The Legend of Guanyin Bodhisattva

By the Master of the Mandala Chamber

Preface to the Legend of Avalokiteśvara Bodhisattva

Shi Kaisen respectfully offers the following account.

The many accounts of Avalokiteśvara's deeds — she who heeds the cries of the world — differ from teller to teller. Even the question of whether the sacred form is male or female has long been debated. The truth is that ordinary people have never looked into the matter with any depth.

The Lotus Sūtra tells us: "When suffering beings call out with one mind, the Bodhisattva immediately heeds their cries, and all are set free. Hence the name Avalokiteśvara — she who observes the sounds of the world."

Master Yinguang once said: "Avalokiteśvara attained Buddhahood countless kalpas ago, with the title Right Dharma Brightness. Yet such is the force of her compassion that, though she abides in the Land of Still Light, she also manifests in the Reward Land and the Compounded Land. Though she ordinarily appears in a Buddha's form, she takes on every shape that might reach a being — Bodhisattva, Pratyekabuddha, Śrāvaka, and the six classes of human and divine beings. Though she usually attends Amitābha, she ranges through the boundless Dharma-realm of the ten directions, appearing wherever she can be of use. Wherever there is need, she is present; whatever form serves to liberate a being, that form she assumes to teach." When we take this in, it is no wonder that the Bodhisattva's responsive manifestations vary so widely, and that her wondrous forms come in such variety.

The records of her appearances across the ages are too many to count. The most useful among them are the Cìlín Jí (a forest of compassion in praise of Avalokiteśvara), Zhou Kefu's Chíyàn Jì (record of the fruits that follow from holding her name), and You Xiyin's Línggǎn Lù (record of her miraculous responses). These works are detailed, factual, and well documented — trustworthy and open to verification. Anyone who has faith in the Bodhisattva should study them carefully, so as to know where the Great Way lies, to cultivate with single-minded devotion, and to find their way back to right awakening together.

But the books just named are written in difficult language, and only someone long trained in letters can hope to follow them. That is no way to save all beings. So the Master of the Mandala Chamber has drawn from these and other sources and shaped Avalokiteśvara's story into a popular tale. The words are plain, the meaning deep; in this form the book can reach ordinary readers, and its effects will be all the wider for it. Those who have faith will come to know the Bodhisattva's many deeds, and the reading itself will offer some help toward encouraging the good and turning aside the wicked. To hold this one volume is to sit beneath a lotus throne and hear the Bodhisattva preach the Dharma of compassion. The good may add to their merit; the sinful may learn to mend their ways. Once hearts turn together toward awakening, the places where people scramble for name and profit are transformed into a pure and unconcerned land. The sea of suffering grows still, and the cloud of compassion shades the world for ages. What could be more beneficial than this? And if such is the aim of this book, it can hardly be counted as an ordinary novel. To name it the evening drum and morning bell of this dusty age is no exaggeration.

The Sūtras of Avalokiteśvara. Avalokiteśvara appears in many forms. There are the Six Avalokiteśvaras, the Eight Avalokiteśvaras, and the Thirty-Three Avalokiteśvaras. As these forms multiply, so do the sūtras dedicated to her. Let me list them briefly.

• Thousand-Armed Avalokiteśvara: the Thousand-Armed, Thousand-Eyed Great Compassionate Heart Dhāraṇī Sūtra, and the Vast, Perfect, Unobstructed Great Compassionate Heart Dhāraṇī Sūtra of the Thousand-Armed, Thousand-Eyed Avalokiteśvara Bodhisattva, among others.
• Holy Avalokiteśvara: the Recitation Manual of the Heart-Mantra Yoga of the Ārya-Avalokiteśvara Bodhisattva, and the Ārya-Avalokiteśvara Bodhisattva Hymn of Merits, among others.
• Horse-Headed Avalokiteśvara: the Heart Dhāraṇī of the Horse-Headed Avalokiteśvara, and the Dhāraṇī and Iconographic Method of Dīrghakarāla, among others.
• Eleven-Faced Avalokiteśvara: the Eleven-Faced Avalokiteśvara Bodhisattva Heart-Mantra Recitation Manual, and the Sūtra of the Eleven-Faced Avalokiteśvara Spirit-Spell Spoken by the Buddha, among others.
• Cundī Avalokiteśvara: the Sūtra of the Seven-Koti Buddha-Mother Cundī Great Bright Dhāraṇī Spoken by the Buddha, and the Sūtra of the Seven-Koti Single Practice, among others.
• Cintāmaṇi Avalokiteśvara: the Cintāmaṇi Dhāraṇī Sūtra, and the Avalokiteśvara Bodhisattva Cintāmaṇi Dhāraṇī Sūtra, among others.
• Blue-Necked Avalokiteśvara: the Recitation Manual of the Vajra-Śikhara Yoga of Blue-Necked Great Compassionate King Avalokiteśvara, and the Blue-Necked Avalokiteśvara Bodhisattva Dhāraṇī Sūtra, among others.
• Leaf-Robe Avalokiteśvara: the Leaf-Robe Avalokiteśvara Bodhisattva Dhāraṇī Sūtra, among others.
• Amoghapāśa Avalokiteśvara: the Amoghapāśa Spiritual Transformation True-Word Sūtra, and the Amoghapāśa Spell Sūtra Spoken by the Buddha, among others.
• White-Robed Avalokiteśvara: the White-Robe Lotus Spell.

The forms of Avalokiteśvara are not limited to these. There are also the Water-Moon, the Fish-Basket, the Clam, the Unfailing-Hook, the Willow-Branch, and the Dragon-Head Avalokiteśvaras, but for these there is no dedicated scripture. Only the precious-form Avalokiteśvaras listed above have sūtras in their praise.

The translators of these sūtras were many, and they lived in different eras. For this reason a single text has often been rendered in several versions with different names; the body of literature is vast as a sea of smoke, and at first glance one cannot tell them apart. In truth, if one studies them patiently and compares one with another, their meaning turns out to be the same.

The sūtras listed above are by no means exhaustive — a single spot on the leopard, as the saying goes. Yet to glimpse them is to grasp the general outline, and for those who have faith, this is enough to show the way and keep one from being lost. To plumb the depths of the teaching, one must enter step by step.

Textual Notes on Avalokiteśvara. Avalokiteśvara's true ground is as the Buddha Right Dharma Brightness, who long ago attained perfect awakening. To rescue sentient beings, she now appears in the form of a Bodhisattva, but in the future she will manifest as a Buddha. The Great Compassionate Heart Dhāraṇī Sūtra as translated by Bhagavaddharma states: "By the inconceivable power of her majestic spirit, Avalokiteśvara attained Buddhahood countless kalpas ago, with the title Tathāgata Right Dharma Brightness. Through the force of great compassion and vows, bringing peace and joy to beings, she now appears as a Bodhisattva." The Karuṇāpuṇḍarīka Sūtra says: "When Amitābha of the Western Land of Bliss passes into nirvāṇa, Avalokiteśvara will become a Buddha, bearing the name Tathāgata Universal Emergence of All Merits of Light." The Sūtra Record of Avalokiteśvara's Scriptural Transmission states: "After Amitābha departs, [Avalokiteśvara] will succeed to that place with the title Tathāgata Universal Light of Merits." All three are skillful manifestations, set forth for the sake of expedient means.

As for Avalokiteśvara's Pure Land, the world knows it as Mount Potalaka. The mountain stands on the southern coast of India; the Great Compassionate Sūtra says: "At one time Śākyamuni Buddha was in the seven-jeweled Bodhimanda of Avalokiteśvara's palace on Mount Potalaka." Chapter sixty-eight of the Eighty-Thousand Verse Avataṃsaka Sūtra says: "To the south of here is a mountain called Potalaka, where dwells a Bodhisattva named Avalokiteśvara." Volume ten of the Great Tang Records on the Western Regions (treating the southern Indian kingdom of Malakūṭa) records: "East of Mount Malaya lies Mount Potalaka. The paths are steep, the cliffs and valleys tilted at uneasy angles. At the peak is a pool with waters clear as a mirror; from it flows a great river that circles the mountain twenty times before reaching the Southern Sea. Beside the pool is a stone heavenly palace, where Avalokiteśvara Bodhisattva comes and goes." From these sources it is clear that Potalaka is Potalaka — the sounds are so close that they must be the same name in different renderings. The Chinese name Mount Putuo may be a phonetic variant of the original. The Mount Putuo in Zhejiang Province that many people today take to be Avalokiteśvara's Pure Land is, by this reckoning, simply a case of mistaken tradition. Yet the Bodhisattva has indeed manifested there, leaving such holy traces as the Sea of Lotus Flowers and the shrine of the Avalokiteśvara Who Would Not Depart. The error, then, is not without cause, and worshippers naturally tend in that direction.

The repentance rites of Avalokiteśvara go back to Emperor Wu of the Liang dynasty. The form practiced today was edited and fixed by Zunshi in the Song dynasty. The Avalokiteśvara divination lots come in two kinds: one of a hundred lots, the other of a hundred and thirty. The hundred-lot form originated in the Avalokiteśvara Hall of the Tianzhu Temple; the hundred-and-thirty-lot form originated in the Yuantong Temple in Yue. All of these matters are clearly documented, and those who revere the Bodhisattva should know something of them.

The Sacred Form of Avalokiteśvara. In the monasteries of today, the Bodhisattva is revered in many places. Some set aside a hall in her honor; some name the entire temple after her. This comes of the reach of her compassion. Yet a question remains about her dharma-body: look at the statues in monasteries almost anywhere, and the great majority are made in a woman's form, with only the two feet bare. Few are made as a man. The Zhuāng Yuè Wěi Tán remarks: "Those who nowadays sculpt Avalokiteśvara all shape her as a woman." Yet the Xuanhe Painting Catalogue shows that famous Tang and Song painters depicted Avalokiteśvara many times, but never in a woman's headdress or robes. The Taiping Guangji records that the wife of an official was seized by a spirit; afterwards, an image of Avalokiteśvara was made and honored, and she dreamed that a monk came to save her and she awoke. From this one gathers that, before the Tang, sculpted images were also not made in a woman's form. If this is so, then the Great Being is properly male — so why is [the figure] everywhere made female today?

The Records of Avalokiteśvara's Responsive Manifestations tells of a Tang-dynasty case from Shaanxi, "Ma Lang's Wife the Avalokiteśvara." The people there were horsemen and archers who had never heard of the Three Treasures. In the twelfth year of the Yuanhe era, a beautiful woman appeared with a fish-basket, selling her catch. The men vied to marry her. She said: "Whoever can recite the Universal Gateway chapter in one night will be my husband." By dawn, more than twenty men had mastered it. She then gave them the Diamond Sūtra, and ten men could recite that. She then gave them the Lotus Sūtra, with a limit of three days to master it completely. Only Ma Lang's son succeeded. He prepared the wedding rites and brought her home. As she entered the door, she pleaded illness and asked to lodge in a separate room. In a moment she died, and her body rotted; they buried it. Some days later an old monk in purple robes came to the grave and ordered it opened. Inside lay nothing but golden interlocked bones. He said to the crowd: "This is Avalokiteśvara herself. She pitied you for the weight of your karmic hindrances, and so appeared in this convenient form to teach you." When he finished speaking, he flew into the empty sky and was gone.

The Avalokiteśvara Cìlín Jí records another tale: a Song-dynasty man, Zhai Ji of the capital, was living in Si'an Town in Huzhou, Zhejiang. At fifty he had no sons. He painted an image of Avalokiteśvara and prayed devoutly. His wife, then with child, dreamed of a white-clad woman bringing a child on a tray — a fair and lovely child. She tried to take it, but a cow stood crosswise between them and she could not reach it. When the son was born, he did not survive his first month. Zhai redoubled his devotion. Someone who had heard the dream said: "You are fond of eating beef — could that be the reason?" Zhai was struck with sudden fear; he and his whole household vowed never to eat beef again. He dreamed again of the woman bringing the child, and this time a son was born who grew up and rose to high rank.

The Shān'ān Zálù tells of a Ming-dynasty monk of Tiantong named Zhao who had long been in poor health. In the bīngchén year of the Hongwu reign his illness grew critical day by day. The temple treasurer urged him to recite Avalokiteśvara's name; Zhao did as he was told, reciting ten thousand times a day. On the seventeenth of the tenth month of the following year, at noon, feeling death close at hand, he resolved to recite Amitābha's name instead. The moment this thought arose, a beautiful woman in dharma robes, holding a pure vase, entered from outside the door and stood before him. Zhao was startled and at a loss. Once he had steadied his mind and looked closely, he realized she was a manifestation of the Bodhisattva. He wept and pleaded with her. In a moment she was gone. Five days later his illness had passed entirely.

From these accounts it appears that Avalokiteśvara's appearing in a woman's form is not mere legend. And in any case her responsive power is boundless — she reaches every kind of being, and takes whatever form serves to liberate them. This too should put the doubts of the many to rest.

The claim of some Yuan-dynasty monks that Avalokiteśvara was a daughter of King Miaozhuang has little evidence to support it, though it has some basis. Śākyamuni Buddha himself once appeared as the ascetic Shànhui, and in order to save beings was reborn in the kingdom of Kapilavastu as the son of King Śuddhodana — as recorded in Buddhist texts. The Yuan monks' identification of Avalokiteśvara with the daughter of King Miaozhuang may have been an extension of this kind of inference.

For our part, in approaching the Great Being Avalokiteśvara, what matters is to revere her with a sincere heart and to pray for her blessing and protection. To wrangle over such small matters is pointless. The Master of the Mandala Chamber, in writing this legend, has followed the popular account. The work aims at edification — to show what ascetic practice looks like, and to strengthen the reader's faith. Whether one agrees or differs in view, the book is not to be judged by that measure. In recounting the Great Being's deeds, this poor monk has set forth the work's purpose as well, for the benefit of those who read it.

Chapter 1: A Scholar Traces the Origins and Expounds the Teaching; The Bodhisattva Manifests a Form to Warn the Ignorant

When speaking of the religions of our China, they have always been divided into three great branches—Confucianism, Taoism, and Buddhism. Of these Three Teachings, Confucianism and Taoism both arose within our own heartland, while Buddhism came in from the Western Regions. Because it takes the awakening of the world and the salvation of sentient beings as its aim, the faithful have by no means been few, and its influence has stood as one of three great pillars alongside the other two teachings, holding its place even to this day.

In the Buddhist tradition, the whole world is divided into four great continents: the Eastern Victorious Pure Land, the Southern Jambudvīpa, the Western Cowherd Land, and the Northern Kuru Land. Our China belongs to the Southern Jambudvīpa. That continent has four famous mountains known as the Buddhist lands—Jiuhua, Wutai, Emei, and Putuo—and the four great beings who preside over them are Kṣitigarbha, Mañjuśrī, Samantabhadra, and Avalokiteśvara Bodhisattva. Thus Jiuhua venerates Kṣitigarbha and is called the Great Practice; Wutai venerates Mañjuśrī and is called the Great Wisdom; Emei venerates Samantabhadra and is called the Great Courage; Putuo venerates Avalokiteśvara and is called the Great Compassion. The divisions are clear enough.

Among these four great beings, the one most universally revered is, beyond all doubt, Avalokiteśvara Bodhisattva. Mention his sacred name in any gathering, and truly everyone knows it—old and young, women and children alike. In nearly every person's mind, the holy image of Avalokiteśvara is deeply etched. But is this universal reverence the work of Guanyin's spiritual power? Not necessarily. More than nine-tenths of it, in fact, is the product of superstition.

Moreover, the common view runs directly counter to the Bodhisattva himself. Guanyin's purpose is to bring all people of the world to great enlightenment and help them together reach the other shore. As the Lotus Sūtra says: "Whenever afflicted beings call his name with single-minded devotion, the Bodhisattva immediately perceives the sound of their voices, and all obtain liberation. For this reason he is called Avalokiteśvara, the Perceiver of the World's Sounds." These words make the World-Honored One's intention plain. Yet look at those who profess faith in Guanyin today—is there a single one of them who does not seek a living within the grip of superstition? They imagine that mere belief in Guanyin, no matter how they themselves behave, will bring his protection; that every frustrated desire of theirs will be granted in full. What they fear most is death, so they suppose that burning plenty of incense and chanting the Buddha's name from day to day will ward off illness and lengthen their years. What they fear most after death is being cast into hell forever, so they suppose that keeping many fasts and reciting many sūtras will carry them after death to the Western Paradise or the Buddha-land to enjoy bliss. They even imagine that any and all sins can be wiped clean by simply uttering a few "Namo Avalokiteśvara Bodhisattva." So the minds of such devotees have inevitably been corrupted, giving rise to the popular saying: "If you want to find a man of cruel heart, look in the chanting-house."

Believers who harbor such selfish motives have produced all manner of strange forms of worship. The ordinary aspirant for blessings and longevity enshrines the White-Robed Guanyin; those praying for a child enshrine the Child-Bestowing Guanyin; fisherfolk seeking a good catch enshrine the Fish-Basket Guanyin. With every variety of form and every fanciful association added on, the further this goes the more it strays from the true principles of Buddhism. So although the world's devotees of Avalokiteśvara are as many as the hairs on an ox, not one has managed to reach true enlightenment—a matter for genuine lament.

But enough of this digression. I have taken up my pen to write this Life of Avalokiteśvara not to encourage superstition. On the one hand, I want to set forth the events of the Bodhisattva's life before and after, and introduce them to the world so that people may gain a proper understanding. On the other, I want to draw out the deeper meaning of the Buddhist scriptures, so that disciples who have mistakenly wandered down the wrong path may cultivate great enlightenment and together reach the other shore. Yet however grand this aspiration, I cannot say whether this clumsy pen of mine will see it through. Now that I have resolved to write a biography of Avalokiteśvara Bodhisattva, there are two questions that must be settled at the very outset of this first chapter.

The first: is Avalokiteśvara Bodhisattva male or female in form? The images and paintings of Avalokiteśvara that we see today are far from uniform—some are dressed as a male figure, some as a female—and this has given rise to the question. According to common opinion, she is taken to be female—so much so that many people even call her "Guanyin Mother"! Yet Hu Shilin's Bicong and Wang Fengzhou's Record of the Origin of Avalokiteśvara both point to Avalokiteśvara Bodhisattva as being male, and they speak with evidence and documentation. On the other hand, the History of the Northern Dynasties records that the Avalokiteśvara seen in Xu Zicai's illness and the one seen in a dream by Emperor Wucheng of Northern Qi both took the form of a beautiful woman, so this question is not easily settled. Still, by examining the events of Avalokiteśvara's life, the answer becomes plain. Out of pity for sentient beings, Avalokiteśvara has protected them everywhere, manifesting in bodily form on thirty-three occasions and going to various places to guide and transform them. Wherever he appeared he took on a different sacred form—bodhisattva, disciple, official, celestial youth, dragon, spirit, or ghost—changing according to time and place to suit his work of guiding beings. Thus the sacred forms people have seen differ one from another: sometimes male, sometimes female, sometimes old, sometimes young. This is no baseless talk of mine; the Bingshu Bitan also records these events clearly. At this point the question of male and female form can be set aside.

The second question is this: if Avalokiteśvara Bodhisattva is only one being, how have so many different titles come about? Names such as the White-Robed Avalokiteśvara, the Gao Wang Avalokiteśvara, the Child-Bestowing Avalokiteśvara, the Fish-Basket Avalokiteśvara—and the sacred images have differed accordingly. Are all these Avalokiteśvaras of various titles the very same one who dwells in the purple bamboo grove on Mount Potalaka in the Southern Sea? Or are there several other distinct Avalokiteśvara Bodhisattvas? On this point I dare say it is simply that the forms manifested at the time of each appearance differed. For instance, when the Bodhisattva took form in one place as a beautiful woman dressed in white, going forth to devise means to guide sentient beings, in time people came to know that this white-robed beauty was a Bodhisattva manifestation and had statues made and enshrined in worship, naturally following the form they had seen. Thus in later generations there came to be the White-Robed Guanyin. Because a great turtle of the Eastern Sea wrought harm and the dwellers of the coast could not live and work in peace, Avalokiteśvara manifested as a fisherman and went to subdue the turtle, saving the people—and so there came to be the Turtle-Headed Guanyin. All the other sacred forms likewise come from the traces left behind by these manifestations. Later generations, not looking into the matter carefully, gave rise to every sort of fanciful association. This is not idle invention on the author's part. If you doubt it, allow me, before entering the main narrative, to cite one passage from the history of Avalokiteśvara's manifestations as a kind of introduction and proof of what I have said.

Of the various sacred images of Avalokiteśvara to be found elsewhere I shall say nothing now, and speak only of the one at Shaolin Temple, which is different from the rest. It is sculpted with round glaring eyes and a great nose, a broad mouth and a wide forehead, with wild matted hair on the head like tufts of rushes. The ears are enormous beyond compare, pierced by a pair of thick, heavy gold rings that hang straight down to both shoulders. The creases of the robes are loose and disordered, and a pair of huge bare feet stick out. In one hand the figure slants a golden precious staff. This sacred form looks more like Kumāraṭa, one of the Five Hundred Arhats. Any person with common eyes and mortal flesh would hardly take it for the great being Avalokiteśvara. Yet Shaolin Temple has plainly enshrined it within the Pavilion of Avalokiteśvara, and the monks all recognize it as Avalokiteśvara Bodhisattva. Strange, isn't it? But the reason for the form being sculpted this way has its own story, which I shall unfold by and by.

The Shaolin Temple is, in fact, one of the great monastic forests of China, with a long and venerable history. Ever since the First Patriarch, Chan Master Bodhidharma, opened the mountain, not only has the vehicle of Chan spread far and wide, but its martial arts have also become exceedingly famous. In its early days, however, there was no Pavilion of Avalokiteśvara. That came about only in the Yuan dynasty, when the Red Turban rebels rose in revolt and the calamity of war reached the central plains. The rebel leader Li Quan, who knew well the fame of Shaolin's martial arts, wanted to recruit the monks of the monastery into his own service. But the monks of Shaolin were people who strictly kept the precepts and clearly understood the greater righteousness, and they refused to comply. Li Quan, enraged at the slight, led his forces to lay siege to Mount Shaoshi, vowing he would not rest until Shaolin was utterly wiped out. Although the monks were indeed skilled in martial arts, they were vastly outnumbered and could not prevail; they defended as best they could, but gradually could hold out no longer. Just as things were at their most desperate, a great burly monk suddenly burst forth, iron staff in hand, charging straight into the rebel ranks. When onlookers saw who it was, it turned out to be a traveling monk who had only just arrived to take up temporary lodging. Wherever his precious staff swung, it was like a fierce wind and driving rain, a cold gleam of ten thousand streaks. He slaughtered the rebels so that horses fell and men went down, each one crying out in misery—even their leader, Iron Spear Li Quan, suffered a great defeat and fled far away with his men. At that moment, a flash of golden light passed before everyone's eyes, and the burly monk vanished. Looking about in every direction, they at last found him standing atop the Yuzhai of Mount Song, his body sixteen feet tall, declaring himself to be a manifestation of the great being Avalokiteśvara as King Kinnara, come to deliver them from their peril. The temple thereupon had a statue made following the sacred form in which he had appeared, and built the Pavilion of Avalokiteśvara to enshrine and venerate it. This event is also recorded clearly in the Gazetteer of the Shaolin Temple, so it is plainly no fabrication. From this, one may see that the various different sacred forms of Avalokiteśvara are indeed the traces left behind by his manifestations.

If you wish to know how the events of Avalokiteśvara's life unfolded, you must wait for the next chapter.

Chapter 2: Three Cups of Unfiltered Wine at a Small Pavilion Banquet, A Bright Pearl Falls into a Bosom in a Wondrous Dream

It was the waning years of the Zhou Dynasty. The Central Plains states were locked in endless war, swords and spears clashing, alliances and feuds tangled with no end in sight, so chaotic that no one could know a peaceful night’s rest, no unspoiled patch of land remained in the wilderness. By contrast, the Western Kingdom of Xinglin enjoyed an era of peace: timely winds and rain brought bountiful harvests, the realm was stable, and the people lived in contentment.

Of all the Western Regions states, the Kingdom of Xinglin stood as a towering, sovereign great power, leader of the smaller tribes. But because of its remote geography, it had never made contact with the Central Plains; the two lands were entirely cut off from one another. This was because the two realms were separated by Mount Sumeru: a mountain so tall it seemed to brush the sky, so wide it stretched for thousands of li across the northwestern plateau, a natural boundary as if placed there by design. In those days, travel was arduous; though the Central Plains people knew of the famous mountain, its remote, treacherous terrain and bitter cold—snow capped its peaks year-round, even through the hottest summers—meant no one dared risk the journey west. The Kingdom of Xinglin sat on the northwest flank of Mount Sumeru, so in that isolated era, it naturally had no way to communicate with the Central Plains.

Of all the western tribes, the Kingdom of Xinglin had the longest history, the most advanced civilization, and ruled over 36,000 li of land and hundreds of thousands of subjects. It stood unrivaled in the region, and all smaller tribes had no choice but to submit to its rule.

The king on the throne at the time was named Jiao, with the reign title Miaozhuang. He was a wise, virtuous ruler, and under his governance, men tilled the fields and women wove cloth, each content in their own work. In his decade or more on the throne, he turned the Kingdom of Xinglin into a rich, thriving, ever-growing state. As ruler of a great kingdom, King Miaozhuang naturally lived in wealth, honor, and ease. His empress, named Baode, was a kind, virtuous woman, loved and respected deeply by the king, and their home was filled with harmony.

But even the most perfect life has its flaws. For all King Miaozhuang’s unlimited power as ruler, there was one thing he could not command by decree, nor buy with all the gold in his treasury: he had only two princesses, no crown prince to take his place on the throne. King Miaozhuang was already over sixty, with no heir to succeed him. His desire for a son was deep, and this worry often left him dejected, sighing quietly to himself. As the old saying goes: children cannot be bought with money, nor forced out by strength. No matter how much he fretted, it was all for nothing. Days dragged on, filled with hope, worry, and sorrow.

Spring turned to autumn, and in what felt like no time at all, several more years slipped by. It was the summer of the 17th year of King Miaozhuang’s reign, and the imperial garden’s pond of white lotuses was blooming in the breeze, their faint fragrance drifting through the air. Noticing the king’s low spirits these past few days, Empress Baode set up a banquet in the pavilion by the lotus pond to lift his mood with wine. The royal couple took their seats in the pavilion—king at the upper place, empress at the lower—as palace maids served wine and dishes in turn. Though King Miaozhuang’s heart was still heavy with worry over the lack of an heir, he knew Baode’s kindness and forced a smile.

As he looked out, thousands of white lotuses bloomed in staggered rows across the pond, framed by emerald lotus leaves, quiet and lovely. When a soft breeze stirred, they swayed gently, as if shyly waiting to speak. Waves of light fragrance drifted on the wind, refreshing to the heart. In this setting, King Miaozhuang felt as if he had stepped into another world, his mood lifting. The weight of sorrow in his chest was scattered by the cool breeze, washed away by the scent of lotus. He raised his cup with Baode, drinking freely, chatting and laughing together. Seeing him happy, Baode was overjoyed. She poured wine for him herself, and ordered the palace entertainers to perform songs and dances right at the banquet. Laughter rang out, music swelled, the scene was merry and bright.

The revelry lasted until the bright moon slanted far to the west. King Miaozhuang had drunk more than his fill, his usual composure slipping. Warm with wine, he ordered the banquet cleared, leaned on palace maids for support, and returned with Baode to the royal bedchambers to rest for the night.

When he woke, the red sun was streaming through the window. Baode had already finished washing and dressing. She attended to King Miaozhuang as he rose, helped him wash, and as she prepared the morning meal, said to him: "Last night I had a most strange dream. I do not know if it is an auspicious sign or a bad omen. I dreamed I came to a place that looked like the seaside: a vast, endless expanse of white water, waves surging, very frightening. Just as I was watching, a loud crashing sound rang out, and a golden lotus bloomed from the sea. When it first emerged, it was the same size as an ordinary lotus, floating just above the water’s surface. But the golden lotus grew taller and taller, its bloom growing larger and larger, its golden light brighter and more dazzling, so bright I could not keep my eyes open. I closed them for a moment, and when I opened them again, the golden lotus was gone. Standing firm in the sea was a divine mountain. On the mountain, I saw faint, misty layered pavilions, precious trees, rare birds, heavenly dragons, and white cranes—all so far away they flickered in and out of view, too indistinct to make out clearly.

The only thing I could see clearly was the peak of a single mountain, where a seven-tiered pagoda stood. Atop the pagoda rested a single bright pearl, casting thousands of rays of strange, wondrous light, solemn and sacred. I stood transfixed, watching it, when suddenly the pearl floated gently up into the air. In the blink of an eye, it turned into a bright sun, drifting closer and closer to the shore. Before long, it hung high above my head. Then another loud crash sounded, and the sun came tumbling down straight into my bosom. I was so frightened I lost all composure. I wanted to run, but my feet felt rooted to the spot. I struggled with all my might, and finally jolted awake. There I was, lying safe in my bed—no sea, no mountain, none of those sights at all. Only then did I realize it had all been a dream. What omen is this? What does it foretell?"

King Miaozhuang’s heart swelled with quiet joy when he heard this. He turned to comfort Baode, saying: "What you saw in your dream, dear consort, is clearly the true form of the Buddha’s Western Pure Land. Mortals rarely encounter such a vision, so it is a most auspicious omen. As for that bright pearl, it is clearly a Buddhist relic that transformed into the sun—the very symbol of yang. Falling into your bosom, it is unmistakably an omen of conception. This dream is a sure sign you will bear a son this time. This is truly cause for great celebration!"

When Baode heard this, her joy knew no bounds. The news spread through the palace, and everyone in the court pinned their highest hopes on the coming child. In the months that followed, signs of Baode’s pregnancy appeared one by one. Two or three months in, her belly had swelled noticeably. Though her pregnancy made her healthier than usual, she had one strange quirk: she couldn’t eat any meat, fish, or other savory foods. Even her favorite dishes, if they contained meat, would turn her stomach the moment she saw them. Forcing even a small bite would guarantee she vomited up all the bitter bile in her stomach. This is common for pregnant women, so no one thought it strange. No one suspected there was a deeper mystery at work.

Days slipped by, winter turned to spring. Baode’s due date drew nearer by the day. King Miaozhuang was certain this time she would bear a son, and was overjoyed. He began making preparations for celebrations in advance, and the entire palace was busy with the work, which need not be detailed here.

At last, the 19th day of the second month in the 18th year of King Miaozhuang’s reign arrived. King Miaozhuang was in the imperial garden admiring the beautiful spring scenery, lost in thought, when a panting palace maid rushed to his side to report: "Your Majesty, the Empress gave birth to another princess at the chen hour (7 to 9 a.m.). We beg you to bestow a name upon her."

When King Miaozhuang heard it was another girl, half his joy faded at once. But this was beyond his control—he could only blame his own lack of accumulated merit in past lives for the outcome. He immediately asked the maid if the empress was safe and well after the birth. The maid replied: "Your Majesty, at the moment of delivery, many strange, beautiful birds gathered in the courtyard trees, singing as if playing celestial music. A strange fragrance filled the room, thick and lingering. Before long, the third princess was born. All are safe and well. Her Majesty the Empress is in high spirits, and the princess’s cries are loud and strong."

When King Miaozhuang heard this, he mused: divine birds in the trees, strange fragrance in the chambers—recalling Baode’s dream during her pregnancy, could this child have a special origin, born with good karmic roots from a past life? He chose the name Miao Shan for the third princess. Since the two elder princesses were named Miao Yin and Miao Yuan, each taking the first character of his reign title Miaozhuang, he wrote the name personally on gold paper with a red cinnabar brush, and handed it to the maid.

As the old saying goes, only true goodness merits the name “wonderful”—this child was born with wisdom and karmic roots. To learn what happens next, wait for the next chapter.

Chapter 3: The Strange Old Man with a Wondrous Tongue Speaks of the Merciful Vessel; The Little Princess Stops Crying to Hear the Buddha's Verse

It is said that King Miaozhuang first learned he had been given another daughter, and was none too pleased. But when he heard of the many strange omens that accompanied her birth, and remembered the dream Queen Baode had during her pregnancy, he thought the child must have some special origin, and his heart eased considerably. Following the Miao generational naming sequence, he named her Miaoshan.

When officials and common folk across the realm heard the king had a new princess, they rejoiced, and grand celebrations were held. King Miaozhuang hosted a great palace banquet for three days. During those three days, the entire kingdom of Xinglin was caught up in the revelry—lanterns were strung and decorations put up everywhere, plays were performed and feasts laid out, joy rising to the heavens, cheers shaking the earth—a wonderful scene of peace and prosperity. Naturally, the people, having enjoyed years of peace and bountiful harvests, had every reason to celebrate such a happy occasion. But we shall leave that aside for now.

On the third day of the palace banquet, King Miaozhuang ordered his maids to bring Princess Miaoshan to the great hall to meet the ministers. Strangely, the little princess had been perfectly content in the inner quarters, but the moment she stepped into the hall and caught sight of the ministers—their faces flushed with wine, plates of sizzling meat before them—she burst into loud, wailing sobs. Nothing could soothe her, not even nursing. The wet nurse panicked, the ministers set down their cups and chopsticks, and King Miaozhuang was greatly put out.

Just then, a eunuch entered the hall to announce: "A stooped old man waits at the gate. He says he has a gift for the princess, and asks to see Your Majesty."

King Miaozhuang ordered him brought in. When the old man stepped forward, he had the unmistakable bearing of an immortal: his features were fine, his presence calm and otherworldly. The king asked him brusquely: "Old sir, what is your surname and given name? Where do you hail from? What business brings you here today? Speak the truth, and be quick about it."

The old man replied: "Your Majesty, let us put aside questions of my humble name and origins for now, and I will tell you why I have come. I heard Your Majesty has welcomed a new third princess, Miaoshan, and is hosting a great banquet for your ministers, so I came especially—first, to offer Your Majesty my congratulations, and second, to tell you of this princess's true origin. You must know that this princess is the reborn Merciful Vessel, Cihang, come to save all beings across endless kalpas. Do not look down on her, Your Majesty—she will one day turn your current mortal kingdom into a Buddha-realm!"

King Miaozhuang burst into laughter at these cryptic words: "Who would have thought a man of your advanced years would spin such outlandish lies! The Great Being Cihang dwells in the Western Land of Ultimate Bliss, enjoying pure, unspoiled bliss. Why would she willingly descend once more into the dust of the mortal world, be reborn here as a common mortal? This is utterly contrary to reason! And you speak of turning a kingdom of men into a Buddha-realm! This is nothing but the rambling of a doddering old man—do you take me for a fool?"

The old man said: "Your Majesty is not aware? In the Buddha's teaching, while most adherents seek to transcend the world of suffering, there are also those who choose to enter it to help others. The Great Being Cihang saw that all beings are deeply mired in the dust of countless kalpas, their suffering unable to be eased, so she made the great vow to respond to every cry for help and save them from pain. Her birth into this mortal world is no coincidence! Who am I, a lowly old man, to dare tell a lie to Your Majesty? This matter is the absolute truth."

King Miaozhuang said again: "Even if what you say holds a grain of truth, even if the Great Being Cihang has vowed to enter the world to save beings from the suffering of endless kalpas, she should have taken male form. It is most strange for her to be reborn as a girl—I simply do not believe it."

