Oracle Bone

by Lydia Kwa

  “Sister Orchid, welcome back. You’ve brought a visitor.” The Abbess opened the doors to her study and they followed her in.

  “Abbess Si,” Qilan clasped her hands in front of her chest, palms together, and bowed deeply. “Look who I found.”

  The Abbess looked amused to see the bedraggled young girl sitting on the low couch, biting her nails. She studied Ling’s face intently. When she noticed Ling’s eyes, she exclaimed, “The Langgan!”

  “Exactly.”

  This made no sense to Ling. Who, or what, was this Langgan?

  “Welcome, my child.”

  “Her name is Ling.”

  The Abbess placed her hands lightly on Ling’s shoulders and continued to beam warmly at her. “Ling, since Sister Orchid has brought you, she will be the one to have primary responsibility for you. Of course, everyone here will also look after your needs and teach you the ins and outs of our daily life.”

  Then she turned to look at Qilan. “Did you succeed …”

  “Yes, Abbess.”

  “Good.”

  DA CI’EN MONASTERY, SOUTHEASTERN CHANG’AN

  Halfway into the Hour of the Snake, Harelip paused in front of the open doors of the Translation Hall at Da Ci’en Monastery, the Monastery of Great Maternal Grace. He’d been on his way to the apothecary with a basket of hops, sweet wormwood, and lily buds, but he felt a powerful need to halt and listen. The young monk was mesmerized by the deep yet chime-like voice of the Master.

  On a dais on the raised platform at the front of the hall was the Venerable Master Xuanzang, the Abbot of Da Ci’en, the famous monk who had returned to the country after sixteen years away. Around him, sitting in a circle, were the twelve monks appointed by Imperial edict to assist him with the work of translation. Below Xuanzang and his group of learned monks, seated on cushions on the floor of the Hall, were twenty-four monks in eight orderly rows of three. Right behind Xuanzang hung three gigantic scrolls. The scrolls outlined the requirements of those who assisted in the vast translation of the Tripitaka—the collection of Sakyamuni Buddha’s teachings—that Xuanzang had brought back from India.

  Xuanzang struck the brass bowl, letting the sound echo through the spacious hall until its reverberation completely disappeared. He struck the bowl a second time. Once again he waited until silence set in, before the third and last strike of the brass bowl.

  Harelip’s ears welcomed the rich and melodious drone of Xuanzang’s voice reciting the lines that always began each day of translation work in that Hall.

  The unsurpassed, profound, and wonderful Dharma,

  Is difficult to encounter in hundreds of millions of eons,

  I now see and hear it, receive and uphold it,

  And I vow to fathom the Tathagata’s true meaning.

  Xuanzang turned his attention to the slim palm leaves resting on a low stand in front of him. He cleared his throat and took a deep breath. He placed his finger on the first line on the top of the palm leaf and delivered aloud his translation from Sanskrit into Chinese at a slow, deliberate pace, pausing at the end of each line. His circle of monks then proceeded to do their work: One monk transcribed what the Master said in Chinese, and then the two monks next to him checked their copy of the sutra to verify whether Xuanzang had read the Sanskrit in the correct order and not missed anything. The fourth and fifth monks verified that the correct Chinese ideograms were used. The sixth monk in the circle was Huili, Xuanzang’s esteemed assistant and biographer. He faced Xuanzang directly; the rest of the monks on the platform, as well as Harelip, could see only his back. Huili and three other monks conversed with the Master, responding to the lines with questions about the meanings of the translated sentences. After the Master and these monks were satisfied with the resulting line, the whole process was repeated with the remaining lines on the palm leaf. Three monks served as sentence arrangers, making sure the lines thus recited were written in correct order. Huili, using the third available copy of the sutra in Sansrkit, also served as the overall revision supervisor who oversaw the whole process.

  Harelip observed a lot of energetic debate between Xuanzang and his team of translators, who rustled papers and scribbled lines. He was fascinated by the process. After Xuanzang and the twelve assistants finished the work of translating lines, the final and approved sheet of Chinese translation was brought down to the copyists sitting on the floor below.

