by Mingmei Yip
Beside him, his young partner laughed out loud.
“Oh, never mind. I’ll try.”
The older coolie smiled. “Climbing is good exercise. That’s why all the mountain monks are invincible martial artists.”
Probably to get my attention, the young man executed a few kung fu chops in the air.
I ignored him, having completely lost my sense of humor. I turned back to Old Coolie. “You know those monks up there?”
“Miss, I don’t know any monks. I watch kung fu movies where the monks are masters of the floating martial arts. And that’s how they fly up and down mountains. Ha!”
To my extreme irritation, now the youngster made a high jump while exclaiming a loud “Ha!”
I cast him a dirty look, then turned back to his boss. “Why didn’t they just build some real stairs?”
The coolie looked at me curiously, then pointed up. “See? It looks like there were once stairs, but now not much left.”
“Why?”
“Maybe because monks don’t want visitors.”
Some silence, then he took off his stained gloves and held them out to me. “Take these.”
“What for?”
He pointed to the remains of the path. “Because you might lose your grip. These will help you hold onto the boulders better. They’ll also protect your hands from bleeding during your climb. Two renminbi .”
I fished out two bills and handed them to him.
“Four, miss.”
“But you just said two!”
“Yes, two for each hand. You have two hands, right?”
“All right, you win.” I slapped two more bills onto his outstretched hand.
“Good luck, miss.” He smiled. “May the Buddha protect you.” After that, the two lifted the poles and hurried away.
I put on the gloves and placed my first step on the path. The philosopher Laozi’s famous line popped into my mind:
A journey of a thousand miles begins under your feet.
Yes!
I started to count my steps. To keep my spirits up, I imagined each one was leading me closer to my three-million-dollar goal with a dream house by the sea, vacations in Europe, French and Italian gourmet food, antique furniture, lush oil paintings, silk and cashmere clothes, Tiffany jewelry, and of course my hugely successful great American novel….
Daydreaming, I slipped and almost fell but regained my balance just in time.
“Careful! Don’t throw your million-dollar life down the cliff!” I muttered heatedly into the air.
Like a racedog aware only of the rabbit, I focused fiercely, counting my breath with each step. From time to time I’d look down, the scenery looking unreal from my high altitude. I imagined myself suspended between heaven and earth, surrounded by immortals’ caves filled with elixirs, magic herbs, and esoteric manuscripts.
At last I reached level ground. Feeling quite dizzy and short of breath, I steadied myself against a rock for a few minutes, gulping the fresh, almost intoxicating mountain air. My eyes wandered until they landed on a small, dilapidated building with a weathered green roof. I straightened up and walked to the entrance. My arrival was welcomed by a large door with a rusty metal lion head knocker. The rust told me there were hardly any visitors to knock on the temple gate. Could it be I was the first in many years?
Gingerly my hand made a few tentative knocks on the gate. No answer. I waited for ten seconds and knocked again. And again. Still no answer. Had all the monks inside turned to mummies? Were they left over from the colonial days of a hundred years ago, or the Ming dynasty four hundred years before that? Still knocking, I felt a sudden panic, as well as pangs in my stomach. I put down my backpack and searched inside for the buns I had brought. Soon I felt as if both the sky above and the earth underneath were spinning ever faster….
14
Floating Cloud
I woke up inside a small room that smelled of incense. A teenage monk with a long face was pressing a damp cloth on my forehead while waving mint-scented medicinal oil under my nostrils.
“Good day, miss,” he whispered, then turned to shout excitedly, “Master, the miss wakes up!”
From nowhere, a fortyish, muscular monk appeared. Half kneeling next to my bed, he put a thick palm on my forehead and asked tersely, “Miss, are you all right? Do you feel better now?”
I nodded as I sat up. “I guess I’m just exhausted and hungry.”
“Don’t worry, we’ve already prepared herb soup and vegetarian dishes for you. You ready to eat?”
“Yes, please.”
