. "I will run the material manifests once more. The south line’s accounts — this is my first time carrying the main beam."

"Carry it." Meru said. "From now on, the south line’s manifests are yours."

Past the West Bank, the boat ran south with the current. Kes stood at the bow and said: "Uncle Meru, past Thebes, we enter the ground I know. Last year, I walked this stretch with senior brother Mery, step by step, measuring it."

"Walked it is good." Meru said. "A road grows familiar the more it is walked."

Passing Thebes, the boat did not tie up at the great dock, only took on water at the water gate. Kes stood at the bow and looked toward the city. On the city wall, the work crew was on patrol. On the post road outside the south gate, Panhesy was leading his men in raising the last stretch of the slope. When he saw the merchant house’s boat, he straightened and cupped his hands toward it.

"General Panhesy is still tending the roads." Kes said.

"That man," Meru said, "lost a war, and wants to make the roads straight. When the road is straight, the heart is straight."

"I hear of this road," Shunzi put in, "that when the south gate is done he starts on the west gate, and he means to fill every pit in the city. The people of Thebes say General Panhesy no longer swings the blade — he swings the rammer now."

"Swinging the rammer is good." Meru said. "A blade can cut a road, and a rammer can mend one. In this world, the men who mend roads live longer than the men who cut them."

Past the border of Upper Egypt, the water network thickened. Kes pointed at the two banks: "Uncle Meru, along here, senior brother Mery and I raised granaries. River-Channel Village, the fishing village, the stilt houses — all here."

"Then we must look." Meru said. "A granary standing is the real thing."

The River-Channel Village granary stood on the high dyke by the river bend. Half a year on, the wall surface shone in the sun; the granary door faced the river, and on the wooden board by the door were carved the four characters "RIVER-CHANNEL VILLAGE GRANARY." Kes jumped ashore, walked a circle around the granary, crouched down, and felt the wall foot.

"Dry." he said. "Like new."

"Did you raise it?" Meru asked.

"I raised it alongside." Kes said. "This site, senior brother Mery and I chose it together. Look — half a li from the river, and the damp cannot climb it." He paused, and there was a held-down pride in his voice. "This granary stores the whole village’s winter grain."

The keeper was the young granary keeper Mery had trained. Hearing sounds, he came around from behind the granary, and at one glance of Kes, he shouted from far off: "Officer Kes!"

"Do not call me officer." Kes said. "My senior brother is the officer."

"I will call you both!" The young keeper ran over. "The first lesson Officer Mery taught — I practice it every day: the keys never leave the body, and the granary opens only with two men present." He patted the keys at his waist. "Look."

"And the accounts?" Kes asked.

"Reported the same day, posted at the month’s end." the keeper said. "Last month’s posting — the whole village came to look at it three times. They all said, the grain goes in where it can be seen, and the heart sits steady."

"Good." Kes said. "Keep it by this sample."

The fishing village’s granary stood too. The fish-drying ground spread north of it, the fifteen-foot open space with the fish racks against the granary’s eaves. The fishing village’s child knew Kes, and came running from far off, shouting: "Officer brother! I know you!"

"You know me?" Kes smiled.

"I do!" the child said. "You said that when the granary stood, you would send my father to the school! My father now goes to learn characters every night!"

"Good!" Kes said. "When your father knows his characters, your household’s fish accounts, he will keep them himself."

"I want to be a granary craftsman too!" the child shouted.

"Be one." Kes said. "Study well."

Further south was the county of the southern magistrate. The county granary stood on the high ridge between the post road and the river branch, and the head granary craftsman, the old bricklayer, was leading his men in plastering fresh lime on the granary wall. Seeing Kes, he took the grass stem from behind his ear: "Well now, little master! What, come to test my wall again?"

"No test." Kes said. "Passing through, to look."

"Look, look." the old bricklayer said. "This wall, I plaster it three times a day. Go back and tell Officer Mery — of what he taught, I have not let one thing drop." He paused. "The county’s second granary breaks ground next month. The old rule again — hired in the idle season, at the guild’s rates."

"Good." Kes said. "Uncle, you hold the head granary craftsman’s post solidly."

"Solidly." the old bricklayer smiled. "With the officials no longer daring to cut the material, we men of the hand have work to do."