  The first monk in the first row copied the text, then passed the original translation to the monk to his right. Hence, each translated sheet travelled like a snake, winding its way along the row of three copyists to the next row behind them. Meanwhile, each row of monks had produced three copies of the original. These were collected by a junior monk. The original translation, after passing through the last and eighth row of monks, was collected by another monk. Two monks laid out the papers in a grid on a long table, replicating the seating arrangement in the hall, so that they could keep track. In this way, Xuanzang’s translations were transcribed then copied, resulting in one original copy and twenty-four others.

  Harelip lost track of time, mesmerized by the repetitive rhythms that pervaded the hall. It was not the first time he’d witnessed this ritual. He mumbled a few lines that he could hear the Master say, trying to follow along. It was the long version of the Heart Sutra, and this was the first time it was being translated from Sanskrit into Chinese.

  While the copyists focused on their tasks, Xuanzang continued with his translations, adhering to the same orderly process in the circle of twelve monks. Whenever Xuanzang completed a translation of a palm leaf, he turned the leaf over and placed it on the empty cushion to the right. There was a pause as the Master took a long sip of tea.

  Xuanzang’s thunderous voice suddenly rattled Harelip out of his reverie. “You, back there! Gawking at me? Looks like you’re mouthing my words. Come here and show me what’s in your basket!”

  Everything came to an abrupt halt. All brushes were laid down. Silence in the hall.

  Harelip swallowed hard and with his free hand felt for the smooth beads of the sandalwood mala under his robe. With the thumb and first finger of his right hand, he advanced from bead to bead as he meekly walked up along the narrow aisle on the left, approaching the Master.

  A whiff of incense tickled his nostrils. He squinted, pressing his eyelids tightly together. No, it mustn’t happen, he said to himself. Despite his resolve, the impulse overcame him, and a loud volley of sneezes echoed through the spacious hall. Harelip wiped his nose on his sleeve. The monk to his right giggled.

  Xuanzang stared hard at Harelip’s face. “So, you’re the one they told me about, the one gifted with knowledge about herbs.”

  Harelip knelt down before the venerable monk, and freeing his arms of the basket and mala, flung himself down to make three prostrations, after which he knelt. Keeping his gaze lowered, Harelip replied, “Venerable Master, I am the one who now occupies the apothecary near this hall. I just moved in there a few months ago. I used to work in another section of the monastery.”

  “I’ve been told you have great ability.”

  Harelip blushed, feeling awkward. His teacher, who had taught him so much, was now far too old to work. Yes, he knew how to listen to the complex workings of bodies. He was told he had a talent for concocting brews and infusions. But he never boasted about his abilities.

  “I have been receiving assistance from the Imperial physician, but to no avail. I want to see what you could do for me,” said Xuanzang.

  Harelip couldn’t conceal his surprise. Choosing him over the Imperial physician?

  “I don’t mean right now. As you can see, I’m busy. But soon.”

  “Yes, of course, Venerable Master. You may summon me when it is convenient for you.”

  Dashu Jieqi,

  Great Heat,

  Sixth Lunar Month, Full Moon

  DA FA TEMPLE, WEST CENTRAL CHANG’AN

  Ling sniffed the air. The dormitory smelled of incense. Must be in their ro
bes and even on their skin, she thought. She liked the smell of the incense. As far as she could tell, everyone else in the large room was asleep. Moonlight streamed in, and it made her feel restless.

  It had been two weeks since she first entered Da Fa Temple. By now, Ling was familiar with the various sections of the temple, the kitchen next to the common eating area, the three meditation halls, small study rooms, and the dormitory in which almost all of them slept. Then there was Old Chen with his son and daughter-in-law and young granddaughter, who lived in the small building next to the main temple building. Old Chen and his son did all kinds of chores for the temple—buying supplies, caring for the horses and donkeys, and doing repair work.

  Ling surmised that three nuns held the most power at Da Fa Temple: Abbess Si, Sister Lizi, and Qilan. Their quarters were separated from everyone else’s, and aside from that first day when she sat in the Abbess’s study, she had yet to enter any of their private rooms.

