Chapter 17: Boiling Salt and Tasting Grass
The night was not peaceful. One of the injured clansmen had developed a high fever. His wound was infected, and he was delirious. The others woke and gathered around him, helpless. One by one, they turned their eyes to Chen Jian.
But all Chen Jian could offer was a helpless shake of his head. In this environment, he couldn't guarantee anything. For now, he had no real solution; the man could only rely on his own body's will to survive. An average life expectancy of 30 years would define human history for millennia to come.
Life in the wilderness was fragile, a reality that forged humanity's strength and unyielding spirit, but also fostered a dependence on faith and religion. He was not a god, nor did he want to be one. He just wanted to lead his tribe out of this wilderness as soon as possible. Only a group with surplus food, one that didn't need to spend every waking moment in the pursuit of sustenance, would have the luxury of thinking about how to live longer.
The man's delirious rambling continued deep into the night before he finally fell into a fitful sleep. None of the other clansmen were in the mood to rest. This kind of thing was common, and everyone knew that one day it could be them. How could they ever escape death's pursuit?
The next morning, everyone was in low spirits. Death itself wasn't terrifying; the long process of dying was. Being eaten by a tiger was a completely different experience from slowly succumbing to a festering wound and fever. The psychological impact on those watching was profound. Some armies were known to mercy-kill their own grievously wounded soldiers, not because the other soldiers weren't used to death, but to prevent the devastating blow to morale that came from watching a slow, agonizing end.
Chen Jian checked the injured man. His forehead was burning, and the wound was inflamed. Thanks to the honey, the infection wasn't as severe as it could be, and the fever was a sign that his body was still fighting.
"Jian, is there really no other way?" Song asked as he approached.
Chen Jian sighed. "No one is immortal. But our ancestors watch over us and guide us. They gave us bows and arrows so we wouldn't starve, they gave us clay pots so we could drink clean water, and maybe they also gave us a way to fight sickness. Let's go. We may find that way ahead."
Song was skeptical. He believed in the existence of ancestors, but would they truly protect everyone? Would they protect him and his people, who had only just joined their lineage? If their ancestors had always been watching over them, why had so many died?
Lost in his simple, troubling thoughts, his mood darkened. Chen Jian saw his despair and shouted to the group, "Hurry! There may be a way forward!"
In the midst of their confusion, a single word of hope was enough to light the path before them, and the clansmen quickened their pace.
The towering mountain was directly ahead. The good news was that a deep canyon split the mountain in two, a testament to the mysterious and raw power of nature. Wolfpi had told Chen Jian that beyond this valley lay salty earth and stones, but almost no plant life.
Chen Jian looked up at the canyon. The cliffs on both sides were sheer and impossibly high, with only a few tough vines clinging to the rock. The path was marked with the hoofprints of many animals. It was clear they also came here for salt. The tribes who had migrated here must have discovered this place long ago, and over time, it had become a gathering point for more than a dozen different groups.
He instructed the others to collect a large quantity of willow leaves and bark, stuffing them into cloth bags, before leading them into the canyon.
At its narrowest, the canyon was only three or four meters wide. Looking up, the sky was just a thin sliver of light between the towering rock walls. The occasional caw of an old crow flying past added to the sense of desolation.
"This will definitely be a strategic location in the future," Chen Jian thought, silently making a mental note. His vision had to extend beyond their immediate surroundings. With salt beyond the canyon, a large mountain to the west, and a plain to the east, he could imagine thousands of people dying to control this pass in the years to come.
"From now on, we'll call this place Yixiantian (A Line of Sky)," he decided, though he knew the clansmen didn't yet have the words for such a name. He would have to tell them later.
After walking for about an hour, they emerged from the canyon, and the view suddenly opened up. Chen Jian himself was stunned by the sight. Before them lay a huge, barren valley. A small stream cascaded down a rock wall, forming a little waterfall before winding its way west into the unknown.