Hearing this, the old man nodded slowly, saying, "Good, good! The causes and conditions behind this matter are far too profound to explain to Your Majesty in full. Whether you choose to believe it or not is up to you, but in time, the truth will become clear. There's no need for me to argue the point further."

As they spoke, the little Princess Miaoshan in the wet nurse's arms began to wail all the more pitifully. Hearing the child's cries, King Miaozhuang felt a sudden pang in his chest, and said to the old man: "If that is so, since you claim to know the karmic causes of this child's past lifetimes, you must be a person of the Way. This child cries so wretchedly, without stop—do you know what the reason is?"

The old man let out a hearty laugh: "I know, I know! There is nothing about cause and effect that I do not know. The princess's tears are what we call Great Compassion! She weeps because she sees Your Majesty has slaughtered countless cattle, sheep, pigs, chickens, shrimp, crabs, birds, and fish to celebrate her birth—taking so many lives to satisfy people's appetites, adding to Your Majesty's boundless store of karmic debt. Her heart is too tender with compassion to bear it, so she weeps without stop. What is more, the scope of Great Compassion reaches far beyond humans, to all living beings. Even a single blade of grass or a lone tree receives its tender care—how much more the lives of cattle, sheep, birds, and fish?"

King Miaozhuang said: "If that is true, old sir, do you have a way to make the child stop crying?"

The old man said: "Of course, of course! Let me recite a short verse for her—when she hears it, she'll stop crying at once." He walked over to the princess, rested his hand gently on the top of her head, and murmured the verse softly:

Do not cry, do not cry, do not cry till your spirit clouds and your wisdom grows dim. Do not forget your great vow of compassion, your tender heart that turns to the world. Know that three thousand vast kalpas wait for you to ferry them across, three thousand good deeds wait for your hand to perform. Do not cry—listen to the sacred sound.

Miraculously, as if she understood every word, the princess pricked up her ears, opened her eyes wide, and gazed at the old man for a moment, as if she had grasped his meaning. She stopped crying at once, her two small eyes fixed intently on him. King Miaozhuang and all the assembled ministers stared at one another in disbelief, clicking their tongues in wonder.

Before anyone could speak, the old man said: "Now that the princess has stopped crying, I can't linger here any longer. I will take my leave." With that, he bowed to King Miaozhuang, swept both sleeves in a flourish, and as a soft breeze rose around him, he strode swiftly out of the hall. He moved with a light, steady step, walking as fast as if he were flying—nothing like the gait of an old man. King Miaozhuang realized at once that he was a person of great spiritual cultivation, and was filled with regret at having let such a rare opportunity slip away. He ordered the palace guards to hurry after the old man and invite him back, saying he still had questions he wished to ask for guidance, and that they must speak politely, and under no circumstances offend the old man.

The guards set off at once, but by the time they reached the palace gate, the old man was nowhere to be seen. They mounted swift horses and rode out in all four directions—east, south, west, and north—to search for him. They scoured the six main streets and three market thoroughfares, but found no trace of the old man. When they asked the common folk, they were all caught up in the revelry of the celebration, busy feasting and enjoying themselves, and none had paid any mind to whether an old man had passed by or not—so they could get no clear answers. The guards, having no other option, searched the surrounding area once more, and still found nothing, so they had to return to the palace to report.

King Miaozhuang said to the ministers: "I saw that old man leave with my own eyes—I gave the order to pursue him before he was even out of sight. How could he have vanished so completely? Do you suppose that old man grew wings and flew away?" The ministers were all astounded. The senior minister Boyoumen stepped forward and said: "In my view, the streets and markets are packed with people celebrating today, and that old man moved as fast as a young man. Once he passed through the palace gate and melted into the crowd, it would be natural for the guards to lose sight of him at once. If we send them to search house by house, we will surely find him."

Before he could finish speaking, the Left Chancellor Analuo hurried to add: "No, that will not do at all! Today the people are joyfully celebrating the grand occasion. If we search house by house, will that not spoil their pleasure and disrupt the celebration? This old minister is certain that old man was no ordinary person. From the words he spoke, and the way he came and went, it is clear he is no common man. Since he chose not to stay, no amount of searching will find him. It is better to let him go on his way. I believe that old man was a manifestation of the Buddha himself, come to guide us with his teaching!"

How did he reach this conclusion? This venerable, virtuous Chancellor Analuo was a devout Buddhist, and so he interpreted every event through the lens of the Buddha's teachings.

When King Miaozhuang heard Analuo's words, he turned the events of the past hour over in his mind, and found himself half convinced, half doubtful. He said: "If it truly is as you, my learned minister, have said, then for the Buddha himself to grace our kingdom with his presence is a rare blessing indeed. What a shame that we, with our mortal, unenlightened eyes, failed to recognize him standing right before us! If only we had recognized him, we could have begged him for guidance—what a fortune that would have been! But we let this golden chance slip through our fingers, and gained not even a single word of teaching. It is a great regret indeed. It must be that my own virtue is too shallow—there is nothing left to say."

Chancellor Analuo offered the king a few consoling words after this. The king and his ministers drank and talked a while longer before the gathering broke up in cheerful good spirits.

From that day on, the story of the Buddha's miraculous manifestation spread across the entire kingdom. It was spoken of as a wonder in every corner of the land, the subject of gossip in every lane and alley, until no one had failed to hear of it or discuss it. In fact, the people of Xinglin had long been steeped in Buddhist teachings. The vast majority were devout Buddhists, and even the small minority who did not practice faithfully still carried an image of the Buddha in their minds. So when they heard of this event, they all took it as true, adding their own guesses and invented details to the story, until the entire kingdom was buzzing with the news. It was as though Sakyamuni Buddha himself had taken the throne of Xinglin Kingdom.

True it is:

The sentient world is ever in turmoil, Our Buddha remains forever at ease.

If you would like to know what happens next, please turn to the next chapter.

Chapter Four: Seeking a Worthy Son-in-Law to Pass the Throne; Idly Watching Ants Battle Stirs Compassion

After Minister Anaro declared that the old man they had been unable to find was in fact a manifestation of the Buddha, word spread throughout the kingdom. Not a single citizen of Xinglin dared disbelieve it, and inevitably people added their own embellishments — fanciful interpretations and talk of destiny — until the hearts of the entire nation turned toward the Buddhist teaching. This marked the true beginning of Buddhism's flourishing in the Western lands. In truth, ever since Shakyamuni founded the Buddhist faith and vowed to deliver all sentient beings, the Western regions had been regarded as the land of the Buddha. Xinglin, lying close to that holy land, had long absorbed something of its influence; after this great stir, the devotion naturally deepened.

But let us not dwell on this at length. Let us return instead to Princess Miaoshan, who under Empress Baode's devoted care was gradually growing up, already out of swaddling clothes and, in the blink of an eye, three or four years old. She grew into a child of remarkable beauty and intelligence — quick to laugh, quick to speak — surpassing both her elder sisters by no small measure. Yet her temperament was vastly different from that of ordinary children. Most little ones delight in bright-colored clothing and fine things to eat, but though she was yet young, she had no taste whatsoever for silken finery or delicacies of land and sea. She preferred only coarse cloth and plain food. Most remarkable of all, she had been a vegetarian from birth and would not touch meat or fish. This was not mere unwillingness — she truly could not eat it. The moment anything oily or meaty touched her lips, she would gag and bring it back up at once, unable to swallow a thing. King Miaozhuang and Empress Baode found this strange, but there was nothing to be done about it, and they couldn't bear to make their precious daughter suffer. So they prepared her purely vegetarian dishes, which suited her perfectly.

When she began her studies at the age of six, she seemed to possess wisdom carried over from a previous life. Truly, she could recite any text after a single hearing and never forgot what she had read, far outstripping both her elder sisters. For this reason, King Miaozhuang and Empress Baode loved her dearly, treasuring her as the apple of their eye. Their hearts were greatly comforted, and they felt that having such a daughter was no less a blessing than having a son.

King Miaozhuang often said to Empress Baode: "When Princess Miaoshan grows to womanhood, I shall certainly find her a match — a man perfect in every respect, one who can govern the state with letters and stabilize the realm with arms — to be her prince consort. Not only will it be a fine match of talent and beauty, but if no crown prince is born by then, the throne of Xinglin can be passed to the consort, and the bloodline of the Shijia clan will not be severed." Empress Baode heartily approved. With this settled in their hearts, their longing for a son gradually cooled, and they began quietly seeking out suitable candidates.

How this matter reached the ears of Princesses Miaoyin and Miaoyuan is unknown, but on hearing it, both couldn't help sighing over their own thin fortunes.

One day, the two elder princesses were together in the garden admiring the peach blossoms. By chance they strolled to the side of the Immortal's Cave and spotted Princess Miaoshan crouching on the ground with a palace maid standing nearby. Both were silent, and it was unclear what they were doing. Their curiosity piqued, they walked over slowly to look — and discovered it was an ant battle.

Miaoshan had also noticed them and called out: "Sisters, come quickly and help me bury these ants that have died fighting!"

Miaoyin and Miaoyuan exchanged a smile. "Little sister, you go on playing by yourself. We're afraid of dirtying our hands and have no patience for this sort of crawling-in-the-dirt nonsense." So saying, they walked off arm in arm. As they went, Miaoyuan whispered to Miaoyin: "Look at Third Sister — she's always fond of these rustic, dirt-digging activities, yet Father and Mother dote on her as if she were a treasure. They talk of finding someone skilled in both letters and arms to be her prince consort, and if Mother has no more children, the consort may even inherit the throne — making her an empress! Whoever heard of a mud-crawling princess? Isn't it ridiculous?"

Miaoyin replied: "I too find Third Sister's behavior rather beneath her station, but Father and Mother dote on her, and there's nothing to be done about it. We were simply born to thin fortunes and won't share in those blessings. It's all predestined, I suppose!"

Let us leave their grumbling against fate and heaven aside for now. What, after all, was Princess Miaoshan actually doing? This deserves a proper explanation.

That day, Princess Miaoshan had been sitting idly in the palace, bored, so she brought a single palace maid along for a leisurely stroll in the garden. By chance she wandered near the Immortal's Cave and suddenly caught sight of a column of yellow ants and a column of black ants on the ground, locked in a tangled battle, with heavy losses on both sides and no clear victor. Her heart ached at the sight.

She thought to herself: These tiny ants, even if they lived out their days in peace, would already have pitifully short lives. And yet they must also suffer the depredations of other creatures! They can barely protect themselves as it is — why must they fight among their own kind and cut their lives even shorter? Look at all these fallen bodies — how tragic! Better that I separate them.

So she crouched down and was about to brush them apart with her hand, but then she froze, not daring to act. Why, you ask? Because the yellow and black ants had already entered a state of melee, fighting in a tangled mass. Their bodies were so small that there was no telling them apart. If she tried to separate them pair by pair, when would it ever end? Moreover, ants are creatures that, once they begin to fight, do not stop until death. And when an ant has seized hold of an enemy, it will not let go even when its own strength is exhausted and it dies. That is why, after every ant battle, the field is always strewn with paired corpses — ants that have died locked together. If someone were truly to pull them apart pair by pair, both ants would certainly be injured. And even if they weren't injured, the moment you set them down on the ground, they would seek out their enemy and fight to the death once more. So while one pair remains unseparated, another pair would already be fighting — an endless cycle, impossible to complete.

Princess Miaoshan, realizing this, drew back her hand. But she was, after all, a child of extraordinary intelligence, and after careful thought, she devised a plan. She reasoned that the ants' battle must be over food. If both sides had ample food, they would naturally carry it back to their nests, and the fighting would cease.

She therefore ordered the palace maid to fetch a generous quantity of sweet cake crumbs. Meanwhile, she located the nests of both ant columns and scattered the crumbs around each entrance. And indeed, the fresh reinforcements emerging from the rear ranks, upon seeing the food, no longer marched off to the battlefield. Instead, they all came to transport the grain, and the fighting at the front gradually slackened. She then took a small broom and gently swept the locked combatants apart. Their battle lines broke apart, and the ants scattered in all directions. By then the messenger ants from the rear had arrived with news, and upon receiving it, everyone rushed back to haul provisions. The fierce battle was at last brought to an end.

But by then, several hundred ants lay dead or wounded on the field. Seeing their broken limbs and severed legs, Miaoshan was deeply sorrowful. She thought: Though ants are tiny insects, they are still living creatures. In a single battle, so many lives have been destroyed. I wonder what karma they created in their past lives to suffer such cruel deaths. And it won't do to leave them lying here — if other creatures come and devour them, wouldn't that add tragedy upon tragedy? I had better dig a pit and bury them.

So she dug a small pit nearby and was gathering the ant corpses for burial when, as fate would have it, her elder sisters came along. She called out to them for help, but they walked off without a second glance. She did not call after them. Instead, she gathered all the ant corpses, placed them in the pit, covered them with earth, and thus completed this act of merit. Only then did she return to the palace with her maid, her heart at ease.

Now let us return to Princesses Miaoyin and Miaoyuan. Because their parents favored Miaoshan, and because they had heard the talk of selecting a prince consort and the possibility of inheriting the throne, their narrow maidenly hearts turned from admiration to jealousy, and they looked upon Miaoshan's every action with disdain. Having mocked her for crawling in the dirt to bury ants, they hurried back to the palace ahead of her and reported the matter to Empress Baode. They supposed that by doing so, they might diminish their mother's love for Miaoshan and redirect it toward themselves. But Empress Baode merely laughed and said that such behavior truly embodied Heaven's virtue of cherishing life.

Miaoyin and Miaoyuan never expected such a response. How could they not feel bitter? Tears nearly sprang to their eyes.

At that moment, Princess Miaoshan, having completed her good deed, returned to the palace with her maid. She greeted her mother and, seeing her two sisters' distressed expressions, assumed they had been scolded by the Empress and dared not ask. Empress Baode, seeing her, asked where she had been playing. Miaoshan recounted everything in detail.

Empress Baode laughed: "You really are a mischievous one! To have the patience for such things, and not mind dirtying your hands. If you'd encountered poisonous ants and been bitten, breaking out in sores, you'd have had quite a time of it! Don't go playing these games anymore, do you hear?"

Princess Miaoshan listened to her mother's gentle scolding, nodding in compliance — yet then proceeded to offer a discourse of her own that revealed her remarkable depth of understanding.

Indeed, her precocious wisdom was plain to see; in childish words, the spirit of Chan shone clear.

To find out what happens next, read the following chapter.

Chapter 5: Rescuing a Lone Cicada, the Princess Is Wounded; Seeking a Cure for the Scar, the King Issues a Proclamation

Queen Baode, having heard of the matter of burying the ants, gave Princess Miaoshan a sharp scolding. The princess nodded quickly in agreement, and when her mother at last paused for breath, she went on: 'What Mother doesn't know is this—ants may be tiny creatures, but they're living beings just the same. When I saw the two columns fighting with casualties strewn on every side, the sight was so pitiful I couldn't bear it. So I found a way to separate them and stop the killing. And those ants, as if they understood what I was doing, didn't bite me once.'

Just as she was speaking, King Miaozhuang happened to return to the palace and asked what the ladies were discussing. Queen Baode couldn't help telling the whole story over again. The king listened and laughed: 'This child is clever and quick, fine in every other way—but she was born with this peculiar temperament. She has none of a child's spirit about her. She acts like some old Buddhist devotee, and it's rather trying. You'll need to take a little more pains, my dear, to guide her properly and cure her of this habit, so that people find her more agreeable.' Queen Baode murmured her assent.

As for the princess herself, she took little notice of her father's words. But Princesses Miaoyin and Miaoyuan were greatly pleased, and the grievance they had been nursing dissolved entirely. Gradually their faces broke into smiles, as fresh as a spring breeze. They knew perfectly well that Princess Miaoshan's strange ways were bred into her very bones and could never be changed, and since their father had spoken these words, her waywardness would surely bring her a day of disfavor. There was truth, after all, in the old saying: rivers and mountains may be reshaped, but a person's nature is hard to change. They say, too, that three years old sets the course of a lifetime—a person's inborn nature, from infancy to old age, never alters. Princess Miaoshan had been born with the heart of a Buddha; no outside force, however powerful, could hope to change her in the slightest. Though Queen Baode often tried gently to counsel her with soft words, the princess remained unmoved, going her own way as before.

One hot summer evening, finding her chambers stifling, she went out for a walk. Beneath the willows a gentle breeze drifted by, and she found it delightfully cool. She settled herself on a stone bench under the shade to enjoy the air; the breeze brought refreshment, and all was wonderfully still. A solitary cicada, perched on a branch, called out ceaselessly, as if quite pleased with itself. In the midst of that perfect stillness, Princess Miaoshan fell into solitary thought: 'People in this world toil and struggle, contending for fame and profit, only to encounter countless trials in the end and suffer every manner of hardship, never awakening even at the point of death. How pitiable! If only I could find some way to awaken everyone in the world and spare them the tribulations of mortal life.'

Her thoughts roamed farther and farther afield; she sat in fixed contemplation, as still as if she had entered deep meditation. Just as she was lost in reverie, the gentle, pleasing sound of the cicada suddenly grew shrill and frantic, as if something had attacked it. This startled the princess at once, snapping her out of her reverie. She followed the sound of the cries and saw, on a green willow branch, a cicada clinging to the bough and screaming at the top of its voice. Beside it crouched a praying mantis, its two blade-like forelegs already gripping the cicada fast, its slender neck craned, just about to bite and devour the creature.

Seeing this, the princess thought: that cicada is plainly crying out to me for help. If I sit idle, its life will be snuffed out beneath the mantis's claws. Luckily the willow branch was not very high, and standing on the stone steps she could just reach it. Without a moment's hesitation she walked over, stepped up, and reached for the mantis. The mantis, seeing someone approach, hastily released the cicada and raised its two sharp blades to slash at the princess's hand. The cicada, granted this splendid chance, gave a sharp tsee! and beat its wings to flight.

The princess stared, momentarily dazed. Her right hand, about to grab the mantis, now saw the cicada was gone and no longer needed to catch it; she began to draw her hand back. But in that single moment's hesitation, the mantis's sharp blades slashed pitilessly across the back of her hand, and with a fierce drag cut deep into the flesh, gouging two bloody furrows more than an inch long, from which bright red blood spurted forth. The pain shot through her at once. No sooner did her hand sting than her vision went dark, and her legs, drained of all strength, gave way beneath her. Unable to keep her footing, she tumbled head over heels from the stone like a fallen scallion.

This was no small fall. Her right temple struck a sharp piece of stone and left a small hole; her left ankle landed on a tree root and wrenched the tendon out of place. Blood poured from her head in torrents. The pain was more than the princess could bear, and she fainted on the spot, losing all consciousness. When she came to herself, she was lying on the couch in her sleeping chambers. Feeling pain all over her body, she saw King Miaozhuang and Queen Baode at her bedside, with everyone bustling about in frantic confusion. Seeing her regain consciousness, they all cried: 'Thank heavens! She's come to herself at last!'

The princess recalled what had just happened and felt the pain most acutely. The wound on her head had already been bandaged, but the dislocated tendon in her ankle had not yet been set; the pain in these two places was especially hard to bear, and she couldn't help moaning and groaning.

Dear reader, you may wonder how she, fainted beneath the willows, came to be in her chambers. Queen Baode had been sitting alone in the palace and, after some time without sight of Princess Miaoshan, grew anxious. She sent palace maids to the garden to search, and they found her beneath the trees, head covered in blood, collapsed in a faint on the ground. They were thrown into a panic, rushed back to tell the queen, and at once a great stir arose. With much bustle they carried her back to the palace on a soft pallet, applied medicine to stanch the bleeding, and bandaged the wound. Only after considerable effort did she finally regain her senses.

King Miaozhuang then asked her: 'My child! How did you come to fall like this, and how do you feel now? Tell your father quickly.' Although the princess feared her father's severity and knew the truth would earn her a scolding, she was honest by nature and couldn't bring herself to tell a single lie. Bracing herself, she told him straight out the whole story—driving away the mantis to save the cicada, and her fall. The king listened, shaking his head and clucking his tongue: 'My child! Haven't I often told you not to busy yourself with these useless deeds? You wouldn't listen. And now, for the sake of one little cicada, you've fallen and hurt yourself so badly. Have you not asked for trouble? As the proverb says, suffer one bitter lesson, learn a little wisdom. Since today you've swallowed such a great bitterness, you should remember it well from now on and stop your willful mischief.'

The princess could do no more than assent twice, after which she fell to groaning once more. Queen Baode, seeing how she suffered, was heartbroken, and asked: 'My child! How do you truly feel now?' The princess answered through gritted teeth: 'My whole body aches, but the right temple and the left ankle hurt most of all, and the left ankle feels as if it's come loose from its socket.' The queen reached down to feel the ankle and found that the bone had indeed slipped from its joint. She was so alarmed she nearly leapt up, exclaiming over and over: 'What shall we do, what shall we do!' The king at once sent word to summon a physician into the palace, who set the bone and the tendon and prescribed medicines for her to take. After a long spell of bustle the pain eased a little, and she fell into a gentle sleep; only then did the household breathe easily.

Princess Miaoshan slept like this for the better part of a month, unable to rise—as if she had suffered a serious illness. Any other person, blaming the cicada and the mantis for such great suffering, would surely have nursed a grudge. But this princess was made of different stuff. She felt not the slightest regret; on the contrary, she believed that although her body had suffered a little, her heart had gained the deepest comfort. Lying confined to her bed, she hardly felt any suffering at all.

After a month she gradually sat up and walked as before. The injury to her ankle had completely healed, and the lighter wounds, such as those on the back of her hand from the mantis's grip, had also faded without trace. Only the wound on her right temple refused to close. They sought out better medicines to apply, and after many more days the wound finally closed over—but at the corner of her brow there remained a dark scar the size of a longan fruit, like a flaw upon fair jade, a blemish on her beauty.

Queen Baode, seeing this scar, was deeply displeased and said to King Miaozhuang: 'A lovely girl as fair as a flower—and now there's a scar upon her brow! Does it not mar her looks? The kingdom is not without skilled physicians, and Your Majesty, as ruler of a great nation, need only issue a decree and seek throughout the realm. Surely finding some proven remedy for our daughter's scar would not be hard. Why not try, Your Majesty, by issuing a proclamation?' King Miaozhuang nodded his assent.

The next day, at the morning court, he did indeed issue an edict, broadly seeking remedies for the scar, proclaiming that whoever could remove the scar from the Third Princess's brow would be rewarded with a thousand taels of silver and appointed Imperial Physician. No sooner was this edict proclaimed than the physicians of the kingdom, all eager for the great reward, came in an unbroken stream to try their prescriptions. But one after another, dozens of remedies were tried—and none produced the slightest effect.

King Miaozhuang was deeply displeased. To think that in so great a kingdom there should be nothing but quacks, not one man of true ability! It seemed, then, that there was no way to remove the scar from his daughter's brow. A flaw upon fair jade—how could one not lament it? He sat fretting in his vexation when, as fate would have it, a most singular personage arrived at that very moment. He was none other than—

Lament not the flaw that will not fade— one of destiny still awaits her day. To learn what happens next, attend the next chapter's unfolding.

Chapter 6: The Mediocre Physicians All Lack the Cinnabar Cauldron Medicine — The Strange Cultivator Points to the Snow Mountain Lotus

The story goes that King Miaozhuang, unable to obtain any effective remedy for the scar on Princess Miaoshan's brow, was deeply displeased. He resolved to banish every physician from the kingdom, forbidding them to remain in the land of Xinglin, lest the common folk continue to be deceived. He had discussed this intention with Chancellor Anaruo, and though he wished to carry it out at once, it was only thanks to Anaruo's many entreaties that a deadline of seven days was finally set. If, within those seven days, no one could heal the princess's scar, the physicians would indeed be driven out.

When this news spread from the court, the men who made their living by medicine were terrified out of their wits, their faces gone the color of clay, and they wailed in endless lamentation. They could only pray that Heaven would protect them and send down some extraordinary person to cure the princess's affliction, sparing physicians the suffering of exile. But how could such a hope possibly be fulfilled? One day passed and then another, yet still no good tidings came. Another day went by, and there was still no word at all. The anxious scheming of those physicians truly grew with each passing day. In the blink of an eye, the seventh day arrived. With only this brief deadline remaining, hope was thinner than ever.

But Heaven does not cut off every path for mortals. Just as everyone's hope was about to be extinguished, and King Miaozhuang had summoned Chancellor Anaruo to deliberate on the edict expelling the physicians, a Yellow Gate official suddenly ascended the hall to report that a young scholar stood beyond the palace gate, requesting an audience with the king. He claimed to have a method to cure the Third Princess's affliction and awaited the king's command. King Miaozhuang, whose heart had been exceedingly troubled by this matter, was naturally overjoyed to hear that someone claimed to be able to treat it, and he ordered the scholar to be brought before him.

The Yellow Gate official had not been gone long before he returned with a young man. King Miaozhuang raised his eyes to take in the youth's appearance: elegant and refined in bearing, dignified in feature, and poised and generous in manner — what a fine young scholar! The scholar performed the grand obeisance, and King Miaozhuang bade him be seated on a brocade stool. Then the king began by asking: "What is your surname, and what is your name? Where is your home? Speak the truth in full detail."

The young man bowed and replied: "Your subject's name is Lounafulü. I dwell in the Duobao Mountains of the south, where I have long gathered medicinal herbs and studied medicine, dedicating myself to relieving the suffering of the afflicted. I have now heard that the scar upon the princess's brow has resisted all treatment, and that Your Majesty, in great wrath, intends to expel every physician from the kingdom. I thought to myself that though these practitioners are indeed mediocre and incompetent, the princess's condition is truly beyond what ordinary physicians can cure. To banish them all would be somewhat unjust. Therefore I have hastened here especially to make my case to Your Majesty. The road was long and I have arrived late — I pray Your Majesty will pardon the offense."

King Miaozhuang, upon hearing these words, let out a cold laugh and said: "What a bold scholar! I had thought you came here to offer some marvelous elixir, but it turns out you are only acting as an advocate for that pack of quack physicians. For this alone, you deserve to be punished for your presumption."

Lounafulü also smiled faintly and said: "As for a marvelous elixir, I do have one. Since Your Majesty wishes to punish me, I shall not speak of it."

King Miaozhuang said: "Very well then, speak. If you truly can cure the princess, you shall be found innocent and credited with merit. But if it proves ineffectual, that is tantamount to deceiving me, and both offenses shall be punished together — there will be no leniency. If you have a marvelous elixir, produce it quickly!"

Lounafulü let out a laugh and said: "After all, Your Majesty is a man of rank and does not know what's what. This is a matter of no small consequence — how could it be spoken of lightly? Do you suppose the princess's condition is one that ordinary medicine can cure?"

King Miaozhuang, hearing him speak in this half-true, half-false way, began to feel a surge of anger in his heart. He said sternly: "If it cannot be cured by ordinary medicine, does that mean one must have an immortal's elixir? If so, unless one chances upon a true immortal, the princess still cannot be cured. Just look at you, a mere young scholar — could you possibly possess an immortal's elixir?"

Lounafulü nodded and said: "After all, Your Majesty is perceptive. The thing I speak of — although it does grow in the human world, it carries within it some measure of immortal and Buddhist spiritual essence. Though I myself do not possess it, I do know of it."

King Miaozhuang said: "Merely knowing of it is of no use. If it cannot be sought out, all one's labor is in vain. What good is that?"

Lounafulü replied: "In all things, so long as one has a sincere heart, even a mortal body can achieve Buddhahood. How much the more so for any object to be found in this human world — how could it possibly be unattainable?"

At this moment, Chancellor Anaruo bowed toward King Miaozhuang and said: "This old minister observes that this man does have an unusual quality to him, and his words seem credible. Perhaps we should bid him speak plainly, and then decide. It may yet prove effective."

King Miaozhuang nodded, then turned again to Lounafulü and said: "You there, scholar, cease this talk of half truths and half falsehoods — enough idle chatter. If you truly possess some marvelous medicine, where is this medicine to be found? How is it to be sought? Quickly tell me in full detail, that I may send people to search for it. If it truly removes the scar from the Third Princess's brow, I shall most certainly bestow upon you rich rewards in recognition of your service, and will not fail you. You need no longer beat about the bush in this manner."

Lounafulü, at last adopting a solemn and stern expression, said: "How would your subject dare to trifle with Your Majesty? Just now it was only because Your Majesty's faith was not yet firm that I was unwilling to speak. Now that I have Your Majesty's word that you will harbor no further doubts, I shall speak plainly. The thing I speak of is nothing other than a single lotus blossom."

King Miaozhuang burst into laughter and said: "What is so wondrous about that? At this very moment, in the lotus pools of the imperial garden, there are fully ten thousand precious green lotuses. To obtain a single one would be no difficult matter at all — is it worth making such a fuss over?"

Lounafulü waved his hands and said: "No, no, no! Those green lotuses — not to speak of ten thousand, even a million would all be equally useless. The lotus of which I speak does not grow in pools, but upon a mountain. Its roots do not touch mud, and its leaves are unstained by dust. It blooms through the snow and hides at the sound of a voice. If even a single petal of this flower can be obtained, the princess's ailment will be cured at once without difficulty."

King Miaozhuang, upon hearing these words, refused to believe them. He shook his head repeatedly and said: "This is clearly a falsehood you have fabricated to deceive people. Where in this world could such a lotus possibly exist?"

Lounafulü replied: "It does exist, though it is exceedingly rare. From ancient times until now, there have been only three such blossoms in all. One was carried off by the Queen Mother of Heaven and transplanted into the Jasper Pool of the celestial palace; one was taken by the Buddha to the Western Land, where it became his lotus throne; and the third fell into the human world, there to await the one who is fated to receive it!"

King Miaozhuang said: "If that is so, this lotus has never been something ordinary mortals can obtain. After all this talk, it is still a waste of words. In the end, where exactly is this lotus that has fallen into the human world? How might one go about obtaining it? Speak and tell me."

Lounafulü said: "It is neither far nor near. To the southeast of this place stands Mount Sumeru, and in the midst of it is a peak as steep as a wall, called Snow Lotus Peak. The lotus that has drifted down grows within the icy caves and snowy hollows of that very peak. At times, from the foot of the mountain, one may gaze up and see it — enfolded by white clouds, its fragrant dew borne upon the wind. Indeed it is a treasure. To seek and obtain this thing, a person without affinity, though he may endure a thousand hardships and ten thousand toils, will never lay hands upon it. But a person of affinity, so long as he maintains a sincere heart and does not shrink from hardship, will sooner or later have his wish fulfilled."

King Miaozhuang fell into a long reverie, then shook his head and said: "No, no, that is not right! If you know where the lotus is and all its many virtues, why can you not set forth with a sincere heart and go seek it yourself? Why have you come here instead, wagging your tongue? This is plainly nothing but wild and reckless talk. You are still acting as an advocate for those physicians, come before me to play tricks. I shall not argue with you further. I will, for the time being, have you placed under guard. I shall send people to investigate at the Snow Lotus Peak of Mount Sumeru, and when I have their report, if such a thing truly exists, I shall receive you with the courtesy due a distinguished guest. But if no such thing exists, then do not blame me for enforcing the law as firm as a mountain, and for refusing to spare your life."

Lounafulü assented again and again, and added: "If that is the case, then the matter of expelling the physicians must also be postponed. Let us wait until the truth is known."

King Miaozhuang consented to this as well. He thereupon ordered that Lounafulü be placed under comfortable house arrest and treated well. At the same time, he discussed with Anaruo the question of whom to send to seek the lotus.

Anaruo said: "This is indeed a difficult problem. For one, the journey to Mount Sumeru is long. Vast deserts, high plateaus, deep forests and sheer ravines — a hundred extraordinary dangers lurk at every turn. Anyone who is not possessed of peerless valor and outstanding courage and judgment could never make the journey. There is another consideration as well: the person sent must be someone the king trusts absolutely; otherwise, he may well shirk the difficulty along the road and fabricate false reports. Therefore I beg Your Majesty to think carefully."

King Miaozhuang lowered his head in thought, and for a moment could not think of any suitable person. He said: "Let us take this matter up at tomorrow's morning court, when we shall gather all the civil and military officials to deliberate together, and then decide." So saying, he withdrew into the inner palace, and Anaruo likewise descended from the hall and returned to his residence, and of that we shall say no more.

The next morning, all the officials gathered in the hall. After the formalities of court had been observed, the ranks took their places, and King Miaozhuang set forth the whole of the foregoing affair to the assembly, asking who was fit to undertake the journey. At that very moment, the duty general of the palace guard, Kashyapa, volunteered to go. Among the military officers, this man could truly be counted as possessed of both wisdom and valor, and was indeed equal to the task. King Miaozhuang was greatly pleased, and bestowed three cups of imperial wine to fortify him for the road. After Kashyapa withdrew from court, he returned to his residence, selected fifty strong and vigorous soldiers, prepared ample clear water and provisions, together with all the necessary tents, and had each man mount a camel. When all was in readiness, he set out without delay, traveling ever eastward, in search of the treasure atop Mount Sumeru. This company of riders, journeying across the vast wilderness, truly encountered hardship upon hardship and difficulty upon difficulty at every step.

有心医瘢额，
去访白莲花。

If you wish to know what happened thereafter, you must wait for the next chapter to be unfolded.

Chapter 7: Kashyapa Seeks the Lotus on Mount Sumeru; the Queen of Xinglin Falls Ill

Kashyapa made his preparations, gathered fifty followers, and they set out on camels for Mount Sumeru. The journey was brutal — endless stretches of sand alternating with deep ravines and thick forest. They traveled by day and pitched their tents in the open at night. Sometimes they'd go dozens of li without seeing a soul, not even a herding dog; water and fodder were scarce. Luckily the camels could endure hunger and thirst, or the going would have been even harder. They rose at dawn and camped at night for over half a month before the snowy summits of Mount Sumeru finally came into view.

You may ask why every peak is crowned with snow. It's because Mount Sumeru rises so high its peaks seem to touch the heavens, and the climate up there is fiercely cold. Even at the height of summer it's twice as cold as winter on the plains below, so the snow that falls never gets a chance to melt. The peaks remain white year-round, and from a distance they look like a row of white-haired old men standing shoulder to shoulder — a strange and striking sight.

As the party drew closer, everyone grew excited and pressed on faster. Another day or two and they reached the northern foot of the mountain. But within ten li in any direction there wasn't a single settlement, and they had no idea which of the thirty or fifty peaks was Snow Lotus Peak — no one to ask, either. Night was falling, so Kashyapa found a quiet spot, set up camp, and told the others to rest. They'd work out how to search tomorrow.

After a good meal, the rest turned in. Kashyapa couldn't sleep. The mission weighed on him, and he tossed and turned restlessly. Eventually he pulled on a long-haired cloak, buckled on his sword, and slipped out of the tent to take in the night air at the foot of Mount Sumeru.

At the edge of the woods he felt the chill of dim moonlight and a biting wind. The dark forest swayed around him. But the snow on the peaks caught the moonlight and gave off a dazzling silver glow — quite a sight. Kashyapa scanned the peaks one by one with growing interest. When his gaze reached the central peak, something about its light seemed different. His heart stirred. Could that be Snow Lotus Peak? Could that strange radiance be the lotus they'd come for?

