Chapter Eleven: A Journey to Azure Cloud Temple

Biyun Temple was situated on the eastern slope of Fragrant Hills, a place of exquisite scenery and one of the most frequented temples of the time. Zhu Xiaoqi arrived early, as Li Jinzhong had quietly informed him that worshippers usually offered incense in the morning. After glaring at Li Jinzhong for this unsolicited advice, Zhu Xiaoqi still decided to set out early. He alighted from the carriage before the mountain gate—a square entrance topped with a grey-tiled, overhanging roof, approached by a stone bridge spanning a deep ravine. Flanking the entrance sat a pair of stone lions, crouched upon lotus bases, exquisitely carved.

Behind the gate stood the Gate Hall, three bays wide, its grey-tiled, hipped roof supported by brackets under the eaves. Inside were two clay statues of Vajra guardians, their fierce countenances lifelike and imposing. Beyond the Gate Hall lay the Hall of Maitreya, where an eight-foot-tall statue of the Laughing Buddha presided. Behind this was the Main Hall, also known as the Hall of Sakyamuni or the Hall of Painted Eaves—the principal structure of the temple, likewise three bays wide, with a single-eaved, rectangular roof of grey tiles and elaborate brackets beneath the eaves. The ceiling inside featured a coffered design adorned with hornless dragons. The central altar enshrined the Buddha, flanked by bodhisattvas and arhats; it was here that incense was usually offered.

Arriving too early, they found that Zhang Cheng had not yet come. Zhu left Xiao Li to wait out front, as he knew Zhang Cheng and would inform them when he arrived. Zhu then wandered leisurely towards the rear with Li Jinzhong and Zhou Yuji.

Beyond the main hall stood the Stele Pavilion, its eight-sided, double-eaved glazed roof adorned with brackets on both levels. Behind the pavilion was the Bodhisattva Hall, also three bays wide, roofed with grey glazed tiles and capped by a prominent ridge, with a colonnaded porch and decorative brackets beneath the eaves. Within were five Ming-dynasty clay statues of bodhisattvas, while the walls featured sculptures of the Twenty-Four Heavenly Kings, each three feet tall, and the Four Stars of Fortune, Prosperity, Longevity, and Joy. Surrounding these were cloud-capped mountains and miniature Buddhist story scenes in relief.

Beyond the Bodhisattva Hall lay the temple’s rear hall, called the Hall of Universal Enlightenment. Entering, they found it deserted—few worshippers ventured so far back; only idle sightseers like themselves would stroll here. Behind the hall was the famed Pagoda Courtyard, where rows of stelae and pagodas stood in solemn order. Beside the stelae stood a small side hall, shallow and bare save for two meditation cushions. An old monk sat on one of the cushions.

As the group passed, the old monk suddenly spoke: “Honored guests, would you care to rest a moment?” His invitation was rather unconvincing—there were only two cushions, and he occupied one himself, yet he offered them a seat. Li Jinzhong signaled that they should not enter, but Zhu Xiaoqi was intrigued. With two masters at his side, what harm could come from an old monk? Besides, who would bear him ill will here? No one knew his identity. So, with a wave, he strolled in and sat on a cushion, waiting for the monk to speak. Li Jinzhong and Zhou Yuji stood behind him, eyeing the monk warily.

The old monk smiled faintly. “There’s no need for such caution. I merely found your face familiar and wished to read your fortune.”

“Isn’t face-reading the domain of Taoist priests? I’m surprised to find such skill in a Biyun Temple monk.”

“Accuracy is all that matters in fortune-telling; whether one is a monk or a priest is of little consequence.”

“That is reasonable. I was too attached to appearances. Well then, master, tell me: what am I here for today? If you answer correctly, I’ll believe in your skill.”

“When one is young, one yearns for one’s parents,” the old monk replied with a smile—a line from Mencius: “When young, one yearns for one’s parents; when grown, for a beautiful spouse.” Zhu Xiaoqi knew the saying and was inwardly startled. He had never much believed in the mystical, but now, having experienced transmigration into another’s body, he was less certain. The old monk had but glanced at them and already knew their purpose. It seemed there was something to his art.

He straightened and respectfully asked, “Master, by what name are you addressed?” The old monk smiled. “My Dharma name is Yuan Tong.” Zhu Xiaoqi inwardly exclaimed, “Yuan Tong! Why not call yourself Express Delivery? Or Tranquil Courier?” But he held his tongue.

The old monk continued, “I hail from Shaolin Temple on Song Mountain and have been residing here for half a month. Today, upon seeing your extraordinary bearing—moving like a dragon or tiger, with the aura of a future Buddha—I felt compelled to invite you in.”

“Master Yuan Tong overpraises me; I do not deserve such words. Since you have invited me, I suspect you have a purpose. May I ask you to speak plainly?”

“I have two purposes. First, to read your fortune; second, to ask a favor. But one should not accept reward without merit, so let me read your fortune first. What would you ask—marriage or career?”

“Let us begin with marriage, then move to career. Can you tell me both?”

“Regarding marriage: may it be as you wish—happiness is within reach. As for your future, your mind is open and clear; you already know the answer, do you not?”

“The task I wish to undertake is like carrying Mount Tai across the North Sea—harder than reaching the blue heavens. Master, will I succeed?”

