Chapter 2556: Undercurrents in Dongguan
Late at night, the Provincial-Hong Kong General Hospital in the Great World hummed with activity. Doctors and nurses moved through the corridors with tireless purpose. As the only "Australian-style" hospital on the mainland, it boasted something extraordinarily rare in Guangzhou: electric lighting that burned through the night.
The hospital's reputation had swelled with each successful replication of modern drugs. Patients now arrived daily in droves—not just those with complicated ailments from the Pearl River Delta, but sufferers from as far as Guangxi who had heard of its fame. Even wealthy magnates from Jiangnan and the capital made the journey seeking treatment.
And so the Provincial-Hong Kong General Hospital had inevitably followed the familiar trajectory of mega-hospitals from the old timeline: expanding endlessly, claiming more space, adding more beds. To staff these wards, the affiliated Health School had likewise begun devouring the Great World's footprint.
Though space wasn't yet critically scarce, the Great World was, after all, a commercial complex. A hospital in its midst struck an incongruous note, and the queues of patients waiting to register disrupted the commercial atmosphere. Deng Bojun had recently visited Guangzhou to investigate the matter, preparing to relocate the General Hospital somewhere more suitable while expanding the Health School's capacity two or threefold.
Lin Motian had been spinning all day without rest. Now, finally seated at his desk, he faced a stack of documents requiring the Dean's personal approval. He was technically off duty, but duty cared little for technicalities. Fortunately, the hospital's General Affairs Director, Li Mo, was remarkably capable—she had rescued Lin Motian from the worst of the administrative burden, allowing him to focus on medical affairs. Otherwise, the paperwork alone would have crushed him.
He eyed the stack of notes pinned beneath a paperweight and sighed. "More favor requests. Can't refuse them, though..."
The first note was exactly that—a request for special treatment.
Guangzhou had only recently been pacified, and everything remained in flux. The various institutions under the Municipal Government operated in a peculiar limbo: rules existed, yet didn't; didn't exist, yet somehow did—a marked improvement over the chaos of their initial entry into the city. This particular request came from a Naturalized Citizen cadre bearing a note from some Chief or other. Lin Motian, perpetually overwhelmed, had barely found time to respond.
He rolled his neck to ease the stiffness, then picked up his pen and began drafting a reply. He had scrawled only a few characters when a young girl poked her head through the doorway.
"Chief, Section Chief Huang from the Health Bureau is here. Says it's urgent."
Lin Motian rose before his seat had even grown warm, still clutching the half-written instruction slip, and followed her out.
The next day, Section Chief Huang returned to the Health Bureau and began sorting through the documents he had collected from Lin Motian's office. A slip of paper fluttered to the floor. He bent to retrieve it. The handwriting was unmistakably Senator Lin Motian's:
"Your department's cadre is diligent and assiduous, quite effective, at present."
Section Chief Huang stared at this fragment of an instruction, utterly baffled. But he could hardly go back and ask for clarification. And so a certain cadre's favor request vanished without a trace.
Deep within a courtyard in Chashan, Dongguan, a middle-aged man who appeared no older than thirty stood motionless, staring at leaves withering in the cold. An hour passed. The household servants kept their distance, not daring to disturb him. At last, his lips moved.
"First, Master Xuandu passed away in bitter indignation. Then I travel for several years, only to learn that Quanren died young—he was only three years my senior. And when the Bald Bandits took the city, Qisi chose to die for his country..."
The man lost in grief was Zhang Mu—courtesy name Er'qi, art name Muzhi—a descendant of the Tang Dynasty Prime Minister Zhang Jiuling. His father, Zhang Shiyu, had earned his juren degree in the thirteenth year of the Wanli reign and eventually served as Magistrate of Bobai County in Guangxi. Zhang Mu had been born when his father was already past sixty. As a son of his old age, he was naturally doted upon.
