The beginning of the story of the Tang Dynasty's Imperial Son-in-Law: A rhinoceros comes knocki

Chapter 102 The clearer it is, the more powerless I feel.

Zhou Xia paused slightly as he looked up at the village in the distance.

As the gentle morning light falls, wisps of smoke rise slowly from the thatched roofs of the tenant farmers' village, turning into faint blue smoke in the morning mist, peaceful and serene.

"But just now, looking at this field full of rice ears, I suddenly realized something."

Zhou Xia turned to look at Wang Zhihuan. The boy's eyes had lost their childishness and gained a sense of understanding and awe. "There are some illnesses in the world that can never be cured by medicine."

"Oh? What do you mean?" Wang Zhihuan nodded slightly.

"I still remember last year when there was a severe drought in the Taihang Mountains, I went to the disaster area with my former master to provide free medical services."

Zhou Xia's voice softened, carrying a hint of the weight of the past, "Back then, the land was full of refugees, everyone was emaciated and pale."

On the verge of death.

Those people weren't seriously ill; they were simply suffering from prolonged hunger and malnutrition. I searched my entire baggage with my medicine kit, but couldn't find a single herb that could alleviate their hunger and cold.

He looked intently at his master, his eyes shining brightly: "When I looked at the abundant rice ears covering the fields just now, I suddenly understood."

An ordinary doctor's acupuncture and prescriptions can only save one person, one life; but the master cultivates fertile fields and nurtures superior seeds, relieving the hunger and cold of countless people and saving millions of lives.

"Master, you are the true healer, a great physician who cares for the world."

The boy spoke calmly, without a trace of deliberate flattery, yet every word was sincere, which resonated deeply with Wang Zhihuan, bringing comfort and peace of mind.

"Practicing medicine to save lives and farming to bring peace to the people—these are fundamentally the same intentions."

Wang Zhihuan spoke slowly, his voice gentle and deep, "Doctors heal the sick and save lives, relieving suffering; farmers cultivate the land and harvest grain, providing food and clothing for all people."

The only difference lies in the number of people saved; the fundamental intention of helping others remains the same. It's all about pulling people back from dire straits, from hunger and hardship to a life of security and comfort.

He looked up at the vast expanse of rice paddies and continued, "Zhang Zhongjing said in the Treatise on Febrile Diseases, 'It is used to treat the illnesses of rulers and parents, to relieve the suffering of the poor and lowly, and to preserve one's health and longevity.'"

Throughout history, the practice of medicine has never been based on social status or wealth. Yet, the greatest ailments affecting people have never been minor ailments like colds, sprains, or other minor injuries.

"It's a famine."

Wang Zhihuan lightly tapped the heavy ears of rice with his fingertips, his gaze distant and firm: "This stubborn ailment of hunger and cold cannot be cured by decoctions or acupuncture; only grains can cure it."

Therefore, those who bend down to cultivate the land and ensure the people have enough to eat are also healers who save the world, only they have no needles in their hands, only hoes and fertile fields.

"When you can grasp this level, it means you have a clear mind and a broad perspective."

He turned his gaze to the boy beside him, "Now that you understand this principle, you should learn practical skills. Starting tomorrow, come with me to the fields every morning to learn farming and become familiar with the ways of cultivation."

"Disciple obeys!" Zhou Xia bowed solemnly, his eyes firm and his heart full of determination.

The master and apprentice turned back, and when they reached the courtyard gate, Wang Zhihuan suddenly stopped and turned to look at the vast rice fields behind him.

The warm sun of early summer shines across the land, and the rice stalks are gilded with a warm, light gold.

A gentle breeze blows, and the rice paddies ripple and rustle, the ears of rice colliding with each other, each sound full and deep, like the soft chorus of thousands of living things, like the gentle applause of time.

Summer of the ninth year of the Zhenguan era.

The high-quality rice varieties are quietly filling out and will be ready for harvest in a month, bringing benefits to the region.