“Whether you succeed is not for me to say. Let me tell you a story. The prince Kim Gyo-gak of Silla, known for his immovable patience and deep meditation, was called Ksitigarbha. He once made a great vow: ‘If hell is not empty, I will not become a Buddha.’ To this day, as hell remains unemptied, Ksitigarbha has not attained Buddhahood. Yet, for his countless vows and the reverence he inspires, he is honored as the Great Vow Bodhisattva—greater, perhaps, than becoming a Buddha. Whether your endeavor succeeds is not so important; what matters is the doing. Each deed brings merit, be it one deed or ten. Even if the work is unfinished, the merit remains—a comfort in itself.”

“Thank you for your guidance, master. May I ask what favor you seek? If it is within my power, I dare not refuse.” Zhu Xiaoqi pressed his palms together and bowed deeply.

“I have a disciple named Huiming, who dislikes chanting sutras and prefers the martial arts, which has made him unwelcome at the temple. He has accompanied me in my wanderings, but soon I must travel far. I ask if your household temple might offer him shelter.” This was a frank request for patronage—so even monks could not escape the world’s entanglements. Since the old monk said his disciple excelled in martial arts, he must be a good hand. Zhu Xiaoqi readily agreed. The monk intoned, “Namo Amitabha Buddha. Excellent, excellent.” As he spoke, a young monk appeared from among the pagodas, his features delicate, his palms pressed together, head lowered in deference.

“Huiming, this benefactor has agreed to offer you sanctuary in his temple. Thank him.” The young monk chanted, “Amitabha Buddha, thank you for your generosity!” Zhu Xiaoqi saw that the boy was only fifteen or sixteen, hardly the look of a martial artist, but said nothing and prepared to leave with him. Yet the young monk, eyes brimming with tears, gazed at his master, unwilling to go. The old monk smiled, “Huiming, life and death are part of the path—you must see beyond them. Your master’s rebirth in the Pure Land is a cause for joy, not sorrow. I must return to the temple once more; let us part here.”

Only then did Zhu Xiaoqi realize the master’s impending journey was, in fact, his death—the old monk was making arrangements for his disciple before passing on, fulfilling his final wish. Understanding Zhu Xiaoqi’s identity, he knew that Huiming’s future would be bright, and that this could only benefit Shaolin and all of Buddhism.

After giving his disciple final instructions, the old monk watched as Huiming followed Zhu Xiaoqi toward the front hall, turning back at each step. Zhu Xiaoqi felt a pang of sorrow at the sight. But this vanished as Xiao Li came running up, breathless with excitement.

“He’s come! But some people have taken over the main hall, refusing to let anyone else enter. There’s an argument going on.” Zhu Xiaoqi was furious and strode quickly to the hall, where two servants blocked the entrance, saying lazily, “Our master is worshipping. Outsiders, please wait your turn.” Two more servants barred Zhang Cheng, while Baozhu stood nearby, her face hidden by a veil, which only irritated Zhu Xiaoqi further. In a flash, he slapped one of the servants hard. The man stared at him in disbelief, stunned that anyone would dare strike him. Li Jinzhong and Zhou Yuji stepped forward, swiftly dealing with the remaining three servants.

Zhu Xiaoqi declared righteously, “Who are you, to seize a temple and bar others from worship? Do you not understand that all beings are equal in the eyes of Buddha?”

The commotion drew someone from inside—a servant who burst out, shouting, “Who dares make such a scene and disturb the master? Can you bear the consequences?” Only then did he see his four companions sprawled on the ground, and he hurried back inside. Zhu Xiaoqi, with Li Jinzhong and Zhou Yuji, followed him in.

Within stood two elderly men, both in their sixties. As the servant reported, one of them, with five strands of long beard and a stern visage, stopped him and addressed Zhu Xiaoqi, “Many years ago I made a vow, and today I am here to fulfill it. As I prefer peace and quiet, I ordered my men to keep others out for a little while. Why did you resort to violence without so much as asking? That is not the conduct of a gentleman.”

The other old man added, “Young people must learn self-cultivation. Such rashness—we might have taken you for ruffians.” The phrase “ruffians” referred to the underworld gangs of the Ming dynasty—a harsh insult. Zhu Xiaoqi laughed, “Well said! May I ask your honorable names?”

“Our names are none of your concern. For one who does not respect his elders, I see no reason to say more. We are leaving.” With that, the group began to depart. At that moment, Zhang Cheng and Baozhu entered. Zhu Xiaoqi laughed loudly, “Well spoken! Truly, your words are more impressive than your deeds. I wonder, venerable sirs, what age have you attained, that you act so imperiously yet refuse to give your names? You wish for quiet, and so you bar others from worship; if you fancied killing, would we be expected to stand by as you did so? Is that gentlemanly? Anyone hearing this might think Biyun Temple your private shrine. Is your behavior so exemplary?”

One of the old men turned back in anger. “Could it be that, even with the name Li Sancai, I cannot ask you to wait a moment?” Li Jinzhong whispered, “Former Minister of Revenue—famed for integrity and uprightness.” Zhu Xiaoqi didn’t know who Li Sancai was, though he understood the title. But since he was “former” minister, he cared even less. “I don’t care how many ‘talents’ you possess. You officials think yourselves above others, expect deference as your right, and fly into a rage when denied it. I cannot understand such reasoning, nor do I wish to. If this were your family’s ancestral temple, you might do as you please; as it is not, you have no right to bar others from offering incense for your own peace. No wonder the bureaucracy is so ‘pure’ these days—your actions make it clear enough. Come, let us not trouble these grand officials any further!”

With that, he led his party past the spluttering Li Sancai and his companions. As they passed Zhang Cheng, Zhu Xiaoqi saluted him with a nod, studiously ignoring Baozhu, and strode away.