  Ever since she’d arrived at the temple, she had not shared a private moment with Qilan. She wasn’t sure why not, after all they had been through. But Qilan always smiled at her whenever she saw her. Yesterday, Qilan had come up to her at the midmorning meal and said that they would soon spend some time together.

  Everything still felt like a dream to her. A very painful dream. She cried herself to sleep most nights, thinking of her parents. She didn’t know how long it would take before she could feel entirely at home here, if ever. And yet, from the very first day, the nuns seemed to treat her as if she was one of them. She could call half of them by name now and was discovering their quirks and preferences. Ling had always been a good observer; she learned best that way.

  She’d grown more comfortable following the nuns’ schedule. For each of the three daily chanting periods she sat in the section with all the novices, even though she did not wear nun’s robes but an off-white hemp gown they’d given her. Qilan sat with the Abbess and Sister Lizi on the raised dais, facing the rest of them.

  More than once she’d wondered who would succeed the elderly Abbess Si. Would it be Qilan or the Abbess’s assistant, Sister Lizi? Was that her real name, or did the nuns name her that because of her appearance? She had a smooth, small face and a firm, curvaceous body with generous hips—like a pear.

  Ling was getting used to sitting on a cushion on the floor. There were always sheets of paper on the tiny, low, angled table placed in front of each of them. Xu, one of the novice nuns, sat on her right and showed her what to do. Tonight’s sheets had been different, like nothing she had seen before. She tried to read the words, but she didn’t understand the kinds of sounds the nuns made. Why did they pronounce the words that way? Some words weren’t even legible to her. So she surrendered herself wholly to the sounds, not knowing what they were chanting. Time disappeared, and she’d felt herself carried along on the rhythms of their voices.

  Ling stared at the moonlight streaming through the window lattices. The shadows cast on the sleeping forms in the dormitory made them look not quite human. She heard the sound of cicadas from the garden. The room was stiflingly warm, yet she shook from head to toe from an inner chill. Ling wished she could be close to Qilan now, soothed in her embrace. Would that ever happen again? Ling sighed. She needed Qilan. There were still so many things she wanted to tell her, things she did not dare to utter since she’d lost her parents. She touched a hand to her cheek, recalling how it had felt to be asleep close to Qilan and soothed by her presence after they had emerged from the Forest of Illusions.

  She tossed about on the straw mat. The nun in the bed next to her was talking in her sleep. It was a mantra, perhaps, repetitive and droning, but given a passionate delivery.

  Ling rooted inside the pocket on her gown and felt the edges of the small turquoise gem. It was the only thing she possessed that was connected to her past life with her parents. It had become a quiet friend, one who didn’t speak the way humans spoke; nonetheless, Ling felt a close, wordless bond with the stone.

  She reluctantly surrendered to her sleepiness and closed her eyes. Her inner field of vision was hazy at first, as if obscured by mist or veils. Her mother came to her. She climbed into the bed with her and placed her arms around Ling, snuggling close. Remember why we chose that name for you? You exist beyond this form. Ling jolted out of her half-asleep state and sat up, heart pounding hard in her chest. She drew up her legs and clasped her hands around her knees, looking furtively about the room. Had her mother actually come to her?

  Her mind cast back, as it often did, to that fateful night on the canal. She could have sworn that she hadn’t imagined it—that her mother had swum toward her and pulled her back up to the surface of the water in the canal. No, you mustn’t die. Those were her mother’s words. She was meant to survive—she could feel that in her bones now. She mustn’t tell anyone. Not even Qilan. No one would believe her. But she believed what she had experienced.

  Ling took in the hushed sounds around her, and after feeling calmer, lay back down. Close to dawn she fell asleep and quickly descended into the dark, murky water, drowning yet again. She woke up covered in sweat. A sliver of cold air sliced into the skin of her neck, and she cried out.

  “What’s the matter?” Xu came to her side and squeezed her hand.

  “Where are my parents?” Ling demanded. “What have you done with them?” She lashed out at Xu, hitting her, but Xu remained calm and shook her vigorously by the shoulders.

