He had the king lie down,

called Gan to hold him still,

prepared his instruments.

A moment before his fingers

steadied enough to wield the scalpel.

Then the worst part,

working with scalpel, forceps, scissors,

the king’s solitary stifled scream,

the look that Gan gave him.

SCARED

Bad enough standing guard

while King Xau tossed

in fitful, fevered sleep.

Worse when the king woke

and nodded in thanks to Dao,

who deserved no thanks.

“Dao, what’s wrong?”

The king’s concern unbearable.

“Your Majesty, once you are well,

find a better guard than me.”

“We do not want other guards.

We could not ask for better

than those we have.”

“No! When the ground quaked,

I was so scared I couldn’t think—

I left you—”

No reproach in the king’s eyes.

“You fetched help, came back.

All men are scared.”

“Not you.”

“We are scared to sleep,

scared we will wake

to the surgeon’s saw.”

Nothing Dao could say.

He helped the king to drink.

He stood guard.

GIRL

Hour by slow hour

the burning candle marked

the progress of the night

as Gan, acting captain of King Xau’s guards,

paced back and forth past

the twenty mats with their twenty patients,

stopping each seventh time

to wet the cloths

that failed to quench King Xau’s fever;

Gan a giant of a man,

but his strength useless,

his skill useless.

Back and forth,

back and forth,

watching the candle creep

toward the sixth hour mark

when Leong would change

the king’s reeking bandages.

If the infection had advanced

the king’s hand would be amputated,

and nothing Gan would be able to do

but hold Xau down.

Back and forth,

back and forth,

stopping each seventh time

to check on the king,

to wet the cloths,

so that it came as a relief

when Peng entered with her pails

and towels and blankets

and matter-of-fact efficiency,

when she set to work emptying piss bowls,

turning patients to wipe them clean.

Peng wiping a patient

when she straightened up suddenly,

looked past Gan. “Back again?”

Gan spun round

but no one there.

“What—?”

“Your girl’s here.”

Gan baffled, blunt:

“I don’t have a girl. I prefer men.”

“The dead girl. The girl you rescued.”

Not what Peng said,

but her brisk impatience

that made Gan believe her.

The girl he’d rescued

from earthquake rubble,

all skin and broken bone.

The girl who died a few hours later.

“I’ll tell him.”

Peng nodded.

“She says to thank you.

For coming to help, for being gentle.”

“She’s welcome—”

Gan stopped, looked where Peng looked,

addressed empty air.

“You’re welcome. I’m sorry

I couldn’t do more.”

A sweetness like the scent

of the blue-flowered weeds

in the town where Gan grew up.

Hope stung him.

He fell to his knees.

“If you can heal King Xau—

if there’s something you want—please—”

The sweetness faded.

“She’s gone,” said Peng.

“She said what she wanted.”

Gan hurried to the king,

laid his hand on Xau’s forehead: still hot.