He focused his gaze. Yes — there, amid the snow, stood a white lotus as big as an alms bowl, its extraordinary light beaming outward. His joy was boundless. He rushed back to the tent, woke his followers, and led them out. But they were ordinary folk, and most had never seen anything like it. They were so thrilled they began to dance and wave their arms, and quite without thinking burst into cheers.

The noise startled the lotus. It slowly sank into the snow and vanished. Only then did Kashyapa understand: the thing hid itself at the sound of a human voice.

They went back to their tents to sleep, planning to get a better look the next day. But it didn't reappear. Three nights, five nights — nothing. Kashyapa knew waiting was pointless. After all, his mission had been to find out whether the lotus existed; he'd found it, everyone had seen it, he could report. So he led the company back the same way.

The round trip took just over three months. But when they reached the capital of Xinglin, they were met with news that shocked Kashyapa to his core. Queen Baode had passed away a month earlier. The whole kingdom was in deep mourning. Kashyapa counted on his fingers and realized the queen had died at the very moment he had discovered the lotus at Mount Sumeru. The coincidence struck him as more than chance — there had to be some hidden karmic cause behind it.

He settled his men and went straight to court to report. He told the king in detail about the hardships of the journey and finding the white lotus in the snow. King Miaozhuang, still bowed down by his recent loss, was in no mood for good tidings. Hearing the lotus had actually been found filled him with even greater alarm and regret. He managed a few words of comfort for Kashyapa, then withdrew to the palace in low spirits.

One would think finding the snow lotus was a cause for joy, and that the king should have been happy. Why, then, alarm and regret? What was he afraid of?

The truth is, he was afraid because such a lotus truly existed in the world. And he regretted his own foolishness — not believing Lona Furulv's wise counsel, and instead imprisoning him in such suffering that the man finally escaped. Had he not done so, the lotus could have been obtained, and the rest of his troubles might have been resolved with Lona's guidance. Now all hope was gone. How could he help feeling both alarmed and full of regret?

But wait — wasn't Lona Furulv merely placed under house arrest, and even treated with every courtesy, while they waited for Kashyapa's report? How then can we say he was imprisoned in suffering and escaped? There's another reason here, and I'll explain it in due time.

It seems that after Kashyapa left, Lona Furulv was indeed housed in a garden under loose confinement. He could move about freely, all his needs were well attended to — he simply wasn't allowed past the garden gate. But a few days later, Queen Baode in the palace suddenly fell ill. At first she was just listless and drowsy, sleeping the day away in a stupor. When roused, she was perfectly clear-headed, showed no symptoms — she just didn't want to talk to anyone, and fell right back asleep. When the king asked, she said she felt nothing wrong. The king was puzzled, and to be safe summoned the imperial physicians. They each took her pulse, shook their heads, and said all six pulses were completely absent — they couldn't identify the illness and didn't dare prescribe. The king was frantic. He summoned more doctors, but all gave the same answer: helpless.

The king hurriedly called his ministers to counsel him. Anaruo stepped forward. "That Lona Furulv the other day — didn't he claim he'd gathered herbs and studied medicine on Mount Duobao? I think this man has an unusual background. Perhaps he has extraordinary gifts. He's still under house arrest in the garden. Why not bring him in and ask? He may well know how to treat this strange illness."

The king thought it sensible and ordered Lona brought before him. When asked about the illness, Lona said he must take the pulse first. So the king sent palace attendants with him to examine the queen. About half a shichen later, he returned to the outer hall. The king asked at once how things stood, and whether he could cure her.

Lona shook his head. "It's hopeless, utterly hopeless. All six pulses have vanished — the sign that the soul has ascended and the spirit descended. When I first pressed her pulse, I thought the same: the six pulses entirely gone. But in that case she shouldn't still be breathing, which puzzled me. On closer examination I found there's still a thread-like trace hidden in the pulse — intermittent, on the verge of breaking. So she won't pass on immediately. But her spirit has already left her body. She has at most seven days to live. It seems her past karmic debts aren't yet exhausted, and she must spend a few more days on her sickbed before she can finally let go."

The king felt as though burning oil had been seared into his heart. Tears welled in his eyes. "Spare me your useless words. Just tell me — what caused this illness? Is there any cure? Speak quickly, and save the queen's life."

Lona shook his head and sighed. "It can't be done. To cure her we'd need the medicines of the Buddha's own house, or the elixirs of the Divine Elder's furnace — only these might call back her soul and bring her back to life. Mortal medicines are powerless. Your Majesty shouldn't cling to even a thread of hope. You'd best start preparing the funeral arrangements.

"As for the cause of the illness — it's a long story, not something that happened in two or three days. Let me explain from the beginning. When a person is born, once their faculties open, the seven emotions — joy, anger, sorrow, fear, love, hatred, desire — stir within, while the six thieves — form, sound, smell, taste, touch, thought — tempt from without. These so shatter the once-unified essence, qi, and spirit that they fall apart and can no longer be ruled. So human life is but a brief spring dream. Even the longest-lived reach a hundred years, and when essence, qi, and spirit scatter completely, one must sleep the long sleep. Moreover, the queen was raised in wealth and honor — on the surface, everything seems better than for ordinary people. But the assault of the seven emotions and six thieves on her is fiercer than on common folk, and her essence, qi, and spirit come apart all the faster. Day after day she heedlessly took life to fill her stomach, building up a heavy load of bad karma. That's why she must lie here day after day — once the karma is paid off, she'll naturally slip away. If you want the name of the disease, it's called the sickness of the seven emotions and six desires, and it's beyond any cure."

The king flew into a rage. "You can't cure her malady — that's bad enough — but you dare spin such lies to cover up your own ignorance and insult the queen! How dare you! Guards — bind that sharp-tongued villain and drag him out for execution! Let's see if he dares to spout such drivel!"

At the king's command the guards on both sides answered together, rushed forward, and in no time had Lona tightly bound. They hustled him out of the hall, where the executioner had already drawn his gleaming steel blade, cold and bright, waiting for the order. Lona's life hung by a thread — but just then, a figure suddenly stepped forward in the hall and knelt before King Miaozhuang to plead for his pardon.

Even good advice invites disaster; danger reaches the executioner's block.

If you want to hear what happens next, you must read on.

Chapter 8: A Verse Conceals Future Affairs; A Glimpse of Mortality Awakens Zen Insight

As the royal guards bound Louna Fulu and were about to lead him down the hall to be beheaded, Analu suddenly stepped forward from the ranks, prostrated himself before the king’s desk, and pleaded: “My liege, please hold your anger for a moment and hear my words. Louna Fulu’s words were reckless and blasphemous, and his crime certainly merits death. But Her Majesty the Queen now suffers from this strange malady, and we have yet to find a cure. To take a life here and now feels inauspicious. Why invite ill fortune for ourselves? In my humble opinion, it would be better to grant him a temporary pardon so we can first discuss a treatment for the queen.”

King Miao Zhuang replied: “Since you have interceded for him, my loyal lord, I will spare his life for your sake. But while the death sentence is set aside, the penalty for his crimes cannot be ignored. Bring him back, administer two hundred strokes of the heavy staff, then send him to the death row prison to serve out his sentence.”

Analu had just secured the man’s life with his plea, so he said no more, returned to his position in the court, and stood at attention. The guards untied Louna Fulu’s bonds, pressed him to the ground, and administered the full two hundred blows with the staff. They then escorted him down the hall to the death row prison, fastened iron manacles around his ankles, shackled him with heavy iron chains, and left him to serve his sentence.

On the night of the sixth day, the prison warden made his rounds to check on Louna Fulu’s cell and was stunned to find the prisoner gone. His manacles and chains were shattered and scattered across the floor. On his bench lay a small slip of paper, inscribed with a four-line verse:

The true Dharma ever purges the six roots, Kindly karma ultimately refines the primal truth. Observing void and form, all sensation stills; If you can hear the sound, you will surely find its source.

The warden summoned all the prison guards and squad leaders to question them. They all said that when they locked him up the previous night, they had clearly fastened him to the central iron ring with his chains. As he was a high-security prisoner, they had even threaded an extra chain through his hair to tether him to the ring. The cell door had not been opened, the windows unforced—how could he have escaped? They lit lanterns and torches and searched the entire prison, even checking the gaps between the stone steps, but found no trace of him at all. As it was his duty to oversee the prison, the warden did not dare shirk his responsibility, and hurried to report the incident to the chief justice.

The chief justice took the slip of paper and entered the palace that night to report to the king. At that moment, King Miao Zhuang was seated with his courtiers in the hall, discussing arrangements for the dying Queen Baode. When he heard the news, he flew into a rage: he was about to dismiss the chief justice and behead the prison warden for their negligence, and had already ordered his soldiers to scour the entire kingdom to capture Louna Fulu and bring him to justice—before he could even finish speaking, a palace maid stumbled into the hall, prostrated herself on the ground, and announced: “Her Majesty the Queen has just passed away.”

When King Miao Zhuang heard this, he was overcome with grief, tears streaming down his face. He had no more heart to dwell on Louna Fulu, and shot to his feet, rushing straight to the royal bedchamber.

It turned out that after the day the royal physicians had all exhausted their knowledge trying to treat her illness, the court prepared a nourishing medicinal prescription for Queen Baode to take. But the medicine had no effect whatsoever, as if poured onto stone. She grew more listless and dull-witted with each passing day, until on the evening of the 19th day of the ninth lunar month, she stretched her legs, stared wide, and passed from this world.

At the time, King Miao Zhuang was too overcome with grief to attend to state affairs, which were all handled by his senior ministers. The matter of Louna Fulu’s disappearance was naturally set aside and left uninvestigated.

A few days later, King Miao Zhuang suddenly remembered the verse Louna Fulu had left behind. He took it out and read it again and again, but found it half-comprehensible, half-impenetrable, with a subtle, inscrutable air. He realized the four lines were written side-by-side horizontally, and by chance noticed it was an acrostic riddle: the first characters of the first two lines clearly spelled out the name of his third princess, Miao Shan, while the first characters of the last two lines spelled out Guanyin—a pairing he could make no sense of. He thought: “To observe is an act of the eye, while sound can only be heard by the ear; the eye cannot perceive sound. How can these two characters be paired together like this?”

Though King Miao Zhuang could not decipher the verse for certain, he knew in his heart that Louna Fulu was no ordinary man: only someone truly extraordinary could break free of his chains and vanish into thin air like a divine dragon. But since he had already escaped, there was no hope of his return. Dwelling on the matter was useless, so the king let the thought pass.

Let us set this matter aside for now, and turn to Princess Miao Shan in the palace. After she recovered from the injury she sustained saving the cicada, Queen Baode kept a far closer eye on her movements. She rarely allowed Miao Shan to go out to play, and even when she visited the royal gardens, she had to be accompanied by three to five palace maids. She was strictly forbidden from repeating acts like saving cicadas or burying ants; if such behavior was discovered and not stopped, leading to any trouble, the accompanying maids would be sentenced to death.

Miao Shan had a heart softer than anyone could imagine. After these restrictions were put in place, she feared her own actions might cause others to suffer and add to her karmic burdens, so she changed her behavior significantly. She no longer went out much, spending her days in quiet contemplation and study within the palace. In her spare time, she played chess and zither with her two older sisters to pass the lonely hours, and remained safe and undisturbed throughout.

Who could have guessed that as they lived their happy, comfortable lives, Queen Baode would fall ill with this strange malady?

At the time, Princess Miao Shan was only seven years old, but she had deep karmic roots accrued over past lifetimes, and a naturally compassionate heart. The moment she saw her mother fall ill, she was filled with anxiety. She prayed to the gods, consulted diviners, called out to the heavens, and was even willing to shorten her own lifespan to extend her mother’s life. But Queen Baode’s lifespan had reached its end, and no amount of prayer could alter her fate.

The three princesses took turns bringing her medicine and stayed by her side day and night until her final hours. As she lay dying, Queen Baode grasped Princess Miao Shan’s hand and said weakly: “My child, I will not live to see you grow up, leaving you alone so young—how heartbroken I am! After I am gone, you must be dutiful to your father, and do not let your stubborn temper anger him and add to his sorrow.” At this she choked up, unable to continue.

Hearing these words, Princess Miao Shan felt as if a thousand arrows were piercing her heart, and she could not hold back the tears pouring down her face. Suddenly, her vision went dark, and she fainted to the ground. In that same instant, Queen Baode took her last breath and left this world.

When the others helped Princess Miao Shan regain consciousness, she was consumed with grief. Of all those present, besides King Miao Zhuang, she mourned most bitterly. Yet in the midst of her sorrow, she suddenly gained a flash of Zen insight. She thought: “My mother gave birth to me and raised me with such toil and care all these years, her kindness and virtue running deeper than the ocean. I have not repaid even a fraction of it, and now she has left me. How can I ever atone for this heavy karmic burden?”

An idea suddenly struck her: she remembered the compassionate Buddha. She knew the Buddha’s dharma could transcend the three realms and the ten powers, save all beings from suffering, lead them to the Pure Land of Ultimate Bliss, and possessed the greatest spiritual powers. If she wanted to repay her mother’s deep kindness and atone for her own karmic burdens, this was the only path to follow.

With this resolve, she took a vow to undertake spiritual cultivation, dedicating herself to the Buddhist path. At the time, she told no one of her intention, spending her days chanting sutras and worshiping the Buddha, passing all her long hours immersed in scripture. Coincidentally, she had an aunt, a widow, who was also a devout Buddhist, now serving as her nanny in the palace. The two spent all their time together, their bond as seamless as milk mixed with water. Having a companion only deepened the joy of their quiet practice.

But her older sisters Miao Yin and Miao Yuan greatly disapproved of their behavior. Behind their backs, they laughed at them for being foolish and obstinate: born in the royal palace, with every luxury and honor one could want, yet spurning it all to chase these empty, idle fancies—who could help but scorn them for it? Sometimes they even took their complaints to King Miao Zhuang. At first, the king was too overcome with grief and preoccupied with state affairs to bother with such trivial matters. He assumed this was just a way for Miao Shan to pass the time, and it even kept her from the risky, trouble-making habits like saving cicadas or burying ants she’d had before, so he let her continue. He never suspected that Princess Miao Shan had already dedicated herself to the Buddhist path, and vowed to pursue cultivation all the way to enlightenment.

Nearly all things in this world are shaped by the mind, manifesting as all kinds of different states of being. This is what is meant by the saying, “states of being are created by the mind.” Let us leave other examples aside, and speak of dreaming: whenever we dream, it is always because we held a certain desire or idea in our minds before we fell asleep. Once we fall into deep sleep, that idea takes shape in the dream, and the dream never strays beyond what we had already imagined.

By this point, Princess Miao Shan’s faith was fully firm, so her mind was often occupied with thoughts of the Buddha of the Western Pure Land, and of how, once her spiritual cultivation was fully perfected, she would save all beings from suffering, guide them through tribulation, and lead all people to the Pure Land of Ultimate Bliss. Holding these thoughts constantly in her mind, she inevitably gave rise to a corresponding spiritual realm for herself.

One day, as she lay in bed, half-asleep and hazy, she suddenly felt the entire room filled with brilliant light. From the light emerged the Buddha’s sacred, majestic form, a golden body sixteen feet in height, his head relic glowing with light, and lotus flowers carpeting the ground beneath his feet. When Princess Miao Shan saw him, she bowed low to the ground and begged the Buddha to point her the way out of confusion. The Buddha said: “Your worldly karmic debts have not yet been cleared, and you have not yet endured the necessary suffering. How could you attain enlightenment so easily? You can only continue your cultivation with a steadfast heart, enduring hardship as it comes, and your mind will gradually grow clear and bright. When it becomes as pure as a bright mirror, you will understand all things.”

Princess Miao Shan then asked when she would attain enlightenment. The Buddha said: “It is still a long way off, a long way off! Only when you obtain the white lotus flower at the foot of Mount Sumeru, and someone gives you a white jade pure vase, will that be the moment you attain enlightenment. Remember this, remember this. I must take my leave now.” After speaking these words, the golden light receded, all the visions before her eyes disappeared, and she was still lying drowsily in bed exactly as before. There had never been any Buddha there at all—it was clearly nothing but a fleeting, illusory Huangliang dream.

But Miao Shan believed the Buddha had truly manifested before her to offer guidance, and her faith grew even stronger. It is said that wondrous realms are shaped by the mind, and the Huangliang dream fades in the blink of an eye.

To learn what happens next, turn to the next chapter.

Chapter 9: Dreaming of the Buddha's Countenance Brings Unexpected Joy, Defying the Father's Command Brings Punishment as a Garden Attendant

Princess Miaoshan had been dwelling on the Buddha's name so long in her heart that it finally took shape as a dream — and in it she saw Sakyamuni appear before her. She was so deeply faithful, however, that she did not take it for a dream at all. She was certain the Buddha himself had come to guide her out of her confusion, and at once rose to bow toward empty air, thanking him for his guidance. Then she went back to bed — but of course sleep was out of the question. She turned the Buddha's words over and over in her mind, and when she recalled the white lotus on Mount Sumeru, her joy knew no bounds.

She distinctly remembered her father telling her once that the monk Lounafulu had claimed this very thing could heal the scar on her forehead, and that he had even sent Kassapa to search for it. Such a treasure did exist, and the Buddha had spoken of it again just now. Clearly the white lotus was tied to her own destiny by a deep thread of affinity. If she wanted to transcend the world and enter sainthood, she had to find this treasure — there was simply no other way.

Lost in thought, she did not notice the rooster crowing three times, heralding the dawn. She had not slept a wink, so she sprang out of bed — just as her nanny came in. After they had both washed, Princess Miaoshan described the night's events to her nanny in vivid detail. The nanny stood transfixed, joy written all over her face; she pressed her palms together at her chest and kept reciting the Buddha's name. She had always been a devout Buddhist, and now that she heard Miaoshan had a real hope of attaining the Way, she clung to the old saying that when one person attains the Dao, even the chickens and dogs rise to heaven with them. If Miaoshan eventually achieved full Buddhahood, surely she herself would share in considerable benefits. Imagining this, how could she not be overjoyed?

From then on, a white lotus was embedded in Princess Miaoshan's heart, and it would surface unbidden in her dreams. But she also thought: I am shut deep inside the palace, unable to take a single step outside, and Mount Sumeru is a thousand li away. Even if the white lotus were there, how could I ever get my hands on it? To rely on someone else's efforts would not count as my own merit, so the path ahead seemed impossibly hard. Then another thought struck her: No, no, no. A person cultivating the Way knows no such word as "difficulty." The harder the obstacle before you, the more you must break through it to find the path of light, to cross over to the other shore. Even if a thousand kalpas of hardship lie ahead, one must not seek comfort and avoid them. Take things one step at a time, and when your karmic affinity arrives, a distance of a thousand li will present its chance — and even greater trials can be overcome in the same way.

With that thought, she cast out every distraction and gave herself wholeheartedly to the study of Buddhist scripture, waiting only for her affinity to ripen. Time slipped by in the blink of an eye, and several seasons came and went. Princess Miaoshan was now sixteen. Her cultivation naturally deepened day by day: from silent meditation she progressed to inner contemplation, and was on the verge of entering deep samadhi. At this stage her mind felt brighter and more luminous than ever, untainted by a single speck of dust.

Then, just as she reached this point, a demonic obstacle arose. Do you know why? Once Queen Baode's mourning period had ended, King Miaozhuang, seeing that his elder two daughters were now of marriageable age, arranged matches for them in turn — a scholar and a warrior, both famous handsome young men of the kingdom. But he was paying even closer attention to Princess Miaoshan's marriage, for he had once made an agreement with the late Queen Baode that if he still had no son, the throne would pass to a son-in-law. Now, still childless, he intended to carry out that earlier promise, and since Miaoshan had grown up, the matter was urgent. On one hand, he hinted to his ministers to keep an eye out for a suitable candidate; on the other, he broached the subject with his daughter.

To his surprise, Princess Miaoshan was so shocked by the talk of marriage that she refused her father outright. She declared that she was willing to devote her whole life to cultivation, to rescue beings from suffering, and had no intention of marrying at all. She had already made a vow before the Buddha to dedicate herself to the Buddhist order; if she broke that oath, she would fall forever into the hell realms and never be redeemed across a thousand kalpas. These words so enraged King Miaozhuang that he nearly burst with fury. He stared at her wide-eyed, speechless for a long moment. After a while, he tried gentle persuasion: "Do not remain so stubborn and deluded. Think about it — is there anyone in the world who does not long for a home of their own, the joy of husband and wife? Who would give up ready-made wealth and honor to chase some vague, empty path, vainly hoping to become a Buddha? You are only temporarily bewitched by Buddhist scriptures; your true nature has been blocked, and that is why you behave this way. You will regret it in the end. Better to listen to me."

Miaoshan answered: "My resolve is set, and I will cultivate to the very end. First, to repay my parents for the grace of giving me life, and to accumulate merit for you, my father, and my late mother the queen, so that we may attain true enlightenment together in the future. Second, I wish to cleanse my own evil karma, and I am willing to bear all suffering on behalf of all beings. I have made a solemn vow and will never feel regret. I beg you, Father, to fulfill your daughter's wish and never speak of marriage again."

At this, King Miaozhuang flew into a rage. "This is all the nanny's doing, leading you astray!" he thundered. He ordered the nanny to persuade the princess, giving her three days to report back. If after three days she still could not make the princess change her mind and obey the king's command, he would punish them both severely and show no mercy. The nanny assented meekly, and King Miaozhuang swept out.

The nanny knew this was a near-impossible task, but the king's command could not be defied, so she pleaded with the princess again and again. But the princess had a heart of iron; no matter what the nanny said, she would not yield an inch. When pressed harder, Miaoshan declared with iron resolve: "I will accept any punishment — even being hacked to pieces by a thousand blades — but I will never consent to marriage." The nanny was at a loss, and could only prepare herself to suffer the consequences.

The three days passed in a flash, and King Miaozhuang summoned the nanny to give her account. The nanny told him the truth as it was, and King Miaozhuang said bitterly: "I suppose this stubborn, ungrateful wretch needs to taste some suffering before she'll come to her senses." He ordered Princess Miaoshan to be demoted to the imperial garden as a menial worker, tending the flowers and doing the watering. Any further missteps would earn additional punishment, and she would not be restored to her title of princess or released from this labor until she repented and submitted to the king's will — until then she would be treated no differently from the other palace maids.

When the edict was announced, everyone was shocked, but Miaoshan took it calmly. She moved to the garden with her nanny, and rose every morning without daring to shirk. Not a single chore did she leave to others — carrying water to irrigate the flowers, sweeping the floors, washing the tables — she did them all with her own hands. The garden was vast, and keeping it in order was no small feat, but with the nanny helping, the burden eased a little. Yet she had been pampered all her life. She had always lived deep within the palace, every need attended to by others, never having to lift a finger. She had never done such heavy labor before, and within days her palms and the soles of her feet were blistered and calloused, and she was utterly exhausted.

King Miaozhuang had taken this harsh measure believing she could not possibly endure such torment; after suffering a while, she would naturally come to her senses. But Princess Miaoshan saw things quite differently. She believed that one who cultivates the true path must endure many demonic trials, and only after the karmic obstacles are exhausted can one attain the fruit. The suffering she endured now was merely the beginning of such trials, not a real hardship at all. If she could not bear even this, she would never have any hope of attaining the Way. With this resolve, not only did she not turn back, but her faith in the path grew even firmer. Though her body suffered much, her mind was at peace. In time, as she grew used to the work, she no longer felt the hardship at all.

King Miaozhuang often observed her in secret, and though he remained furious, there was nothing he could do.

One day, it happened to be King Miaozhuang's birthday. Princess Miaoshan went into the palace early that morning to offer her congratulations. The king was struck by her disheveled appearance and rough clothes, and the way she moved — she looked just like a nun. He felt deeply uneasy. But when he saw how worn and haggard she looked, she was still his own flesh and blood, and he could not help feeling a pang of pity. He said nothing at first, only sighed softly. After a long while, he asked: "My child, after suffering so much, surely you have come to your senses at last?"

Princess Miaoshan replied: "I have suffered nothing. Everything I have gone through is simply what life requires of a person — it does not amount to suffering. As for my mind, it has always been clear and bright; it was never clouded or blocked to begin with, so there is no question of my 'coming to my senses.' I beg you, Father, to see this clearly."

When King Miaozhuang heard her answer, he gave a cold laugh. "Very well! I see you have not suffered enough. Later, your two sisters and their consorts will come to offer me birthday greetings. I am holding a banquet for them in the garden, so you are to attend to them properly. If there is the slightest mishap, you will pay for it. Now go and sweep the place clean for me!" Princess Miaoshan accepted the order and returned to the garden to clean and tidy every corner. Ever since she had been put in charge of the garden, all the trees and flowers had flourished under her care, full of life and vigor; the pavilions, terraces, and halls had all been kept in perfect order, spotlessly clean. Now, with another thorough sweeping, the place truly gleamed — bright windows, clean floors, not a speck of dust to be seen.

She and her nanny finished all the preparations and waited for King Miaozhuang and the others to arrive for the banquet. At noon, they heard the soft, lilting music of a group of palace maids leading the way, followed by peals of laughter — they knew the party had arrived.

And so the verses go:

I choose the pure path of cultivation as my heart desires, while riches and honor feed the pride of worldly folk.

If you wish to know what happens next, please wait for the next chapter to reveal all.

Chapter 10: The Profound Meaning of Dharma is Spoken Plainly at the Birthday Banquet; Again Demoted to Menial Toil in the Kitchen

After Princess Miaoshan finished tidying the garden, noon was drawing near. A soft, drifting strain of music rode the breeze to her ears, followed by warm, buoyant laughter. She knew the royal party had arrived, and had initially planned to step forward to greet them. But then a thought struck her: King Miaozhuang had mentioned earlier that two prince consorts would be accompanying him. As a woman, it would be improper to step forward to greet them before confirming whether the consorts had actually come. She chose to wait and observe for a moment, so she stepped into a quiet, secluded spot and watched discreetly.

She saw a procession of palace attendants playing soft music at its head, with King Miaozhuang at the center. Behind him walked the eldest princess, Miaoyin, and the second princess, Miaoyuan, each holding the hand of their own prince consort, with a retinue of servants trailing behind. Every face was lit with a smile, joy plain for all to see. Princess Miaoshan let out a soft sigh, thinking to herself: even the longest human life rarely stretches past a hundred years. How long can such glory and joy possibly last? In the end, it’s all just an empty dream. What’s the point of clinging to it? When she saw the two prince consorts had indeed come together, she turned and walked back to the Buddhist hall, refusing to greet them.

Let us leave that aside for now, and turn back to King Miaozhuang leading his party toward the Carefree Pavilion. There was no sign of Princess Miaoshan anywhere. At first he assumed she would be waiting for him up on the pavilion, but when they arrived, she was still nowhere to be found—only the royal nursemaid was there to greet them. Once the king had taken his seat, and the two princesses and their consorts had been seated as well, he turned to the nursemaid and asked, "Where has Miaoshan gone? Why has she not come to greet me?"

The nursemaid had served Princess Miaoshan for years and knew her temperament well, so she replied, "The third princess was waiting for you at the garden gate from the start. But when she saw the two consorts had arrived, she avoided coming forward to avoid the impropriety of greeting men who are not her close family, so she hid herself."

King Miaozhuang snapped, "Nonsense! This is clearly her showing no respect for her elders, deliberately avoiding us. The two consorts are her own brothers-in-law—there is nothing improper about greeting them. Does she intend to avoid them forever? Go summon her here at once. If she keeps up this pretentious nonsense, I will have people come and drag her here."

The nursemaid did not dare to object at all, agreeing repeatedly as she hurried down from the Carefree Pavilion all the way to the Buddhist hall, where she relayed the king’s words to Princess Miaoshan. At first, Miaoshan stubbornly refused to go. But after the nursemaid begged her repeatedly, she knew she could not avoid the summons any longer, so she steeled herself and followed the nursemaid back. When they arrived at the pavilion, she paid her respects to her father and two elder sisters. Then King Miaozhuang ordered her to go greet her two brothers-in-law. The request left Princess Miaoshan so embarrassed she wished she could vanish. She forced herself to bow to each of them once, then stepped back to the side.

She glanced around the pavilion and saw four tables set in order. The central table was King Miaozhuang’s, of course. The upper seat of honor beside him was occupied by the eldest prince consort and Princess Miaoyin sitting side by side, the lower seat of honor by the second prince consort and Princess Miaoyuan, and the lowest table was laid with two places, both empty. A tangle of questions rose in her mind.

As she mulled this over, she suddenly saw Princess Miaoyin pull Princess Miaoyuan over, and the two of them walked toward her together. Miaoyin spoke first: "Dear little sister, we’ve missed you so much since we last saw you. We heard you defied Father’s wishes and were sent here to tend the garden as punishment. Look at you now—you’ve grown so thin. Yes, this is Father’s doing, but it’s still your own fault in the end. Tell me, what’s the point of living, anyway? Glory and wealth are things everyone longs for, things no one ever feels they have enough of. You had all that, yet you refused to enjoy it—isn’t that the height of foolishness? Besides, marriage is a fundamental human rite. How could you defy it? Look at me and your second sister—aren’t we enjoying all the blessings of married life now? Never mind anything else—just getting to come and go together, rest and travel together, is enough to make everyone else jealous. That’s not just what a person ought to do, either. Haven’t you seen the swallows under the eaves? They fly and roost in pairs, don’t they?"

Princess Miaoyuan chimed in right away: "Exactly! Everything elder sister said is perfect. Let’s put aside the happy life waiting for you for a moment. Carrying on the family line is a basic duty for all people. If every woman in the world thought the way you do, humanity would die out. What would the world be then? That’s exactly what Father is hoping for, which is why he set an extra place at the table for you today. Go sit in the lowest seat—we left the spot next to you empty for your future prince consort. Dear sister, for our sakes, you have to stop being so willful and stubborn."

When they finished speaking, Miaoyin and Miaoyuan each took one of Miaoshan’s arms, trying to lead her to her seat. But upon hearing her sisters’ words, Princess Miaoshan’s heart started pounding, her face flushed bright red, and she couldn’t get a single word out. When she saw them reach for her, she panicked, waving her hands wildly and gasping as she spoke: "Wait, elder sisters, please, let me say something. What you’re saying makes sense for ordinary people—it’s the view of the secular world. It doesn’t apply at all to those who cultivate the Way and seek the truth.

Ordinary people can’t see through the illusion of glory and wealth. Because they can’t see through it, everyone longs to grab a piece of it for themselves, so they scheme against and fight each other, even resorting to cunning plots and underhanded tricks, willing to risk their lives to win. But only one or two in a hundred ever succeed. Even those who do—how long can they enjoy it? It all turns to smoke and bubbles in an instant. What’s the point of ruining your virtue and destroying your character fighting over it? As for those who don’t succeed? They abandon all sense of shame, willing to do any evil thing. All robbery, theft, and murder springs from this, piling up immeasurable sin. You can see that the four words ‘glory and wealth’ are a poisonous mist that clouds the mind, a demonic barrier that blocks wisdom, a bitter sea that drowns people. Once you fall into it, you can never climb out. Only the Buddhist path is vast and pure, its Dharma serene. It shatters all demonic barriers, calms the mind and sweeps away all distracting thoughts, and leads you back to your true nature with a single pure thought. You can cultivate to attain enlightenment, purify the six senses, be free of self and other, free of form and emptiness, and enjoy eternal, unshakable freedom. Then you can vow with compassion to teach the Dharma to all beings, to save all living things from suffering, and lead them all to the Pure Land of Ultimate Bliss. Only our Buddha can live as long as heaven and earth—this is the good fruit of not coveting glory and wealth. Little sister has seen through all these tricks, so I’ve made up my mind to take refuge in the Buddha. I will never again fall into the karmic ties of the secular world’s demonic barriers. I don’t dare to deliberately defy Father’s will, I promise you. You two elder sisters mean well, and I will keep your kindness in my heart and pray for your blessings every day. As for that seat, I truly cannot sit in it. For one thing, it would be improper. For another, I have been vegetarian since birth and have never broken my precepts. All the food on the table is meat and greasy, heavy dishes. I absolutely cannot eat them. Please, you two elder sisters sit and enjoy the wine, and I will attend to Father instead."

When Princesses Miaoyin and Miaoyuan heard her earnest explanation, they took it as laced with sarcasm, and their faces fell with displeasure. They each returned to their seats. King Miaozhuang had already been seething with quiet anger before, but had held back from showing it. Now, hearing her words, he slammed his fist on the table and roared, "You ungrateful, worthless wretch! If you want to be a lowly good-for-nothing, that’s your business. But you have no right to spout this nonsense to confuse people! You even dare to sneer and mock us to our faces, slandering your own birth father and your two blood sisters in the process. What a fine Buddhist princess you are! When have you ever seen someone with no father and no ruler become a living Buddha in the Pure Land of Ultimate Bliss?"

Princess Miaoshan said quickly, "Father, please don’t be angry. I would never dare to be disrespectful to you. What I just said truly came from the bottom of my heart. I didn’t mean to anger you, and I deserve to be punished for it if I did. Please forgive me. Let me attend to your drinking and offer you my birthday wishes."

King Miaozhuang glared at her furiously and said, "Who wants your fake, sycophantic attentions, you ungrateful wretch? If you don’t anger me to death, that’s good enough. Don’t even mention birthday wishes to me." He then ordered his attendants to bring a rough, patched hemp garment, strip off her fine silk clothes, and force her to put it on. She was not even allowed to wear shoes or socks. From that day on, she was sent to the kitchen to work as a scullery maid. Every day she had to fill a seven-stone water vat to the brim, chop two loads of hard firewood, and do all the work of washing rice and tending the fires herself, with no help allowed from anyone. A palace maid was assigned to monitor her at all times; if she made any mistake, or was caught slacking off, she would be beaten with a leather whip. Even in any spare time she had, she was required to weave fine straw sandals, and was not allowed to take even a single moment of rest.

Only after King Miaozhuang had finished dealing with Princess Miaoshan did he sit down with the two princesses and their two consorts to open the wine jars and begin feasting. You may wonder how King Miaozhuang could be so heartless as to use such cruel methods against his own daughter. For one thing, he was in a fit of rage, so his punishment was naturally harsher than it should have been. For another, he had his own scheme in mind. He thought that as a garden tender, Princess Miaoshan’s suffering was still relatively mild, so she was able to bear it easily, and she had plenty of free time, which she spent chanting sutras and praying to the Buddha. That was why he arranged this new punishment. On one hand, he wanted her to suffer such extreme hardship that she would regret her choices. On the other hand, he wanted her busy from dawn till dusk, with not a single spare moment. During the day she would do hard labor, and by night she would be too exhausted to do anything but sleep, leaving her no chance to chant sutras or worship the Buddha, so she would gradually grow distant from the Buddha and naturally stop being so stubborn and deluded. But King Miaozhuang’s careful plan still ended in failure. For as the saying goes, "A will as firm as metal and stone would rather be worn down by setbacks than change its course." We will see what happens next in the next chapter.