  “Wake up, Ling. You were dreaming! You’re here at Da Fa Temple. Remember?”

  After the midmorning meal, Sister Lizi, with her usual dour expression, led Ling through many corridors and across two inner courtyards until they reached a wing of the temple at the northeastern corner. They saw no one else as they walked down the corridors. Ling watched the nun’s shapely body jostle ahead of her, her straw sandals slapping the stone tiles. Sister Lizi knocked on the door, and Qilan’s voice responded quickly. “Enter.” Sister Lizi opened the door for Ling and left immediately.

  Qilan stood facing what looked like a tiny courtyard. She turned around slowly and asked, “How did you sleep?”

  Ling shook her head briskly. “I … I didn’t sleep well.”

  “So I’ve heard. Seems you’ve been having nightmares almost every night since you came here.”

  Ling didn’t answer but looked keenly at everything in the study. She then craned her neck to look past Qilan. She could see past the lattice doors; outside the study was a small garden and beyond that, the wall that demarcated the temple from the outside world. Other than the occasional human voice, Ling heard the braying of an unhappy donkey interrupt the plodding rhythms of horses’ hooves and the frequent rattling sounds of cartwheels travelling the cobblestoned street.

  Qilan motioned to Ling to follow her into the garden. They sat there side by side on stone stools. Qilan silently pointed out a caterpillar on the underside of a camellia bush and extended a finger out to it. Soon it crawled onto Qilan’s finger. She looked at Ling. “You’re like this caterpillar, still early in the cycle of transformation.”

  Ling stared at the creature. She didn’t like that she was being compared to an ugly worm. She crossed her arms in front of her chest. “Don’t get it.”

  “The Daodejing says, ‘To become whole, let yourself be partial. To become straight, let yourself be crooked.’”

  The caterpillar crawled up Qilan’s hand to her wrist and under her sleeve.

  “Oh wait, what if …” Ling’s face softened.

  Qilan took Ling’s hand. “Reach for it underneath my sleeve—palm up, like this. Slide your hand up.”

  Ling was nervous but did as she was told. When she was almost at Qilan’s elbow, she felt a tickling sensation against her fingers, then the creature crept into her palm. She withdrew her hand.

  It was a miniature orange butterfly with bright blue eyes on its lower wings.

  “How could that—?”

  The butterfly disappeared into thin air.

 
“Where did it go?”

  “Look under the camellia leaf.”

  Instead of the butterfly, Ling found the caterpillar, its pliable yellow body moving across the leafy surface.

  “How did you do that?” Ling leaned forward, hands holding onto the top of her thighs.

  “I transformed the caterpillar into the butterfly it would become. Then I changed it back into its original form, and moved it to the leaf. These are spells of transformation, crossing time and space and form.”

  Ling was stunned. Never in her life had she ever encountered such magic.

  “You see, the cycle of life is not necessarily straightforward and predictable.”

  “But … but, this is—”

  “Impossible?”

  Ling nodded, then quickly shook her head.

  “Do you reject what you’ve just seen? Or would you consider letting go of all those notions you’ve grown up with?”

  “Do you mean what I’d been taught?” What Qilan was saying frightened her. “This magic … Can you bring my parents back to life?”

  “That would require an enormous disruption of the patterns already laid down.”

  “But is it possible?”

  “Yes—but it would mean upsetting the very fabric of destiny. Including yours and mine.”

  Qilan’s solemn, slightly ominous tone frightened her and kept her from asking more questions.

  “It isn’t my place to bring them back. They’ve crossed into another realm, Ling.”

  Ling felt her throat constrict and tears begin to well in her eyes. “Am I meant to stay here?”

  “Remain at the temple for a few years and decide later. You can take vows later if you wish to make this your path.”

  Sadness burdened her heart, but she looked up at Qilan. “The nuns … say this phrase a lot, ‘serve the Dao.’ What does that mean?”

  “It means to act in accordance with what is natural in the Cosmos.”

  “Was what you just did with the caterpillar … would that be in accordance with, with the Dao?”