The further south they went, the more the difference could be felt.

The grain caravans on the post road thinned. The boats on the river grew few. When they put in to take water, the people standing on the dock were mostly waiting for goods, not selling them. An old man stopped the boat to ask: "When will the northern goods arrive?" Meru said: "Uncle, what goods are you waiting for?" The old man said: "Salt. And timber for building houses. Here, the salt has been cut off a whole winter, and the timber has been waited for half a year."

"Soon." Meru said. "The merchant house’s boats arrive this month."

"Last month, you said the same." The old man sighed and squatted back down at the wall foot.

Kes said nothing. He stood at the stern and looked at that dock a long time. The people waiting for goods on the dock — some holding children, some on sticks — all of them stared toward the northern stretch of the river, their eyes eager.

"Uncle Meru," Kes said, "this place waits for the goods even more than the new capital."

"Which is why the merchant house’s boats," Meru said, "must run south more often."

Further south, the waterway branched. Kes spread out his map, worn to fuzz at the folds, and pointed at a stretch of the river branch: "Uncle Meru, go from here. The east branch is shallow, and the west branch has hidden shoals. Take this middle one — the water is deep, and half a day downstream brings us to the border river."

"I follow you." Meru said. "This map, you measured it with your own feet."

"I did." Kes said. "When I drew it, I used to think — one day, the goods on this road will be carried to my people. Now, it is near."

The boat reached the border on the tenth day.

The wind at the border was drier than the new capital’s. The town was not big — one dirt street, several dozen households, and the border river flowing past the town’s south edge. The market on the street was only half a market — the dried-date sellers, the pottery sellers, the old-clothes sellers all sat listless. But the salt shop at the end of the street had a crowd pressed at its door, craning their necks, waiting.

"The salt shop." Shunzi said. "On the West Bank, I heard people say the southern salt is worth its weight in gold."

"From today, it is not." Meru said. "The salt on the boat — unload half of it first, and let it out to the town at the fair price. The other half goes into the storehouse."

"Let it out first?" Shunzi asked.

"Let it out first." Meru said. "Salt is for urgent saving. Wait until the storehouse is built before letting it out, and the people will have waited themselves sick."

The moment the salt came ashore, the town came alive.

At the salt shop’s door, the crowd grew and grew. Meru borrowed the salt shop’s platform, and weighed and let out the salt on the spot. He said: "The price, at the West Bank’s fair rate. The tax, paid by the rules. Three jin to a person, and no hoarding." He paused. "From now on, the merchant house’s boats come every month. The salt will not be cut off."

"Not cut off?" Someone did not believe it. "Is the north road not cut?"

"The north’s cross-border road is cut." Meru said. "The rivers inside the land are not cut. The merchant house’s boats will come here if they have to go around. Look at this storehouse—" He pointed at the transit storehouse on the earth ridge. "From now on, this is the south’s salt bag and grain bin."

In the crowd, the old man waiting for timber squeezed to the front. He held his just-bought three jin of salt, and his hands trembled: "Shopkeeper, the timber . . . can the timber be waited for too?"

"It can." Meru said. "The next boat carries the timber. Leave your name, and when it comes, it goes to you first."

"Leaving, leaving!" the old man said. "My name is Old Ba, third household east of the town. My son is taking a wife, and we are waiting on those few lengths to build the new house!"

"Written down." Meru said. "The merchant house’s account has this entry of yours."

The town’s tax collector heard of it and came too. He watched a long while, and then drew Meru aside and said in a low voice: "Shopkeeper Meru, with your salt let out so cheap, the state’s tax . . ."

"Paid by the rules." Meru said. "Not one dou short."

"But you are selling at a loss."

"No loss." Meru said. "The tax paid, the people alive. With the people alive, the land has people to farm it, the market has people to come to it, and the goods have people to buy them." He knocked his pipe. "An account cannot be reckoned from one head only."

The tax collector chewed on it a while, and said: "Done. This trade of yours, I will enter a line for it. From now on, this dock, you may use as you please."

"My thanks." Meru said. "But I will not use the dock for nothing. The tax, you keep collecting. From now on, this storehouse ships goods every month — and your town’s tax has its monthly source too."