Chapter 11: A Single Thought of Utmost Sincerity Moves the Palace Maids; Late-Night Secret Labor Pities the Hardworking One

For all that King Miao Zhuang and Princess Miao Shan were father and daughter, bound by the closest of blood, he had the heart to banish her to the kitchen and let her suffer. His hope was that hardship would wear her down, and she would turn back from her path and submit to his wishes. But the princess's resolve was firm. She would rather grind her body down with toil than abandon her conviction to seek the Dharma.

From the day she was sent to the kitchen, she rose at dawn to draw water from the well. Though she lacked the strength for such labor—she was a delicate princess, after all—she forced herself to keep at it. By the time the seven-stone vat was full, the sun had climbed to noon. Then she washed rice and lit the fire for the midday meal. After lunch, she took up the axe and split firewood, and by the time she'd finished her quota, dusk had fallen. She washed rice again and cooked the evening meal, with not a moment's rest the whole day through. Work this heavy would wear down even a sturdy young man, let alone a princess who had never known such hardship. It goes without saying that her back gave out, her strength was spent, and she was utterly exhausted.

So she could no longer keep to her regular spiritual practice, as she had when she tended the royal garden. But her conviction would not be ground down by suffering. After the evening meal, she bore the pain in her body, lit a stick of incense, and sat down. While her hands plaited straw sandals from hemp, her mind was wholly given over to reciting the Buddha's name. Only when the night grew deep did she lie down on her straw mat to sleep.

The first day, the kitchen servants assumed she was simply gritting her teeth through the ordeal—nothing remarkable. But as the days went on and they saw her keep to the same routine without fail, never slack or idle, they could not help but admire her. They pitied her deeply. Even Yonglian, the palace maid the king had assigned to watch over her, showed her the utmost sympathy.

Once everyone sympathized with her, they no longer stood by coldly. One offered to draw her water, another to chop her wood—everyone competed to lighten her load. But Princess Miao Shan had her own peculiar temperament, and she turned down every offer, one by one. She said only this: "I have offended my father, and if I were judged by the law, death would be too light a sentence. It is only by his extraordinary mercy that I've been sent here to do hard labor instead, which is already far more lenient than I deserve. If I refused to do the work myself and let others do it for me, I would be letting down not only my father, but heaven and earth, and my own conscience. That I cannot allow. The work that falls to me, I must do with my own hands. I am grateful for your kindness, and I will carry it in my heart."

Yonglian and the others tried to reason with her. "What Your Highness says makes sense. But you have given your whole heart to honoring the Buddha—you used to do your morning and evening practice without fail. Now you're busy from dawn to dusk drawing water and chopping wood, with no time left for practice at all. We're willing to take these chores off your hands, so you can free up time to cultivate the Way and attain the fruit sooner. That way, we too may share in your merit and guidance. Please don't be so stubborn."

A smile broke across the princess's face when she heard this. "Well said, well said! I didn't realize any of you had roots from past lives. But you know only half the truth. Honoring the Buddha and cultivating the Way depends on a single thing: the state of the mind. If the mind is sincerely turned toward the Buddha, even without sutras or rituals, you will still receive a response. If the mind is not turned toward the Buddha, no amount of recitation or ritual will ever yield any merit. I may have no time for formal practice now, but my mind is never, for a single moment, apart from the Buddha. So leave these chores to me—you needn't trouble yourselves. As for your sincere wish to honor the Buddha, just follow what I've said, and you will receive a response in time."

Seeing her so immovable, Yonglian and the others could press her no further, and let her be. But they quietly made a plan. Once the princess had fallen asleep, they filled the water vat to the brim, chopped and bundled all her firewood, and left only the lighter tasks of washing rice and stoking the fire for her to do.

The next morning, when the princess rose and drew a bucket from the well to pour into the vat, she found the seven-stone container already brimming with clear water. She was thoroughly puzzled. She went to the wood yard and found the firewood all neatly split and bundled. She asked the men and women working in the kitchen: "Who filled the vat? Who chopped the wood in the yard? Tell me at once—do not add to my sins."

Each of them insisted they had only just risen themselves, and no one had done these tasks. Even had they wished to, no one could work with such speed as to finish so much in so short a time. "Strange indeed," they murmured among themselves. "Could some spirit have appeared in the imperial kitchen?" As they chattered on, Yonglian stepped forward and spoke up: "Your Highness, here is what I think. No one did these tasks for you, nor is it any spirit's doing. It is simply that your sincere devotion has moved the Buddha, who sees your wholehearted sincerity and has used divine power to help you in secret. If this happens day after day from now on, then surely it is the Buddha's protective power at work, beyond any doubt."

The princess nodded in agreement, and softly intoned the Buddha's name in thanks. Now that she no longer had to draw water or split wood, two of her heaviest daily tasks had been lifted, and she found herself with much more free time. But she did not spend this extra time reciting sutras or performing rituals. Instead, she kept to the order the king had given her: whenever she had a moment to spare, she plaited straw sandals, never letting up.

The servants grew to respect her even more for her integrity, and regarded her as if she were the Buddha himself. From then on, they continued to do the heavy work of drawing water and chopping firewood for her in secret, day after day. The princess, seeing this happen each morning, took it to be the Buddha's divine power at work, and aside from sincerely honoring the Buddha to repay his protection, she never asked about anything else.

You might wonder how a woman as clever and sharp as she could fail to see through such a simple trick. But her mind was fixed wholly on the Buddha, with no wandering thoughts. Once Yonglian offered her explanation, she suspected nothing further, and so never uncovered their scheme.

With her new free time, the princess paid even closer attention to everything happening in the kitchen. Waste was unavoidable in the kitchens of wealthy households, let alone in the royal kitchen itself. When she saw the slaughter of chickens and ducks, her heart ached with pity, and she would recite the rebirth mantra a hundred times or more on their behalf. When she saw the careless way the staff treated the grain, she gently exhorted them to cherish it. She also gathered the spoiled grain and cold leftover rice they threw away, rinsed away the moldy bits, dried them in the sun, and stored them in cloth bags. Even the grains left clinging to the rice straw she collected the same way, and counted it all part of her daily practice.

Time slipped by, and before she knew it, a full year had passed since she was sent to work in the kitchen. King Miao Zhuang often summoned Yonglian to ask for reports, but by then Yonglian had been won over by the princess, and the two had come to share a perfect understanding. Naturally, Yonglian shielded her in every way and would not say a single word against her. The king, hearing this, was not entirely pleased, but seeing that she bore such heavy labor without the slightest complaint, he could not help but admire her perseverance, and could only sigh.

He knew full well by now that his earlier hope would never come to pass, yet he still could not quite let go. When the Lantern Festival came around and the palace was bright with colored lanterns, the eldest and second princesses came to the palace to offer their greetings. The king took the chance to ask them to go and gently counsel their sister once more, to see what might come of it—no more than doing what a father could.

The two princesses obeyed, and went to Princess Miao Shan's quarters. The sisters exchanged greetings and caught up on old times, and gradually came around to the main topic. Before either of them could speak, the princess said first: "I know what you came to say, elder sisters. My mind is made up, and I cannot turn back halfway. If you truly care for me, all I ask is that, for the sake of our shared blood, you put in a good word with father. Beg him to grant my long-cherished wish to cultivate the Way, and give me a temple where I may devote myself to spiritual practice. I would be grateful beyond words. The merit of such a deed would surpass the building of a seven-story pagoda—please, elder sisters, help me make it so."

The two princesses saw how immovable she was, and knew no words would wake her from her purpose. They offered a few courteous replies, took their leave, went to see the king, and told him everything. At the end, Princess Miao Yin turned and advised her father: "In my humble view, third sister will never change her mind. She is, after all, your own flesh and blood. If you mean to keep her at menial kitchen labor regardless, you might as well grant her wish—let her shave her head and enter the monastic life. Perhaps she has karmic roots from past lives, and may one day attain the fruit. If she truly reaches the Way, it will be of no small benefit to you as well." The second princess, Miao Yuan, seconded her from the side, and the king could not help but be swayed. He shook his head, then spoke a few words, as the saying goes: Sincere devotion can move even metal and stone. To find out what happens next, you'll have to read the next chapter.

Chapter 12: The King, Moved by His Daughter's Sincerity, Relents; The Maid, Resolved to Follow the Path, Takes Vows

After King Miaozhuang heard the earnest pleading of his two daughters, Princesses Miao Yin and Miao Yuan, he let out a long sigh and said: "My children! Do you truly think your father is heartless enough to want your third sister to suffer? You don't know that I had another plan in mind. I wanted her to endure some hardship, abandon her wish to cultivate, marry a worthy prince consort, and share a life of splendor together. But her will is so firm—truly unshaken by a hundred setbacks—and there's nothing I can do about it. As for your third sister, it seems she's destined to walk the path of cultivation. She's been vegetarian since childhood, and her every word and gesture carries an air of the Buddhist life. People say she has deep karmic roots from past lives, and that may well be true. The strangest was the odd old man at her third-day celebration, whose few lines of verse silenced her crying. Then there was the acrostic gāthā left by Lona Fulu when he fled, which hides the four characters Miao Shan Guanyin within its lines. All these things seem connected to her—now that I think about it, they all point to her. Perhaps she has hope of attaining the full fruit; who can say? Since I can't change her resolve, I'll let her do as she wishes. At the foot of Mount Yema outside the city stands the Golden Bright Temple. It was once home to monks, but later a fierce tiger took to roaming the mountain, often coming down to cause harm. Any monk careless enough would be seized and devoured by the beast. The rest of the tonsured monks were so terrified they lost all heart, and none dared remain. They scattered far and wide to take shelter, and the Golden Bright Temple was left to ruin. After that, any traveling monk who passed by didn't even pause. For one thing, the temple had no food or lodging to offer, so there was no place to rest their feet. For another, they feared the tiger and dared not linger. Over the years this became the custom, and the temple has lain abandoned for over a decade now—no monks or dharma companions remain, though the tiger trouble vanished long ago. Now that Miao Shan seeks a place to devote herself to the religious life, this Golden Bright Temple is just the place. I'll send men to repair it first. When the work is done, I'll choose an auspicious day and send her to the temple to take up residence."

After hearing this, Princesses Miao Yin and Miao Yuan finally understood why King Miaozhuang had earlier assigned Miao Shan to tend the garden and labor in the kitchen. They joined the rest of the household in celebrating the festival, but we need not dwell on that.

The next day, King Miaozhuang made good on his word: he issued an imperial edict, allocated funds from the national treasury, appointed senior officials to oversee the work, and hired craftsmen to rebuild the Golden Bright Temple. At the time, the third princess was busy at the kitchen stove and knew nothing of this. But the palace maid Yonglian heard the news first and was overjoyed. She danced and skipped all the way to Miao Shan's chambers, burst in shouting, crying out again and again that wonderful news had arrived for the third princess. Her sudden entrance startled Miao Shan, who at that very moment was sitting before the Buddha with her eyes closed, steadying her mind in inner contemplation. The sudden shout broke her concentration, and the words "good news" struck her as strange. She opened her eyes and fixed her gaze on Yonglian, saying: "What good news could possibly warrant such a commotion? If I had been any less grounded, you would have scared my spirit clean out of my body! What on earth is it? Tell me, from the beginning."

Yonglian realized she had been too abrupt, so she smiled and apologized: "I was so overjoyed I lost all sense of propriety—I never meant to startle Your Highness. It's entirely my fault. But this news is truly unexpected. For now, I won't say. Third Princess, you are so sharp-witted, quick of mind and keen of heart. I ask you to guess what it is—see if you can read my mind."

Princess Miao Shan smiled and replied: "You clever little thing, always up to your tricks. How can I guess what's in your head when I have no power of foresight? It saves me the trouble of needing to know such a trivial matter."

Seeing that Miao Shan was about to close her eyes and enter meditation again, Yonglian quickly said: "Alright, I'll tell you, I'll tell you. After His Majesty saw how earnestly the eldest and second princesses pleaded on your behalf, he knew your resolve was unshakable and would no longer stand in your way. He's given his permission for you to leave the household and enter the monastic life. He also agreed to the two princesses' request and has designated the Golden Bright Temple at the foot of Mount Yema outside the city as your place of Buddhist practice. Third Princess! Isn't this the greatest news imaginable?"

Miao Shan was secretly delighted, but still half in doubt, and said: "Yonglian! Don't invent such a tale to trick me. I find it hard to believe."

Yonglian grew anxious and said: "Dear princess! I've served you all these years—have I ever once deceived you? This is the absolute truth. Workers have already been hired to repair the Golden Bright Temple, and the eldest prince consort has been appointed to oversee the project! Dear princess! If you don't believe me, I'm willing to swear an oath to heaven."

Hearing Yonglian speak with such earnestness, Miao Shan knew her words were true, and joy spread across her face. She pressed her palms together at her chest and said: "After all, my father is a man of compassion—and this time he has truly fulfilled my long-held wish. He's even undertaking a great construction project to restore the Golden Bright Temple. This act of merit is truly great, and will surely bring blessings in time to come."

Yonglian added: "This is certainly a joyous thing, but when you go to cultivate at the Golden Bright Temple, you should arrange for some hunters to stay nearby."

Princess Miao Shan asked: "Why so? What do hunters have to do with cultivation?"

Yonglian replied: "You may not know this, Your Highness, but the Golden Bright Temple was once home to monks. Later, a fierce tiger appeared on Mount Yema, devouring monks from time to time, and drove them all away. The temple has been abandoned ever since. If you go there, what will become of us if the tiger returns?"

Princess Miao Shan was not in the least alarmed, and said with a smile: "That's nothing to worry about. Tigers are the kings of the mountain, and they possess spiritual perception. That's why the Buddha appointed them as the mountain's guardian yakshas. They feed only on those who have committed grave evil—people who've lost all claim to being human. In the tiger's eyes, such folk are no different from wild beasts—they don't even appear human, so the tiger pounces and makes a meal of them. But if the tiger sees a true human form, it will never touch them. How much less one who has taken refuge in the Buddha and cultivates the Way with single-hearted devotion?"

Yonglian clapped her hands and laughed aloud: "Princess! You're wrong about that. The monks who once lived in the Golden Bright Temple were also disciples of the Buddha—all of them vegetarians keeping the precepts, all chanting sutras and bowing to the Buddha. Yet many of them were eaten by tigers nonetheless. Are you saying these monks weren't human in form, or that the guardian yaksha got dust in its eyes and ate them by mistake? That's something that cannot be explained away."

Princess Miao Shan burst out laughing and said: "Yonglian! You may be clever, but you've missed the point of this little Zen teaching. Do you think that simply eating a vegetarian diet and chanting the Buddha's name day after day makes one a true cultivator, fit to attain enlightenment? Let me give you an analogy. Suppose there's a person who eats vegetarian food and chants the Buddha's name, but on the other hand commits every kind of evil—adultery, theft, murder, arson—accumulating endless bad karma. Do you think such a person can count as a disciple of the Buddha? Could they attain enlightenment? Would the yaksha see them as human? Furthermore, though monks may all appear to be disciples of the Buddha on the surface, and many of them truly cultivate with sincerity, there are also frauds and people of impure intention among their number. When an ordinary person commits a transgression, their sin may weigh five parts. But when one who chants the Buddha's name commits the same transgression, it is doubled to ten. This is the meaning of the saying: those who know the law yet break it shall be punished doubly. Those monks who were devoured by tigers must have had their own karmic roots of evil, or unpaid karmic debts from past lives. Otherwise, they would never have met such a demonic fate. Moreover, external demons arise from one's own mind. If one's mind and will remain single-pointed, no external demon can ever come to trouble you. So even if tigers still roam Mount Yema, there's nothing to fear. Tigers are tigers; our cultivation is our own affair. The two are quite unrelated—set your mind at ease!"

After hearing this long discourse, Yonglian felt her mind open up, and she nodded in assent: "In that case, your servant is willing to follow the Third Princess out of the secular world and cultivate the Way—to escape all worldly calamities and the suffering of samsara's rounds."

Princess Miao Shan said: "Your resolve is truly admirable—but cultivation is no easy matter. Right now you're fired with zeal, so your thoughts are undivided. But should you meet with hardship in the future and think of retreat, or be swayed by worldly temptation, all your effort will be wasted and you'll still fail to attain the Way. What would be the point? One must be careful at the beginning and see things through to the end. If you wish to cultivate, do you have the perseverance to remain steadfast to the end?"

Yonglian replied: "Yes, yes, yes! I've served you, Princess, for many years. Do you not know my temperament? If you don't believe me, just listen to my vow." So saying, she knelt facing outward and said: "Heaven above and Earth below, all the gods and spirits, past and present—bear witness to my heart! I, the maid Yonglian, now vow to cultivate the Way. If I ever waver in my resolve or turn back halfway, let me be struck by lightning and consumed by fire—I will accept it willingly." With that, she kowtowed three times and rose to her feet.

Deeply moved by her sincerity, and overjoyed to have found another companion in pure cultivation, Princess Miao Shan was filled with quiet gladness.

Pure cultivation is no strange thing; it all depends on a person of faith.

To find out what happens next, wait for the next chapter's explanation.

Chapter 13: Rebuilding the Golden Light Temple / Choosing an Auspicious Day to Renounce the World at Yemo Mountain

Now, Princess Miaoshan was overjoyed to see Yonglian take a solemn vow that very day, resolved to pursue the spiritual path. She had gained a fellow aspirant to share her practice. From that day on, she knew her own ordination could not be far off, so she made every preparation and waited only for the tonsure. But we need not linger on that here.

Meanwhile, after King Miaozhuang issued his edict recruiting workers to rebuild the Golden Light Temple and appointed the senior prince consort to oversee the project, news of the grand undertaking spread swiftly across the kingdom. Master craftsmen came from far and wide to offer their skills. Ordinary folk, hearing that the third princess was renouncing the world to restore the temple, were filled with admiration and sympathy. After all, a king's daughter who could have lived in wealth and splendor chose instead to endure hardship and solitude, passing her days in the quiet rhythms of a nun's life—the steady tap of the wooden fish and the clear ring of the stone chime. How rare and precious such devotion was.

So, with hearts full of reverence, the people vied to contribute rare treasures and precious objects to adorn this sacred place. Some gave gemstones to be carved into images of the Buddha and the temple's guardian spirits; others offered sandalwood from the south for the carved beams and painted rafters. Every material used in this rebuilding was freely given by the people themselves. This generosity was made possible by years of good harvests and prosperity, which had left the kingdom's households comfortably well off. With such abundance of materials, the work proceeded smoothly and quickly. What's more, though the temple had long stood empty and fallen into disrepair, its original foundations remained, so restoring it was far easier than building anew.

Construction began in early February. The weather stayed clear and mild throughout, and by early May the halls and meditation quarters were complete. What had been a ruin of crumbling walls and broken tiles now rose again—solemn, dazzling, ablaze with gold and jade-green, its yellow glazed tiles and crimson walls catching the light, grand and spacious. Yet for all the finished buildings, many of the Buddha statues still awaited carving, and it was some time before the interior was arranged in proper order. The senior prince consort, having overseen the works, reported the completion of his duties. King Miaozhuang came in person to inspect the result and was well pleased. Back at the palace, he ordered the officials in charge of astronomy and rites to select auspicious dates and draw up the ceremonial protocol for the princess's ordination. Once again there was much bustle, and at last they settled on the nineteenth day of the sixth month as the day she would enter the temple to take her vows: the seventeenth would be the grand ceremony at the royal tombs to pay respects to her ancestors; the eighteenth, the court farewell; and on the morning of the nineteenth she would leave the court behind and enter the temple, with all processions and observances following Buddhist custom. At noon, King Miaozhuang would go to the temple in person and perform the great tonsure ceremony before the Buddha.

With the arrangements finalized, King Miaozhuang summoned Princess Miaoshan, told her of all that had been planned, and asked her to make ready. The princess thanked her father for his understanding and went off to prepare; we need not go into the details.

On the seventeenth, Princess Miaoshan dressed once more in her royal robes and took her seat in a palace palanquin, surrounded by honor guards and attendants. Escorted in great ceremony, she left the palace gates and made her way to the royal ancestral cemetery. There she paid her respects to the long line of departed monarchs, offered prayers explaining her reasons for renouncing the world and her sorrow at leaving her family, presented wine and silk, and then returned to the rear palace. Word had already spread through the capital, and crowds lined the roads hoping for a glimpse of the princess. Wherever her palanquin passed, voices rose in cheers. Inside, Princess Miaoshan simply smiled, holding her palms together at her chest in quiet greeting.

The next morning, King Miaozhuang had just taken his throne and was receiving the assembled officials when a chamberlain entered to announce that the third princess was at the Meridian Gate, come to bid farewell to the court. The king ordered her brought in. Shortly after, the princess entered the hall, performed the triple kowtow, knelt on the golden steps, and said: "Your unfilial daughter is guilty. Her single-minded devotion to the Buddha has kept her from staying at Your Majesty's side—a crime that deserves the harshest punishment. May the Buddha's power grant you added years and long life. Tomorrow I take my vows, so I have come today to take leave of Your Majesty. May you live ten thousand years."

These words pierced King Miaozhuang like knives and arrows, and he nearly wept. Such a bright, beloved daughter, raised with such care, was now to sever all ties and become a nun—how could his heart not break? He forced back his tears, offered a few words of comfort and encouragement, and ordered his own jade palanquin to escort the princess back to her quarters.

Firm as her resolve was, more than ten years of parental love could not be set aside entirely, and she felt a pang of reluctance at parting. She had barely settled in the palace when the eldest princess, Miaoyin, and the second princess, Miaoyuan, came to see her. The three sisters spoke long and tenderly of their shared years, parting only at dusk. Miaoshan had long since made every preparation, so she had nothing left to do. Apart from her nurse and Yonglian, some ten or so kitchen servants had asked to follow her into the temple life. Without waiting for official permission, they busied themselves packing, ready to leave the palace with their mistress at dawn. They did so out of genuine devotion to Miaoshan's kindness, and perhaps also because each of them carried some past karmic affinity for the religious life, willing to trade ease and plenty for simplicity and quiet.

The night passed without event. At the fifth watch the next morning, they rose and washed. As the princess had not yet been tonsured, she wore her court robes once more. In the thin dawn light, a palace maid came to report: "All the attendants are assembled, awaiting Your Highness's command." Miaoshan bowed deeply toward the palace gates and was about to go to the king's sleeping quarters to take her leave when her two elder sisters arrived, saying together: "We have been sent by Father to see you off, Third Sister. He says there is no need to enter his quarters." Miaoshan bowed nine times toward the royal chambers from afar, then took leave of her sisters. Full sisters, after all—how could parting come easily? They spoke a few heartfelt words, and with a sorrowful heart Miaoshan mounted her palanquin.

The eldest and second princesses followed in their own palanquins. As the procession swept through the palace gates, bells and drums sounded, ritual music filled the air, banners led the way, and feathered canopies trailed behind. Pairs of incense burners wafted curling smoke from precious incenses straight into the heavens; pairs of flower baskets held a hundred kinds of rare blooms, their fragrance gathering in clouds about them. Her nurse and Yonglian walked alongside the palanquin, one bearing a white jade ruyi scepter, the other a deer-tail fly-whisk. General Kashyapa, officer of the day at the palace hall, led three hundred imperial guardsmen as escort. The two elder princesses were attended by their own maids and ladies-in-waiting.

That day, every street and market in the capital was packed beyond imagination. Word had gone out that the third princess would enter the temple to take her vows, and from before dawn people had gathered at the main thoroughfares hoping to see her, many carrying fresh flowers and rare herbs as offerings. The crowds swelled until the road from the palace to the Golden Light Temple was nothing but a sea of heads—the whole city emptied, the whole kingdom swept up in a kind of madness. Wherever the princess's palanquin passed, people cheered and danced, hurling flowers and herbs toward her. Even the imperial guards could not disperse them. By the time the palanquin had gone a little way, fresh flowers had piled high inside it; from a distance, it looked almost as if the palanquin itself were woven from blossoms, wrapped in a fragrant haze. What a spectacle.

Out through the city gates the procession wound, slowly making its way toward the foot of Yemo Mountain. From her seat in the palanquin, the princess looked out at the distant peak—not the tallest, perhaps, but striking and graceful in equal measure, some ten li from the city, far from the dust and clamor of the world, a place born for the cultivation of truth. Mile after mile they went, until at last they reached the mountain. Rounding a bend in the pass, she looked up—and caught her breath. Before her rose a mountain gate ablaze with gold, and beyond it a white-stone path leading straight to the Hall of the Heavenly Kings. Red walls enclosed the complex on all four sides, and the roofs shone with golden glazed tiles. The morning sun struck them now, and ten thousand golden shafts of light seemed to writhe and coil across the sky, dazzling to behold—solemn, splendid, beyond compare.

At the mountain gate, Princess Miaoshan stepped down from her palanquin and walked on foot into the Hall of the Heavenly Kings, where she paid her respects to the Four Heavenly Kings, to Maitreya, and to Wei Tuo the Bodhisattva. Beyond lay a vast open square, where ancient pines and cypresses twisted together like sleeping dragons, their dark green canopies spreading wide across the sky. At the far end stood a white-stone dharma platform, and behind it the Great Hall of the Heroic One. On either side of the platform stood two rows of bhikkhunis—some thirty fully ordained nuns. At the sight of the princess, they gently parted the onlookers and filed down the steps to greet her. They had come from temples across the region at the news that the princess was to take vows in this very place, and would remain here permanently. The platform and surrounding area had been crowded with spectators, but at the princess's arrival they moved aside to make way.

The nuns led the princess up into the Great Hall, where bells and drums sounded in steady rhythm, candles burned bright on the altars, incense smoke curled from the censers, the wooden fish kept its patient tap, and the stone chimes rang out clear. All closed their eyes and joined their palms, chanting the Śūraṅgama Sūtra in unison. After the princess had paid her respects to the World-Honored One and a full sutra had been recited, the nuns led her to the meditation hall to rest. One by one they came forward to greet her, announcing their dharma names, while tea was prepared for her to drink. Outside the meditation hall, crowds of onlookers had gathered again, filling the air with clamor and noise—but when word came that King Miaozhuang had arrived, fearing punishment for disorder, they dispersed. In the scramble, many of the courtyard's flowers and trees were trampled, and some railings broken, yet the people's ardor for their princess was plain to see.

Today she takes her place before the Buddha; Tomorrow she will ferry all sentient beings. What happens next? You'll have to wait for the next chapter.

Chapter 14: Test the Golden Blade to Sever the Six Roots; Enter the Monastic Gate to Calmly Contemplate the Three Realms

The common folk, eager to catch a glimpse of Princess Miaoshan's face, surged wherever she passed like waves upon a shore. There were simply too many of them. The courtyard's flowers and trees were trampled flat, and even the carved railings took some damage. None of this reflected any lack of reverence on the crowd's part — quite the opposite, it showed how ardent the people's devotion truly was. Later, when word spread that the king himself was on his way, they feared offending his august presence and began to scatter. In fact, King Miaozhuang had only just stepped out of the palace at that very moment.

When Princess Miaoshan heard her father was on his way, she rose at once, led the nuns out of the meditation hall in single file, and made her way to the temple gate to await him. After about an hour, they saw the royal outriders come galloping up to clear the path, followed by a flood of guards and attendants. Smoke curled from the incense burners, the royal canopy swayed in the breeze, and the king's procession arrived, his ministers trailing behind.

The third princess led the nuns to kneel by the road to greet the royal carriage, while the people who had come to watch the ceremony prostrated themselves at the side of the path, silent and orderly. King Miaozhuang's carriage stopped before the Hall of the Heavenly Kings. He stepped down and walked straight to the meditation hall to rest, while his ministers waited outside. The three princesses paid their respects once more, then took their places at his sides. After sitting a while, King Miaozhuang ordered fresh incense and candles lit in every hall, for he would first offer incense, then perform the tonsure ceremony for the third princess. A chorus of assent went up, and shortly after, a messenger reported that all was ready.

King Miaozhuang rose and led the three princesses first to the main hall, all the civil and military officials following behind. He offered incense in the main hall, then in the Hall of Arhats, then in the Hall of the Dharma Protectors. For the remaining halls — the Hall of the Heavenly Kings and so on — he sent senior ministers to offer incense on his behalf. Afterward, they returned to the Great Hero Hall, where a group of nuns was already ringing bells and beating drums, chanting the Buddha's name aloud.

King Miaozhuang took his seat off to one side. Princess Miaoyin stood at the upper end, holding a jade tray on which rested a sharp golden blade; Princess Miaoyuan stood at the lower end, holding an alms bowl half-filled with clear water. Nursemaid Yonglian and her companion stood on either side as well — one cradling a yellow kasaya, the other holding monastic shoes and a cap. Everyone held their breath, their gaze turned inward, the hall wrapped in utter stillness.

By then, the third princess had gone to the nuns' quarters, changed into plain clothes, and slipped in among the nuns, chanting the verses of praise along with them. The court astrologer stepped into the hall and announced, "The auspicious hour has come!" King Miaozhuang ordered Princess Miaoshan to be summoned to the hall for the grand ceremony.

The attending staff took up a pair of long ceremonial banners and a pair of incense burners, went to the nuns, led the third princess before King Miaozhuang, and she performed the proper prostrations. King Miaozhuang spoke:

"My child, at this moment you and I are still father and daughter; in a little while we shall be strangers to each other. After you leave home, I pray you will keep your resolve firm and cultivate with single-minded devotion, bring glory to the Buddhist teachings so that future generations may look up to them, attain the true fruit of the path and realize Buddhahood in this very body, and spread the Dharma far and wide to save all sentient beings. Now go before the Buddha and make your vows with all your heart, and then I shall perform the tonsure for you."

The princess bowed three more times, rose, walked before the Buddha's throne, prostrated herself fully, and silently made her vows with all her heart. Then she returned and knelt before King Miaozhuang. He took up the golden blade from the white jade tray, parted her hair to either side to bare the crown of her head, and shaved three strokes across it.

At that, he was overcome. A wave of bitterness rose in him; two streams of hot tears broke from his eyes, the blade in his hand trembled and nearly slipped, and he could not force out a single word. The attending nun beside him, afraid the blade might fall, stepped forward on her knees, took it from his hand, and shaved off the rest of Miaoshan's hair with a soft rustling sound. In a breath, her head was perfectly smooth.

King Miaozhuang then took a cloth from Princess Miaoyuan's hands, dipped it in the clear water from the alms bowl, and wiped the freshly shorn crown. He took up the kasaya himself and draped it over her, then presented her with the shoes and cap. Miaoshan changed into them on the spot, pressed her palms together in thanks to her father, rose, and bowed once more to the Buddha. In that moment, she looked just like any of the other nuns.

Seeing this, King Miaozhuang knew it was no time to linger. He ordered his carriage made ready to return to the palace, the two elder princesses following behind. Miaoshan led all the nuns to see him off, all the way outside the Hall of the Heavenly Kings, and everyone prostrated themselves on the ground. Miaoshan said, "This humble nun Miaoshan, leading all the nuns of this temple, respectfully sees off His Majesty's carriage. May His Majesty enjoy ten thousand years without end."

When King Miaozhuang and the two princesses heard her address them so, an indescribable pang of grief gripped them again; their throats tightened and no words would come. They simply raised a hand in farewell, then each climbed into their own carriage and left. Only when they were well out of sight did Miaoshan rise and lead the nuns back inside the temple — and there we shall leave her.

As for the people who had gathered to watch the ceremony, with the great ritual now over and nothing left to see, they too drifted off in clusters, calling for elders and children as they went, until at last the temple grew quiet and still.

From then on, Princess Miaoshan became Master Miaoshan, living peacefully at the Golden Light Temple, cultivating her practice with quiet devotion. Her nursemaid and Yonglian kept her company, and her attendants were all former palace women, so to her the temple was no different from the Western Pure Land.

The resident nuns, for their part, could chant sutras and recite the Buddha's name well enough, but they had little grasp of the deeper meaning of the Dharma. So outside her regular rounds of chanting and meditation, Master Miaoshan used every spare moment to teach them, expounding the sutras and offering guidance whenever the chance arose. She also set the third, sixth, and ninth days of each ten-day cycle as lecture days, when everyone in the temple was to gather in the lecture hall to hear the Dharma expounded. Even laypeople from the neighborhood who were sincerely drawn to Buddhism were welcome to attend, and the temple laid on vegetarian refreshments to feed them.

And so on those lecture days, crowds of poor folk from near and far would gather at the temple. At first, their only aim was to enjoy a free meal of the refreshments, not to listen to any sutras with any real intent. But once they had heard Master Miaoshan speak — her tongue a lotus in bloom, her words so persuasive they brought blossoms raining from the sky — even the dullest and most stubborn among them began, slowly, to have their hearts unlocked, gaining a measure of true understanding and growing deeper in faith.

Those who had first come for the food soon developed a taste for the teachings, until they could hardly bear to miss a session, and they went about telling others of what they had heard. So the audience grew with each lecture day, an unbroken stream like travelers on the Shanyin road. Across the kingdom, more and more people began to take the Buddha's name to heart.

By common sense, monastics are meant to receive offerings from all directions. Why, then, was she doing the opposite — offering support to others instead?

For one thing, the Golden Light Temple owned a thousand acres of fine farmland, with more than enough food and clothing for all. There was no need to depend on the charity of others. For another, Master Miaoshan's central aim was to transform the ignorant and stubborn, lift the suffering from their misery, and bring glory to the Dharma. Without such means, no amount of money could have drawn the crowds she did. The cost of laying on simple refreshments was small, but the merit earned from it was vast — why would she not do it? Soon even the poor of the capital caught wind of it and came streaming in, and the lecture days took on the bustle of a marketplace. The foot of Mount Yemo came alive.

Time slipped by, and in a blink, the cold of winter had arrived. The north wind bit sharp, cutting to the bone. The poor folk had no padded clothes to ward off the chill and could not bear to brave the cold; most stayed shut indoors, not daring to step outside at all. So the audiences at the lectures dwindled with each session.

When Master Miaoshan learned what was keeping them away, her heart ached with compassion. She sent people into the city to buy up bolts of cloth and bags of cotton wadding, then sat down herself to cut and measure them into hundreds of padded jackets and trousers of all sizes, which she handed out among the nuns and temple servants to sew. With so many hands at the work, the garments were finished in just a few days.

She also ordered large iron pots set up, and several dou of rice porridge cooked in advance before each lecture day, so everyone could eat a hot meal before going in. Those without padded clothes were given a set. Now the people had warm clothing to keep out the cold and hot porridge waiting for them after walking in the wind, with nothing left to worry about, and the audiences began to grow once more.

To make a long story short: word of her deeds spread, and throughout the kingdom people came to look upon the Golden Light Temple as a kind of charitable institution. Some of the utterly destitute, with nowhere else to turn, would travel hundreds of li to reach Mount Yemo and seek shelter at the temple. Master Miaoshan received everyone alike. Nuns who came from within a hundred li to join the temple were taken in without question, and the usual monastic rule of "three meals and one night's rest" was never invoked. If they wished to stay, no one pressed them to leave; they were free to remain as long as they liked, for the temple's meditation halls were many and spacious, and there was room for all.

Laypeople who came from afar were of every age and both sexes, so they could not be housed inside the temple proper. For them, Master Miaoshan set out bundles of bamboo, timber, firewood, and thatching grass, told them to choose a spot at the foot of the mountain and build their own thatched huts, and gave each a little seed money to make their own living.