On the ridge of the field, a young man who had come from the chaos and famine of the Taihang Mountains looked down at his palm.

The cool touch and solid weight of the rice stalks still lingered on my fingertips.

He slowly clenched his fingers.

In the palm of his hand lies the lifeblood of all people, lighter than a silver needle, more benevolent than a prescription, and more expansive than mountains and seas.

After that day, Zhou Xia followed Wang Zhihuan to work in the fields morning and evening, and during the day he still carried his medicine box and went from village to village.

The sun was exceptionally strong that day. He ran through seven villages in one go, and when he returned to the farm, the bluestone by the well was scorching hot.

Zhou Xia placed the medicine box beside the well, drew up a bucket of well water, rubbed it with a cloth to wet it, and applied it to her face.

The cool well water seeped in along my cheekbones, finally calming down the heat and fatigue accumulated from the long journey.

He visited seven villages in one go today.

First, the child of Li Laosan's family in the east of the village broke his knee, then the old ailment of Widow Wang in the west of the village caused dizziness, and then Grandpa Zhao's back pain relapsed.

One by one, as if by prior arrangement, they all came together under this scorching sun.

He pulled off the cloth, and when he looked up, he saw Ah Huang dozing under the roots of the jujube tree.

The sun was so strong that even the dogs were too lazy to go out, preferring to hide in the shade and relax.

Smoke rose from the courtyard, but it wasn't the aroma of food; instead, it carried a faint medicinal scent, bitter and pungent—the aroma of mugwort.

-

"Banxia, ​​come in and lend a hand."

Wang Zhihuan's voice came from the kitchen.

Zhou Xia stepped inside.

A large pot sat on the stove, filled with a dark green ointment that was bubbling away with tiny bubbles.

Several sheets of oil paper were spread out by the stove, with a thin layer of paste on them, quietly drying.

"Master, what's wrong?"

"This is mugwort ointment."

Wang Zhihuan slowly stirred the mixture with a bamboo stick, then lifted it up to check its consistency. "It's mugwort juice mixed with beeswax. There are many mosquitoes in the summer, so it's perfect for relieving itching and swelling. I've prepared it for the tenants in the village."

He turned his head to look at Zhou Xia.

"You've come at the perfect time. Move these oil papers to the windowsill. The fire is strong near the stove; if they dry too quickly, the paste will crack."

Zhou Xia carefully picked up the oil paper and moved it to the windowsill one sheet at a time. The paste was soft and trembling, and a thin green film had formed on its surface.

"Master, when did you start brewing it?"

"I started working on it as soon as you all left this morning. I had nothing better to do anyway."

Zhou Xia carefully placed the oil paper down, then looked back at the bubbling plaster in the pot, sighing inwardly.

My master seems to be never idle; everything he makes, however casually, is perfectly neat and thoughtful. He's like a deep well, impossible to fathom.

He took out a folded piece of paper from his pocket and spread it out on the stove. It contained a detailed record of the day's house calls, with each person and event clearly documented.

"I have made a note of all the patients who came to the clinic today."

Grandpa Zhao from Xiahe Village had a lot of back pain. I used the acupuncture technique you taught me to apply moxibustion to Shenshu and Yaoyangguan acupoints, and he said it relieved a lot of pain.

Uncle Zhou from Xitou Village has fully recovered from his old leg injury and said he would like to come and thank you in person another day.

Li Laosan's child only suffered minor injuries; the wounds were cleaned and bandaged, and it's nothing serious.

Widow Wang was suffering from dizziness due to anemia, so I prescribed Siwu Tang (a traditional Chinese medicine formula). Since her family was in dire straits, I waived the cost of the medicine.

"Slow down," Wang Zhihuan interrupted without stopping his hands. "Aren't you tired of talking about so much in one go? Let's take it one step at a time."

Zhou Xia scratched the back of his head and chuckled, "After running around all day, my mouth has become rusty."