"Then that is a fine thing!" The tax collector slapped his thigh, and the wrinkles of his face all folded into smiles.

The merchant house’s transit storehouse stood on the earth ridge by the border river — built in the years when Meru ran the incense road himself. The walls were mud brick, the roof reed matting, and the brass rings on the door planks had been ground dark by wind and sand.

"This storehouse," Meru stood before it, "is old."

"Not old." Kes walked a circle around it, crouched down, and felt the wall foot. "Sick. Alkali has risen at the wall foot, the foundation has settled half an inch, and the reed matting on the roof leaks in three places." He pointed at the door. "And inside this storehouse, ten years of spices have been stacked, and the smell has soaked into the walls. To store grain, it must be changed first."

"Changed how?" Meru asked.

"By my teacher’s method." Kes said. "The grain section: the foundation raised three inches, crushed stone one foot at the wall foot. The medicine section: raised half a foot, the dry and the damp apart. The material section: by the door, so the carts can come and go. The roof: re-laid. The walls: one coat of straw-bound lime plaster, and the smell is held down." He paused, and spoke faster and faster. "And the windows. Open two narrow ones, slantwise across. Only then does the grain inside not smother."

Meru listened, and the pipe turned a circle between his fingers: "Done. It is as you say. This storehouse — you lead the changing of it."

"Me?" Kes started.

"You." Meru said. "One trip south with Mery, and your belly is full of the granary sutra. This storehouse is your first work. Change it well, and when you go back to Nubia, you can do it with your eyes shut."

"Then I will not stand on ceremony." Kes smiled.

The material for the storehouse arrived with the merchant house’s next boat. Kes led the border hands in measuring the ground, drawing the lines, raising the earth, laying the stone. The border sun was harsh, and his face was sunned dark, and the calluses on his hands grew one layer thicker. But his eyes were bright every day.

The first three days of the changing were the clearing. Ten years of spices had left black greasy crust in the corners. Kes led the men in carrying the old stock out, box by box — what could be resold was resold, and what could not was given out on the spot to the town’s poor. Spices are not grain, but taken to the market, they could trade for a few handfuls of dates at least.

From the fourth day, the earthwork began. The grain section’s pit was dug first; crushed stone was bedded in it, one foot thick, then the lime earth was backfilled, and the wooden rammer brought down, pass after pass. Kes worked the rammer himself. He said: "A storehouse’s foundation is the same principle as a house’s. Solid below, and the top stands steady. Hollow below, and however high it is raised, it is still hollow."

"Brother Kes," a local hand asked, "where did you learn this handcraft?"

"The new capital." Kes said. "From my teacher."

"Who is your teacher?"

"Lu Zhu." Kes said. "The Chief Builder who stood up the laws for all Egypt."

The hands’ work stopped for a moment.

"Then you are . . ."

"I am his apprentice." Kes said. "Of what he taught, I have learned seven or eight tenths. The rest, back in the south, I will learn as I work." He paused, and patted the storehouse wall. "I must carry my teacher’s handcraft back to the south."

By the seventh day, the medicine section rose. Kes, following what Shafi had taught, raised the medicine section half a foot, kept the dry and the damp apart, and set the narrow windows slantwise across. He chanted as he raised the wall: "Medicine fears the damp, the same principle as grain. Raised half a foot, and the spoiled medicine is cut by half. That is the figure Sister Shafi bought with four months of medical accounts."

Shunzi kept the accounts beside him. He wrote one entry and read it aloud: "Crushed stone, three boatloads. Lime earth, five carts. Labor, eleven men. Medicine section bed, half a foot." He paused. "Uncle Meru, this storehouse changed through — how much capital does it come to?"

"The capital," Meru said, "is not dear."

"Not dear — how much?"

"Cheaper than the incense fleet’s goods sitting one month." Meru said. "The money for the storehouse, the merchant house pays. From now on, every dou of grain this storehouse earns is for carrying on the life of the south."

On the eighth day, the roof was re-laid. The old reed mats came down, rotted where they were rotted and brittle where they were brittle, and the wind blew them to falling crumbs. The new reed mats went on, one layer over the next, and at the fifth layer Kes said: "Enough. In a south where no northern snow presses down, five layers of reed matting hold off three years of rain."