Before long, the once-desolate foot of Mount Yemo had been transformed into a sizable village. All its residents had benefited from Master Miaoshan's grace; each felt a deep gratitude to her, and took her every word as a golden rule. And it was these simple, unlettered poor folk who first found their way to true awakening —

The clever may enlighten themselves;
the slow of heart keep steady faith.

To find out what happens next, wait for the next installment.

Chapter 15: One Thought Arouses Kalpas of Dust in Meditation; When Cultivation Is Complete, a White Lotus Blooms on the Heart

Thanks to Master Miaoshan's work relieving the poor and easing the suffering of those around her, the foot of Yemo Mountain had grown into something resembling a market town. The destitute residents there made a living through small-scale trade and had more than enough to get by, living and working in peace. All of this was thanks to Master Miaoshan alone, so their faith in her was naturally unshakable. Her teaching of the sutras struck deep into people's hearts, and the Dharma spread all the more easily for it. Before long, the place had become a small-scale Buddha land in miniature. When Master Miaoshan saw this, how could she not rejoice? Yonglian's own cultivation was advancing by leaps and bounds, with clear progress from day to day.

One day Yonglian said to Master Miaoshan: "Last night, while I was meditating in the meditation hall, I suddenly entered a state that was neither fully dream nor waking—as if my spirit had left my body. I drifted and floated eastward for I don't know how many hundreds or thousands of li, until I came upon a crowd of common folk gathered on the seashore, destitute and displaced, every one of them gaunt and hollow with hunger. I went up to ask why they were suffering so. They all rushed to explain: 'We are people from every corner of the four lands, gathered here. The Central Plains have been torn by war year after year, so men cannot farm and women cannot weave. We have no clothes, no food, and still face the threat of violence and bloodshed, so we had no choice but to flee here. Though we suffer hardships, we no longer fear being cut down—which is a world of difference from life back in our homelands.'

I saw them chewing tree bark and grass roots to fill their stomachs, and covering themselves with tattered cotton and bamboo leaves. Compared with the people of Yemo Mountain, their situation was as far apart as heaven and hell. What a pity that there's no compassionate master there to lift them from their suffering, and I couldn't bring all these destitute people to the foot of Yemo Mountain right away to share in the grace and light of the Buddha. Before I left, I told them: 'If you want to find a land of peace, you must go to the Golden Light Temple at the foot of Yemo Mountain in the west, and take refuge in the Buddha. Only then will you escape your trials.' After I said this, I was just about to find my way back west when a sudden gust of wind came howling through, flinging sand and stones. All the destitute people I had just seen suddenly turned into tigers and wolves, charging straight at me. I was just starting to panic when someone called out: 'Yonglian! Yonglian! You've slipped into demonic disturbance!' When I heard those words, my mind settled again. I opened my eyes to see my old nurse calling out beside me. What does that vision mean? I beg the Master, in your compassion, to explain."

When Master Miaoshan heard this, she pressed her palms together at her chest and said: "Well done! Well done! Yonglian, I never expected your cultivation to have advanced so rapidly that you've actually entered samadhi. This is what happens when one's seated meditation reaches perfection: the spirit leaves the body and travels throughout the ten directions. Below, it can observe the afflictions of the mundane world; above, it can behold the purity of the Buddha lands—there's nowhere it cannot go. That you've achieved this is truly a cause for joy.

"But to enter samadhi, you must focus your mind and still your thoughts, letting not a single thought arise. Only then will the six thieves and external demons fail to disturb you. If even one thought arises, external demons will appear in an instant, answering that thought. If you give rise to an evil thought, all six thieves will come at once and disturb you so deeply that you cannot exit your meditation. Some practitioners have gone mad or been crippled from seated meditation—all for this very reason. In your meditation, you saw those people and pitied them, so you aroused a compassionate heart and showed them a way out. That was originally a good intention. But it was wrong of you to direct them here, because by doing so you couldn't help harboring a touch of selfishness. That single thought alone was what drew the external demons in and led to all those terrifying scenes that followed. How close you came to disaster! If your nurse hadn't seen through your demonic disturbance and called out, you might not have been able to exit your meditation for a long time yet! Yonglian, from now on you must be extremely careful, and absolutely must not let your mind wander into idle thoughts. Know that this is a critical juncture on the path: a single slip of a hair means an error of a thousand li."

Yonglian pressed her palms together to thank her for the teaching, and then asked: "In the past, when I listened to the Master's Dharma talks, I never heard these profound teachings. Why is that? And what stages must one pass through to enter the path from this point? I beg you to instruct me."

Master Miaoshan replied: "Yonglian, there's something you don't know. The people who listened to my teachings earlier were all those whose ignorance had not yet been awakened. If I had handed them these profound principles directly, it would not only have been like casting pearls before swine—a waste of effort—but it would have blocked their mental openings entirely, leaving them no hope of ever breaking through. That's why I taught those people by first correcting their minds and intentions. Once their minds were set right, their inner light would naturally shine forth. Only after their ignorance had been dispelled did I teach them the methods of entering the path, and only then could they easily understand. That's the reason I never spoke of entering samadhi with them before.

"As for the stages from entering samadhi to attaining the fruit—it's neither far nor near. It seems as if it can be explained, but in truth it cannot. Entering samadhi is simply a matter of having accumulated enough cultivation, so that the spirit can leave the body and travel through the ten directions. But at this stage, the spirit still cannot fully detach from the body. If one enters samadhi but cannot exit it, after a short time the body will wither and rot like an ordinary corpse. And even the spirit that has left the body will fall apart and scatter in due time, ultimately dissolving into nothing. There's no real distinction between this and the death of an ordinary person.

"So at this stage, after entering samadhi, one must absolutely learn how to exit. By practicing in this way and making gradual progress, one will reach the state of the 'body outside the body.' What is the 'body outside the body'? It's a separate body formed outside the original shell, so that the spirit can detach completely from the physical form. Simply put, after entering samadhi, one no longer needs to seek to exit—the spirit remains whole, never to scatter or dissolve. When one reaches this step, one can cast off the mortal skin and attain the great Way. But to reach this state, one must not only have deep seated meditation and sincere devotion to the Buddha; one must also accumulate three thousand acts of merit and endure every manner of suffering before there is any hope of success. Have you not heard how the Buddha himself encountered many unexpected demonic trials before he attained the Way?

"Right now, our cultivation hasn't even reached half of what is required. We haven't accumulated enough merit, and we haven't endured enough suffering. If we hope to attain the Way, the road is long! But as long as we remain steadfast, our practice will never be in vain. The fact that you've been able to enter samadhi is clear proof of that. Just keep practicing patiently, and you'll get there."

These words filled Yonglian with such joy that she could not help dancing for delight—but we'll say no more of that.

As for Yonglian having already reached such a level, it goes without saying that Master Miaoshan's cultivation and merit were even more profound. So why couldn't she attain the fruit upon the lotus throne? Simply because her karmic trials were not yet complete, and her merit was not yet sufficient. She was fully aware of this herself, but said nothing of it to anyone, and simply continued to accumulate merit and virtue in secret.

Time slipped by, and in the blink of an eye another three years had passed. One day the Master was meditating, just about to enter samadhi, when she seemed to hear two people in conversation: "Has the lotus on the spiritual terrace bloomed yet?" The other replied: "It has! It has! Only one Bodhisattva is still missing." Master Miaoshan thought to herself, This is not good. What demons dare come to trouble me here? She hastily gathered her spirit back into her body, only to see her own heart transformed into a white lotus. Seated cross-legged atop the lotus was a Bodhisattva's dharma body, brows slightly lowered and eyes gently closed. Looking closely, she saw that this Bodhisattva was none other than her own incarnation. She could not help rejoicing—and in that moment, the vision before her vanished completely. She sat once more in stillness on her meditation couch.

Master Miaoshan knew full well the inner meaning of this omen, but said nothing of it to anyone. The next morning, after finishing the day's practice, she said to everyone: "Long ago, the Buddha manifested and gave me guidance, saying that to attain the fruit, I would need the snow lotus of Mount Sumeru as my guide. Since I renounced the secular world, I have been cultivating in seclusion here, and have never once made pilgrimage to any famous mountain. How could I ever obtain a snow lotus? Therefore, I have decided to make pilgrimage to Mount Sumeru, and look for the white lotus along the way. All of you stay here and cultivate well. In time, you will each reap your share of benefit."

When everyone heard this, they found it so sudden that they could not help exchanging blank looks with one another. The old nurse and Yonglian, however, both agreed with the plan, and the two of them offered to accompany her. Master Miaoshan was very pleased. She entrusted all the internal and external affairs of the Golden Light Temple to the administrative nun Duoli, and instructed her again and again that all matters must continue to follow the old rules, with no changes to established practice. "We'll be gone for no more than a year, and no less than half a year," she said. "Whether or not we find the snow lotus, we will return to the temple without fail." Duoli respectfully accepted each instruction.

After Master Miaoshan had gone over all the details, she took the old nurse and Yonglian back to her meditation room to pack some clothes, hats, and provisions. She told Yonglian to open a wooden chest, and they found it filled with straw sandals woven from fine hemp. Counting them, there were exactly one hundred and eight pairs. She folded each pair neatly and tied them into a single bundle. She also brought out a wooden bucket, divided into compartments holding rice and grain. She took out three yellow cloth bags, filled each one with grain, and arranged for each of them to carry one on their back. All of these things—the sandals and the grain—had been woven and gathered by Miaoshan during her exile to the kitchen, when she was forced to labor and endure hardship. Now, setting out on a long journey, they were exactly what they needed.

The three of them bundled their clothes together into a single pack, so they could take turns carrying it on the road. The purple-gold alms bowl was the marker of a monk or nun traveling on pilgrimage, and since it had been bestowed by King Miaozhuang, it was especially precious. Master Miaoshan carried it with her personally.

Once the three had finished packing, they took up their bundles and other items, went to the outer hall, bowed to the Buddha in the main hall, and prayed with heartfelt sincerity before setting out on their journey. All the nuns of the temple came to see them off, and even the lay devotees of Yemo Mountain came, holding sticks of incense, to see the Master off on her mountain pilgrimage. Indeed:

Eager in heart to make the pilgrimage, Attaining the Way still requires time.

If you wish to know what happens next, please wait for the next installment to find out.

Chapter 16: Fulfilling the Karmic Cause, Journeying to Pay Homage at Mount Sumeru — Distributing Rice to Cross the Divine Crow Ridge in Safety

When the Venerable Miaoshan and her companions packed their belongings and set out from the Temple of Golden Radiance, intending to journey toward Mount Sumeru in search of the snow lotus, all the nuns of the temple came out to see them off. The households below the mountain—every one of which had received her kindness—soon learned that she was leaving the Temple of Golden Radiance to travel elsewhere. How could they bear to part with her? In an instant, they came pouring out, old and young alike, blocking the path and begging her to stay, refusing to let the three travelers pass. Only when the Venerable Miaoshan earnestly explained that she would return before long and had no intention of abandoning the place did the people feel reassured. Seeing the unyielding resolve of the three women and knowing they could not be turned back, the villagers had no choice but to light fragrant incense and follow the nuns in escorting the party. They accompanied them for five full miles before the Venerable Miaoshan repeatedly urged them to turn back, and only then did they bow their farewells and go home. But enough of that.

Now to resume our tale. The Venerable Miaoshan and her two companions left the Temple of Golden Radiance on Mount Yamo and set their course eastward. Day after day they traveled, rising at dawn and resting at night, begging alms wherever they found a household to ease their hunger, and for several days all went peacefully. Not until the seventh day, in the afternoon, did they reach a place where a towering mountain blocked their path. The terrain was exceedingly steep and dangerous, with no way to turn back—only a narrow, winding footpath toward the south that seemed passable. The three naturally chose the path that offered passage, but they had forgotten that Mount Sumeru lay to the northeast, and so they lost their way. Plunging into the deep mountains, they climbed up and stumbled down, exhausted by the arduous journey, and the farther they went the deeper they ventured, never knowing when they might emerge. Clinging to an unyielding will, they pressed forward. As dusk approached, they found a cliff overhang to shelter under for the night—fortunately, they encountered nothing untoward. At dawn the next day, they shouldered their packs and pressed on, walking an entire day before finally emerging from the mountain pass. They had believed they were heading due east, little suspecting that the mountainside they traversed sloped toward the south, and that following its course would carry them steadily southeast. Without realizing it, they were going ever farther from their destination. Another five or six days passed in this manner until they came upon a village. As night was falling, they went forward to seek lodging, and there they met a man in his sixties. He welcomed them into his home, and after they had eaten, he asked them where they were bound. The Venerable Miaoshan explained everything, and the old man paused in astonishment.

"You wish to go to Mount Sumeru? But you've taken the wrong road! When you set out, you shouldn't have left through the southern valley of Jieshou Mountain. You ought to have followed the mountain northward, and once you rounded the ridge, there's a main road that's the shortcut to Mount Sumeru. Why didn't you take that route? Leaving through the southern valley, you went astray and headed south all the way until you reached this place. You've already traveled three hundred li out of your way. Had you not met this old man, you'd have wandered ever further astray!"

The three women exchanged uneasy glances. Yonglian interjected: "Sir! If that's so, we must turn back, pass through the southern valley again, and head north."

The old man replied: "That's hardly necessary. You don't know the ways of the world—the roads of the earth are all connected, differing only in distance. And the southern valley is no peaceful road; deep in those mountains there are wolves, tigers, and leopards of every kind. Even ordinary folk must band together in great numbers before daring to pass through. That you made it safely to this place was a stroke of immense good fortune. Would you now turn back to cast yourselves into the jaws of tigers and wolves?"

The Venerable Miaoshan pressed her palms together at her chest, uttered "Amituofo," and said: "Good sir, I'm deeply grateful for your guidance. Now I implore you, in your great compassion, to point us toward the proper road to Mount Sumeru, so that we may complete our pilgrimage and fulfill our meritorious task without delay. That would be a boundless merit indeed!"

The old man said: "What difficulty is there in that? Tomorrow, go out from here and head straight along the great road toward the northeast. Fifty li from here stands a tall mountain called the Divine Crow Ridge. Once you cross it, continue northward for another three hundred li, then turn due east, and you'll be on the proper road to Mount Sumeru. But this Divine Crow Ridge is by no means easy to cross, for on the mountain dwells a flock of divine crows, two or three hundred in number, each one larger than a hawk or falcon, and their nature is exceedingly fierce. Among the villages below the mountain, whenever the time of sacrifice arrives, the sacrificial meat isn't cooked and eaten. Instead, it's used for divining fortune or misfortune. The method is most unusual: after the offering is withdrawn, all the sacrificial meat is cast away at the foot of the mountain. If, at the moment of casting, crows should come to fight over the meat, it's a sign of great good fortune. If no crows come at the time, they go to inspect on the following day, and if the meat is gone, they deem that the divine crows have consumed it—a sign of middling fortune. But should the meat lie there untouched for three days, it's a sign of grave misfortune. They must then cut up the flesh and feed it to pigs and dogs, in order to cleanse the ill omen. In this way, the divine crows have grown accustomed to eating sacrificial meat. When there's no sacrificial meat to be had in ordinary times, the flock hunts down wild beasts in the mountains to satisfy their hunger; and should any person pass through the mountains when the crows are starving, they'll peck the traveler to death and share the feast among themselves. There's yet another custom there: the reverence accorded the divine crows surpasses even the reverence for Heaven and Earth. So although the crows snatch and devour people and livestock, no one dares to drive them away. The hunters dare not loose their arrows at the crows. The wild beasts of the mountains, after all, are limited in number—some are eaten, others flee—and so it's become commonplace that the crows eat people. When a person is being pecked, no one dares to resist, but simply allows the flock to dismember the body and feast. If someone is devoured by the crows, everyone declares that the victim must have committed some crime of conscience, and only thus received this punishment. Far from feeling pity, they believe that through this death the person's sins are washed clean.

"This road, you see, holds such danger. Yet for your sake I've given the matter thought. If you wish to reach Mount Sumeru, there are in fact only two paths before you: one through the southern valley, and one across the Divine Crow Ridge. Both are equally perilous. Comparing the two, the southern valley is worse—there are many fierce tigers, and the road is long, making it difficult to evade them. The divine crows, though fierce, inhabit a crossing path of only some ten li or so. If you pass through at midday, perhaps you might avoid encountering them. Moreover, the season of sacrifice is now at hand, and some early households have already begun to make offerings. The divine crows have sacrificial meat to eat, and even if you meet them, perhaps you won't suffer harm—who can say? What's more, this road is shorter than the other. Therefore, I counsel you to take this route!"

At these words, Yonglian turned pale and exclaimed: "Such a terrible place! How can we possibly pass through it? But tell me—apart from this, is there not some other road by which we might go?"

The old man replied: "There are many small paths, to be sure, but they're even more perilous. Either they harbor tigers, leopards, wolves, and jackals, or else demons and monsters of every sort. You couldn't hope to walk them."

The Venerable Miaoshan said: "Wonderful! Wonderful! The elder's instruction must surely be correct. Tomorrow we shall set out by this road. Yonglian, do not give way to fear. Know this: for those of us who have left the household life, apart from sincere cultivation, all else is of no account. Attachment to the body must never be harbored. The dangers we shall face are many—how could the Divine Crow Ridge be the only one? If we shrink back in fear at the first, how shall we ever reach Mount Sumeru? The Dharma itself shall surely protect us. I vow we shall cross the ridge in safety; let there be no need for you to harbor even a grain of worry."

The old man took his leave, allowing the three women to sit in meditation and take their rest. One night passed swiftly, and at dawn they rose, washed themselves, and the old man prepared a simple morning meal for them to eat. The three women thanked him, bade him farewell, and set out upon their journey. They made their way northeastward, intending to cross the Divine Crow Ridge by early afternoon, to avoid any unforeseen trouble. So they dared not tarry by the way. By late morning, the towering bulk of the Divine Crow Ridge loomed before them—its trees dark and dense, its grassy paths shadowy and black. Even from a distance the sight was fearsome; how much more terrifying must it be to walk within? After proceeding further, they reached the foot of the mountain, where a stone-paved path led upward in steps. The three women silently chanted the Buddha's name and pressed forward with courageous hearts. When they reached the ridge's summit, they encountered not a thing—not even the shadow of a single divine crow. Thus they descended the other slope, and in the distance, several li away, they faintly made out a large village.

"How wonderful! How wonderful!" the Venerable Miaoshan exclaimed. "Do you see that village ahead? Once we reach it, all will be well."

Though she spoke thus, her feet had already become utterly exhausted. Fortunately, descending was far less taxing than ascending, and moving downhill at an easy pace, they made good time. In a brief while they had reached the midslope, where there lay a broad and level stretch, wide and open, with trees and rocks scattered in pleasing arrangement. By now the Venerable Miaoshan was utterly spent and could go no further. Throughout the journey so far, they had encountered nothing at all, and her heart was quite at ease, for she had believed they would meet no crows that day. Thus she said to Yonglian and the nursemaid: "We have traveled a good fifty li today, and now my feet are weary and my back is aching. Truly, I can walk no more. The scenery here is pleasant—shall we not all rest a while before pressing on?"

The nursemaid agreed: "I too can go no further; a brief rest would be best."

Yonglian, however, thought otherwise: "To pause here invites unexpected disaster, which would be most unfortunate. I think it better that we press straight on."

"There you go again!" the nursemaid replied. "We have walked so far and met with no harm—could a brief rest truly bring trouble?"

Yonglian, unable to prevail, set down her bundle and sat upon a stone. But in a moment, the cawing of crows rose on every side, and the three women sat frozen in terror.

Just a moment of idle ease— Stirring up alarms in this place! To learn what happened next, Pray attend the next chapter.

Chapter 17: A Good Person Points the Way Forward, Admiring the Scenery Leads to Unforeseen Troubles

Now, Yonglian had urged the two of them kindly to press on until they reached a village, where they could look for a place to rest. But one person could not sway the other two, and Master Miaoshan and the nursemaid, with aching legs and trembling feet, truly could not walk another step. They set down their bundles, each finding a smooth, clean stone to sit on.

There is a knack to walking long distances, too: the worst thing you can do is stop to rest halfway. If you are on a long walk and feel your strength giving out midway, just slow your pace and keep going. It may feel like a struggle, but as long as your resolve doesn't falter, you will make it to the end. But if you give in to weariness and sit down to rest, you'll only feel more exhausted the longer you sit—and you'll lose the courage to keep moving forward. When you finally stand up again, you will barely be able to take a single step.

None of the three were used to long walks, so they knew nothing of this trick. The moment they sat down, they might as well have been rooted to the spot, wishing they could just spend the night right there. Only Yonglian's urgent prodding eventually got Master Miaoshan and the nursemaid to their feet. They dusted off their clothes and were about to gather up their bundles, when suddenly—caw! caw! caw!—a string of crow cries rang out overhead, and the three of them lost their wits.

Yonglian said, "There's an old saying: when crows cry, disaster is near. And these are man-eating crows, no less! I told you we should have kept walking. If you had listened to me, we'd be far from here by now, past the reach of any crow's curse. What are we to do now?"

Even as they spoke, crows from all directions came flocking at the sound, filling the sky with their cawing. There was no telling how many there were. They seemed to have found some choice morsel that day, and were crying out to one another in celebration. This left Yonglian and the others more frantic than ever. But Master Miaoshan, with her deep cultivation and unshakable composure, sat back down. "Sit, both of you," she said. "Calm your minds. Don't be afraid. I have a plan." With no other choice, the two sat down, bracing themselves for the crows to come peck at them. Their fear had long since been cast to the winds.

But the crows, though they cawed loudly and kept circling over the three women's heads, never once swooped down to peck at them. You see, to creatures of a different kind, a person with an untroubled mind appears so vast and towering that they dare not come near. The crows circled without landing for precisely this reason. Yet they would not give up and leave either. They kept circling and crying, hovering around the three women as if waiting for their chance.

After about half an hour, Master Miaoshan had settled into a state of deep absorption. Suddenly, a flash of light seemed to pass through her inner mind, as though someone were whispering to her: "Silly woman! The crows are crying and flying about because they want food. They don't necessarily want to eat people. If you give them something, they'll squabble over it and leave you alone. Can't you see? The dried rice in your bag would make a fine offering."

The moment this thought crossed her mind, Master Miaoshan untied the yellow cloth bag at her side, took a handful of dried rice, and scattered it hard onto the flat ground. The crows immediately scrambled to peck at it. She poured out most of the bag onto the earth, and soon not a single crow was left in the sky. Only then did she call to the other two. Each gathered up their luggage, and they stumbled down the mountainside in their haste, three steps at a time, not caring whether the ground was even or rough, rushing headlong for the foot of the hill. True enough, no crows came chasing after them, and at last they felt at ease. They walked on toward the village at an easier pace, and did not reach the cluster of houses until the sun had sunk low in the west.

The villagers saw three women dressed so strangely that they were clearly not from the neighborhood. Men and women alike crowded around to gawk and ask questions. Master Miaoshan pressed her palms together in greeting and said, "I am the nun Miaoshan, abbess of the Golden Light Temple at the foot of Mount Yemo in the Kingdom of Xinglin. I had made a vow to make a pilgrimage to Mount Sumeru, and I was traveling with these two when we took a wrong turn and ended up south of the valley. Thanks to a kind soul who pointed us in the right direction, we took a detour over Crow Spirit Ridge to get here. Now it is growing late, and there are no more villages ahead, so we cannot go any further. We beg any of you generous donors to have mercy on us—lend us a place to rest for the night, and a bowl of plain food to fill our bellies. We ask for nothing more, and we shall be gone first thing in the morning."

When the crowd heard that they had come from the other side of Crow Spirit Ridge, they looked at one another in astonishment. One curious onlooker asked, "If you came from that direction, did you meet any spirit crows on the way?" Master Miaoshan said she had, and recounted what had just happened. The crowd exclaimed together, "How strange! How strange! What kind of power do these three have, that even the spirit crows would not harm them? Could they be divine beings?"

A man who looked like the village elder stepped forward and said, "Quiet down, all of you! These three are no ordinary folk. Cultivators like them are honored in every realm, from the highest heaven down to the thirty-six planes of existence. The spirit crows themselves are sentient beings—they would never think to trouble them. Now that they have come to our village, and there are dozens of miles of wilderness ahead, we ought to treat them with the utmost hospitality. I have empty rooms at my house, so please, all three of you, come stay with me."

Master Miaoshan and the other two pressed their palms together in thanks. The villagers all chimed in, "Old Liu! Looks like you get to be the host this time! If the three revered nuns aren't leaving tomorrow, we'll take turns preparing vegetarian meals, to do our duty as hosts." With that, the crowd dispersed. Old Liu led the three women to his home, seated them, and called out his family to meet them. His whole household were devout, good-hearted folk. The moment they saw the three nuns, they hurried to boil tea, bring water, and prepare a vegetarian meal. After the three had eaten, it was growing late, and the family showed them to a clean guest room, with neatly made bedding, very tidy and pleasant.

Master Miaoshan and the others sat in meditation through the night. The next morning, Old Liu prepared an early meal and urged them to stay longer. Master Miaoshan said, "We are eager to continue our pilgrimage to the sacred mountain, so we dare not linger. We are sorry to refuse your kind hospitality. If you would only point us in the right direction for the road ahead, we would be deeply grateful."

Old Liu knew he could not persuade them, so he said, "From here, head due north for thirty li, and you will come to a small hill called Golden Wheel Mountain. You don't need to climb over it. Just go a little east, skirting the end of the ridge, then turn north again for another seventeen or eighteen li, and you will reach Sa Family Fort, where you can stay the night. But near Golden Wheel Mountain, you must pass through quickly and quietly. Do not linger. Once you reach Sa Family Fort, you'll be safe. You can ask directions to the rest of your journey from there."

Master Miaoshan and the others thanked him again and again, then took their leave and set off. They left the village and headed due north. At first, all they saw was a vast, empty plain: rolling yellow sand, a pale and hazy sun, and nothing else as far as the eye could see. Not a blade of grass, not a drop of water anywhere—only the three of them walking through the desert, a faint sign of life amid the desolation. Their deep, unshakable composure meant they felt no hardship and no fear. Any ordinary person walking through a place with no people, no water, and no grass for miles would surely be terrified.

They walked for a while, and soon spied a hill in the distance, slanting off to the northwest. It wasn't very large, but it was covered in dense forest, and the scenery was striking. This was clearly Golden Wheel Mountain. They had been walking through a wilderness as still as death, so the sudden sight of this vibrant, thriving woodland lifted their spirits. Their steps felt lighter, and they pressed on boldly toward the base of the hill. Before long, they arrived. Though the mountain was not tall, its foot was dotted with strange jagged rocks and overlapping peaks. Lush green trees, bright green grass, and clusters of unknown wildflowers made a most charming scene.

Master Miaoshan gazed at the mountain scenery and murmured to herself, "How wonderful! We have traveled so far and passed so many mountains. When have we ever seen a view this fine? To think such a beautiful mountain should lie in the middle of this vast desert—the works of heaven and earth are full of wonders." She felt a spark of affection for the place, and grew so taken with the view that she could not bring herself to move on.

Yonglian urged her from the side, "Master! I beg you, don't linger so. Didn't Old Liu just tell us we must pass by Golden Wheel Mountain quickly and quietly? There must be a reason for the warning. Something dangerous must lie here. Let us press on. Don't cause more trouble for ourselves!"

Master Miaoshan replied, "Old Liu only gave us that caution as a precaution. He didn't actually say anything was here. Look how lovely this mountain is. Surely it cannot hide any demons or monsters. And it is broad daylight. What harm can a little looking do?"

"I hear you," Yonglian replied, "but it is always wiser to be careful. Lingering to enjoy the view will only delay our pilgrimage. Besides, I have often heard you teach, Master, that the six thieves that trouble the mind all arise from within ourselves. Look at your state right now: a thought of attachment to this mountain, and a thought of greed in your reluctance to leave. One stray thought is bad enough, but now there are two. We cannot let this go on. Let us be going!"

Master Miaoshan was struck by these words and came back to herself. She steadied her mind and said again and again, "Yes, yes! Let us go, let us go!" But by the time she was ready to leave, it was too late. Just as she had settled her mind—the demon had already arrived.

To find out what happens next, you must wait for the next chapter.

Chapter 18: The Great Master Is Captured at Golden Wheel Mountain / Companions Seek Aid at the Fortress of the Se Clan

The tale picks up as Miaoshan, having taken in Yonglian's earnest counsel, steadied her mind and called out, "Good, good, good! Let's go, let's go!" Off they hurried together. They had gone scarcely thirty paces when, from out of a dense thicket, came a chorus of clucking, gurgling sounds, as though a crowd of voices were chattering in the depths of the wood. The three of them heard it and knew at once that something was wrong. Raising their eyes, they beheld a troop of demons and wild ghosts rushing straight at them from the trees. Had they not looked, all might have been well; but the moment they set eyes on that pack of demons, terror seized them to the marrow. They would have turned and fled — yet, strange to say, their legs seemed rooted to the ground, and not an inch could they lift. As the fiends drew ever closer, Yonglian forgot all propriety in that moment of peril. She seized Miaoshan's hand and set off at a stumbling run, tripping and scrambling as she went. They had covered but a short distance when Miaoshan tumbled headlong to the ground. Thereupon one of the demons rushed up to her, and with a single grab bore her away. Yonglian, powerless to intervene, abandoned the Master and fled for all she was worth, running a full three leagues before she dared look back. Seeing no demon in pursuit, she at last calmed herself, slowed her pace, and trudged on, her thoughts churning: "This is the end of everything. The Master has been carried off by the demons, and the old granny's whereabouts are unknown — she too must surely have met with disaster. Now I'm left utterly alone, wandering with no companion. What am I to do?"

Just as she stood there, at a loss for what to do, a voice called from behind: "Yonglian, wait! Wait for me!" Yonglian recognized it at once — it was the old nurse. She halted in her tracks and turned. Sure enough, there was the nurse, limping toward her with an uneven gait. "Granny, you escaped with your life — but what of the Great Master?" Yonglian asked urgently. The old nurse shook her head and sighed. "Don't speak of it. After that band of demons seized the Master, they all leaped and cheered, crowding around her as they bore her deep into the forest, casting me aside without a backward glance. But when I saw that you had escaped, I hurried after you so we might be together and work out some way to rescue her." Yonglian said, "Those demon fiends are a fearsome-looking lot. I fear the Master will meet with no gentle treatment at their hands. But the two of us, Granny, haven't the strength to catch a chicken — what hope have we of saving her?" The nurse replied, "Though that be true, to stand by and watch her die would betray the very spirit of mercy that befits a person of the Way. The fortress of the Se clan lies not far ahead. Let us make our way there and find some worthy folk to help us plan a rescue."

In truth, this was but a forlorn hope — the best they could manage in an impossible situation, a small gesture of doing what duty demanded. Having settled on this, the two women set out together for the fortress of the Se clan. Their journey need not detain us. But at this point the writer feels obliged to explain a thing or two about the "demons," lest the reader take the wrong impression. Were they truly demons, those swarthy fiends? Not in the least. They were, in fact, a peculiar race of mountain folk, people as yet untouched by civilization. They still lived the life of beasts, drinking blood and devouring raw flesh, with never a scrap of clothing on their bodies. Tufted black hair, a good inch or more in length, covered their hides; even their faces were so overgrown with hair that the skin beneath was more than concealed. Only two bright, rolling eyes peered out, and a maw as vast as a washbasin. Viewed from any distance, they looked for all the world like demons and wandering ghosts.

Now let us return to Yonglian and the nurse, who came hurrying in a state of utter disarray to the fortress of the Se clan. The local folk, seeing two nuns arrive in such a pitiful state, were taken aback. They paused in their labors and gathered around to ask what had happened. The nurse pressed her palms together in greeting and first recounted in detail who she was and whence she came; then she told the gathering of all that had befallen them at Golden Wheel Mountain, and of how the Great Master Miaoshan had been carried off by the demons. No sooner had the people heard her tale than they stuck out their tongues in astonishment and could not draw them back in for a long while. "How terrifying! How terrifying!" they cried in unison. "The two of you cannot imagine the fortune that brought you through safely to this place. Had your luck been otherwise, your very lives would have been snuffed out by now!"

The buzz of many voices — each chattering in turn — soon reached the ears of a certain official within the fortress. Wondering what had put the workers into such a commotion, he strolled leisurely out and called, "Why are you all idle from your tasks? What's all this fuss about?" The workers, hearing him, cried, "Master Sun has come!" Forthwith, one of the foremen stepped forward and made a full report. Master Sun, in his affable way, said, "In that case, please invite the two ladies within the fortress. They'll come to my humble home, where we may sit and discuss what's to be done." Now this Master Sun, whose given name was De, was the lord of the fortress. He was a man known far and wide for his benevolence and charity, and upon encountering two pitiable nuns, he naturally felt moved to welcome them into his house and offer them hospitality.

Accordingly, the nurse and Yonglian followed Sun De into the fortress and on to his home, where they took their seats as host and guests. Yonglian, her thoughts ever on the captive Miaoshan, spoke first: "Master Sun, though we two have been fortunate enough to escape with our lives to this place, our companion, the Great Master Miaoshan, now lies in the clutches of those demons. Who knows what torment she is suffering? We earnestly beg you, sir, in your great compassion, to devise some means of rescue. The merit of such a deed would surpass even the building of bridges and the mending of roads!"

At her words, Sun De shook his head again and again. First he explained that the wild folk of the mountains were no demons at all. Then he went on, "These hairy folk are cut off from the outside world. We share no common language, and reason is wasted on them. The mountain valleys are their domain — who would dare go stirring up trouble with them? And what possible means could rescue your companion? Moreover, these hairy people are savage by nature. Any person who strays into their mountains is devoured alive — there's no hope of survival. Since your fellow nun has been carried off into the mountains, I fear her life is already forfeit. Even if some means of rescue did exist, it's already far too late — and besides, no such means is to be had. As for going on pilgrimage, I counsel the two of you to continue on your own. For the nun who has been taken, there is no hope. But if the two of you do go forward, the dangers ahead are many, and you must take the greatest care upon the road."

The nurse and Yonglian, hearing such counsel, felt as though a blade were piercing their very hearts. Hot tears welled up and spilled down their cheeks. Yonglian, weeping, said, "Great Master! You, whose will has ever been so steadfast — no sound could delight your ear, no scent could unsettle your nose, no flavor could tempt your tongue, no sight could dazzle your eye, no wealth or honor or disgrace could move your heart. Having cultivated yourself to such a pitch, you ought not to have indulged a fancy for mountain scenery, only to invite this disaster. All your efforts, so close to completion, are now brought to nothing — who could fail to feel the bitterest grief?"

The nurse chimed in, "Yonglian, you must not blame her and nothing but. Though she's now in desperate straits, we don't yet know with any certainty whether she lives or dies. For that reason, our hope of her is not yet wholly extinguished. After all, she's a person of single-minded devotion. Surely the Buddha will not fail to watch over her! If we're to press on with our pilgrimage, we can't simply abandon her and go on ahead. And if, in truth, she's already fallen victim to those hairy folk, then we ought not to outlive her — let us die together, so that our unity of heart and purpose may be made plain!"