The ground for hundreds of meters around was a deep, basin-like pit with very few plants, a stark contrast to the emerald green peaks that surrounded them. In this vast, verdant landscape, this patch of lifelessness, several hundred acres in size, was jarring. Several animals were on the far side, licking the saline-alkali soil.
The earth was a light reddish color and stretched nearly a thousand kilometers to the north. Just beyond the pit was a hill teeming with thriving plants. The canyon behind them felt like a gateway between two worlds, but this desolate pit looked like a vision of death. The stark disparity was beyond anything Chen Jian had imagined.
It seemed that in addition to the salt, this bizarre terrain was another reason the tribes gathered here. They couldn't understand why a single canyon would separate such vastly different landscapes. Out of a deep-seated awe for nature, no tribe chose to settle here, despite the frequent animal visitors.
He reached down, grabbed a handful of soil, and tasted it. It was salty and bitter.
The Songhe tribe, having traveled from a distant land, had never seen this place before. They stared at the reddish earth with fear, wondering why they had come. The injured clansman was still feverish, and Song's concern was palpable.
"Jian, can this place really save him?"
Chen Jian didn't answer. Instead, he asked Wolfpi to gather firewood from the nearby hills. Song didn't press him further.
Chen Jian found a large, flat bluestone, cleaned its surface, and had the women chop the collected willow leaves and bark. He knew that willow bark and leaves contained salicylic acid, a natural precursor to aspirin. Eaten unprocessed, it would severely irritate the stomach, but it was effective at reducing fever and pain. At the very least, if the fever broke, the man's own immune system would have a better chance to work, increasing his odds of survival.
They put the chopped bark and leaves into a clay pot with water and boiled it. After letting the bitter concoction cool, they gave it to the feverish clansman to drink. The taste was unbearable. Soon, the man's stomach began to cramp from the irritation. He groaned, his face contorting in pain.
Song kept anxiously touching his own forehead and then the sick man's to check his temperature. Chen Jian knew the medicine would take time to work, but he didn't stop him.
Taking a few others with him, Chen Jian began digging into the saline soil with bone tools. The earth below grew harder, and he could see white salt crystals mixed in with the sand. Soon, it became too hard to dig further with the bone tools. Knowing that there were likely solid chunks of salt deeper down, he filled a clay pot with water and poured it into the hole they'd dug.
The water dissolved the salt, creating a murky brine mixed with sediment. Gradually, the insoluble dirt began to settle to the bottom. He dipped a finger in and tasted it. It was intensely salty, almost bitter—the concentration of salt was saturated. Now, all they had to do was wait for the sediment to fully settle.
During the long wait, Song suddenly let out an excited shout and ran over to Chen Jian.
"His fever's gone!"
Chen Jian walked over and felt the man's forehead. The fever had indeed subsided. The medicine had worked. He let out the breath he'd been holding.
Standing by the clansman's side, Song whispered comforting words and thanked the ancestors for their protection. In his heart, he finally believed that he and his people were also under the ancestors' protection, that the blood flowing in their veins truly was the same.
Chen Jian offered a few words of comfort as well, then returned to the pit. He carefully ladled the clarified brine from the top into a pot and set it over the fire, watching the bottom of the vessel closely. The brine contained bitter salts which could be poisonous in high concentrations. He remembered the story of Yang Bailao, who died from drinking raw brine, and he had no intention of repeating that tragedy.
Fortunately, table salt is less soluble than most of the bitter salts. When about half the water had boiled away, a layer of white crystals had precipitated at the bottom. This was pure table salt.
For now, efficiency was not a concern. Chen Jian had the tribe pour out the remaining half of the water, discarding the dissolved bitter salts with it. He didn't know the exact concentration of the toxic minerals here and wasn't willing to take the risk.
Each pot yielded a thin layer of pure salt. They carefully dried the pots over the fire and scraped out the fine, white grains.
The clansmen stared at the pure white substance in amazement, thinking it looked like the snowflakes they saw in the coldest part of the year. They touched it with their fingers, but it was neither cold nor did it melt.
"Salt," Chen Jian said, giving it its name.