The family's wealth had allowed Zhang Mu an unconventional education. At twelve, he admired Lord Xinling; at thirteen, he studied the works of Baopuzi; by fifteen, he had mastered mounted archery and dreamed of glory on the frontier. Coming of age, he cultivated a reputation for lofty eccentricity—carefree, disdainful of orthodox Confucianism. Though not quite a thousand-gold heir, fine horses were always in his stable and the humble family gate welcomed a motley assortment of guests, all men of true spirit. In his youth, he had studied with friends at Mount Luofu, drinking from stone springs and sleeping amid morning mist. "Drunk, dreaming beneath plum blossom moonlight; weary from wandering, returning on lotus-leaf boats. Night reflecting cinnabar glow, steaming into colorlessness; cloud-jade pearl trees hidden in three heavens"—how carefree those days had been.
In the sixth year of Chongzhen, he had resolutely crossed the mountain ridges northward, determined to prove himself at the frontier. Teachers and friends had attempted to recommend him to Yang Sichang, Commander-in-Chief at Shanhaiguan, but the arrangement fell through for reasons never explained. Instead, he wandered through Jingchu and Xianggan, through Suzhou and Hangzhou—years spent absorbing the beauty of mountains and rivers while growing accustomed to the sight of war's flames and people who could no longer sustain themselves.
When he finally turned homeward, he received devastating news: the Bald Bandits had launched their attack and seized Liangguang. He lingered in Jiangxi for months, paralyzed by uncertainty, before retreating to Suzhou and Hangzhou. Only recently had he managed to return to Dongguan by sea. He had not expected so many old friends to be dead. Grief rose unbidden from his chest.
Returning to his study, Zhang Mu lifted his gaze to a calligraphy piece mounted on the wall: "Gift to Zhang Muzhi," a present from Kuang Lu. The running-cursive script danced with dragons and phoenixes, the brushstrokes vigorous and assured—truly excellent work. The poem read:
Western wind and setting sun hang high banners, Young Master Zhang's poetry draft named Sword Flower. Divine objects from ancient times aren't easily obtained, Making me sigh repeatedly, over and over. Sighing that your talented hand remains deep and sincere, Literary heart's embellishment all in play. In days past, Rangju harbored leopard strategies, Nothing more than Sun Yang portraying dragon steeds. Sir, don't you see Han Xin begged for food and relied on the washerwoman, Wu Yun played flute towards the Wu market. Ancient heroes losing their way are often thus, So Rengong ceased fishing and returned to Cangzhou, Spiritual medicine I will follow and never die.
I wonder how that old rascal Zhanruo is doing, Zhang Mu thought. He had heard that after his own departure northward, Kuang Lu had offended Huang Xiyin, the Magistrate of Nanhai County, and fled to Guangxi. Unfortunately, letters were difficult to exchange while abroad, so Kuang Lu's whereabouts remained a mystery. Otherwise, traveling the mountains and rivers hand in hand with his dear friend would have been a true delight.
The thought brought him some comfort. He spread rice paper across his desk, ordered a servant boy to grind ink, raised his brush, and composed "Arriving Home, Many Old Friends Have Died—A Poem to Encourage Myself":
Born in the Five Turbid World, wealth and honor don't last long. Troubles in poverty and lowliness, all kinds are bitter and busy. Poverty and lowliness—poverty easily returns; Wealth and honor—indulgence leaves no leisure. Looking back, body gradually lightens, all becomes as chaff. Those I admire and emulate, drawing beside sages. In the West there is ancient Buddha, vow power pervading ten directions. Buddhist teachings are my teacher, preaching already detailed. Sincere faith unbroken, body emerges from lotus chamber. Five colors like carriage canopy, bathed following fragrant light. Dust sand views pearls and jade, ground covered in seven treasures. Heaven-net brilliant walking trees, wind music containing reed pipe. Phoenix and crane meeting hundred sounds, chanting harmoniously and rising. Time without cold or heat pressing, heartland all cooling. Material feelings far from good karma, lustful killing competes in self-harm. Aged and forgetting return date, willing to negotiate with gratitude and resentment.
Just as he finished writing, a servant boy called from outside: "Master, Master Su Yulin requests your presence."
"Su Guansheng?" Zhang Mu frowned. "We've had little contact. What could he want? Where is the invitation for?"