Yonglian replied, "Granny speaks the truth. In that case, let us go back to Golden Wheel Mountain, enter the range, and search for any trace of the Master. Even if the hairy folk devour us alive, we'll count it the karma of a former life. This is no place to linger; let's be off!" With that, the two women rose, pressed their palms together, and took their leave of Sun De. But Sun De, rising also, stopped them, saying, "One is already lost — to fling away two more on top of that is something I cannot possibly permit."

The two sides were still in dispute when, of a sudden, joyful news came flying from out of the blue. Truly it is said: Just as gloom and doubt had gathered thick, glad tidings came winging in their midst. If you would know what followed, you must wait for the next chapter.

Chapter 19: A Few Pairs of Straw Sandals Snatched Away by the Black Folk, A Holy Nun Arrived Riding a White Elephant

The nurse and Yonglian rose to take their leave of Sun De, saying they meant to enter Mount Jinlun in search of the Master Miaoshan. Sun De hurried to stop them. "Wait, wait! One already fallen into the trap, and now you mean to send in two more—what kind of sense is that? Besides, that trapped master—given our limited strength, there's truly no way for us to rescue her, so we can only leave it to fate. Now that you've come to my humble home, you still want to walk into the tiger's mouth? If I sat by and watched, would that not be refusing to save the one who's perishing? Such a name for injustice, I cannot bear. Today, no matter what, I will not let the two of you go."

Yonglian replied, "This is of our own free will—it has nothing to do with you, sir. The three of us set out together, and now that we've lost one, to fail to share life and death—is that not a far greater injustice? I beg you, sir, don't hinder us; grant our wish, and even in death we'll remain grateful." With one side insisting on leaving and the other refusing to allow it, the two parties wrangled without resolution.

Just as the argument reached an impasse, a rough-looking servant came rushing breathlessly into the courtyard, shouting: "Sir! Outside the fortress there's another nun riding a white elephant, coming this way from afar. Everyone suspects it may be that very master who was lost in Mount Jinlun, so I came especially to let you know."

Yonglian cut in: "No, no! Our Master Miaoshan travels on foot—she has no mount. It must be another master entirely."

Sun De said with a smile: "Seeing is believing. To guess from afar—how can that count? Since someone is coming from that direction, let's go out of the fortress together and see for ourselves, verify the truth. Even if it turns out not to be your master, since she's a nun, there should be the bond of fellow disciples—surely we may meet her!"

The two women thought this very reasonable, so together they left the Sun residence and went out beyond the fortress. Gazing along the road toward Mount Jinlun, they saw, some two li away, a white elephant slowly approaching, with a nun seated upright upon its back. Although the distance was now close, a stranger could not have made out her face—but in the eyes of the nurse and Yonglian, she was as clear as day. Who else could the figure on the elephant's back be but the Master Miaoshan?

The two women were overjoyed. Yonglian especially danced with delight, tugging at the nurse's sleeve. "Old Grandmother, look! The one being carried on the elephant's back—is that not our master? Not only has she not come to harm, she's even gained a mount! This truly is a blessing in disguise! From now on she has a way to travel, and the road ahead will be far smoother!"

Sun De and the others, hearing this, all clicked their tongues in wonder. Yonglian could no longer contain herself; she darted forward to meet her, and in a moment Master Miaoshan had arrived before the fortress, dismounted from the elephant's back, and joined her palms in greeting to all present. Sun De invited the party of three into the fortress. Strangely, that white elephant followed along as well, as though it had been long domesticated. The company went at once to Sun De's home, renewed their greetings, and sat down.

Sun De said: "Congratulations, Master, on your safe return. This Mount Jinlun has long been the lair of the Hairy Folk; whoever has mistakenly wandered in has never returned alive. Today the Master is, I reckon, the very first. Truly, the Buddha's law is boundless—how else to explain such a marvel? I venture to ask the Master to recount the circumstances of her escape, so that we ordinary folk may know, and the Buddha's teachings may be spread far and wide."

The Master Miaoshan thanked him for his gracious hospitality, then described in full detail how she had been captured and taken into the mountain, and how she had escaped. The listeners were alternately startled and delighted. You may wonder how the Master could have come out unharmed. It happened that, when she encountered the Hairy Folk, the bundle containing her clothes and hat was slung over one of their shoulders. Because it held all the everyday necessities she carried, she would not abandon it lightly. So when the Hairy Folk seized her, dragging her by the head and feet into the mountain, she clung tightly with both hands and was carried in along with the bundle.

The Hairy Folk dragged her to a certain place. There she saw an enormous cave, with an open clearing before it. On all sides of the clearing rose dense thickets and deep forest; looking up, it was black and gloomy and most dreadful. The Hairy Folk set her down in the middle of the clearing and seated her on the ground. They each let out hissing sounds, and soon many of their kind came in answer—men and women, no fewer than two hundred. The distinction between male and female lay in the bronze rings they wore: the men had rings through their noses, the women through their ears. Apart from a single animal skin covering their lower bodies, they were otherwise completely naked—even their feet were bare on the rocky ground.

The Hairy Folk gathered in a ring around the Master. The leader among those who had captured her babbled to the crowd for a long while, as though boasting of his victory. At his words, they all cheered and leapt about, pairing off to dance in their joy. They danced with growing vigor for a full two hours before at last feeling weary, when they sat down in a circle to rest. Hundreds of terrifying glares were fixed on the Master. She knew in her heart that she had entered the tiger's den and the dragon's pool, with the slimmest chance of survival. Bracing for death, she felt no fear, but sat calm and focused, watching to see what means they would employ against her.

She presently saw many of the Hairy Folk chattering among themselves, as though deliberating on how to deal with her. In a short while, one of them happened to notice the hemp sandals on the Master's feet and pointed them out to the others, saying something she could not make out. Miaoshan took the hint and removed her sandals. That Hairy One rushed forward, snatched them from her hand, examined them closely, and after a moment squatted and put them on his own feet. Having fastened them, he stood and tried a few steps. Finding them comfortable, he raised his thumb in approval and praised them before the crowd. The remaining Hairy Folk, all envious, held out their hands and begged the Master for some.

The Master thought: they really do love these things. Fortunately, I happen to have brought along about a hundred pairs—I'll hand them out. If I can win their favor, perhaps they'll spare my life, and then I can slip away. Having settled on this plan, she opened the bundle where the sandals were kept, revealing pair after pair of brand-new hemp sandals. The moment the Hairy Folk set eyes on them, they let out a cheer and surged forward in a crowd, scrambling wildly.

This turned out badly. A hundred pairs were nowhere near enough for two hundred Hairy Folk to divide among themselves. In the scramble, some seized two pairs, some one, some just a single sandal, while many went away empty-handed. Those who had taken some were content, but those who had gotten nothing—how could they contain their fury? Stirred by envy and resentment, they began to fight over them. Such small things as sandals could not bear the Hairy Folk's forceful snatching. You pulled, I pulled, and they were torn to pieces. This infuriated them; they threw down the sandals, tackled each other, and fought. Order collapsed. They fought ferociously, and the Master was the last thing on their minds.

But the Master, seeing them wholly absorbed in their brawl and no longer paying attention to her, thought: the moment has come—if not now, when? She no longer cared that her feet were bare; she rose and slipped into the thickets. Lucky for her, no one saw her go. She ran for more than a li without stopping, but her feet were cut by thorns, blood streaming, the pain unbearable; she could hardly go another step, and she had no idea which way led out of the mountain. She was in great distress.

Just as she stood at the crossroads, unable to advance or retreat, she saw before her a white elephant slowly approaching. The Master thought to herself: "It's over! This time it truly is the end! Barely escaped the Hairy Folk's clutches, and now the white elephant brings fresh disaster—can my life be spared?" Just as she stood with nowhere to turn, the white elephant had already reached her. It curled its trunk, flapped its ears, and gently rubbed its head against her body, showing no intent to harm. Seeing this, the Master at last felt relief, and thought: could this white elephant have been sent by the Buddha himself to save me? She reached out and stroked the elephant's forehead. "White elephant! Have you truly come to rescue me from peril? If so, please raise your trunk three times. Otherwise, if my body is to fill a demon's belly, I might as well let you eat me—please, just open your mouth."

It must be said that, among wild beasts, the elephant is the gentlest of heart and possesses a kind of spiritual awareness. Often, when children or others are beset by other wild beasts, the elephant, if it sees them, will risk its life to save them and never look on coldly—this is its inborn nature. Hearing the Master's words, the white elephant seemed to understand her meaning. It raised its long trunk high three times, flapped its great ears twice with a soft patting, and lowered its head toward her.

The Master was overjoyed, as though she had gained a priceless treasure, and exclaimed again and again: "Excellent, excellent! If you save me from this peril, in the days to come, when I reach Mount Sumeru and attain the right fruit, I shall surely ferry you into the Buddha's gate, freeing you from the karmic path of beasts!" Just as she spoke, several of the Hairy Folk had tracked her down and caught up—

No sooner had she grasped new life than the demons returned. To find out what happens next, please wait for the following chapter.

Chapter 20: Master Miaoshan Journeys Barefoot — The Gala Tribe Dwells as Nomads in the Desert

The story goes that while Master Miaoshan was speaking with the white elephant, the hairy men had already discovered her escape and were tracking her down; a great commotion arose behind them. Master Miaoshan heard it and cried out, "This is bad! White Elephant, the yakshas are coming up behind us! What shall we do? If you truly mean to save me, please lead me out of danger at once." Upon hearing this, the white elephant did not hesitate. It stretched out its three-foot-long trunk, swept her up in a single motion, wrapped it around Master Miaoshan's waist, lifted her gently into the air, and bounded away on all four legs at astonishing speed — truly like riding the clouds and mounting the mist. In the blink of an eye, they had passed the Golden Wheel Mountain pass. After another three or five li, with no sign of the hairy men in pursuit, the elephant finally halted and gently set Master Miaoshan down. The Master drew a slow breath, dusted the sand from her robe, and stroked the elephant's forehead, saying, "White Elephant, I owe my life to you this time. Now I can make my own way to Sai Family Fort to seek news of my two lost companions. Return to your mountain, rest well, and accumulate more merit. Once I have completed my pilgrimage and attained the fruit, I shall certainly come back for you — I will not go back on my word." To her surprise, the white elephant, upon hearing this, refused to leave. Instead it lay down on the ground and did not stir. Miaoshan thought to herself, "This elephant refuses to return to the mountain. Could it want to come with me to Mount Sumeru?" So she asked again, "White Elephant, since you're unwilling to return to Golden Wheel Mountain, you must wish to come along to Mount Sumeru. If that's what you mean, nod your head three times." Sure enough, the elephant nodded three times, then pointed its trunk toward its own back, as if inviting the Master to ride. Overjoyed, Miaoshan said, "How wonderful! Who would have thought you had such an affinity with the Dharma? But if you're to be my mount, I'll be putting you to the burden of traveling a thousand li." So saying, she climbed onto the elephant's back and sat cross-legged upon it. The white elephant rose slowly and made its way toward Sai Family Fort.

The Master figured that once she arrived, she would inquire after the nursemaid and Yonglian. Though the two companions had been separated, she did not suspect they had been harmed by the hairy men — if they had been captured too, she surely would have seen them in the mountain. Since she had not seen them there, they must have escaped toward Sai Family Fort. So she resolved to search for them at the fort. But before she had even reached it, Yonglian came running out to meet her.

At this point, Sun De and the others, having heard Master Miaoshan's account, all said together, "It must be the boundless power of the Buddha's Dharma that has brought about such a wondrous turn. The white elephant was surely sent by the Buddha himself — no doubt about it. But where did the Master get so many straw sandals?" Yonglian broke in, "If you want to know the story of these straw sandals — ah, what suffering it was!" And so she recounted in detail the past events within the palace. Sun De, deeply moved, said, "Who would have thought this Master was a princess of Xinglin! Born into the imperial house, yet unmoved by wealth and glory, with a single sincere thought she took up the practice, endured every hardship, and never wavered in her resolve. Such a one is truly rare in any age. That she will one day attain the fruit within the Buddha's gate is beyond all doubt. But those straw sandals have been taken by the hairy men, and from here to Mount Sumeru is another thousand li. With nothing to wear on the way, it simply won't do. The three of you had better stay here a day or two and let me have the men make a few pairs of monk's shoes, so you need not travel barefoot."

Master Miaoshan joined her palms and bowed. "Many thanks for your kindness, sir. I can only accept the thought with gratitude; I dare not receive the gift. Please do not trouble yourself further." Sun De replied, "But that's strange! A person who has left home is entitled to be sustained by the offerings of the ten directions. What matter are a few pairs of monk's shoes? Why do you refuse them?" Master Miaoshan answered, "Sir, you see only one side of the matter, not the other. That a renunciant receives the offerings of the ten directions is indeed true, yet every cup and every morsel is determined by fate. In the Buddha's teaching there is cause and condition; one must not overreach. Long ago in the palace, the punishment of weaving straw sandals was the cause planted. Now, because of those very sandals, I was able to escape the tiger's den and the dragon's pool — that is the fruit reaped. Cause and fruit cancel each other; the affinity between the straw sandals and this little nun has already run its course. I must not plant new causes at this time. Moreover, the straw sandals saved my life, and there is all the more reason I should never wear them again. Consider: a benefactor who has saved one's life should be revered and respected as one would honor parents and the Buddhas — that is the proper way. If one does not cherish and honor those who have shown kindness, but instead tramples upon and despises them, is there any such reasoning under heaven? Though a pair of straw sandals cannot be compared to a person, the principle is the same. So from this point on, this little nun would rather journey barefoot and never put on shoes again. Besides, with this obedient white elephant to carry me, going barefoot will cause no hardship. I beg you, sir, not to trouble yourself."

Sun De, hearing these words, was filled with even greater admiration and did not press the matter. He ordered a vegetarian meal prepared for the three travelers. As for the shoes, the matter was set aside and not mentioned again. The three stayed at Sun De's home for one night. The next morning, after an early meal, they inquired about the road ahead, expressed their thanks, and bade farewell. Sun De led a group of good folk to see them out of the fort. Master Miaoshan joined her palms in farewell, mounted the elephant's back, with the nursemaid and Yonglian attending on either side. They took leave of the kindly folk and set off northward together.

From morning until noon they traveled some thirty-odd li, and a vast expanse of yellow desert stretched before them — no sign of human habitation, not even a blade of grass nor a drop of water. As far as the eye could reach, there was no end in sight! Yonglian said, "The road ahead stretches on and on — it must be a hundred li or more, and there's nowhere we can lodge. From now until sunset we can walk at most another fifty li. Where shall we spend the night?" Master Miaoshan replied, "Don't worry ahead of time. Let each step take care of itself; every step forward is a step gained. Even if by sunset we find no place to rest, we can simply make do here in the desert for the night — there's no harm in that. Worrying now won't help. It is not as if our worry will make a resting place appear before us." Yonglian, hearing this, had nothing more to say.

The three humans and one elephant walked on in silence, mile after mile, exchanging no words. It was not until the sun had sunk behind the western hills that they still had not come upon any mountain, wood, or village. Master Miaoshan, seated upon the elephant's back, directed the eye of her wisdom forward and saw, a few li ahead, what seemed to be people and livestock moving about. Knowing at once they were a band of nomads, she said, "Good, good! Look there — is that not a group of nomads ahead? Let us quicken our pace a little and catch up to them, and we shall have shelter." At first, because of the distance, the nursemaid and Yonglian could make out nothing. After walking another stretch, they began to see vague shapes; then as they drew closer, the tents and animals of the nomads came into view. The three were overjoyed. Just as they approached, the sky had darkened into dusk. Master Miaoshan slipped down from the elephant's back, hurried forward a few steps, and joined her palms in greeting toward a man who had the look of a chieftain, explaining their purpose.

It happened that these people were of the Gala tribe, a clan of the eastern border of the kingdom of Xinglin. They had always dwelt in no fixed place, making their living by herding. Upon hearing Master Miaoshan's words and learning that they were practitioners from the noble kingdom, they were filled with reverent respect and invited the three into their tent, where they sat upon the ground. The white elephant lay down outside the tent to keep watch. The Gala people were most courteous toward the three travelers. After some brief courtesies, someone presented a flask of clear water and a large platter of beef for them to eat. It was kindly meant, but the three did not even partake of the slightest bit of meat or fish, let alone beef and mutton! Master Miaoshan, upon seeing it, kept murmuring, "Forgive me, forgive me," and thanked them, saying, "Since the day I was born, this little nun has never eaten meat. Please take these meats back for your own use. I shall trouble you only for a cup of clear water." The chieftain said, "You have traveled a whole day — you must be hungry. Here we have nothing but meat to fill the belly. What shall we do?" Yonglian said, "That is no problem. When we set out from Sai Family Fort today, Master Sun bestowed upon us a bag of steamed buns, which should last us a few meals!" Master Miaoshan said, "When did he give those to you? Why did I not know of it?" Yonglian answered, "Before leaving the fort, I was afraid that if you knew, you would refuse to accept them, so I quietly took them, to have on hand in case of need. Who would have thought we would use them today!" As she spoke, she drew a few buns from the bag, and they shared them among themselves, drinking a little water to ease their throats.

By this time the inside of the tent was pitch-dark, with not a single lamp. Only the heavy, sand-veiled moonlight filtered faintly through the seams of the tent, casting a dim, pale light. The three sat in meditation and entered samadhi; the nomads, too, lay down here and there and fell fast asleep. There is nothing more to say of this.

At dawn the next morning, they went their separate ways. As for the whereabouts of the Gala people, I shall not trouble to follow them. As for Master Miaoshan and her two companions, they traveled northward, walking by day and resting by night. For several days in a row, all was peaceful and uneventful. Then one day they came to a place where a great mountain blocked the road. A few li from the mountain stood a village of some hundred or so households. By then the sky was already growing dim at dusk, so the three made directly for the village. But unexpectedly, an obstacle arose in the middle of things —

Indeed, on this road to Mount Sumeru, storms are not yet past. To know what follows, wait for the next chapter.

Chapter 21: Seeking Lodging at Lu Village — Another Encounter with Fate; Glutinous Rice Given as a Gift Cures a Long-Standing Illness

Master Miaoshan and her two companions saw the day was growing late, with a high mountain blocking the road ahead that they could not cross before nightfall. They came upon a village a few li from the mountain and went straight in to ask for lodging for the night, and to beg a simple meal to ease their hunger. Entering the village, they spotted a large, imposing household with a tall gate — clearly the home of the village’s wealthiest family. As the saying goes, “When you travel, read the weather; when you seek alms, read the room.” The three naturally headed for this home.

When they reached the gate, they found an old man of about seventy sitting there, his brow furrowed with worry, eyes fixed on the ground, gaze unmoving, lost in thought. He did not notice them approach. Yonglian, impetuous by nature, stepped forward at once, folded her hands in greeting, and said, “Old sir, what weighs on your mind? We nuns offer you our greetings.” Caught off guard by the sudden voice, the old man jumped in alarm. He looked up at the three and said, “Where do you bhikshunis come from? What brings you here? You startled me half out of my wits, appearing so suddenly!”

Master Miaoshan pressed her palms together in apology. “We are deeply sorry to disturb you. We are nuns from the Kingdom of Xinglin, on our way to pay homage to Mount Sumeru. Our path passed your village, and with night falling fast, we came to ask if we might stay the night. We will leave at first light tomorrow and cause no further trouble. We would be grateful for your kindness.” The old man shook his head. “You’ve come at a bad time. In other days, we would have welcomed you to stay as long as you liked, no trouble at all. But I’m afraid that’s not possible now. You’d best try your luck elsewhere.”

Master Miaoshan tilted her head. “This is strange. What is the reason? Please tell us.” The old man sighed. “Speaking of our squire, Lu Yun, he is a truly good man. For years he has devoted himself to helping the poor and needy, hosting monks and chanting the Buddha’s name — a practice he never abandoned for thirty or forty years. But for all that, he and his wife had no children. Finally, two springs ago, a son was born to the household, and everyone rejoiced. The villagers all agreed this was a blessing for his many good deeds.

But at the start of this month, the young master came down with sudden, severe diarrhea. The family called in physicians right away, and all diagnosed it as a stubborn spleen deficiency that would be hard to cure, let alone treat with medicine. The remedies they tried had no real effect: he might improve a little while the medicine was in his system, but as soon as it wore off, his symptoms returned. One old physician said the only way to cure the illness was to obtain three he of glutinous rice, decoct the juice, and give it to the boy to drink, so that his body’s core could regain its vitality. Only then would other medicines take effect.

The catch is, our area doesn’t grow rice at all. To get any, you’d have to cross Tianma Peak up ahead, ford the Bixi River, and travel all the way to Glazed-Glass City. It’s only a hundred li or so, so the trip wouldn’t be hard under normal circumstances. But misfortune struck six months ago: the pass through Tianma Peak, which had always been a smooth, safe path where not even wolves roamed, was taken over by four fierce, striped tigers. They’ve been attacking people and livestock ever since, making the mountain too dangerous to cross. All contact with Glazed-Glass City has been cut off. We know the rice is there, but no one is willing to risk their life to go get it. The young master’s illness grows worse by the day. The old physician says he has only a day or two left to live. Now the squire is so distraught he can barely eat or drink, and has been like this for three or four days. With all that going on, we have no heart to entertain guests. Please, go somewhere else for lodging.”

Master Miaoshan smiled. “You say we come at a bad time, but I think we have come at exactly the right moment. This too is a destined affinity. Go tell the squire not to worry. If it were any other supply you needed, we as nuns would not have it to give — but we carry three he of glutinous rice in our bags. If it can save the young master’s life, we will give it freely, no hesitation.”

The old man was half-incredulous, half hopeful. “Are you telling the truth? You nuns took vows to speak honestly — you can’t lie to us just to get a night’s stay and then vanish in the morning.” Master Miaoshan laughed softly. “How could we do such a thing? Look in those yellow cloth bags of my two companions — what do you see, if not rice and grain? Hurry and tell the squire, that’s all.” The old man said, “Wait here for a moment, then. I’ll go make report at once.” He hurried inward in high spirits, calling out as he went: “Squire! Squire! Good news! The young master is going to live! Someone’s here with glutinous rice!”

Squire Lu was sitting in the hall, head in his hands, when he heard the commotion. He snapped, “Lu Er, have you lost your mind? What are you babbling about out there?” “I haven’t gone mad — there really are people here with glutinous rice!” Lu Er panted. He paused to catch his breath, then repeated every word of Master Miaoshan’s offer from start to finish. The squire shot to his feet at once. “Lu Er, open the main gate at once! Tell them I’m coming out to greet the three living Buddhas myself.” Lu Er dared not tarry. He stumbled and staggered all the way out, opened the main gate, and said to the three, “Our squire has come out to greet the three living Buddhas in person.” Master Miaoshan demurred at once.

Squire Lu came out through the main gate, bowed deeply to the three of them, and said: “I am Lu Yun, a humble man of this village. I had no idea the three honored ones had arrived, and I failed to greet you from afar. I beg a thousand pardons for my discourtesy. Please, come into the hall, and let us offer you tea and a meal.” Master Miaoshan and her companions returned the bow. “We are but lowly nuns with no great merit. It is we who should apologize for troubling you, coming uninvited to ask for a night’s lodging on our way to pay homage to the mountain. It is a great imposition on you.”

Lu Yun led the three inside to the main hall. After exchanging a few more polite greetings and taking their seats as host and guests, Master Miaoshan spoke: “We heard the young master is very ill, and that only a gruel made from glutinous rice can save him. As it happens, we carry both glutinous rice and ordinary grain in our bags. We can pick out the glutinous rice easily — we have far more than the three he you need, even three sheng if you require it.” When Lu Yun heard this, he was overjoyed beyond his hopes, and thanked her a thousand times over.

Master Miaoshan had brought a bag of dried rice for the journey, but she had scattered every grain of it to feed crows when they crossed Sacred Crow Ridge earlier. The bag of rice at Yonglian’s side, and the bag of grain the old wet nurse carried, were still untouched. She asked Lu Yun for a tray at once, had Yonglian pour out the rice, and carefully picked out the glutinous grains. In no time at all, she had sorted about one sheng. Lu Yun protested repeatedly: “That’s enough, that’s enough! Please, take the rest back with you.” Yonglian poured the remaining rice back into his bag. Master Miaoshan added a few final instructions: “When you cook this rice, do not wash or scrub it — you’ll damage its vital energy and weaken its effect. Cook it over a low, gentle flame, and make sure it never boils over. If it does, all the nourishing essence will be lost, and it won’t work.” Lu Yun agreed to every point. He urged the three to make themselves comfortable, then carried the tray of rice inside himself. He handed it to the elder of the house, explained the cooking instructions, and asked her to prepare it. At the same time, he ordered a vegetarian meal to be prepared for his guests, and had clean rooms readied for them to stay in. He also sent for the old physician to come discuss a treatment plan. We will leave these matters aside for now.

To return to the elder of the house: she measured out three he of the rice into an earthen pot, added the right amount of water, and set it over a charcoal stove. She sat beside it the whole time, watching carefully to make sure it did not boil over. After about half a shichen, the rice had cooked into a thick, fragrant porridge. She skimmed a small cupful from the top and took it to feed the young master. The boy had been drained of all strength by his long illness, and had taken no food or drink for days. She had to drip the porridge into his mouth a little at a time with a spoon to get him to swallow. When she had fed him the full cup, he looked as if he had fallen into a deep sleep.

The elder was delighted at first, and went to clear away the pot and put out the fire. But when she came back to check on the young master and touched his limbs, she froze with shock. His hands and feet, which had still held a faint warmth even when they were cooler than a healthy person’s, were now cold as ice, with no heat left in them at all — even his head was the same. He looked as if he had already passed away.

Panicked, the elder ran breathless to the hall to tell Lu Yun. The squire was sitting with Master Miaoshan and the others eating their meal, and froze with terror when he heard the news. The elder was convinced the glutinous rice must have been cursed, and tried to rush at Master Miaoshan in a rage. It took Lu Yun all his strength to hold her back. The household was in chaos when the old physician arrived. After hearing what had happened, he said: “Stop your shouting, all of you. Let me go in and examine the boy. You’ll know the truth soon enough.” He went in with Lu Yun and the elder, felt the young master’s pulse, and turned to the squire with a smile. “Congratulations, Squire. The young master has rallied.”

Lu Yun was overjoyed, but confused. “But his hands and feet are cold as ice, and his breath is so faint it’s barely there — those are the signs of death! How can you say he’s improved?” The physician shook his head. “You don’t understand. This is what we call the gathering of vital spirit inward. The boy has been sick for so long that his spirit and his breath have grown disconnected. The rice gruel has given his original vital energy a boost, so it has gathered back inside his body. The coldness on the outside is just a sign of that. Wait until he wakes from this sleep — you’ll see, he’ll be full of color and strength.” Everyone felt relieved when they heard this. The physician wrote out a prescription, then took his leave.

When Master Miaoshan heard the good news, she was deeply glad. Lu Yun and his entire household came out to bow to her in gratitude, and to apologize for their earlier rudeness. Master Miaoshan said: “This is such a fine, fertile region, yet it’s a shame no one ever thought to grow rice here. It’s a real lack. I still have several sheng of grain in my bags — I’d like to leave it with you to use as seed.”

---

On this day a precious seed was left, In years to come, myriads of qing of grain shall ripen. If you would know what follows, Pray attend to the next chapter.

Chapter 22: Slaying the Tiger Plague at Heavenly Horse Peak — Finding Light on the Road to Glass City

The Venerable Miaoshan saw that such a fine place produced no rice at all, and her heart went out to the people. She said to Lu Yun: "Worthy sir, yours is a good region, yet who would have thought it grows no rice, only wheat and beans — a most grievous lack. Fortunately, I still have a few sheng of grain in my bag, both common rice and glutinous, so let me leave it with you as seed, to make good this want." Lu Yun and the others were so overjoyed they fairly danced for joy, thanking Heaven and thanking Earth. Miaoshan told her attendant to untie the cloth bag and hand it over to Lu Yun. She then sorted the husks of the common rice and the glutinous rice, and explained at length the methods of planting, cultivation, and irrigation. Lu Yun bowed his thanks and received the gift, his gratitude knowing no bounds. When night fell, each went off to rest, and we'll say no more of it.

At dawn the next morning, after washing, they gathered in the main hall. Miaoshan asked after the young master's illness, and indeed, just as the old physician had foretold, his mind was clear again and the purging had stopped. The three of them rejoiced on the family's behalf. After the morning meal, Miaoshan took her leave of Lu Yun. Lu Yun would not hear of it, and said: "The three of you, on your way to Mount Sumeru, must pass through Heavenly Horse Peak. Yet half a year ago four fierce tigers arrived there and began devouring men and beasts, so no one dares travel that road any longer. The three of you are all of delicate frame — how could you possibly go? Better to lodge for a while at my humble estate, while I post a reward and call for hunters to go in and rid us of the tigers. Then I'll escort you across. The tiger plague will be ended, and I'll have repaid, at least in some small measure, your great kindness — but go now, you absolutely must not."

Miaoshan laughed and said: "Never fear! Tigers are nothing but the yaksha who patrol the mountains for our Buddhist faith. Since we have taken refuge in the Buddha, he would never let them harm us. Set your mind at ease, worthy sir. We must press on to worship at Mount Sumeru and dare not linger. Your generous intentions are accepted in our hearts!"

Lu Yun still wouldn't let them depart, and the two of them argued back and forth for a good while. At length Lu Yun said: "Since the three of you are determined to go, then let me pick out a company of sturdy fellows, each bearing arms, to escort you across Heavenly Horse Peak, that no mishap may befall you." Miaoshan could refuse no longer, and let him make his choice. In a short while he had chosen thirty-two strong and vigorous men, each grasping sword, spear, fork, or club, who gathered outside the manor. Only then did Miaoshan bid farewell to Lu Yun, and with her two attendants passed out the gate, mounted the white elephant, and set out along the great road toward Heavenly Horse Peak. Lu Yun, with the old and young of the whole estate, escorted them for some distance before stopping. They watched the three companions depart under their escort.

There were originally two routes over the peak, east and west. The western road was comparatively steep, with plenty of timber where wild beasts could easily lie hidden; the eastern road was comparatively level, with few trees, and seemed the safer. So the troop of stalwarts, wishing to avoid any encounter with the tigers, made straight for the eastern valley. But such things have a way of going contrary to one's hopes — when you would avoid, you meet head-on! Had they taken the western valley, all would have been peaceful and still; now, having entered the eastern, they could not escape a terrible alarm.

The company entered the valley and wound their way upward. When they reached the halfway point of the mountain, there lay a stone ridge, with jagged rocks scattered about and a thick tangle of forest and brush. An old hand at mountain paths warned the company: "Keep a sharp lookout! That beast may be hiding in the tangled grass — have your weapons ready, brothers!" All gave a hearty shout of assent. But that very shout roused the fierce tigers of the mountain!

It happened that two fierce tigers had come out from their den on the western peak at night to forage, and had crossed straight over to the eastern peak, where they found nothing to eat. By now the sky was fully bright, and they were weary, so they lay down among the thickets to doze. Suddenly hearing human voices — being so hungry they would take anything — they gave a wild roar and came bounding out, one to the left and one to the right, leaping straight into the midst of the company.

Miaoshan was greatly startled. Crying out in distress, she tumbled from the elephant's back. Yonglian and her companion fell to the ground as well, and could not so much as crawl to their feet. The escorts, each gripping his weapon, scattered to the four sides to surround the tigers. The tigers, cunning as ever, saw that someone had fallen to the ground, and forsook the men-at-arms to go for the three companions. The escorts fought with all their strength to defend them, but could intercept only one tiger. The other, rushing toward Miaoshan, was so swift there was no time to save her — but suddenly the white elephant swung his body sideways and placed himself as a shield before the three. When the tiger drew near, he wrapped his trunk about the tiger's waist and with all his might hurled him away, tossing him several zhang off and crashing him against a great boulder, breaking his spine so he could rise no more.

The escorts, seeing the elephant had killed one tiger, took heart at once, and with forks and spears raised together they slew the other. During the struggle there arose a great clamor of wild snarls and shouts, which sounded all the louder on the mountaintop, with peaks answering and valleys echoing. This awakened the two fierce tigers sleeping on the western peak. Hearing the tumult of human voices and not finding their two companions, they knew at once a fight must be in progress. They came forth from their den together, listened for the direction of the sound, and each leaping in tiger-fashion rolled forward like a whirlwind — sand and stones flying — the two great beasts leaping ridge after ridge, racing straight toward the place of uproar.

Now the escorts, having just slain two of the fierce tigers, were about to help the three companions forward when suddenly a gust of wind swept past, carrying a stench to their nostrils, and they all cried out: "This is ill! Another great beast is upon us!" Each gripped his blade to meet the foe, and the white elephant too charged into the wind. When the tigers drew near, he once again wrapped his trunk about one and hurled him to the dust. The escorts rushed forward together, blades and staves descending, and stabbed another to death. The remaining tiger, seeing his three companions slain, flew into a great rage, grinding his teeth and brandishing his claws to do battle with the white elephant.

The elephant, after all, had only the one trunk to work with, and the odds were somewhat against him. But fortunately his hide was thick, and though clawed and bitten he took no heed, continuing the fight with all his might, swinging his great trunk. The escorts, seeing that three of the four were already dead, knew that this lone tiger, however fierce, could not prevail, and joined the white elephant in a circle to attack. The fierce tiger fought on until his sinews failed and his strength gave out, and only then did he fall to the ground, killed by the company — though not before he had clawed and wounded several of them. Thus the tiger plague of Heavenly Horse Peak was at last removed.

The four dead tigers, as we'll mention in a word, were carried back by the escorts to Lu Yun's manor. To return to the matter at hand — though Miaoshan and her companions had suffered a great alarm, they were now unharmed. They steadied themselves, rose from the ground, remounted the elephant, and continued on their way. The escorts accompanied them past the northern foot of Heavenly Horse Peak before taking their leave. The three thanked the men and traveled on toward the main road to Glass City. Once past that mountain ridge, the scene changed greatly — everywhere along the way were towns and marketplaces, nothing like the desolation and loneliness of the other side.

The three companions traveled for two days before reaching the city. It was furnished, like any other, with government offices, post-stations, and inns. Miaoshan at once produced her travel permit and went in person to the prefecture to have it inspected and stamped, whereupon someone led them to a post-station to rest and provided a vegetarian meal. The next day they left the city, taking the eastward road to push on toward Mount Sumeru. This, indeed, was the proper road for ascending Mount Sumeru. The three of them had earlier made the mistake of going out by the southern valley, which not only added some three hundred li to their journey but had caused them real trials and alarms along the way; only now had they at last found this bright and open road.

From then on they traveled from dawn to dusk, and after no small number of days they saw in the distance the peak of Mount Sumeru. Their hope drew nearer. Their courage swelled, and they walked the faster. Where ordinarily they had covered fifty li a day, now they could manage seventy and feel no weariness. Mile after mile, they arrived at last at the foot of Mount Sumeru. But this mountain was not only lofty enough to meet the heavens, it was also exceedingly vast — seventy-two peaks great and small, each connected to the next, rising and falling unceasingly, like a roaming dragon.

Thus, though Miaoshan and her two companions had reached the foot of the mountain, they did not know which peak was the Snow Lotus Peak. To worship at every peak in turn would have been pointless. If they did not meet the Snow Lotus, they would still not know the whereabouts of that peak, and the whole journey would have been made for nothing.