Meru stood outside the storehouse and watched the whole day. At the end, he said: "Kes, this work of yours is finer than I expected."

"My teacher taught it." Kes said. "Work not done fine is making jokes with grain and with people’s lives."

On the ninth day, the storehouse was done. Kes brought two buckets of water, and, following the way Mery had done it that year, threw them across the floor of the grain section — the water ran along the slope, toward the door, and not a drop soaked in.

"Do you see?" Kes said to the townspeople gathered around. "The damp cannot rise, and the grain cannot rot."

"Wonder of it!" the townspeople said. "The floor still looks like earth — how does it not drink the water?"

"It is no wonder." Kes said. "The crushed stone is bedded underneath, and the slope is left in the middle, and the water runs to the low ground. This is soil mechanics — my teacher taught it."

"Soil mechanics . . ." The townspeople chewed on the words, half-understanding, and their eyes were all respect.

The new wooden board hung on the storehouse door — Meru hung it with his own hands. Six characters were carved on it: MERCHANT HOUSE SOUTH LINE TRANSIT STOREHOUSE.

"This storehouse," Meru said, "from today, is the south’s steadying star. Grain comes in, material comes in, medicine comes in. Salt, timber, reed mats — flowing without end. The people on both banks of the border river live by pointing at it."

"Live by pointing at it." the townspeople said.

The first batch of grain entered the storehouse three days after the changing. The merchant house’s boat brought thirty dan of wheat down from the north. Weighed, entered, binned, sealed with clay. The whole set, Shunzi did it properly and in order. He managed the intake, the local hands managed the outflow, and the bookkeeper kept the master account. The three books balanced the same day.

"Shunzi," Meru said, "these three books, from now on, are your rice bowl."

"My rice bowl," Shunzi said, "holds the south’s grain."

Three days after the storehouse was changed, and the first grain had just gone into its bins, a Nubian caravan came to the border.

Seven or eight people, leading a dozen and more donkeys, carrying goods that had been pressed down for half a year. The leader was a man of about fifty, hair greying, walking with a limp.

Kes was at the storehouse door checking material. He looked up, glanced once, and the wooden ruler in his hand dropped to the ground.

"Uncle En-Tu?"

"Kes?" The man froze, squinted over, "It truly is you! Kes!"

The two of them embraced hard at the storehouse door.

En-Tu was Kes’s clan uncle. On the donkeys’ backs were ebony, leather, and bundles of fragrant herbs — all goods that had gone unsold for more than half a year. They were loaded so heavy that one donkey’s legs had gone soft on the road.

"These goods," En-Tu smiled bitterly and patted the donkey’s back, "were gathered by the clan the year you left. We meant to trade them for salt, for material, for a little medicine. Who knew the road would come and go, and the goods would sit pressed for half a year and more."

"Uncle," Kes said, "unload the goods first. Let the people rest."

He led the caravan into the shed by the storehouse, boiled water, and warmed flatbreads. En-Tu drew a cloth bundle from inside his robe, and opened it, layer by layer. Inside were a small piece of salt and a few copper pieces polished bright.

"This is from your mother, for me to bring you." En-Tu said. "She said, you are studying your craft in the north, and eating bitterness. This salt, she saved it. These coppers, she saved them for two years, the money for your new shoes."

Kes held the cloth bundle, and his hands trembled.

"Is my mother . . . well?" he asked.

"Well." En-Tu said. "Only she always wants to cry. Every day she sits at the village mouth, looking north. Three years now." He paused. "Her loom has not stopped one day. One bolt of cloth for three dou of grain. And after the grain is traded, she always keeps one handful for you — she says, when my son comes back, his first meal must be of new grain."

Kes lowered his head, and his throat rolled twice, and in the end he did not let the tears fall.

"The clan . . . is hard pressed." En-Tu sighed. "The tribe is scattered, one band east, one band west, living in broken shelters along the river valley. Three places in the valley, forty-some households, and seventeen rooms have fallen in, and no one knows how to mend them. The grain, year after year, not enough. When someone falls sick, it is three days’ road to find the priest, and by the time they arrive, the person is beyond saving. In three years, we have lost two elders."

