by Jeremy Han
TWENTY NINE
The monk stepped into the vast stone chamber and bowed to the massive statue of the Milefo. Other than the stone idol, the room was empty. The Laughing Buddha stood almost 30 metres tall, carved onto the cliff that the temple was built on. The whole temple hung precariously like the nest of a solitary eagle. There was the main hall that protruded from the face of the cliff like a bulbous nose, and linking it were passageways made of planks lined together and drove into the wall. There were smaller secondary buildings that were residential halls for the monks and a utilities building further away. The entire structure was an architectural wonder; wooden crossbeams were inserted into the wall of the cliff and stakes erected to support the crossbeams that held the entire structure up like the five fingers of Buddha over the great river that divided the empire into its North and South. The sound of the water flowing below was a constant reminder of the seeming vulnerability of the hanging temple, but it was also testament to the engineering genius of the founding fathers. The temple was build almost a thousand years ago when monks first started to seek a sanctuary away from their fellow men. Besides the wooden structures hanging by the cliff, there were inner halls, sanctums and grottos for prayers carved into the cliff through natural tunnels and caves. Some of the caves were used to store food, some for solitary meditation and most of them had carvings and paintings that documented the history of this architectural wonder and its patron saints over the millennia: it was a living piece of art. From the ground, it seemed that the temple sat high and inaccessible as there was no visible means of access for anybody unless one could fly, but hidden inside the caverns, a system of stairs had been created over the years by wedging planks of wood into the natural crevices in ascending order so that over time, a winding stairway through the a series of caves upward crept to the gates of the monastery. The gates were erected on a platform ledge. The entrance of the stairway wound through the limestone caverns like an enormous snake entering the bowels of the mountain. It exited at a spot by the river so far away that the temple looked like a distant memory obscured by the low lying mist. This guaranteed that the peace of the monks would not be disturbed.
Smoke drifted lazily from the chimney of the kitchen as though the fires themselves were reluctant to wake on such a cold winter morning. The smoke was the only indication that people inhabited the structure. Without it, it was impossible to contemplate that anybody could reside in such an awkward and dangerous structure. Below, it was a straight drop to the great river. It was built like that to ensure seclusion and separation. Only those who truly want to abandon earthly, temporal concerns would seek to live there. They took eighteen years to carve the Buddha and it was a work of labour and devotion for the monks of this monastery. They had risked life and limb to construct the chamber protecting the image from the elements while they build a pagoda that allowed the craftsmen to climb up and summon the smiling idol from plain rock. They had carved downwards starting from the head, with all the details of the knotted hair and serene facial features to the covered torso now painted a bright yellow to depict the saffron sash with all its folds down to the folded legs seated at a lotus position. The figure was so huge that the monk who came in barely reached the ankles of the statue. The toes, painted bright red appeared a dull brown in the winter morning dawn. The light was weak, and the air was frigid, but it did not stop the disciplines of the temple from going on.
He began to sweep the floor and clouds of dust floated up, reflecting the pale sun. Dust particles inundated the room as the dried twigs bundled together to form the broom went back and forth in a rhythmic, rehearsed fashion, practiced over the last eighteen years of monkhood. He had seen the transformation of the rough stone to a work of art that would endure the centuries to come; just as his own life had been changed from one spectrum of human existence to a totally different one. Like the raw stone, he had been shaped and refined. From being the greatest to nothing, from controlling everything to owning nothing; the eighteen years had been hard. Now his face reflected the spartan lifestyle of monkhood and the faded grey robe that he wore could not compare with the finery of the past. Ironically, hardship had set him free from his earthly desires. He continued with his chore until he heard the bell toiling away and he stopped sweeping. It was time for breakfast, but he had no appetite. Something made him uncomfortable today. It was as though there was a break in the cosmic pace of his existence.