The clansmen dipped their fingers in, tasted it, and their faces lit up with joy. It was salty, but the bitter taste was gone!
Now that they knew the method, the clansmen got busy repeating the process. Chen Jian told them they would bring this snowflake-like salt back, so no one would have to lick bitter stones again.
He took a handful of the dry salt and dissolved it in another pot of boiled water, adding some of the leftover willow bark tea. He then went to the injured clansman. After wiping the honey from the wound, he found a sturdy stick and placed it in the man's mouth. "Bite down hard," he instructed, "or you might bite off your tongue."
Song watched nervously as Chen Jian tested the temperature of the saltwater solution until it had cooled to fifty or sixty degrees Celsius. This temperature wouldn't cause serious burns but was hot enough to kill the bacteria festering in the wound. The pain, however, would be unbearable. But it was better than death.
Chen Jian poured the hot salt water directly onto the wound. The man's body arched violently. His face was instantly covered in beads of sweat, and a strangled groan escaped his lips. The veins on his neck bulged, and his eyes shot wide open with agony. He thrashed with the strength of a bull, and several men struggled to hold him down. The sheer pain sent his body into convulsions, and the wooden stick in his mouth cracked under the pressure of his jaw.
In his thrashing, the man grabbed Song's hand with incredible force, crushing it in his grip. Song gritted his own teeth against the pain but kept murmuring that it would be over soon and he would get better.
The excruciating ordeal lasted for about three minutes. Just as the man was about to faint from the pain, it was over.
They washed the wound one last time with boiled water and applied a poultice made from the juices of wild chrysanthemum and wormwood. The cool, numbing sensation replaced the searing pain. Finally, they coated it with a fresh layer of honey.
With this treatment, his chance of survival was much higher. It was the best Chen Jian could do in this era. The rest was up to the man's own will to live.
By nightfall, the injured man had stabilized. His fever did not return, the wound showed no signs of worsening, and he even had an appetite. After a busy afternoon, they had collected four pots of salt. The efficiency was terrible, but Chen Jian was satisfied.
The heavens have been good to me, he thought. This area was invaluable. In the future, when the tribe moved to the plains, they would have to control this place. Once they started primitive agriculture, the need for salt would become critical. Today, they could supplement their diet with the salt from blood and meat, but in the future, grain would be their staple. With a reliable source of salt and the discovery of potential food crops, Chen Jian's anxieties finally began to settle.
As he was lost in thought, Song approached him. "Was this the protection of the ancestors?" he asked.
"Yes," Chen Jian replied. "The ancestors don't speak to us directly. They guide us through the animals. When beasts are sick, they eat certain grasses or lick their own wounds. This is their guidance."
Song looked back at the recovering clansman, his heart stirring. "Jian, can other people's wounds be cleaned like this?"
"Yes."
"If I learn this, can more clansmen survive?"
"Yes. I know very little, but we can try things, slowly. One day, we will stop these sicknesses from taking the lives of our people."
Song turned to look again at the man who had been on the brink of death. His eyes shone with a new hope, a joy and longing he could feel deep inside. He thought of all the kinsmen he had lost to injury and illness, their desperate eyes before death, their frail bodies, the blood and pus… The memory of watching his relatives die, powerless to help, was a sharp pain in his heart. They had already lost so many on this migration.
So he clenched his fists and said with solemn conviction, "Jian, I want to be the one who stops our people, our relatives, from leaving us because of sickness and injury."
"But the ancestors' guidance isn't always clear," Chen Jian warned. "Some grasses might be poisonous. Trying them could kill the person who eats them. Aren't you afraid?"
"I am not afraid," Song declared. "I will remember every grass we use. I will try new ones. I will see with my eyes and taste with my tongue. I don't want to lose my loved ones again. Your loved ones, my loved ones, all our people. One day, under the guidance of the ancestors, we will make it so that sickness and injury can no longer take our people from us!"
He turned his head one last time, his gaze falling on the few relatives who, by all rights, should have already left him. His resolve was now as firm as a river stone.