His eyes steady, he said, “Run.”
Five
The door to Wei’s study flung open, and Yao stomped in. While such behavior was uncommon among butlers and majordomos, Yao was also Wei’s shidai, or junior disciple of the same shifu. Wei had known Yao since the latter was a sixteen-year-old fisherman’s son who’d become ensnared in opium’s net. Disowned by his family and disgraced, Yao had tried to drown himself. Shifu Lam and Wei had found him barely breathing on the shore, and they’d brought him home and helped him to recover.
Since then, Yao had been a boisterous and sometimes annoying part of Wei’s life. He was like a little brother…although at six foot five and weighing seventeen stone, Yao could hardly be called “little.” While Yao tended to be unruly and idle, he was also loyal, with a heart to match his physical size. When Wei had set off on his quest to avenge his family, Shifu Lam had suggested Wei take Yao with him.
Wei rose from his desk. “What is it, shidai?”
“Shihing.” Yao remembered to bow and use the respectful form of address for a senior disciple…which was surprising, given his general disregard for things such as protocol. “We’ve got a bolter. Guess who?”
Wei didn’t have to guess. “The American.”
“And that is why you’re the shifu around here.” Yao lifted the jade seal from Wei’s desk—a gift from their master—tossing it from hand to hand…and promptly fumbling it.
Wei moved, catching the carved stone before it smashed on the ground. He set it back down on the desk.
Stifling a sigh, he said, “Let’s see to the American.”
They exited the main building, which contained Wei’s study and the main hall, and headed to the patient wing.
The property had once been used as a warehouse by a varnish maker, who’d happily sold it to Wei for a song. Wei had seen the potential of the three tumble-down buildings connected by two courtyards. With Yao’s help, he’d rebuilt the place, modeling it after their shifu’s Spartan compound, adding a latticed railing to the walkways and tiled roof to give it the feeling of home.
They arrived at the patient wing, a stark and orderly chamber with a dozen cots arranged behind dressing screens. At present, the sole occupant was Joseph Williams, an American sailor. He was in his twenties, but his gaunt features made him look at least a decade older. He sat on his cot, his head in his hands, a battered valise packed beside him.
“How are you feeling, Williams?” Wei asked.
“Like hell.” Looking up, Williams ran a hand through his ragged blond hair. “Since you gave me that vile potion this morning, I cannot keep anything down.”
“That is the point.” Wei sat beside Williams and took the other’s pulse; it was chaotic but improved since the start of the treatment. “The tonic contained opium ash paired with purgative herbs. Soon the mere thought of opium will remind your body of this unpleasant reaction, which is an effective antidote to craving.”
“You’ve explained this before, Doc.” Williams scrubbed his hands over his face before turning desperate eyes to Wei. “But I don’t think I can take any more. I’m not strong enough. I…I want to go.”
“There is nothing keeping you here,” Wei said. “Nothing but your determination to get better.”
“What if I can’t get better?” Williams’s face was etched with despair. “I’ve tried everything—even had a friend lock me in a room for a week so I couldn’t get my hands on opium. But the craving…it’s too overpowering. I reckon I’m too weak to resist it.”
“Accepting that one’s willpower alone is not enough is half the battle. Here at the clinic, you have met men, many sailors like yourself, who share the same struggle. Do you think them all weak?”
Williams shook his head. “No, Doc, I surely do not.”
Wei nodded to his shidai, who stood on the other side of the cot. “What about Yao? Do you think he’s weak?”
“I’d be shaking in my boots if I met Mr. Yao in an alley.” Williams’s eyes had a glimmer of humor as he tilted his head back to look at the larger man. “You look like you could best Hercules, sir.”
“It’s true that I was known as the ‘Strongest Man in Shandong.’ But opium was stronger,” Yao said frankly. “I couldn’t wrestle free of its grasp…until I tried the tonic you just took. Tastes and feels like shite, doesn’t it?”
“Worse,” Williams said, grimacing.
“But it worked,” Yao replied. “After a month, the smell of opium smoke made me queasier than a sailor on his first voyage. After two months, even the thought of opium made me want to puke my guts out.”
“I’ve been at it for a month already. The tonic makes me sick, all right. But I…I…” Williams forced the words out. “I still have cravings. What kind of pathetic bastard does that make me?”
And there it was: shame. A feeling as detrimental to progress as any craving.
A feeling that Wei knew well.
“It does not matter how slowly you go as long as you do not stop,” he said quietly.