The two monks led me to a bigger room with a wooden table covered with tea, steaming soup, and several dishes.
While I ravenously gulped down my tofu, mushrooms, lotus roots and bok choy, hot soup, and fragrant tea, the older monk watched me intensely like a doctor his patient or a mother her newborn. Finally, my hunger sated, I set down my chopsticks and the young monk took away the plates.
Only then did the older monk speak. “Miss, our humble temple is honored by your presence. But may I ask the purpose of your visit?”
That was a pretty direct question. However, since I couldn’t possibly tell him the real goal, I made up something. “I got lost.”
“Lost, climbing up a steep path to the top of a remote mountain?” His eyes were large as an owl’s and sharp as a wolf’s.
“I’m… writing a novel. There is a scene about a hermit living on a mountain.” I smiled inside. Wow. How did I just come up with something so clever?
He stared at me curiously. “Climbing here alone in the twilight doesn’t intimidate you?”
“I didn’t come here intentionally; I got lost. A panic seized me so I kind of… lost my mind.” I laughed nervously, feeling completely befuddled. “So… Master, why a temple here?”
“Because we’re hermit monks. We want to be as far from the trivial affairs of the world as possible.”
“That’s what I want, too.” I gave out another nervous laugh. “If that’s possible.”
I looked around, but there was not much to look at—an altar with offerings placed before a wooden Buddha, and rough walls decorated with a few paintings of Buddha and Guan Yin, the Goddess of Compassion.
Although this square-jawed, broad-headed monk was robust and in fact not bad looking, I didn’t feel much warmth for him. He seemed careful not to show his emotions—if he had any. But that emotionless mask could have just as easily concealed boiling passion.
The monk spoke again. “It’s already dark, so you cannot go down the steep hill now. You will have to stay here overnight.”
That was exactly what I wanted. “Thank you, Master. I’m Violet Chen from Taiwan. May I have the honor to know your name?” I thought it was very clever of me to change my name and country.
“Floating Cloud.” He pointed to the young monk who now sat in a corner listening intently to our conversation. “My disciple, Pure Wisdom.”
After I made a slight bow to both of them, Pure Wisdom excused himself to fix the bed in an adjacent room.
I took the chance to ask the older monk, “Master Floating Cloud, only you and Pure Wisdom live here?”
He nodded.
“Do you have visitors?”
“The last was many years ago.”
Just then, the young monk came back and announced that my room was ready.
Floating Cloud studied me with his torchlike eyes. “Miss Chen, I think you should retire now.”
Early next morning, the young monk knocked at my door and led me to have breakfast in the main room. All three of us quietly consumed our rice soup and pickled vegetables. I sensed we were not to speak during the meal.
Fifteen minutes later, as Pure Wisdom cleared away the bowls and plates, Floating Cloud asked, “Miss Chen, are you feeling better now?”
I looked up to him from my steaming tea. “Yes, much better. Thank you so much for your hospitality.”
“If you want to leave today, Pure Wisdom can take you down the mountain. If not, yo
u’re welcome to stay as long as you want. But I’m afraid there’s not much to see around here.”
The young monk blurted out, “Master, what about our library and art collection?”
“You have an art collection here? I’d definitely love to see it. That should be something very useful for my writing.”
Floating Cloud asked, “What do you write?”
Still expressionless. I didn’t have a clue what could possibly be inside his bald, monkish head.
“I’m a novelist. My second book will be a family saga about siblings fighting over a huge inheritance of precious artwork. Since I don’t know much about art or how to research it,” I said, putting up the sweetest smile I could muster, “may I have both the honor and pleasure to see your temple’s art so I’ll be inspired?”
He studied me for a few moments before, to my delight, a faint smile finally made its delayed appearance on his face. “All right, maybe you’re meant to be here. I’ll let you see the art collection, which almost no one knows about. This will be the most auspicious day in your life.”
I put my hands together in the prayer gesture and made a deep bow. “Thank you, Master Floating Cloud. I’ll never forget.”