"And there's Liu Dalang at the village entrance. His boil from the heat festered and became infected. I performed an incision and drainage procedure as you suggested. The pus had drained quite well, but then he developed a fever again in the afternoon, even hotter than in the morning."

Wang Zhihuan paused in his bamboo strip and gently placed it on the edge of the pot.

"Did it get hot again after the drainage?"

"Hmm." Zhou Xia nodded. "The area around the incision is red and hot, it's swollen and hard when pressed, and it leaves a dent when pressed, with a very slow rebound."

I tried disinfecting it with strong liquor and also changed the detoxifying plaster, but the fever still hasn't subsided.

"This is because the evil poison has not yet been completely eradicated."

Wang Zhihuan put down the bamboo strip, wiped it casually, and took down the medicine box hanging on the wall.

"Go see him now. The toxic heat has entered the meridians; we can't delay. You come with me."

Zhou Xia quickly folded the sheet and put it back in her arms, then picked up her medicine box.

Just as the two reached the courtyard gate, a dark-skinned, thin, teenage boy rushed towards them from the other end of the official road.

He was sweating profusely, his trousers splattered with mud, and he didn't care that he had lost one of his straw sandals. He rushed straight to the two of them and bent his knees to kneel down.

Wang Zhihuan reached out and grabbed his arm, saying, "Get up and talk."

The boy was pulled to his feet, his lips trembling uncontrollably, his eyes bloodshot, but he held back his tears.

He looked no more than thirteen or fourteen years old, his body was so thin that he was just skin and bones, his cheekbones were protruding, and there were dark circles under his eyes. It was obvious that he had been staying up late and suffering for many years.

"Master Wang, please save my father!"

His voice trembled, and his throat almost cracked.

"My dad went to the fields to harvest rice three days ago, and the sickle cut his foot. He didn't take it seriously and just smeared some wood ash on it."

He started talking nonsense yesterday, and this morning his jaw was clenched so tightly that he couldn't even swallow rice porridge. The village doctor said there was no hope and told us to prepare for his death—but I'm not willing to accept that!

When Wang Zhi heard the words "clench your teeth," his heart sank.

Tetanus spasm.

By the time the jaw is clenched, the toxins have already invaded the nerves. Even in later generations with advanced medical care, the survival rate is extremely low, let alone in this humble rural dwelling.

He didn't say anything discouraging; he simply asked, "Where do you live?"

"Xiahe Village! The house under the crooked willow tree by the stream!"

"Let's go." Wang Zhihuan turned to Zhou Xia and instructed, "Go to Liu Dalang's house first, clean the wound again, change the dressing, and apply it with a cloth soaked in the newly prepared ointment. I'll be there as soon as I'm done here."

"it is good."

Zhou Xia turned and headed straight for the village entrance. Wang Zhi also carried his medicine box and followed the boy to Xiahe Village.

Xiahe Village is not far from Zhuangzi; it only takes half an hour to get there by taking a shortcut through the fields.

The boy was frantic, running wildly, his bare feet treading on the gravel and clods of earth, each step causing him pain, yet he seemed oblivious. Wang Zhi, on the other hand, was carrying the medicine box and was keeping up, his breathing uneven.

Upon entering the courtyard, a stuffy, stale smell hit you—a mixture of musty odors, sweat, and medicinal odors, lingering in the low earthen house and unable to dissipate.

The main room was small, with old mud walls and piles of dry firewood in the corner.

Lying on the wooden bed by the window was a man in his early forties, covered with a thin quilt full of patches. His face was ashen, his eyes were sunken, and he was barely breathing.

His lips were dry, cracked, and white; a hoarse, hoarse sound kept coming from his throat; a phlegm was stuck in his chest, unable to go up or down.

Two children were standing by the bed.

The slightly older boy, about twelve years old, was the second oldest, Tie Dan. He bit his lip hard, his eyes were red, and his fists were clenched tightly.

The youngest girl, Xiaoman, had just turned ten. Two withered yellow braids hung down her shoulders. Her little hands were tightly gripping the corner of the blanket, her knuckles were white, and she timidly held back her tears.