"One thing more," En-Tu said, "the clan chief is old. He says the one thought of his whole life is to see the clanspeople have a proper home again. But he has said it ten years, and it has not come to pass."

Kes squatted at the storehouse door and did not speak for a long time.

He took out his board and wrote down what En-Tu said, line by line: Three places in the valley. Forty-some households. Seventeen rooms fallen. No granary. No medical point. No one who can lay walls.

"Uncle," he asked when the writing was done, "the valley’s earth — is it sandy soil or clay?"

"By the river, sandy." En-Tu started. "Farther in, mostly clay."

"And the water?"

"There is an old spring." En-Tu said. "It does not run dry even in drought years."

"The grain-drying ground — where is it?"

"There is a stretch of flat ground at the village mouth." En-Tu said. "Only it is small, and low. When it rains, it floods."

Kes asked nothing more. On his board, he circled the words "old spring," "clay," and "village-mouth flat ground," heavily, one by one.

The wind blew over from the border river, dry and hot, and it stung his eyes.

"Uncle En-Tu," he said suddenly, "I have learned to build houses."

"What?"

"I said," Kes rose to his feet, "I have learned to build houses. I can read the ground, and lay walls, and raise granaries, and open windows. How a house is built so it does not fall, how grain is stored so it does not rot — I have learned it." He paused, and pointed at the storehouse behind him. "This storehouse — I changed it."

En-Tu looked at him for a long time, and suddenly grinned, and grinning, the light welled up in his eyes.

"Good lad." En-Tu said. "Your mother did not wait in vain."

The caravan’s goods, Meru took them.

"Ebony, leather, fragrant herbs." Meru looked at them one by one, and priced them one by one. "At last year’s prices. The clan’s goods must not rot on the donkeys’ backs."

"Last year’s prices?" En-Tu stared. "This year’s market has fallen two tenths . . ."

"That is the incense market." Meru said. "The incense fleet is scattered, but wood is still wood, and leather is still leather. What the people’s livelihood can use is worth this price." He paused. "From now on, when the clan has goods, send them to this storehouse. The price — the merchant house will give a fair one."

"Shopkeeper Meru . . ." En-Tu’s throat tightened. "You have . . . saved our whole clan’s emergency."

"Thanks for nothing." Meru said. "I came out of Nubia myself, in those years. The days of the south, I understand them."

"The shopkeeper is Nubian too?" The caravan’s people’s eyes all lit up.

"I am." Meru said. "And so this storehouse stands by the border river. With its door facing south."

That night, Kes spread out his board under the lamp and began to draw.

He drew first a winding line — that was the river valley. Then, along the line, he set three dots — the three scattered places of his clanspeople. Then he drew one spring, one stretch of flat ground, one high ridge.

"The spring, in the middle." he said to himself. "The granary, on the high ridge. Half a li from the spring, half a li from the river. Water, both places have it. The houses, laid out along the spring. The grain-drying ground, moved from the village-mouth flat to below the ridge’s slope — the slope pools no water, and the grain dries fast. The medical point, standing between the houses and the granary. Whose household has a headache or a fever, a few steps and they are there . . ."

He drew the whole night.

The next day, he showed the board to Meru.

"Uncle Meru, this is the map of my clan." Kes said. "Not yet a true map. When I go back, and measure it with my feet, and drive the stakes, only then will it be a true map."

Meru took the board and looked at it a long time, and said: "Good. To think of this — you are no apprentice now."

"What am I?" Kes asked.

"The head of a household." Meru said.

That evening, Meru set a table on the open ground outside the storehouse.

Under the border starlight, Meru asked Kes: "Have you thought it through?"

"I have." Kes said. "Uncle Meru, I want to go home."

"Go." Meru said.

"But the merchant house’s storehouse has just stood, and the accounts are not yet level . . ."

"The accounts — Shunzi has them." Meru said. "The work left over, leave it to me. Your going home is the great matter." He poured Kes a bowl of water. "The laws have all stood. The granary’s shape, the house’s shape, the medical point’s shape — you carry them all. You have finished your study. It is time to go back."

"Uncle Meru," Kes said, "I want to say one thing to you."

"Say it."

"I want to learn your example." Kes said. "Not to do the incense kind of trade. To do grain, and material, and medicine. To do the things that let people live. Whatever my clan needs, I carry it."