He picked up the ceramic teacup and noisily sipped his tea before he spoke again. “Fortunately, as monks, we don’t have to deal with families.”
After that, Floating Cloud asked Pure Wisdom to prepare two kerosene lamps. He cast his disciple a commanding look. “Now you stay here and meditate.” Then he turned to me. “Let’s go, Miss Chen.” He extended his hand in a gesture of invitation; I noticed that one of his wrists was wrapped with several strands of amber prayer beads. Each gem, sparkling and lustrous, seemed to beckon me to uncover its little secret.
Floating Cloud led me around corners, then down steep stairs where, after a seemingly endless descent, we finally arrived at a narrow corridor. While I strived to keep up with the monk’s brisk steps, my heartbeat accelerated. Where was he taking me? A secret torture chamber? But I’d already stepped onto a path—or stairs—of no return. What could I do now? Rush back up to the temple, then dash down the mountain just to hit my head on a boulder and have my brains splashed like vomit?
As these thoughts were running through my head, we arrived at a small antechamber with paintings on the stone walls. In the flickering lamplight, I could see the bulging eyes of a fierce guardian, his hair raised as if he was being electrocuted. On the other wall, even more intimidating, another angry god brandished a huge sword to ward off invisible, evil forces.
My temples pounded and cold sweat broke out under my arms and down my back. I felt as if I was about to have a panic attack. There was not a single book in sight! Had the monk lured me here for some evil purpose?
Just then Floating Cloud muttered something unintelligible, touched the third eye of the electrocuted god, and gave it a gentle push. To my astonishment, a door swung open to another room—or another dimension.
He motioned for me to go in.
I hesitated, but he walked inside, putting down one lamp on a table while still holding the other in his mala-bead-wrapped hand.
The other “dimension,” now lit up by the two kerosene lamps, revealed walls covered with wooden shelves. Filling the shelves were books, manuscripts, and embroidered boxes.
Mesmerized, my feet pulled me inside as a “Wah!” shot out between my lips. A slight bitter smell of old paper mixed with the fragrance of residual incense penetrated my nostrils.
As the monk walked around the room, his lamp cast shafts of light on the books and boxes, which seemed to stare back at us with suspicious eyes.
“How many books are stored here?” I asked, my fear subsiding slightly as I saw this was indeed a library.
Floating Cloud stared hard at me, his tone chiding. “It’s never the quantity but the quality that counts. I’m very proud to say that we own a few of the orphaned sutras here.”
“What do you mean…”
“These are the only copies in China, indeed, in the whole world.” Pulling out one manuscript he declared, “This one is worth hundreds of thousands.”
When I reached out to touch it, the monk caught my hand in midair, his grasp light but extremely powerful. A pained “Ouuuch!” escaped from my mouth.
Floating Cloud’s expression turned cold. “No outsider may touch anything here. Every single item is priceless. You’re lucky I even let you in here.”
“I’m so sorry, Master,” I said, while noticing that a red welt had already made its impression on my wrist. Floating Cloud must be a master of internal kung fu, like those legendary Shaolin monks.
He set the manuscript down on a table and unrolled it slowly so I could have a good look. As the writing revealed itself, I sensed something peculiar about the vibrations rolling out from the document. Instinctively, I leaned back a little as the monk gave me a disapproving look.
The worn, yellowed paper was covered with neat calligraphy written in the regular style. The title of the work was Diamond Sutra. I’d vaguely heard of this sutra before, but I had no idea if it had anything to do with diamonds—the kind that is forever and supposed to be a woman’s best friend.
I didn’t want to reveal my ignorance by asking how diamonds have anything to do with sutras, so I came up with the banal “It’s beautiful, and the calligraphy so elegant.”
“Can you tell what it was written in?” the monk asked, or challenged, me.
“Chinese ink,” I said. What else? It was such an obvious question.
“Look more carefully, Miss Chen.”