He suddenly felt an increase in his heart beat and perspiration broke out for no reason despite the bitter cold. A sharp pain lanced his brain and the weak light of the dawn sun suddenly seemed too bright. He clasped his head with both hands and cried out in pain as he bent over. A burst of white hot light flashed across his brain and exploded in his mind’s eye. The agony was so intense he stooped to maintain balance. He retched, but there was nothing in his stomach this early. He coughed and some of his spittle landed and mixed with the dust of the cave. Something had taken place in the cosmic realm. He could feel it. The years of meditation and prayer, studying the secrets of the universe from the old masters, learning the truths hidden from the world, rejecting his carnal knowledge for the esoteric had awaken another part of him that could not be discovered while he lived a rich earthly existence. Now all those had been stripped away by circumstances and his mind was unhindered. His awareness of the cosmic had increased. He saw a vision. Faded, blur images of men who looked familiar walking as though on a journey. They looked like they were emerging from fog or a mist, slightly ethereal but yet he knew these were flesh and blood. Some gave off a benevolent aura while others emitted violence. He knew he had glimpsed another dimension. He had seen something that was happening away from his immediate awareness, a simultaneous occurrence that somehow concerned him. Something was going to happen but he did not know what, or when or how. He took a deep breath and for awhile, his human side took over and he pondered what it was, a mixture of enquiry and anxiety stirring within him. He exerted control over his consciousness. Whatever would be would be as ordained; there was no use fighting it or trying to understand that which had not been revealed. Man’s anxiety came from wanting to rush the outcomes of the universe, of wanting to be in control of that which is larger than him. The destinies of these men may affect him, but he had no ability to alter that. He pushed the feelings out of his mind. He was no longer of that previous existence where he needed to know, to be in control, to be the master of his fate. He sighed and walked towards the meal hall for the morning meal before the meditations begin. He thought he would find peace after all these years, but something had awakened again in him. His legs shook as he walked over the wooden pathway and his hands held onto the sturdy wooden rails. If the aged timber could hold the entire temple in mid-air, surely it would support him.
That evening, he sat opposite the abbot. The room was dark by now after the sun had set. The day had gone by without further revelations. The hours wound through its mundane routine as it had for the past centuries, as the monks went along their predictable lives. Rising before dawn to clean the compound, meditation and prayers, duties around the temple and then back to meditation and prayer; everything was like clockwork. The monk’s meeting with the abbot was irregular; he was summoned by the most senior cleric. The candle light cast the old man’s face in an orangey light and his white beard appearing reddish. His eyes were closed. The abbot sat in a lotus position on a frayed mat made of reed and behind him was the wooden platform where he slept. Painted on the walls were faded paintings of the founding abbot and more recent ones of the later clerics who led the small family of monks through their earthly journey toward enlightenment. One day, this man’s profile would be painted too. A table made of roughly hewn timber sat next to the bed. It looked new but crude. And the abbot’s prayer beads were on it, together with an earthen pot of tea. Smoke rose from the pot and the younger monk could smell the fragrance of dried rose.
“You are disturbed today.”
The old man said without openi
ng his eyes. This disciple of his had joined the temple eighteen years ago. Nobody knew who he was except the abbot and he had kept this secret. Eighteen years ago, the young man turned up cold, lost, half-mad; he was escorted by a few other monks. The monks told the abbot that the young man was an imperial fugitive; he had done nothing wrong but would die a terrible death if he should fall into the hands of the wrong people. They told him that the man had sought refuge at their temple, but their abbot had decided that it was not safe. Their abbot begged the abbot of this secluded temple to provide refuge. The abbot’s memory went back in time and remembered the young, dishevelled man with the broken expression and knew that his persecution was real. He took him in to save his life. The young disciple kept to himself and remained silent for several years, harbouring a great sorrow that brought tears to his eyes every day. In the evenings, he sat by himself on a pagoda overlooking the cliff and wailed in sorrow, calling for his wife, his child, his kingdom. The pagoda faced east toward the imperial capital.
“Master, I saw a vision. Men are coming. Some gave an aura of benevolence while others emitted violence.”