"He didn't say, Master. Only that it's at Yan'an Hermitage in Huangcun."
Huangcun in Dongguan originally had no temple. Historically, the area was known for Jie'an Hermitage, the dharma practice site of Monk Daodu. The monk—art name Kongyin—was a native of Nanhai, Guangdong, and the thirty-third generation successor of the Caodong school. He had held dharma seats successively at Huangyan Temple on Mount Lu, Jie'an Hermitage in Dongguan, Huashou Terrace on Mount Luofu, and Haichuang Temple in Guangzhou before passing away at Jie'an Hermitage. The hermitage had been built by Monk Daodu and Monk Tianran after their return to Guangdong. At this time, however, Monk Daodu remained at Jinlun Peak on Mount Lu. Ordinarily, he would have been invited back to Guangzhou by Chen Zizhuang, Li Suiqiu, and others around 1640. With the Senate's arrival, whether he would return at all had become an open question.
As for Yan'an Hermitage, it was the cultivation site built by Li Yunlong—Yuan Chonghuan's advisor in this timeline—after he had taken monastic vows and wandered to Dongguan.
More than ten kilometers away, at Wanjia Zu—what would one day be known as Wanjiang Village Tou Fang—a heavy atmosphere pressed down upon an ordinary household.
The mother of the family lay ill in bed. Her son held a bowl of clear water, helping her swallow a white tablet. The medicine was sulfa, obtained from the newly opened Runshitang in the city. Previously, the family had summoned the best traditional Chinese medicine doctor in the county, but his prescription demanded paired crickets as a primer—an impossible requirement. They had resorted to catching a random pair of crickets instead. Unsurprisingly, the bitter black decoction had accomplished nothing. Their only remaining hope lay in the Australians' Runshitang. Everyone claimed this sulfa was the Australians' miracle drug—perhaps not capable of raising the dead, but said to improve most illnesses.
Yet something was clearly wrong. The sulfa had been administered several times now, and his mother's condition showed no improvement. The whole family paced in anxious circles. Desperate, the son spent a considerable sum to bring a Fake-Hair doctor for a home visit. The physician examined her with a new-style stethoscope, listening here and there, asking about her medical history. Then he sighed and shook his head.
The devoted son dropped to his knees. "Doctor, I know Great Song medical arts are wondrously advanced. Surely there's still hope?"
The doctor produced a prescription slip, scrawled something in barely legible handwriting, and handed it over. His voice dropped to a conspiratorial murmur: "The sulfa I can prescribe is Aminobenzenesulfonamide—the earliest variety from Lingao Pharmaceutical Factory. Its efficacy isn't reliable. If you can find a way to obtain this medicine from the Provincial-Hong Kong General Hospital, there may yet be hope."
The son took the slip. On it was written: "Penicillin, one vial (10,000 units)."
After seeing the doctor off with profuse thanks, he stood in the doorway, thinking. Perhaps only Chief Du could help.
"Jiayu! Jiayu!" A voice called from beyond the gate, accompanied by urgent knocking.
"Shibao, stay with Mother. I'll get the door." Zhang Jiayu spoke to his younger sister, then hurried to the entrance.
The gate swung open with a creak. "Teacher!" Zhang Jiayu exclaimed in surprise.
The visitor appeared to be around forty years old. It was none other than Lin Jian, Zhang Jiayu's former tutor. Under Lin Jian's instruction, Zhang Jiayu had studied the Classic of Changes for the imperial examinations, as well as military texts: The Three Strategies of Huangshi Gong, New Book on Military Efficiency, Military Defense Record, Essentials of Military Tactics, and Divine Weapon Manual.
Lin Jian glanced carefully in both directions before stepping inside and closing the door behind him. "Jiayu, I heard you returned from Guangzhou. Did the Bald—" He caught himself. "Did the Australians give you trouble?"
Zhang Jiayu's expression grew distant. "The Australians are occupied with government affairs. They won't trouble a nobody like me." He paused. "I had gone to Guangzhou hoping to broaden my horizons and join the scholars' societies there. I never expected the Australians to attack."
(End of Chapter)