When I scrutinized very carefully, the writing appeared to be in a very dark shade of reddish brown. “Some kind of red Chinese ink?” I asked, feeling another wave of odd vibrations from the manuscript.
“No, not ink.” He paused for effect. “It’s blood.”
The mystery of the vibration was suddenly revealed. Blood. Slowly a chill crept up my spine. What was I doing in this secret chamber inside a creepy temple on a remote mountain in China with a monk who collected manuscripts written in blood?!
I looked up to stare at his face, now eerie under the flickering light. “Animal blood?”
The monk let out a hearty laugh. “You’re probably too young to have heard about this.”
A polite way to say that I was downright ignorant.
He caressed the yellowish paper. Was that made of skin, animal—or human? And whose blood? Was he or she murdered? Committed suicide? But I was too agitated to tell if the vibration was from a bitter ghost or an appeased one.
The monk spoke again, his words clear and heavy as if etched on stone. “Almost a thousand years ago, a high monk needled his finger and used his own blood to write the entire Diamond Sutra. Because the high monk sacrificed his own blood, this manuscript is a living spirit possessing magical power to bless, protect, heal. Or, if need be, sold on the art market for a huge sum of money.”
After the explanation, my frightened nerves calmed down a few notches. “Very impressive,” I said.
“Using one’s own blood shows complete sincerity and devotion. The longer the sutra, the more blood will be used, and thus the greater the proof of the monk’s faith. Sometimes they even compete to write the longest sutra.”
To compete for something spiritual? And to sell the manuscript in the art market for a high price? Did Floating Cloud realize how un-Buddhist this sounded?
With great care and attention, the monk put the scroll back into its box and returned it to the shelf. After that, he turned to me. “Miss Chen, you said you got lost and that’s why you ended up at our temple. But the Buddha taught us that everything that happens to us is the result of karma. Losing your way was just an excuse.”
My heart skipped a beat upon hearing this. But I quickly realized that it was not that he saw through to the real purpose of my visit but because Buddhists believe all things happen for a reason, even if we do not know what that reason is. That’s what he meant by “an excuse.”
&
nbsp; “So it’s heaven’s will that I show you our treasures here,” Floating Cloud said, then took down another box, which was embroidered with abstract red and gold patterns. He opened it and peeled off layers of silk to reveal a small, gold Buddha statue.
Even though I am not an art connoisseur, I could tell this was an exquisite piece. The shape of the metal was very precise, yet fluid, as if the sculptor had been carving for many lifetimes. However, the metal was eggshell thin, so as to minimize the amount of gold needed.
As if able to read my mind, Floating Cloud said, “It’s not the gold that makes this Buddha valuable, but what’s inside.”
“What is it?”
With a gentle push of the monk’s finger on the lotus base, a tiny drawer slid open. Inside were small crystals in white, green, yellow, red, orange, purple. As I was dazzled by the crystals’ colorful glitter, I felt waves of compassionate energy radiating through me.
The monk spoke. “You’re lucky. Tonight the moon will be big and full, so I feel generous to share. These”—his fingers caressed the crystals—“are the Buddha’s relics, or sharira.”
“But… didn’t the Buddha live more than two thousand years ago? So how… can this be possible?” I asked, though I did feel a strong connection with the sharira.
“Our temple was destroyed by the red guards during the Cultural Revolution. To save the treasures, my master and two of his disciples disguised themselves as farmers and carried them up here to hide them. In the past, we didn’t even have stairs. It was only two years ago that Pure Wisdom built them, but due to the constant strong wind there’s nothing much left.”
“Were the stairs built for visitors?”
“No. One time I hurt my leg, so he built them to ease my climb.”
“Then how did your master climb up here?”
“We all practice martial arts since childhood. Have you heard of the ‘floating martial arts’ or the ‘lizard kung fu’?”
“I’ve seen them in Hong Kong kung fu movies.”
“Ha, those are fakes, but what we practice is real. Or surreal when you actually see it. Tomorrow I’ll ask Pure Wisdom to perform for you.”