"Good." Meru said. "That is what an apprentice of mine should say." He paused, and the firelight of his pipe flared and dimmed in the night wind.

Meru looked at the southern sky a long time, and only then spoke slowly: "When I was your age, I came out of Nubia with a sack of dried dates on my back, and walked three months to the West Bank. In those days, my eyes held nothing but profit. Carry the south’s goods to the north, I thought, and the north’s goods back to the south. Earn the difference, earn the first gold." He smiled. "The profit, I earned. But later the war came, and the road was cut, and only then did I understand — goods are dead, and people are alive. Only the goods that follow the people travel far."

"Follow the people." Kes said. "The grain follows the people, the material follows the people, the medicine follows the people."

"Right." Meru said. "That is the merchant house’s road from now on. And it is the road you should walk, going back to Nubia."

"I will remember it." Kes said.

"One thing more." Meru said. "This storehouse, changed through, belongs to the merchant house’s south line from now on. Whatever your clan lacks, come and draw it from this storehouse. Grain, material, medicine — all here. The account, on credit first." He paused. "This is the backing the merchant house gives you. For every day you stand in the south, this storehouse supplies you for that day."

Kes opened his mouth, and no words came out. He raised the bowl and drank the water dry in one breath.

"Neither of us will say who taught whom." Meru said. "Finish changing this storehouse. Then back to the new capital. In the new capital, take your leave. After the leave — home."

"Back to the new capital?" Kes asked.

"Back." Meru said. "From your teacher, you must take leave to his face. That is the courtesy. Besides, going back to Nubia empty-handed — what would that be? The drawings your teacher gives you, and the goods I give the merchant house — you must receive them all with your own hands."

"I will go back." Kes said.

The next day, Kes worked in the storehouse one more day.

He called the border hands to the storehouse front and handed things over, one by one: how the grain section is bedded, how the medicine section is set, how the windows open, how the accounts are kept. At the last, he said: "This storehouse — in the days I am not here, you are its people. The bed loosens, mend it; the wall surface cracks, plaster it; the accounts will not match, investigate them. The storehouse is dead, and the people are alive. The living keep the dead, and the grain cannot spoil."

"Remembered." the hands said. "Where the storehouse stands, the people stand."

"One thing more." Kes said. "When I am back in Nubia, and my clan’s granary stands, the first cart of grain, I will deliver here myself." He paused, and smiled. "Then, you must check my grain."

"Check it!" the hands said. "By your sample, not one item off."

The return was set for five days later. Meru said the boat would load the border’s goods — dried dates, leather, fragrant herbs, all of use to the people’s livelihood. Shunzi received the goods by the manifest, weighing, entering, and stowing them into the hold, item by item.

"This trip back," Meru said, "the boat is full again. That is how a trade road walks — coming empty, leaving full; coming full, and leaving full too. The boat not empty, and the people have something to reach for."

"Something to reach for." Kes said.

In the small hours, Kes did not sleep.

He walked alone to the border river and looked south. Across the river was Nubia. Further south, three days’ road, was the valley of his clanspeople. He could not see it, but he felt that his mother was sitting at that village mouth, looking north.

He drew the cloth bundle from inside his robe, and set the salt on the tip of his tongue, and licked it lightly.

Salty.

Like the days his mother had boiled through.

He stood at the river until the sky’s edge whitened. The mist over the river rose, layer on layer, and scattered, layer on layer. Far off, a boatman’s chant sounded, faint — it was a merchant house boat, coming to deliver salt to the border.

He looked once more at the far bank, drew the board out from behind his waist, and added one small line to it: "Mother, your son is coming home soon."

Then he turned and walked toward the town. The sandy earth under his feet was cool with the morning dew. Behind him, the water of the border river still flowed, quiet, all the way south.

The sky was light.

The water of the border river flows quietly through the night. Across the river is Nubia. Kes stood at the river’s edge half the night, licking that piece of salt on his tongue, again and again. The salt his mother saved for three years is more precious than anything. The storehouse is nearly changed; the road is about to turn back. But the true road is still ahead — the new capital, the taking of leave, and then, the drawings on his back, home. The wind of the south has already begun to blow.

(End of Chapter 11)