Within some ten li of those peaks there was no village or inhabitant to ask directions of, and this left her quite at a loss, hesitating and unable to decide. After conferring together, Yonglian suddenly had a notion and said: "This Snow Lotus Peak is the famous main peak of Mount Sumeru — it must be especially tall and large, quite different from the others. Let's not trouble ourselves about whether that's true; let's only choose the tallest and largest peak to make for. Even if we're wrong, perhaps by the power of our sincere hearts, the Snow Lotus itself, moved by our devotion, will appear of its own accord and guide us." In the absence of any better plan, they could only follow her idea.

So they compared the heights and sizes of all the peaks, and found that only the third peak, to the center-left, was the largest. They took it for their goal and set out toward that peak.

When they reached the foot of the mountain, they searched for some while before finding a small path leading up. Yonglian drove the white elephant forward, intending to go straight up by that route. But the white elephant, who had always been so tame and gentle, now balked, planting himself firmly and refusing absolutely to go forward.

Just where the Lotus Peak may be, the white elephant knows in secret.
To learn what happened after, you must read the next chapter.

Chapter Twenty-Three: The Ba Serpent Swallows the Elephant on the High Peak; A Divine General Strikes a Man Within a Realm of Illusion

The story goes that Master Miaoshan and her three companions arrived at the foot of the tallest peak, taking it for Snow Lotus Peak. They found a path and urged the white elephant to begin the ascent, but the elephant — which had been perfectly docile the entire journey — for no reason they could grasp, planted its feet and refused to move an inch. When Yonglian couldn’t get the elephant to budge, she said, “How odd! Did the white elephant skip its meal today, that it’s refusing to go forward?” She rummaged in her cloth bag, produced an alms bun, and held it out to the elephant, but it refused to eat and stayed perfectly still. This made Yonglian grit her teeth in frustration. “Wretched beast,” she cursed, “carrying on with all this strange behavior — do you want a beating? If you don’t get moving, I’ll give you a good thrashing with my fists!” At her words, the white elephant turned its head to look at her and let out a long, heavy breath, as if saying: “Something’s off with the air up there. There’s a creature hiding in these mountains — it’s far too dangerous. We can’t go in.” Yonglian was known for her cleverness, but she couldn’t fathom the elephant’s meaning, and could only stomp her feet and curse. Seeing this, Master Miaoshan dismounted and stroked the elephant’s trunk, saying, “White elephant! You have spiritual awareness. Ever since you saved my life on Mount Golden Wheel, you’ve accompanied me on this pilgrimage and endured no small hardship along the way. Now that we’ve come so close to the end of our journey, have you suddenly turned unruly?” The white elephant shook its head vigorously, indicating that wasn’t the reason. Master Miaoshan tried again: “If that’s so, then you must be refusing because this mountain isn’t Snow Lotus Peak!” The elephant shook its head again. Poor thing — a three-inch transverse bone in its throat prevented it from speaking to explain its refusal, and it could only shake its head, leaving Master Miaoshan utterly perplexed. The storyteller must step in here to clear things up. Was this peak in fact Snow Lotus Peak? Of course the white elephant, being a beast, had no way of knowing that. Its refusal to climb had nothing to do with the mountain’s name: it had caught a sharp, rank stench on the wind, and knew some monstrous creature lurked within. And that creature was the one it feared above all others: a giant serpent. As its natural enemy, the elephant’s senses were especially sharp where serpents were concerned. Elephants are among the gentlest of wild beasts, with thick hides, massive bodies, and strength beyond measure — even tigers and leopards pose no threat to them. They have only two natural terrors: rats, which can crawl into their nostrils and devour their brains, and great serpents, which will coil around them so tightly they cannot break free, holding on until they die. For this reason, elephants have an exceptionally keen sense for the scent of these two creatures, and can detect even the faintest trace with a single sniff. If the white elephant had already picked up on this foul stench, why hadn’t Master Miaoshan or her two companions caught a whiff of it? Simple: a beast’s sense of smell is far sharper than a human’s, so the three had not yet noticed the odor. Master Miaoshan gently urged the elephant forward, reminding it not to give up now after coming so far — to fall short at the very last step would be a deep regret, and whether it attained the True Fruit depended on this single act of will. The white elephant seemed to understand, and finally nodded, as if to say: “I’m not refusing out of laziness — there’s danger ahead, and I’m afraid it will harm you. But if you’re set on going, I have no choice but to follow.” Master Miaoshan was delighted to see it agree, and climbed back onto its back. The white elephant set off slowly along the mountain trail. After five or six li, a breeze picked up, and the three caught a whiff of a foul, rotting stench so sharp it turned their stomachs. “Ugh! What is this stench? How can it be so awful?” Yonglian said. Master Miaoshan replied, “Dense mountain forest traps dampness, and when the sun bakes it, that dampness rises into the air to make smells like this. And Yonglian, you’ve misspoken again! Haven’t you heard that those who have left the household life must extinguish the six sense roots? What are the six roots? Tell me.” “Eye, ear, nose, tongue, body, and mind — these are the six roots,” Yonglian answered. “The eye is the root of sight, the ear the root of hearing, the nose the root of smell, the tongue the root of taste, the body the root of touch, and the mind the root of thought. I’ve heard you teach this countless times, Master — how could I forget?” “If you know the six roots, yet still call this smell foul — aren’t your six roots still very much alive?” Master Miaoshan said. Yonglian nodded repeatedly, gathered her thoughts, and walked on. But the stench only grew worse. The white elephant moved as if poisoned, its steps slower and more labored by the minute. Master Miaoshan found this odd and called for the group to stop. She hopped down from the elephant’s back to check on it, when suddenly a strange, howling wind burst out of nowhere, shaking the trees and sending sand and stones flying so hard they could barely keep their eyes open. As the wind died down, the stench was overpowering. Master Miaoshan peered through the air and saw a gigantic serpent slithering out of the forest ahead. Its head alone — no exaggeration — was the size of a large woven basket. Its eyes glowed like a pair of lanterns. Its gaping maw was as wide as a small moon gate, and its forked tongue flicked out like twin blades drawn from their sheaths. The portion of its body visible past the treeline already measured two or three zhang in length, and there was no way to tell where its tail was, or how long the full body might be. “Disaster — a giant serpent! We have to get out of here, now!” Master Miaoshan shouted. By then the nursemaid and Yonglian had seen it too. All three screamed and bolted down a narrow side path that cut off at an angle. The white elephant caught sight of the serpent and bellowed in terror, but its legs wouldn’t move. The serpent slithered close to the elephant, opened its gaping, blood-stained maw, and breathed a noxious cloud directly into its face. The elephant’s muscles seized and its bones went limp. In moments it could no longer stand — it crashed to the ground with a thud. The serpent bit and tore at it until the white elephant was dead, then clamped its jaws around the carcass and dragged it off toward a peak on the opposite side. Master Miaoshan and the other two fled until they were sure they were safe, then turned to look back. From far off, they saw the serpent dragging the white elephant’s body away. All three mourned, “Poor beast! It escorted us all this way, only to fall victim to that wicked creature — such a waste.” Yonglian said, “It carried us so far, and now we can only stand by and watch it be devoured, unable to do a thing to save it.” The nursemaid said, “Then let us recite the Rebirth Dhāraṇī several more times, that it may quickly be reborn in the Pure Land of Ultimate Bliss. It is the least we can do to honor its loyalty.” “Good,” Master Miaoshan said. All three fell silent and began to recite the dhāraṇī as they continued on their way. They climbed up and down the rocky slopes until the sky grew dark. Looking down, they saw they had already climbed several dozen zhang above the flat valley floor. But when they looked up at the summit, it looked no closer than it had from the foot of the mountain — as if all their climbing had gotten them nowhere at all. They found a small stone cave cut into the cliff face, took shelter inside, sat in the cross-legged meditation posture, and began to practice. But after the day’s terrifying encounter with the serpent, none of them could fully settle their minds. A restless mind is the greatest obstacle to meditation, for it gives rise to all kinds of terrifying visions, no different from the nightmares ordinary people have in their sleep. Of the three, Master Miaoshan had the deepest spiritual practice, and she easily gathered her mind and stayed undisturbed. The nursemaid’s practice was not as advanced as the Master’s, but she could still hold her composure and keep her thoughts from wandering. Only Yonglian, whose practice was the most shallow, began to feel her whole body burning with heat after only a short time in meditation, as if she were trapped inside a roaring furnace. She opened her eyes in alarm to find the entire cave filled with roaring flames, all three of them surrounded by fire. Yet Master Miaoshan and the nursemaid sat with their eyes closed, seemingly unaware of anything at all. Yonglian thought, This is bad — they’re perfectly fine, and only I feel the heat. I must be falling under Mara’s influence again. She quickly cast aside all distracting thoughts and focused her mind. The flames in the cave vanished as quickly as they had appeared, and the heat left her body. But her mind still refused to settle. A moment later, the vision shifted again. She felt her whole body turn ice-cold, as if she’d been plunged into a house of solid ice, and violent jolts shook her frame. She opened her eyes to see churning, muddy waves surging to the sky, filling the entire cave with water, all three of them submerged. But Master Miaoshan and the nursemaid remained completely unaware, and the waves did not come near their bodies. Yonglian thought in despair, This is awful — why am I beset by these Mara-induced visions today? How can I ever attain the True Fruit if I can’t even sit still? The moment this thought crossed her mind, vexation rose in her heart, and she sank deeper into the illusion. In the blink of an eye, the muddy waves disappeared. With a deafening crack, a host of celestial warriors in golden helmets and golden armor appeared in midair. Each stood over two zhang tall, with waists ten spans around, and every one gripped an eight-ridged golden mace. They glared down with furious eyes. One of them, with bulging, ringed eyes, flew into the cave, raised his massive golden mace, and without a word of warning, brought it whistling down toward the crown of her head. At this, Yonglian felt her soul flee her body in terror. She shrieked at the top of her lungs — a piercing cry of “Ah!” — that startled Master Miaoshan and the nursemaid, who both asked urgently, “Yonglian! Why did you cry out like that?” Ah! Only then did she awaken, as though roused from a dream. Truly:

Illusory realms are forged by the mind alone — How could they ever be taken as real? To learn what happens next, dear reader, you will have to wait for the next chapter.

Chapter 24: Encountering a White Bear, the Three Nuns Feign Death; Evading Clever Macaques, They Practice Prostration Pilgrimage

The story goes that Yonglian had fallen ever deeper into demonic delusion. Suddenly she beheld a golden-armored celestial deity, wielding an eight-ridged golden mace, bursting into the stone cave and striking straight at the crown of her head. Her terror was beyond words, and she let out a piercing scream. The scream jolted the Master Miaoshan and her other companion right out of their meditative absorption. Seeing her wild, disoriented state, they called out, "Yonglian, what has happened? Why did you cry out so?" Only then did Yonglian feel as though she were waking from a deep dream. She looked carefully: the three of them were sitting perfectly fine inside the stone cave. Where was there any water or fire? Where was any celestial deity? She realized at last that everything had been mere illusion, and she recounted to the other two all that had just occurred. The Master Miaoshan said, "Yonglian! How did you fall into such a demonic state again? It must be the fright you suffered from the python during the day — your mind and spirit could not gather themselves back together, and so it came to this. Fortunately, the golden-armored deity startled you awake. Otherwise, you might have lost a good measure of your spiritual attainment." Yonglian nodded again and again in agreement.

By now the sky had grown bright with dawn. The three gathered their things, exited the stone cave, and sought a path up the mountain, foraging for wild fruit along the way to stave off hunger. Around midday, they suddenly spotted in the distance a great white bear walking straight toward them. It did not appear to have noticed them yet. The Master Miaoshan led the other two by the hand as they slipped together into a copse of trees, and whispered, "It would be best if we can hide from it. But if we cannot, then everyone must lie flat on the ground, hold your breath, and play dead. Whatever you do, do not breathe or move. Perhaps we can escape this calamity." When the white bear drew near the grove, it caught the scent of humans and began searching all around. The three had already thrown themselves to the ground, holding their breath and feigning death. The bear made its way into the grove and, upon seeing the three figures, stood stock still. It stared at them for a good long while. Seeing that they made no sound, gave no breath, and stirred not at all, it truly took them for corpses. It let out a few grunts of disappointment, then lumbered past them, never once looking back, and went on its way. Only when Miaoshan opened her eyes and saw that the bear was far off did she signal the other two to rise. As it happened, the one thing bears most abhor is a corpse — upon seeing a dead body, a bear will refuse to go anywhere near it. The Master Miaoshan knew of this habit and so had used the ruse to deliver them from danger.

The three then emerged from the grove and continued along the path. After traveling another five or seven li, they were parched and bone-weary. As luck would have it, a mountain stream lay right before them. The Master Miaoshan said, "Let us sit and rest a while. We'll scoop up some water to drink before going on." So they all sat leaning against the rocks. Yonglian took the alms bowl, went to the stream, and scooped up half a bowl of clear water. She offered it first to the Master Miaoshan, who took a few sips, and the remainder she shared with the Nurse. They too sat on the ground, picking up small stones and tossing them into the stream, watching the splashing water for amusement. The Master Miaoshan watched them and said with a smile, "Yonglian! The stone strikes and the water flies — within this too lies a kernel of Chan wisdom. Can you see through it?" Yonglian said, "I dare ask the Master to speak first." The Master Miaoshan said, "Water is by nature still. Struck by your stone, it becomes active and splashes upward. One moment still, one moment in motion — within this lies the very mechanism of creation." Yonglian said, "No, no! Water is in motion. Do you not see that even without my stone striking it, it flows ceaselessly, day and night? It is the stone that is still. Unless I pick it up and throw it, it would never leap into the stream on its own!" The Master Miaoshan nodded repeatedly, exclaiming, "Excellent, excellent!" Just then, a stone came flying from out of nowhere and struck Yonglian squarely on the forehead. She said in astonishment, "The still has moved! And the moving, I suppose, will eventually become still!" The Master Miaoshan said, "Now you have seen through yet another layer!"

As they were discussing the principles of Chan, a troop of macaques suddenly came leaping out from the opposite side of the stream, chattering "zhi-zhi-zhi." Only then did Yonglian realize that the stone a moment ago had been thrown by a monkey. The monkeys, having seen Yonglian tossing stones to splash the water, decided to throw stones at the people in return. Consider: how could three people withstand a barrage from thirty or fifty monkeys? Yonglian and the Nurse rose to their feet, ready to flee. But the Master Miaoshan said, "Don't run, don't run! If we run, the monkeys will give chase. They are swift of foot and we would never outrun them — then we would be surrounded and in far worse straits. I have noticed that monkeys are clever by nature and delight in imitating human actions. The three of us should line up abreast and proceed onward. Every three steps, let us bow in prostration. If the monkeys imitate our actions, even if they follow behind us, they will no longer think to hurl stones at us." And so, following her advice, the three of them indeed lined up in a row and proceeded forward, bowing once every three steps. When the monkeys saw this, they thought it great fun and began to copy them, walking and bowing all along the way, and no longer threw stones at the three.

This practice of prostration every three steps while on pilgrimage was, in truth, an expedient stratagem devised by the Master Miaoshan to evade the monkeys. Later generations of Buddhist devotees took it as an established rite: no matter which mountain they might set out to venerate, they prostrate every three steps from the foot of the mountain all the way to its summit. The true origin of this custom in fact began right here. The three pilgrims bowed and walked onward, and the monkeys followed along the whole way. After they had traveled a great distance in this manner, suddenly a series of loud "pa-pa-pa" sounds came from the sky, and a tremendous gust of wind swept down. The three looked up and saw a great peng bird circling and swooping overhead. This bird was many times the size of an ordinary one — its wings could blot out the sun, its talons churned the clouds, and each beat of its wings sent forth a gale. Monkeys, much like mischievous children, fear nothing in heaven or earth — except birds of prey such as hawks and falcons. For such birds strike from above, difficult to guard against, with talons and beaks of extraordinary sharpness, nearly impossible to resist. When they seize a monkey, they carry it into the air, and with a few pecks the monkey is done for. Should the monkey struggle with all its might, the bird simply releases its grip and sends the monkey plummeting to its death from on high, then swoops down to feast on its brain. Thus monkeys fear hawks and falcons just as mice fear cats — and how much more so when what they saw today was a peng! The monkeys, keen of nature, knew the moment they heard the sound of wings overhead that their nemesis had come. They dared not continue their mimicry of the three pilgrims' prostrations. With a frenzy of "zhi-zhi-zhi" calls, they scattered in every direction, diving into dense thickets and deep grass, vanishing without a trace — not a single one could be found. Seeing that the monkeys had fled, the three ceased their prostrations and made their way slowly up the mountain. When dusk fell, they found another stone cave for shelter. Fortunately, among the sheer cliffs and precipices along the way, there were caves of varying sizes at frequent intervals, so they could find shelter wherever they went. That night, all three sat in meditation and entered samadhi, each passing the night in peace.

At dawn the next morning, they set out again. They walked for three full days before finally reaching the halfway point of the mountain. Once past the mountainside, the landscape changed dramatically. On the way up from the foothills, they had felt the mountain air grow colder than the lowlands, but it had not yet stiffened their hands and feet. Now, having crossed beyond the mid-slope, it grew colder with every step. When the wind swept the snow down from the summit, it struck their faces like the cut of a knife. Wherever water had seeped onto the ground, it had frozen into hard patches of ice, slick and treacherous, making each step a struggle. Along the entire way, apart from a few cold-hardy pines and cypresses, no ordinary trees could be found. There was no hope of foraging for fruit to fill their bellies. Yonglian observed all this and groaned inwardly — hungry and freezing, she wondered: if it continued to grow colder like this, would not the very blood in their veins freeze solid? What then were they to do? Even the Nurse, seeing these conditions, could not help but knit her brow in dismay. Only the Master Miaoshan, with wholehearted sincerity, walked on as though made of wood and stone. Though her feet were bare, she showed no sign of distress.

After walking for the better part of the day, they at last spotted two chestnut trees bearing numerous prickly burs. Yonglian knocked several down, cracked them open with her feet, and shared them among the three. To their surprise, their hunger was satisfied. And stranger still, once their stomachs were full, the cold seemed far more bearable, and their spirits revived considerably. They walked on for another stretch until dusk, then found yet another stone cave to pass the night. That evening the cold was so piercing that Yonglian could endure it no longer and kept crying out that she was freezing. The Nurse too said, "Truly the wind cuts to the bone. It is unbearable. Would it not be best to gather some branches, strike up a fire, and let us all warm ourselves?" The Master Miaoshan said, "Do not make such a commotion. In the depths of the mountains at night, where would fire come from? And even if we could strike sparks from stones and kindle a flame, the light of the fire would surely disturb the wild beasts of the mountain. If they were drawn toward it, would we not be bringing disaster upon ourselves? We must absolutely not do it! Moreover, if we seek to attain the Way, we must be single-minded and sincere, our spirit whole and concentrated. The more the body suffers, the stronger the spirit becomes. For every measure of suffering endured, a measure of strength is gained. After passing through a thousand trials and a hundred tribulations, the spirit becomes immensely strong and complete, never again to scatter — and only then can one attain the Way. Having attained the Way and cast off the body, the spirit becomes a new self, free to roam the boundless cosmos without hindrance, endowed with great spiritual powers, limited by nothing. Since the three of us aspire to attain the true fruit, all suffering of cold and hunger is ours to endure as a matter of course. If we cannot bear even this much, what hope is there of realizing the Way? We have already endured no small amount of hardship — it is like building a pagoda, lacking only its finial. Would you truly cast aside all that has gone before?"

These words awakened the two to sudden and profound understanding. Truly it may be said:

With nine fathoms of work complete, would one squander it all for want of a single basket of earth?

If you wish to know what happened next, read on in the following chapter.

Chapter 25: Scaling Lofty Peaks, the Lost Way Made Clear — Fond Recollections Betrayed by a Foolish Lad

Now, when the caretaker Yonglian heard the words of Master Miaoshan, her heart felt so light and open that the cold seemed much abated. They sat in meditation and passed the night, then rose at dawn and pressed onward as before. Three more days they journeyed in this way, and on that day, just as they were walking, they suddenly beheld a stone memorial archway, its lintel carved with two great characters: "Sacred Realm." Master Miaoshan said, "Good, good! Where there is such an archway, there must surely be either a cultivator of the Way or a monastery." The three of them therefore proceeded, bowing every three steps, and passed through the archway. After perhaps another li or so, they looked up and saw, perched high on a sheer cliff, a great stone chamber. Seated cross-legged within was a long-eyebrowed elder, his countenance one of benevolence and kindliness, his sacred bearing solemn and magnificent. Master Miaoshan said to the other two, "It may be that the Buddha himself has manifested here; or if not, then for someone to dwell alone in such a place practicing cultivation, he must surely be a man of great attainment. We ought to bow to him and beg him to show us the way out of our bewilderment." The two others assented with one voice. So the three of them made their way to the stone chamber, prostrated themselves at the elder's feet, and Master Miaoshan spoke thus: "O Living Buddha above, your disciple Miaoshan and the two others, having come from the Kingdom of Xinglin to make this pilgrimage to the sacred mountain, now beg to seek the traces of the immortals and to be guided across the dark waters of doubt. We have journeyed all this way, and only at this spot have we been fortunate enough to encounter the Living Buddha. Such a meeting of affinities is most auspicious. We implore the Living Buddha to extend great compassion, to point out the path to those who have gone astray, and to enable us to return to the right way. The favor of this would be more than we could ever repay."

The long-eyebrowed elder, having heard these words, at last opened his eyes. He looked at the three of them and said, "Excellent! Excellent! It's rare indeed that you three should not shrink from the hardships of travel, but should come all this way. Truly you are fated to be here. Yet I must ask you this: since you have cast aside every form of worldly honor and taken refuge in the Buddha's teaching, resolved upon cultivation, do you know what the true purpose of Buddhist pure cultivation actually is? And after attaining the right fruit of the Way, what then is the vow of your heart? Tell me, one by one." Master Miaoshan answered, "Reverently I report to the Living Buddha: the true purpose of Buddhist pure cultivation is simply to save and deliver others; there is not the slightest thought of self-benefit. This is why the Buddha himself passed through a hundred kalpas of suffering, all for the sake of relieving the world of its calamities and hindrances. As for the vow of your disciple, if in the future I should manage to cast off this mortal shell, I vow that I will travel to the furthest reaches of the ten quarters and the three realms, to rescue and deliver all beings in suffering, so that all the people of the world may return to perfect enlightenment. I know not whether this resolve of your disciple is in accord with the Buddhist purpose or not." The long-eyebrowed elder nodded repeatedly and said, "Indeed there is some foundation to your past. But you should know that for those who cultivate the true Way, the place of attaining the Way is fixed; this too cannot escape the working of affinity. Although you've endured every hardship and journeyed all this way, as I see it, the place of your certification of the Way is not here at all." Master Miaoshan bowed again and said, "Since you've so graciously shown me the way out of my confusion, this is truly a great blessing. Yet your disciples came to make pilgrimage to Mount Sumeru for a particular reason. In the Kingdom of Xinglin, there was a cultivator of Duobao Mountain named Lou Na Fu Lu, who once said that whoever wishes to attain the right fruit of the Way must obtain the white lotus of this place; only then can the Way be certified. For this reason we made the special journey." The long-eyebrowed elder nodded with a slight smile and said, "So it was he who created this mystery over there! Yet had he not spoken in this way, you would never have come to this place, and all the demonic trials you encountered along the way would never have been undergone. If you hadn't undergone those demonic trials completely, you couldn't certify the Way. This too is fixed and unchanging." Master Miaoshan said, "Most likely that Lou Na Fu Lu specifically guided your disciples to come here to pay reverence to the Living Buddha, who would point out the path of right enlightenment." The long-eyebrowed elder said, "In sum, where affinity is at work, one cannot escape it even if one tried. Come then, let me lay it out plainly for you: in your previous life you were none other than the Vessel of Compassion. It was because you resolved to save and deliver the world from suffering that you turned through the wheel of rebirth and entered the world, being reborn in the Kingdom of Xinglin; that is how you came to possess this karmic root. Now the cycle of worldly kalpas is nearly complete, and in a short while you will certify the Way. The white lotus of this place does indeed exist, but it's already been moved by someone to Mount Potalaka in the Southern Sea, where a lotus throne has been prepared for your future use. The Purple Bamboo Grove over there is your true Pure Land; this place has no share in your affinity. As for the spot where you shall pass beyond, it lies at the Golden Light Temple on Mount Yemo in the Kingdom of Xinglin. This is because it is necessary to borrow your transcendence to move the hearts of the ignorant masses, so that they may all be converted together to the Buddha's gate and spared from every kind of suffering. As for those two companions of yours, their karmic conditions have not yet ripened, and they must still cultivate diligently for some time; but in the end they too shall certify the fruit of bodhi."

Master Miaoshan said, "Grateful beyond words for your instruction, I venture to ask the Living Buddha to bestow his dharma name upon us, so that we may make offerings to you and pay reverence." The long-eyebrowed elder said, "There's no need for that. In time you'll know of your own accord. But I have one more treasure to give you." So saying, he took from his bosom a white jade pure vase and handed it to Master Miaoshan, saying, "You may take this vase back with you and set it up carefully for veneration. When the day comes that you see water within the vase, and a willow branch growing from the water, that shall be the day of your attainment of the Way. Mark this well, mark this well! You must not linger long at this place. You may depart now." Master Miaoshan received that white jade pure vase, bowed again in gratitude, and with her two companions took the same road back, passing out through the Sacred Realm archway and descending the mountain all the way. On the road they traveled by day and rested by night; within the mountains, at any rate, no untoward incident occurred. When they came out at the mouth of the valley, Master Miaoshan said to the two, "This time let's not take a wrong turning again, lest we invite further demonic obstacles." So they gathered themselves, fixed their bearings, and pressed steadily westward. There's nothing more to relate of the journey; where there is talk it runs long, where there is none, short. Mile after mile, day after day, until at last they arrived at the foot of Mount Yemo in the Kingdom of Xinglin. The local residents, catching sight of the Master returning from her pilgrimage, came thronging forth to greet her, the old supporting the young; shouts of joy rose like thunder. Word was soon carried into the Golden Light Temple, and the nuns great and small, donning their kashaya robes, tolling the bell and beating the drum, drew up in a procession and came all the way down to the foot of the mountain, escorting the Master in a great throng back into the temple.

When Master Miaoshan had settled in the meditation hall and the nuns had come forward to pay their respects and offer their greetings, she in due course recounted to them all that had happened upon the road, from beginning to end. The assembly listened with shining eyes, ceaselessly intoning the Buddha's name. Master Miaoshan herself took out that white jade pure vase and reverently placed it upon the offering table before the Buddha. The nuns, knowing it to be a precious object, waited only for the day when water should appear in the vase and a willow branch should grow from it, that the Master might become a Buddha.

Now, by coincidence, when the Master was giving her account there had been no small number of idle listeners present. Among these idlers were people of all ages, and among them was a boy named Shen Ying. He'd been very clever from birth, but was nothing if not a mischief-maker, playing pranks on others from morning till night. The more simple-hearted folk would often fall into his traps for no reason at all. Listening with great interest to the Master's tale, he grew so excited that he longed to have a turn at it himself. When he heard that the white jade vase would of itself produce water and grow a willow branch, he was inclined to doubt it, thinking to himself that an empty vase, with no one to pour water into it or insert a willow branch, could never bring forth such things of its own accord. His mind suddenly turned, and the old spirit of mischief awoke in him, eager to play a joke upon Master Miaoshan. But at the time the hall was full of people, and it was not convenient to act. So he slipped away. Yet, having once conceived the notion, how could he let it go? As for the others, none of them knew what was in his mind. Moreover, the meditation hall was never without people through the day, and at night the doors were shut and barred; how could an outsider possibly get in? So although Shen Ying thought of scheme after scheme, none of them succeeded. Time slipped by, and in the blink of an eye several months had passed.

Then one day Shen Ying hit upon a malicious plan. He first prepared a jar of clear water and a sprig of willow, hiding them in a secluded place. Then he went alone to the woodshed, struck flint to make a spark, and set the dry brushwood alight. The flames blazed up fiercely. Every nun in the temple, hearing that the woodshed was on fire, was thrown into a panic; they all rushed to the rear of the building, busy hauling water to fight the flames. In the front meditation hall, not a single soul remained. Shen Ying seized his chance, took up the things he had prepared, made his way to the meditation hall, leaped with a single bound onto the offering table, poured the water from the jar into the pure vase, and set the willow branch neatly in place. He then wiped away the footprints on the table and hurried out. By that time the villagers from below the mountain, hearing the alarm, had also come rushing up to help, hauling water and joining the rescue. Back and forth they went, the scene in utter confusion; no one paid any attention to Shen Ying's movements, and no one imagined that this cruel fire had been the mischief of that very boy. Seeing him carrying an earthenware jar, they merely supposed he had come to help put out the flames!

But Shen Ying was saying to himself, "Now the water's poured into the white jade vase, and the willow branch is set in place. According to the Master, the moment these appear will be the day she sits in meditation and becomes a Buddha. Let me play this trick, and tomorrow, if she doesn't sit in meditation and become a Buddha, I'll have a tremendous joke to play on her! Let's see what she has to say for herself then!"

As for the woodshed fire, it was fortunate that it was discovered early, and there were many to fight it, so in a short while the flames were extinguished and no great disaster ensued. After all the bustle, evening had come. Everyone ate their meal, tidied up, and returned to their meditation rooms to perform their devotions; in the rush and confusion, no one had given a thought to the white jade pure vase upon the offering table. Thus, although Shen Ying had been busy with his scheme, no one discovered it that day.

A night passed without incident, and the next morning, when all rose, the duty-nun went about to sweep and dust the various halls. The one assigned to the great hall, Xingkong, had only just begun to wipe the offering table when she discovered the willow branch in the pure vase. She stepped closer and saw, sure enough, the vase brimmed with clear water. Overjoyed beyond measure, she dropped the cloth in her hand and ran out of the hall. It happened that at that very moment Yonglian came in with a bouquet of fresh flowers for the offering, and the two of them collided full tilt, very nearly tumbling to the ground together. It was just the moment to carry the glad tidings—yet the one most concerned was not to be seen! If you wish to know what happened thereafter, you must wait for the next chapter.

Chapter 26: Through a Thousand Hardships the Way Is Made and the Nine Grades Won; With a Single Blow on the Crown the Three Thousand Worlds Are Shattered

Xingkong was wiping down the altar when he noticed that the white jade vase truly held pure water and a willow branch. He had often heard that this was the very sign of Venerable Miaoshan's attaining the fruit and becoming a Buddha, so he could hardly contain his joy. He dropped his cloth and dashed out of the hall. Just then, Yonglian came around the corner with a bouquet of fresh flowers she had picked for the offering. Neither was looking where they were going, and they collided head-on, nearly tumbling to the ground.

Yonglian steadied herself and looked at Xingkong. "Why are you always so reckless?" she demanded. "Rushing about like that—what on earth is the matter? You've banged into a person rather painfully, you know."

Xingkong stopped short, pressed his palms together in a fluster of bows, and said: "Reverend Yonglian! I only saw that the white jade vase already has the pure water and willow branch, and I was so overjoyed I ran out hoping to bring the good news to the Venerable. In my hurry I bumped right into you. Please forgive me!"

"Is it really true?" Yonglian asked.

"Absolutely true," Xingkong replied. "I wouldn't dare tell a lie!"

"Then take these flowers and make the offering. I'll go tell the Venerable myself."

Xingkong took the flowers and went back to the hall, while Yonglian headed for the Venerable's meditation chamber. She found the Venerable in conversation with the matron. Seeing Yonglian come in, the Venerable said: "Ah, Yonglian, you've come at just the right moment. I have something to tell you. It seems today is the day of my passing. Last night, in samadhi, I felt a white lotus bloom suddenly in my heart. It must be an omen."

Yonglian told her about the water and willow branch in the vase. Venerable Miaoshan said: "Since the conditions are fulfilled, go up to Linglong Pavilion and prepare the place for the rites. That is where I shall enter my final rest."

Yonglian went off to instruct everyone in the preparations, while Venerable Miaoshan bathed in fragrant water, changed into a set of solemn robes, and slowly ascended the pavilion. She sat cross-legged in the lotus posture on the meditation couch at the center, appearing as if she had merely entered samadhi. The matron and Yonglian led the assembled nuns into two rows. Fish-shaped gongs and stone chimes sounded together; incense curled through the air; and all began reciting passages from the Shurangama Sutra.

But I shall set this scene aside for the moment and turn instead to the boy Shen Ying. He had hatched a mischievous little scheme and meant to play a prank on the Venerable. So he rose early that morning, didn't even stop to eat, and ran all the way to the temple in one breath. He found the nuns bustling about and heard that the Venerable really was to become a Buddha that day. Greatly astonished, he wandered up to the pavilion to have a look.

By then the mountain folk had caught wind of the news too, and word spread quickly. Soon many people poured into the temple to pay their respects, packing Linglong Pavilion from top to bottom. The nuns, of course, kept their eyes lowered and murmured the Buddha's name. Even the visitors held their breath and stood stock-still, not daring to make a sound. Among them all, only Shen Ying, gazing at the Venerable, could not help laughing to himself. So that's how she dozes off, is it? he thought. Talk of becoming a Buddha or not—she's clearly up to some trick. Let me give her a fright and see if I can make her jump!

Having made up his mind, he slipped over to the great wooden fish, seized the enormous fish mallet, crept up in front of the Venerable, and with a great shout brought the mallet down squarely on her crown. The deed was quicker than the telling; though some caught a glimpse of what was happening, there was no time to stop him. This single blow is what is meant by "a shout and a strike upon the crown."

The instant the blow landed, a beam of red light burst forth. Everyone assumed he had split open her head and that what was emerging was blood. But looking more closely, they saw the red light rise gently upward, gradually gathering and condensing into another dharma-image of the Venerable: standing barefoot, holding a pure-water vase with a willow branch placed within.

How could a single blow produce such a transformation? The Venerable's spirit had long been cultivated to a state beyond the need for a physical body. But having lived so long in the human world, she had been soiled by smoke and dust, and the "mud-pellet palace" at the crown of her head had become blocked, so her spirit could find no way out of the body. When the unexpected blow struck, the mud-pellet palace burst open at once, and she seized the moment to cast off her mortal form and undergo the transformation. Shen Ying's mischief, then, was itself a remarkable convergence of conditions.

At that moment, the nuns vied with one another to prostrate themselves in worship, and even the crowd of bystanders bowed toward the sky. Then they all watched as the Venerable's dharma-image rose higher and higher, gradually vanishing into the white clouds. Only then did everyone rise to their feet.

Yonglian went over and touched the Venerable's mortal remains; they were already cold. She ordered the nuns to chant sutras and recite the Buddha's name, while she herself prepared to go into the city with the matron to report the matter to King Miaozhuang. With the arrangements settled, the two came down from Linglong Pavilion and made their way out through the main hall. As they stepped past the mountain gate, they heard the sound of carriage bells approaching from the opposite direction, and in a flash two riders on swift horses came flying up. The imperial messengers on their backs called out: "Where are you two nuns bound? We've come bearing King Miaozhuang's command to deliver an imperial edict. Quickly, fetch the present abbess to receive it."