Wang Zhi walked to the bedside, opened his eyelids to look at his pupils, then checked his chin and stroked his neck.

The pupils are dilated and lifeless, the neck is stiff, and the jaw is rigid and cannot be opened. The body has a high fever, but the hands and feet are ice-cold, which is a typical case of deep fever leading to deep collapse, indicating that the poison has penetrated into the body.

He lifted the corner of the blanket to examine the wound on the sole of his foot.

The wound had long since turned black and festered, the surrounding skin was swollen and shiny, and pressing it would leave a dent that wouldn't heal for a long time. The edges of the flesh were dark purple, and a strong, putrid stench assaulted the nostrils.

Wang Zhi gently moved his hands and feet back into the quilt, straightened up, and looked at the eldest son at the door.

"Your father's illness has been delayed for too long."

Dalang swayed violently, as if struck by a blunt object, but he stubbornly held on, refusing to show weakness, his voice hoarse: "Is there really no way at all?"

"If treated three or four days ago, there is a 70% chance of survival."

Wang Zhihuan spoke calmly, just as he usually did when teaching him to identify medicines and explain symptoms.

"Now, I can only administer acupuncture to keep him conscious for a short while, giving him some time to talk to you."

The room fell silent instantly.

The wind rustled through the rice paddies outside, making the deathly silence inside the house seem even more desolate.

Xiaoman could no longer hold back and began to sob softly. Tiedan lowered his head and mumbled repeatedly, "Dad will be alright."

Only Dalang remained standing quietly, staring intently at Wang Zhihuan, a last glimmer of hope still lingering in his eyes.

Wang Zhihuan opened the medicine box and took out fine acupuncture needles.

Select Fengchi (GB20), Dazhui (GV14), and Hegu (LI4), insert the needles three fen deep, and gently rotate them.

The silver needles trembled slightly, and the Qi flowed slowly to dispel the stagnant toxins.

About fifteen minutes later, Liu the carpenter on the bed relaxed his throat, let out a low groan, and slowly opened his eyelids.

The dim light swept across the room, finally settling on the three children and freezing in place.

"Brother, where are your shoes?"

Dalang looked down at his bare feet, his throat tightening: "I ran too fast and left them behind halfway."

"I picked them up." Carpenter Liu's breath was weak, and he spoke with difficulty, "You are the eldest brother, so you must take good care of your younger siblings."

Dalang didn't move. He knelt down in front of the bed with a thud, grabbed his father's cold wrist, and the veins on the back of his hand stood out: "Father, I won't leave. I'll stay with you."

Carpenter Liu stared at him quietly for a while, then slowly turned his head and looked at Wang Zhihuan beside him.

"It's Wang Xiaoshan—I recognize you."

He took a breath and tried his best to speak clearly: "I saw you providing free medical care at the village entrance before. I know my own body; I can't hold on any longer, so there's no need to hide it from me."

Wang Zhi remained silent, neither confirming nor denying.

After resting for a while, Liu the carpenter spoke again in a low voice, as if he were explaining his final concerns in life.

"I've never amounted to anything in my life, all I know is farming. My wife passed away early, and I raised three children on my own. My eldest son, Dalang, is fourteen. My second son, Tiedan, is twelve. My youngest daughter, Xiaoman, is only ten years old."

He propped himself up on his arms, determined to sit up.

Wang Zhihuan pressed him down: "It's fine to talk while lying down."

"No," Carpenter Liu shook his head, veins bulging on his forehead. "If you have something to say, you have to sit down and talk."

Dalang quickly supported his back, and Xiaoman brought a tattered quilt to cushion his back.

After settling into a seated position, Liu the carpenter took a long breath and his eyes suddenly lit up—a clarity that seemed to come before death, unlike that of a dying man.

Wang Zhihuan was already fully aware of these symptoms, but for a doctor, sometimes the clearer the understanding, the more powerless one feels.