"Gathering ling, gathering ling, on the crest of Shouyang."
That's a line from the Shijing. Ling is a herb that grows on the high peaks. Grandpa says our family is born smelling of medicine, so he named me Lingling. I'm nine, and I've gathered herbs for six years — don't stare; I was running these hills with Grandpa at three. Not child labor. Family education.
In this ravine, I know every ridge and what grows on it with my eyes shut: bletilla in the shady crevices, for bleeding; poria on the wet flats by the water, for shaken minds; bupleurum in the sunny grass, for fever. How do I find them? Not with eyes. With my nose. Every herb smells different — bletilla is rank, poria is sweet, bupleurum is bitter. My nose works better than my eyes. Those are Grandpa's exact words.
Grandpa also says: be home before dark.
Last month, I didn't listen. A new patch of bletilla had come up deep in the herb vale, twice the size of the ones by the water, and I wanted more. Dark in the ravine is not the same place as day — every bird and insect goes quiet, and the silence hurts your ears. I hugged my basket and ran, and as I ran, someone ahead called my name.
It was Grandpa's voice. But Grandpa's legs could never make it deep into the vale.
I crouched down, held my head, and didn't answer. The voice called seven or eight times, and each time it was less like Grandpa and more like... I don't know what. Then it left. I stayed in the grass until the moon came up. At home, Grandpa was standing at the gate — legs barely holding him, eyes red.
Next day the bailiff posted a bounty: escort the herb child back from the hills. Grandpa says my little life was picked up by someone else. I said: Grandpa, I know that voice now. Next time it calls, I'll answer even less.
Grandpa didn't speak. He just pressed me into his chest, and his beard scratched my face.
If you're going into the herb vale, take me. I'll teach you the herbs, and you'll keep my courage up. Fair trade.