The abbot stroked his beard patiently, expecting more from his disciple.
“I can’t see their faces. They are shadows. Some of their forms are familiar, like I had seen them before.”
“How did you feel when you saw the vision?” The old man asked; his eyes still closed.
“I felt sick. I vomited. Master, what is happening?”
The old monk sighed and opened his eyes to look at his disciple. Kindness and empathy radiated from the dark orbs. One of his eyes was slightly whitened with age, but there was no mistaking the pain he felt for his disciple. “Your journey will resume. Your days here are over.” He said quietly.
“Journey?”
“Yes. It seems that the last eighteen years was an interlude, a brief respite to prepare you for what is ahead. And it seems that the days from here on would be dangerous again.”
“How do you know?”
“Your vision tells you that two groups of people are seeking you: Men with good intentions and those with evil ones. When good and evil meet, there is only conflict. Somehow, the forces of both will intersect at your life.”
“What must I do?”
“Your eighteen years here was no mistake. You did not take refuge here by accident; destiny brought you here to prepare you, to strengthen you. Face your fate. Go when you must.”
“But...I am no longer...”
The old man interrupted, “You are who you are beyond the trappings bestowed by the world. Titles, fame, wealth, position and power do not make you who you truly are. You came here to be stripped naked so that you will see your true self and not be ashamed of it. Once you embrace this, you will have courage to face the world and the evil in it without succumbing or yielding to it.”
“I am a monk now. I am here to attain sainthood and forsake the past. I do not wish to give up what I have attained.”
“What you do not wish to lose is the peace, or rather, the absence of conflict in your life. I know that you have suffered much, but this is not true enlightenment. Sainthood is accompanied by action, and action means facing what you must confront without being afraid of it.” The old man paused and stroke his beard contemplatively while his disciple waited patiently for him to continue, for it was only right that the student wait upon the master.
“The pinnacle of sainthood is to save lives. If your going can save the lives of people, then, you must embrace it. Being a monk here until the end of your days will garner you no merit if you could save a life but did not. All your learning here will be wasted if, at the time of your trial, you turn back.”
The master said no more. After a long pause, the disciple bowed low, his forehead touching the cold, hard ground. He saw the master’s lips moving slowly and silently, deep in meditation and no longer aware of his presence. Whatever the abbot had to say, he had finished. The junior monk left the room, closing the door silently so that he won’t disturb the master’s chanting. That night, he pondered the future.
THIRTY
The line of people snaked for miles but it moved like a millipede instead of a serpent. It lined the perimeter of the high, grey-bricked walls of the city, and stretched into the dusty road that led away from it. Many people were trying to enter the last major city of the Ming in the southwest -- the city of Chongqing. Its history stretched from the prehistoric to the Ming. It was the sight of several battles and also a hotbed for rebellion; the last one happened during the Yuan Dynasty. The first, lost in the mist of time, was staged by the semi-mythical kingdom of the warlike Ba people. It would also not be the last, as any city far away from central command would always be a place of opportunity for criminals and rebels.
Even then, it would be arguable to say it was truly governed by the emperor in Beijing because it was so far away; and in the empire, there was a saying that the higher the mountains, the further the emperor: the further away the city is, the weaker the rule of the central government. The symbol of imperial authority here was the governor of Sichuan province but the province is huge. However, imperial wisdom thought prosperity would reduce the chances of rebellion, so the authorities welcomed traders from across the country to trade. Situated along the river that stretched all the way to the eastern coast of the empire, the city allowed commerce to reach into the innards of the nation, bringing a flood of wealth and a movement of people that the government could not control. What the government could not control, the triads could. It was rumoured that the city was effectively governed by gang leaders with the connivance of the appointed officials or spoilt royalty. Law here, it was said, was determined by what was profitable for those in power and by those who could supply it. But people flocked to it because sometimes, a flexible administration brought with it more chances for wealth.
The city gates loomed ahead. The massive oak doors were opened like welcoming arms to allow people into the city after a thorough search by the guards. Large braziers were set up near the gates to provide warmth to the officers stationed there. Winter had come and the chill became unbearable. Behind the sentries, a fat man in official clothing sat. He looked bored as the men searched the wagons of traders and the bags of travellers. Occasionally he gave a command and the guards would rough someone up or take someone away. The Acrobat could only tap his foot impatiently as the person ahead shuffled forward. In front of him was an ox cart loaded with grain so it moved slowly. Worst, it blocked his view and he could not see beyond. People stuck in a queue always wanted to know when it was his turn or why he was being held up. Thus he moved like a snail with no idea what was happening. A caravan of camels smelled badly from behind. He was thankful they were not ahead, he did not relish the idea of following a trail of hard, brown camel litter as the brownish-yellow creatures happily released their steaming shit every few steps, oblivious to the fact that there were many people behind them. He eyed his surroundings instinctively from the guards patrolling the walls above to the indifferent faces and drab colours of the peasants entering the city to barter or trade something. One thing that assured him; security looked routine. There were no extra patrols or archers aiming at the crowds below. Soldiers were almost leisurely in their pace and posture. Inwardly, he shook his head at the lack of discipline: this was not what Ming soldiers were supposed to be! But he was glad that there was no alert against infiltrators. He took a glance behind him at the Farmer. The Farmer’s name was actually Fu Zhen. He looked stoic, resigned to the fact that most of life consisted of waiting. If you were a merchant you waited for government permits to be approved or customers to take a fancy. If you were a soldier you waited for commanders, competent or silly, to make a decision. If you were a father, you waited for your children. If you were a farmer, you waited for the seasons: no one could rush that. Waiting and waiting are facts of life and the Farmer’s expressionless look seemed to personify this truth. Yes, Fu Zhen was a patient man.
In cont
rast to the Farmer, the Acrobat’s daughter, Li Po was like her father – impatient. She looked frustrated and restless. She stamped her feet to ward off the cold, rubbed her arms, looked everywhere and did everything she could except scream and run away. Her face was pink from the chill and every time she breathed, wisps of vapour floated. Her father looked at her adoringly and felt a joy creep into his heart that dispelled the gloom. He loved her so much. Like all parents, he found joy in the presence of his child. Despite the situation they were in, knowing that if he did this right, she could have a future free from prosecution. He felt calm again as a strange sense of focus settled over him. Each step he took, small as it was, brought them closer to liberty. The line snaked on towards the yawning mouth of the gate and the posse of mean looking men inspecting those who wish to enter.
“You!”
The Acrobat looked up. The voice was gruff. It was filled with irritation and impatience as though the soldier was upset that he had to stand in the cold to check the people coming in. He saw the soldier gesture at him with annoyance.
“Hurry up!” He shouted at the Acrobat and his group. They went forward silently like all peasants, careful to dip their heads in respect of the authority wielded by this lowly soldier who could only lord over peasants. As they approached, he could see that the soldier was merely a boy -- a boy with bad skin. Dressed in the loose fitting tan uniform of the Ming military with a leather vest as armour, he looked out of place; even the canvass hat that Ming soldiers wore when they were not at the frontline looked too big for him. It flopped over and half-concealed his eyes. The Acrobat almost sighed at the sight before him. The way he stood, more bully than substance, the way his gear seemed too big for him; everything added to the image of a peasant bully who aspired to some authority as a way out of the farm. Bully-boy asked the questions: where are you going? What’s your purpose here? Where are you from? He relished his right to shout at others and did it with great enthusiasm as the Acrobat came near. Behind him stood four more soldiers who inspected the people coming through after Bully-boy was satisfied that they were not rebels or other miscreants coming to create havoc in the city placed under his protection. It seemed that Bully-boy here had some authority after all. Under the shelter of the gate tower, the fat official gave each person permitted to enter a sheet of paper with a stamp after Bully-boy had cleared them.