The matron and Yonglian paid their respects, explained the situation, and invited the two messengers into the temple. An incense table was set up in the main hall, and everyone knelt to hear the edict read aloud. It turned out that King Miaozhuang had long known of the Venerable's passing. That very morning, while holding court, he had seen the Venerable's dharma-image appear before the throne, standing in midair, declaring that she had attained the right fruit, that the Buddha had appointed her the Great Compassionate, Great Merciful One Who Hears the Cries of the World—Guanyin Bodhisattva—and that she was about to depart for the Purple Bamboo Grove on Mount Putuo Luojia in the South Sea, there to abide in self-mastery. She had come specifically to take leave of His Majesty, and would return to ferry him across when his own time came to ascend.

King Miaozhuang therefore decreed that the Bodhisattva's mortal remains be lacquered and enshrined in Linglong Pavilion, there to be venerated with incense forever, and that the pavilion be renamed the Pavilion of Compassionate Guanyin. Everyone naturally obeyed, and a great bustle of work followed—but I shall not dwell upon it here.

At this point, though, I have a few words I must set straight. The miraculous tale above may seem altogether too wild and baseless, going well beyond the bounds of reason. Yet according to the Buddhist teaching, matters do not end merely with what has been related! This is probably a matter of the times. Apart from the Confucian tradition of our forefathers, which contains no such miracles, every other religion, I suspect, cannot escape the same circle. The myths of Daoism are certainly the most numerous, so we need not discuss them. Take the Christian faith practiced in the modern civilized nations of the West—it too contains the story of Jesus' resurrection. We may therefore regard Venerable Miaoshan's attainment of the Way and her transformation into Guanyin Bodhisattva in the same light.

Moreover, according to the modern science of the soul, after a person dies, the soul may remain cohesive and persist for a considerable period without dispersing. The late Dr. Wu Tingfang, for instance, was able by certain methods to speak with souls and to photograph spirits. The study of the soul in Europe and America has many scholars who regard it as a new scientific discovery and do not consider it absurd. If that is so, then the attainment of the Way by Guanyin Bodhisattva gains a new explanation. While she was practicing, she was training and tempering her soul, bringing it to a state of cohesion. Her passing was precisely the moment of bodily death; her attainment of the Way was that very soul, still active, not scattered or destroyed. This corresponds exactly with the modern science of the soul, and we cannot lay the whole charge of absurdity at Buddhism's door!

Furthermore, the activity of the soul is as swift as lightning, beyond all comparison. To say nothing of other matters, consider but a dream. The time of a dream is perhaps no more than a few dozen minutes, yet the events within it—joy, anger, sorrow, pleasure—are countless and may even encompass an entire human life. A dream is a manifestation of the soul's activity, and no one can deny this. If that is so, then after Guanyin Bodhisattva's attainment of the Way, her activity must be such that in the space of a single breath she may travel a thousand miles.

Now that I have explained this crucial matter, let me turn back to the main story. In the Jin Guang Ming Temple on Mount Yemo, the matron was of course elected by all to serve as abbess. By imperial decree, skilled craftsmen were summoned. On the one hand, they coated the Bodhisattva's mortal remains with the finest luminous treasure lacquer. On the other, they removed the plaque of Linglong Pavilion and put up a new one reading "Pavilion of Compassionate Guanyin." Within the pavilion they built a Buddhist shrine, enshrined the Bodhisattva's mortal form, and there it was to receive incense for all time. The work went on for many days before it was at last completed—but I shall not dwell upon it.

Meanwhile, throughout the kingdom of Xinglin, from King Miaozhuang down to the common folk, when they saw that one who held firm in cultivation could truly attain the right fruit and become a Buddha, all gained faith. Without prearrangement, they took refuge in the Buddhist teachings, and the prophecy that the kingdom of man would be transformed into a kingdom of Buddha was indeed fulfilled. In time, King Miaozhuang was also ferried across by the Bodhisattva and entered the ranks of the Arhats. The matron was enfeoffed as the Lord Who Protects the Young. Yonglian, too, returned to the South Sea, where she attends eternally by the lotus throne—she is the Dragon Maiden Who Attends with Incense. As for the mischievous boy Shen Ying, ever since he witnessed the Bodhisattva's becoming a Buddha, he too was suddenly and thoroughly awakened. He was, in truth, the essence of the Southern Fire Virtue, a being in whom spiritual breath had concentrated, and naturally stood a cut above the common run. It was only because his mind had been clouded by worldly dust that he gave way to all manner of pranks. Once awakened, his cultivation surpassed that of ordinary men, and in time the Bodhisattva took him in beneath the lotus throne—he is the boy Shancai, Good Wealth. All these are matters that come later; I have noted them in a word and shall not recount them again.

Now, returning to Guanyin Bodhisattva: after taking leave of King Miaozhuang, she floated upon the clouds and rode the wind all the way to Mount Putuo Luojia in the South Sea. In less than the time it takes to lift a hand, she had already arrived at the wondrous realm of the spirit mountain—a place of boundless and magnificent scenes, truly beyond comparison with the common world. It was, in truth:

Auspicious mists droop like pendant tassels, Blessed light guards the white lotus.

If you wish to know what happened thereafter, please turn to the next chapter.

Chapter 27: Guanyin Cultivates in the South Sea and Takes Compassion on the Suffering Masses of the Central Plains

The story picks up with Guanyin Bodhisattva, who, after shedding her mortal form and taking leave of King Miaozhuang, made her way on floating clouds straight toward Potalaka Mountain in the South Sea. Light of body and fleet of foot, she reached the foot of Luojia Cliff in what seemed like no time at all. This was, after all, a sacred realm unlike the common world—rare flowers and strange herbs bloomed on every side; spiritual beasts and precious birds came out dancing in welcome; wisps of subtle fragrance drifted from the white lotus pools, and a thousand varieties of auspicious mist rose among the purple bamboo groves. At the center stood a second-rank lotus pedestal, radiant with ten thousand beams of rosy light, but empty. The Bodhisattva arrived, cried "Well done!" and leapt onto the pedestal, settling herself cross-legged in dignified repose. It was the nineteenth day of the ninth month! Hence the folk customs that still hold the nineteenth of the second month, the nineteenth of the sixth month, and the nineteenth of the ninth month as the three birthdays of Guanyin. In truth, the nineteenth of the second month marks her rebirth after passing through the kalpa; the nineteenth of the sixth month is when she forsook her body to take the tonsure; and the nineteenth of the ninth month is when she attained the Way and took her rightful seat at Potalaka Mountain in the South Sea. Though custom treats the three days alike as birthdays, there is reason behind it.

After attaining her fruit upon the lotus pedestal and giving herself wholeheartedly to the practice of sovereign self-observation, Guanyin Bodhisattva had ferried across King Miaozhuang and others. She then dwelt with Shancai (Sudhana) and the Dragon Girl in the purple bamboo groves, expounding the pure and great Dharma in freedom and ease. One day, a monk named Śramaṇa Bhadra came that way. He had received the Bodhisattva precepts in the Western Buddha-land, taken on the great vows, and set out eastward to spread the teachings. The Tathāgata, knowing his cultivation was still shallow—though his resolve was commendable—saw plainly that his journey would end in vain and tried to dissuade him. But Bhadra's resolve was unshakable, and he insisted on going. The Tathāgata could only give him travel documents and let him go on his way; this too was part of the karma he was destined to undergo.

After several days' travel, Bhadra arrived in the Central Land. He wandered from place to place, preaching the Dharma to all beings and spreading the Buddhist teachings. But two obstacles defeated him. First, the barrier of language left the people unable to understand a word of what he said, so no one paid him the slightest heed. Second, in those days the people of the Central Land had never even heard of Buddhism and looked upon monks as heterodox heretics; even had they understood his words, not a soul would have believed him. For these two reasons, though he traversed the length and breadth of the Central Plains, he was everywhere met with ridicule. He resolved to return westward, taking the opportunity to visit famous mountains along the way. It so happened that he came to the South Sea, and hearing that Guanyin Bodhisattva was there, he went with a devoted heart to pay his respects and seek her counsel.

The Bodhisattva, seeing his commendable resolve, asked about conditions in the Eastern Lands. Śramaṇa Bhadra replied: "Indescribable, truly indescribable! On that side, weapons never rest, calamities pile one upon another, human hearts are treacherous and cruel, and strife breaks out at every turn. When I preached the Dharma to them, they remained utterly unenlightened. They treated me as a scoundrel, and wherever I went I was mocked. The personal suffering I could bear. But what pains me is the pitiable mass of common folk—calamity hangs over their heads, yet they stay mired in delusion. I have no way to convert them and ferry them across, so I can only return westward to petition the Tathāgata for some wonderful method, and then go east once more to guide them. Passing through here, I have come specifically to bow before the Bodhisattva. I earnestly hope that, in your great compassion, you will exercise your mighty spiritual powers to transform and save this host of deluded beings—delivering them from suffering on the one hand, and spreading the Buddha's Dharma on the other."

Guanyin Bodhisattva said: "Well said, well said! This is simply the result of your own cultivation being insufficient and the barrier of language. Now return to pay homage to the Tathāgata, and on another day travel east once more. As for me, my vow is to heed the cries of the world and rescue those who suffer. Now that I know of such things, I cannot possibly sit idle. I shall have to make a trip to the Central Plains myself."

Śramaṇa Bhadra gave thanks for her compassion and went straightaway westward. Guanyin then instructed Shancai and the Dragon Girl to guard the sacred mountain well, and she herself transformed into an old woman. Leaving the South Sea, she made her way toward the Central Plains in the guise of a beggar woman, going from door to door with her alms bowl, drawing close to the humble common folk. She observed that customs differed from place to place. The good were certainly to be found, but the wicked made up the greater number. As for the men—they had, after all, received the civilizing instruction of the sages and understood propriety and righteousness. But the women were quite another matter, and could be divided into upper and lower ranks. Women of the upper class, born into noble houses, had at least a smattering of poetry and letters, but they were accustomed to commanding others with a glance or a word. Pampered and indulged from youth, they had developed habits of arrogance, extravagance, and license, accumulating evil deeds that made the misery of rebirth difficult to escape. The common folk below—ignorant men and women—had never heard a word of the sages' teaching, so naturally their conduct left even more to be desired: filial disobedience, theft, contention, and killing—which of these had they not committed? Knowing nothing of karmic retribution, they were the more to be pitied.

Guanyin Bodhisattva, moved by great compassion, resolved to preach first to those of humble station. When her journey brought her to the borders of the Central Province, she chose a stone chamber on Mount Taishi as the place of her manifestation. That night she appeared in a dream to the people of the surrounding countryside, declaring that on the morrow Guanyin Bodhisattva would pass that way to enlighten those with karmic affinity and lift them from every suffering. They should watch attentively, she said, and not let the opportunity slip past. With that, she revealed her majestic, jewel-like form and slowly faded from sight.

On the following day, the people gathered to discuss what had happened. All of them, they discovered, had dreamed the very same thing the night before. Finding this strange, they talked in excited conjecture, hearts full of boundless hope, waiting for the Bodhisattva's descent. Yet knowing that the Bodhisattva would never reveal her true form when manifesting, they had no idea what sort of person she might take herself to be this time, and this gave rise to all manner of confusion. Being unable to recognize the Bodhisattva, anyone with an unfamiliar or suspicious face was pointed out as the Bodhisattva, and the people would crowd around and bow to him—often leaving the person so worshipped utterly bewildered, until both sides realized their mistake and laughed it off. For several days running, such misunderstandings arose in great number, but still the Bodhisattva did not appear. Doubts piled up in everyone's heart, and even when they met a stranger, they dared not rashly bow or acknowledge him.

Meanwhile, Guanyin Bodhisattva, still in the guise of a poor old woman, came down from the mountain to the city, begging alms of food as she went, but no one paid her any heed. That year there happened to be a severe drought; from early summer onward, not a drop of rain had fallen for more than forty days. The rice seedlings in the fields had all turned withered, and the farmers, having exhausted themselves day and night bailing water, found it all in vain. The signs of disaster were already complete; should the heavens not send rain soon, not a single grain would be harvested. The worries of the country folk were needless to mention—even the city dwellers dreaded a year of famine.

Thus, when Guanyin Bodhisattva, alms bowl in hand, begged from door to door, the people everywhere said in one voice: "Heaven has decreed such a drought; this year's harvest is already hopeless. We ourselves worry how we shall make it through the days to come—how could we possibly have anything left over to give to you, old mother?" The Bodhisattva heaved a long sigh: "Floods and droughts, though called heavenly disasters, are ultimately brought about by human deeds. If the people of this region would revere Heaven and Earth, practice kindness widely, lighten the killing, and turn to the Buddha, would Heaven send down such calamities to make you suffer? Take me, for example—a poor old woman like me. Since arriving here this morning and begging at dozens of houses, I have not received so much as a single grain of rice or half a husk. This plainly shows that the people of this region have no heart for goodness. When people have no heart for goodness, who can say it is unmerited that they should suffer these droughts and floods?"

At that moment an old man named Liu Shixian, hearing her words, felt a sudden stirring in his heart. Secretly he thought: "Could this old woman be a manifestation of the Bodhisattva? Let me have a word with her." He stepped forward, cupped his hands in a salute, and said: "Elder mother, what you say is quite true. But according to your words, the people of this place, having never accumulated merit in the past, now suffer this drought. Even if everyone were to reform from this day forth, would the present drought still be beyond saving?"

The Bodhisattva said: "That is not so. The heart of Heaven is most benevolent; its desire to bless the good outweighs its desire to punish the evil by three parts. So long as a person sincerely repents of his sins, Heaven will surely not refuse him. If the people of this region are willing, from this day forth, to vow to reform anew with a heart turned wholly to goodness, this present drought is not altogether beyond remedy."

Liu Shixian, hearing these words, asked no further questions but fell prostrate on the ground: "I am deeply grateful for the manifestation and guidance of Guanyin Bodhisattva. This disciple, with his worldly eyes, failed to recognize the countenance of compassion and very nearly let the chance pass. Happily I have now heard the Dharma, and my mind is suddenly opened. Humbly I pray that the Bodhisattva, in your great compassion, will exert your vast spiritual powers to send down sweet rain and rescue us from this drought. I shall then build a temple in your honor and exhort the ignorant and stubborn far and wide to turn their hearts toward goodness and take refuge at your seat. I beg you, in your compassion, to grant us this means of salvation!" So saying, he kowtowed again and again.

The Bodhisattva said: "Liu, your sincere heart in pleading on behalf of the multitude shows that you are free of selfishness—how could I refuse your request? But I see that the people of this region are exceedingly stubborn and foolish. Tomorrow at the third quarter of the hour of noon, I shall manifest myself and exercise my spiritual power to send down a copious rain, so that they may witness for themselves the boundlessness of the Buddha's Dharma and strengthen their faith. If you then guide them well with skillful exhortation, their transformation will come about all the more easily."

Liu Shixian bowed once more and rose, but the Bodhisattva had already vanished. He then made known to all the people what had befallen him in his meeting with the Bodhisattva. Some among them were doubtful: "If the Bodhisattva truly manifested herself in broad daylight, how is it that you alone met her and we saw nothing?" Liu Shixian replied: "Perhaps you all did see her—your worldly eyes simply did not recognize her. The old woman who was just now begging alms with her bowl was none other than the Bodhisattva in her transformed body!"

When the people heard this, they realized they had indeed seen that old woman with their own eyes but had not taken her for the Bodhisattva and had let her pass right before their faces. Their regret came too late. Truly, it was all a matter of differing karmic affinity: face to face, yet not recognizing kin.

If you would know what happened thereafter, you must wait for the next chapter to be unfolded.

Chapter 28: Sweet Dew Falls to Relieve the Drought, Fresh Fish Sold to Convert a Humble Soul

When everyone heard Liu Shixian say that the old woman who had come begging with her alms bowl was in fact an incarnation of Guanyin Bodhisattva, they were struck with amazement. They had truly seen her just now, but none of them had known that the poor old woman was none other than Guanyin Bodhisattva herself. Some blamed themselves for having eyes that failed to recognize greatness, missing such a golden opportunity right before them; others regretted not knowing how to give alms and form a karmic bond. Their feelings of dismay were beyond words.

Liu Shixian then explained that the Bodhisattva's purpose had been to save all beings through compassion—that these matters were trivial and called for no punishment, and that all anyone needed to do was believe devoutly from then on. Moreover, the Bodhisattva had determined to manifest her glorious form at the third quarter of the hour of Wu the next day, calling forth sweet dew in answer to their prayers. At that hour they could all gaze upon her compassionate countenance and share alike in the rain and dew. Hearing this, they were overjoyed once more, and the news spread at once. Within moments the whole city knew. As one told ten, and ten told a hundred, by that same evening every village and town for miles around had heard the tidings, and not a single person failed to show delight on his face.

By the next morning, truly, farmers had stopped their plowing, wives had stopped their weaving, and merchants had closed their shops. Everyone burned incense and lit candles, devoutly bowed in worship, and waited in eager anticipation for the third quarter of the hour of Wu, when they might see Guanyin Bodhisattva manifest her dharma body. Regardless of age or sex, everyone craned their necks to gaze at the sky, not daring to blink, and waited for the appointed moment. Then, above the summit of Taishi Mountain, a white cloud slowly arose, gradually spreading outward, growing wider and wider. Suddenly, in the midst of the clouds a line opened in the heavens. Above the peak appeared a golden body sixteen feet tall, wearing a brocade crown on her head, draped in a kasaya, and holding a pure-white jade vase of goat-fat luster, in which a willow branch steeped in sweet dew was stored. With bare feet she stood upon the Stone of Radiance. The multitude, beholding this sight, all prostrated themselves together, crying out "Guanyin Bodhisattva!" and silently making their devotions, each wishing to take refuge beneath her throne.

When the worship was finished, they saw the Bodhisattva take up the willow branch, dip it in the sweet dew, and sprinkle it in all four directions—east, south, west, and north—wherever there were fields and crops. Strange to say, in an instant clouds gathered from all quarters and heavy rain poured down. It rained for a full half hour, and only then did the clouds break, the rain cease, and the clear sky return. The Bodhisattva's dharma form had long since vanished.

From that time forward, the common folk truly all revered and believed in the Buddha-dharma. Liu Shixian contributed his wealth, and at the spot on Taishi Mountain where the Bodhisattva had manifested, a temple was built and a great image of the holy one was sculpted and enshrined. The stone cave where the Bodhisattva had rested was also renamed Guanyin Cave, and it still remains to this day. This was the first manifestation after Guanyin Bodhisattva arrived in the Central Land; what she revealed was the form of Great Compassion—that is, Holy Avalokiteshvara Bodhisattva. At that time she left behind a text, the Yoga Practice Manual of the Heart-Mantra Visualization of Holy Avalokiteshvara Bodhisattva, in one fascicle. It was not until the Tang dynasty that it was translated into Chinese by the monk Amoghavajra, and it still circulates in the Buddhist world to this day.

Since the Bodhisattva had widely bestowed the rain of dharma and converted Liu Shixian, the old man Liu would naturally go forth among the people to urge goodness, so there was no need for her to linger. Thus she sat in pure contemplation and, employing her wisdom-ear, listened attentively to all things. She perceived that along the shores of the Eastern Sea the people of the various islands lived beyond the reach of civilization, ignorant of propriety and righteousness, no different from birds and beasts—and she felt deep pity for them. So she departed from the Central Province and traveled directly toward the shores of the Eastern Sea.

Knowing that the people there were mostly fishermen, the Bodhisattva transformed herself into the likeness of a fisherwoman: hair gathered in a forked bun, dressed in a blue cloth skirt and jacket, still barefoot, and of extraordinarily beautiful appearance. In one hand she carried a fish basket containing several fresh, lively fish, and mingling among the fisherfolk, she entered the market to sell them. The townsfolk, struck by her uncommon beauty, vied with one another to buy her fish. Yet the Bodhisattva asked each buyer, "What do you intend to do with these fish once you buy them?" When the buyers said they would cook them as dishes to eat with rice, she shook her head. "These of mine are no ordinary catch," she said. "They are not to fill human mouths. If you want fish for cooking, please go elsewhere. My fish are sold only to those who will set them free."

The people, upon hearing this, could not help laughing at her foolishness. Fish and shrimp, after all, were by nature meant to fill human stomachs—how could anyone set them free? If one truly bought fish to release, it would be no better than tossing money into the sea. So they quietly went away. In the evening the Bodhisattva, like the others, lodged on the banks of Golden Sand Beach. The next day she again took her basket to market, but still found no customers. For several days in succession this stirred the attention of a thoughtful man whose surname was Ma. Since he sold fish, everyone called him Ma Lang. He had noticed that the Bodhisattva sold fish day after day without a single sale, yet in her basket there were always the same two fish, which, though left sitting there exposed, somehow never died. He found this rather strange, so he began to watch her carefully—but could not detect anything unusual. Ma Lang was greatly puzzled.

Meanwhile, many of the fisherfolk on Golden Sand Beach had fallen in love with this beautiful fish-selling girl, and before long many of them came to propose marriage, all vying to take her as wife—more than twenty suitors in all, Ma Lang among them. The Bodhisattva was not offended by their advances, but spoke kindly to them all. "One woman to one husband—this is the natural order ordained by Heaven," she said. "I have only one body and cannot marry all twenty of you. But I have a method for choosing, if you are willing to comply." The men, all eager to win her as wife, were naturally glad to agree and asked her to go on.

"I know how to teach people to recite sutras," she said. "Let this be the test. I will orally teach you the 'Universal Gate' chapter. Whoever can recite it fluently within a single night, I will marry as my husband." Thereupon all asked her to begin. The Bodhisattva recited it line by line, and the men followed her, repeating each phrase after her. They went through it once, then again, turning it over and over, their recitation ceaseless. The students concentrated with single-minded purpose, but since natural talent varies from person to person, by the end of one night only half of them had succeeded. The unsuccessful half departed in despair, while the remaining half, all of whom had passed, began vying to claim her. "I recited it flawlessly—the maiden should be mine!" "I pronounced it fluently—the maiden should be mine!" The dispute grew heated and nearly came to blows.

The Bodhisattva stopped them. "Do not quarrel with one another. I must test once more. The 'Universal Gate' chapter is an elementary vehicle of the Buddhist teaching—easy to learn, so it cannot count. Now we shall switch to the Diamond Sutra. Again I will teach it orally, and once more a single night is allowed. Whoever learns it, I will marry him."

The men were delighted once more, and again asked the Bodhisattva to teach them. The dozen or so men quietly applied themselves, reciting line after line. But the Diamond Sutra was by no means as easy as the 'Universal Gate' chapter. After studying the whole night long, only four of the dozen-odd men had succeeded. The rest were eliminated and departed in low spirits—needless to say.

The four men spoke together: "Fair lady, there are now four of us remaining. Tell us quickly to whom you are willing to be wed—speak plainly, and we shall not quarrel." The Bodhisattva replied: "It will not do, it will not do. You must know that I regard you all with equal favor; I harbor no likes or dislikes within me. It depends only on each one's karmic affinity. If I were to choose for you, that would be unfair. I must test once more, to determine to whom this body shall belong." The four had no recourse but to obey her direction. They asked her: "The 'Universal Gate' chapter didn't count! Then there was the Diamond Sutra. Now the Diamond Sutra is likewise invalid. What other fancy sutra do you mean to bring out? Please tell us quickly."

The Bodhisattva smiled. "Do not be so impatient. This sutra of mine is by no means a small matter—it is a great-vehicle treasury of the Buddhist teaching. It is called the Lotus Sutra. I shall now use it to teach you, and if within three days you can recite it fluently, I will certainly marry you as my husband." The four men, burning with desire to win the bride, agreed without hesitation. The Bodhisattva again taught them line by line. In the blink of an eye the three days had passed, and the only one who could recite it was Ma Lang. The other three departed in dejection—needless to say.

The Bodhisattva then told Ma Lang to return home first and make ready for the wedding. But once inside the house she displayed a small divine power and transformed herself into a corpse, her flesh and skin rotting instantly. Ma Lang's joy turned to ashes; he had no choice but to have the body taken away for burial. When the others heard of this, they actually felt relieved, casting off all their former disappointment. Ma Lang thereupon vowed never to take a wife. In his leisure he would recite the three kinds of sutras the Bodhisattva had taught him, finding deep delight in them and gradually gaining a measure of awakening.

Months later, after the Bodhisattva had extricated herself and departed, she saw that Ma Lang's nature had begun to awaken. She transformed into a monk and went to find him, to discuss the Buddha-dharma with him and point out the path through delusion. Then she asked about his marriage, and Ma Lang told her everything in detail. "Do you know who that beautiful woman truly was?" the Bodhisattva said. "She was none other than Guanyin Bodhisattva of Mount Putuo in the Southern Sea. She came here on purpose to manifest herself and convert you. If you do not believe it, go with me and dig open the grave to examine her bones—you shall see for yourself." Ma Lang took a spade, went to the grave, and dug it open. He was overjoyed beyond measure, for indeed:

The Buddha-dharma is free of ignorance, pure and clear— Through karmic bonds it ferries sentient beings across.

If you wish to know what happens next, please listen to the next chapter.

Chapter 29: The People Cannot Bear the Clam Tribute; A Touch Dispels the Plague, and Spring Returns

Now, when Ma Lang heard the monk's words, he truly took a spade and went to the place where the beauty had been buried. When he pried open the grave, he was greatly astonished and overjoyed—for there was no corpse at all, only a pair of golden lock-shaped bones left behind. The monk said, "What say you now? Surely you must know the miraculous power of Guanyin Bodhisattva by this. The people of this region knew nothing of propriety—ignorant and pitiable—and so the Bodhisattva took the form of a beautiful woman to come enlighten them. It was your destiny to receive the Lotus Sutra of the Great Treasury. Embrace the Bodhisattva's purpose, hold firm to the resolve of spreading the Dharma and guiding all beings, and when your merit is perfected, you will not lack your reward." Ma Lang agreed again and again, but in the midst of their talk, the monk vanished once more. From then on, Ma Lang converted the thatched hut into a small thatched hermitage and fashioned a sacred image of Guanyin Bodhisattva. Yet the image he made was still in the likeness of the fish-selling beauty, with one hand holding a fish basket, and so the world calls her the Fishbasket Guanyin. And because she had nominally been wed to Ma Lang at the time, she is also called the Wife-of-Ma-Lang Guanyin. In truth, these are all simply manifestations of Avalokitesvara Bodhisattva.

To continue: after the Bodhisattva had enlightened Ma Lang, she traveled along the coast. One day she came to a certain place and observed a heavy pall of resentment that would not disperse. Moved by compassion, she transformed herself into a wandering monk who went among the common folk to inquire. The place turned out to be Ningbo, a vital port in the southeast, rich in produce—especially in delicacies from the sea. The people were prosperous and lived contentedly at peace, and the times were good, so they had known no hardship. Yet in recent years, because of a single tribute item, the place had been thrown into such an uproar that not even the chickens and dogs had peace, and popular wrath had boiled over. What had caused it?

It was that Emperor Wenzong of Tang sat upon the throne at that time. He was exceedingly fond of clams, loving them almost as dearly as his own life. He could scarcely go a day without them—so much so that without them he could not eat. Though clams were produced at seaports everywhere, those of Ningbo were reckoned the finest—plump, tender, and delicious, unmatched by any other. Since His Majesty loved them so dearly, of course Ningbo was ordered to offer them in tribute. Clams were a local product of Ningbo, and there were many fishing households there, so contributing a modest tribute should have been no great matter. So why had it driven the people to such furious resentment?

The reason was that the officials and their bailiffs—those foxes borrowing the tiger's might—took advantage of the tribute demand to fleece the people at every turn. When the fishermen brought in their tribute clams, they naturally dared not be careless; they would select them carefully first and then present them to the bailiffs in charge of the tribute. But the bailiffs would put on the airs of men dispatched on imperial business, finding fault no matter what was done. Now the selection was uneven, now the goods were of poor quality—never would they give a clean, swift weighing and acceptance. If you slipped a few strings of cash to the runner in advance, even goods of truly inferior quality would be accepted just the same. If you did not grease their palms, they would simply let your clams sit there, withholding the weighing for three or five days. Even if you kowtowed yourself raw begging them, they would pay you no heed. Clams die most easily, and after sitting for several days, you had to go and gather them anew—only to end up paying the bribe all the same. If you missed the deadline because of this, you would be seized and hauled before the magistrate on some trumped-up charge, and you would not get off lightly. Moreover, other kinds of tribute were demanded only once or twice a year, at fixed intervals. Only the clam tribute had to be sent in without cease throughout the year, and so the fishing households of Ningbo spent the entire year in the grip of this tribute grind.

Submitting a few clams was nothing in itself, but each time they had to tack on several strings of cash for the runners, and that was more than they could bear. Thus over several years, those fishing households who had been rich were ground down to poverty, and the poor were driven to sell their wives and children; homes were broken and families destroyed. All for the sake of one man's appetite—who can say how many households were ruined? Truly pitiful to recount! But perhaps these fishermen were simply too slow—surely they could have changed their trade and avoided this harsh oppression? But no, the authorities had been prepared for that. They had first registered and recorded every fishing household, and once a man's name was entered, he could not escape his duty, nor was he permitted to change trades midway. He could not escape until his own death. And so there were many who, wishing to leave some property to their descendants, did not shrink from taking their own lives. Under such circumstances, how could the people help but send their resentment surging heavenward?

When Guanyin Bodhisattva arrived at Ningbo and learned of the situation, she could not help shaking her head and sighing. Inwardly she thought: these poor people must have committed sins in a former life to fall into such calamity. If I do not save them now, when shall they ever escape their bitter suffering? The Bodhisattva then went to the beach. The tide was just about to come in, and many clams and shellfish were opening their shells to welcome the surge. The fishermen, braving death, were seizing them—when all that could be heard was a chorus of sighs and laments. Guanyin Bodhisattva secretly exerted her supernatural power, deeply imprinting her own radiant, sacred image into the clams. The fishermen, however, sensed nothing; each gathered their full quota and went off on their own to render the tribute, as if paying off a debt.

Trapped in this harsh oppression, unable to live and unable to die, the fishermen suddenly received an imperial edict halting the clam tribute altogether, banning the capture of clams, and commanding each county to erect a temple to Guanyin Bodhisattva for the worship of the Great Being. The fishermen of Ningbo, hearing this news—how could they have been anything but overjoyed, leaping for joy? But how could such an edict have suddenly descended? Though none could quite fathom it at first, after much inquiry they finally learned the reason. It was, in fact, owing to the secret aid of Guanyin Bodhisattva, and those who had been helped by her grace naturally took refuge beneath the Lotus Terrace.

The story was this: after that batch of tribute clams had been delivered to the capital, the imperial cooks, upon seeing such fresh specimens, of course picked out a few of the plumpest among them to prepare as a soup to be offered to the throne. But no sooner had the first one been cut into than it proved hard as metal and stone—it simply could not be cracked. The cook found this most peculiar, and when he finally split it open with all his might, a flash of golden light burst forth and, with a sharp crack, the clam split apart. Inside, however, was no clam flesh but, in perfect form, a sacred image of Guanyin Bodhisattva. Its substance was fine and luminous, translucent—like jade yet not jade, like pearl yet not pearl—and its radiance dazzled the eye. The cook was greatly startled and dared not conceal the matter, so he took it to report to those above. Emperor Wenzong was also greatly astonished and ordered the image kept in a gold-adorned sandalwood casket, while at the same time issuing an edict abolishing the clam tribute.

Later, when summoned to court, Chan Master Hengzheng was asked about the matter. The Master said, "There is no empty response. The Bodhisattva sought to awaken Your Majesty's faith, so that you might be sparing in your appetites and love your people. The Buddhist scriptures say: 'Those who should be saved by means of a Bodhisattva, [the Bodhisattva] will appear in the form of a Bodhisattva and preach the Dharma for them.'" Wenzong said, "The form of the Bodhisattva I have indeed seen, only I have not heard the Bodhisattva preach the Dharma." The Master replied, "I have but one question for Your Majesty: do you believe, or do you not?" Wenzong said, "The fact is plain before my eyes—how could I dare not believe?" The Master said, "If that is so, then Your Majesty has, in effect, already heard the Bodhisattva preach the Dharma." Wenzong was greatly enlightened by this. From then on, he forever forswore the eating of clams and commanded that throughout the empire, all temples set aside a separate hall to enshrine Guanyin Bodhisattva. Because on this occasion the image of Guanyin Bodhisattva had appeared within a clam, the world calls her the Clam Guanyin. This is no wild fabrication of the storyteller seeking to sound mysterious—it is recorded in the same manner in books such as the Comprehensive Record of the Buddhas and Patriarchs and the Gazetteer of Mount Putuo.

After Guanyin Bodhisattva had, from the seashore, caused her sacred image to enter the clams and thus delivered the fishermen from the suffering of the tribute, she continued on her way, journeying until she reached the boundary of Dengzhou Prefecture in Shandong. It was then high summer, and a plague was raging—deaths and injuries following one upon another, the scene was utterly wretched. A pack of quack doctors and common healers had no wonderful prescriptions or miraculous remedies to save the stricken. The Bodhisattva knew that this illness sprang from the depletion of righteous qi, which left the body open to invasion by external evil, and that only patchouli could cure it. She accordingly entered the mountains to gather herbs, disguised herself as an old herb-seller, and with a medicine satchel slung over her shoulder, set up shop in the market. The people of the area, upon first seeing this stranger, did not dare to try her medicine. Later, a group of poor folk who had no money heard that she was willing to diagnose and dispense medicine freely, and so gradually some came to seek treatment—and indeed the medicine worked, and the illness was cured. Word spread, and people came in crowds seeking treatment. Within two or three months, countless lives were saved. Only when the pestilential qi had entirely vanished did the Bodhisattva reveal herself to Chan Master You Tan of Zhilin Temple, transmitting to him the prescription of patchouli for treating the plague. After Chan Master You Tan made this known publicly, the people realized that it had been a manifestation of the Bodhisattva.

Grateful, those who had been helped each contributed gold to build a Guanyin nunnery and had a sacred image of Guanyin Bodhisattva sculpted for devout veneration. However, the face and attire of this image, though the same as elsewhere, did not hold a pure vase and willow branch; instead, it held a sprig of medicinal herb. This was the local people's way of remembering the kindness they had received: having been helped by the medicinal herb, they sculpted the Bodhisattva holding the herb as a keepsake—and this is what the world calls Guanyin the Dispenser of Medicine. Later, when patients found themselves in desperate and helpless straits, they often went to Guanyin halls to draw divination slips and request medicine—and indeed this is the very source of that practice!

As for those monks of empty reputation who recklessly print prescriptions and hand them out to anyone who asks, using this to extract money—these are the vermin of the Buddhist household, and they will actually bring harm to people. Truly detestable, and utterly contrary to the Bodhisattva's purpose of saving the world and aiding humanity! From there, the Bodhisattva once more transformed herself into the Guanyin Who Will Not Leave, going to abide in the Chaoyin Cave, leaving behind many sacred traces for later generations to revere and honor.

Indeed:

Where the sacred traces endure, Compassionate, she saves the world of men.

If you wish to know what happened thereafter, you must wait for the next chapter to be told.

Chapter 30: Roaming Mount Wutai, the Eastern Barbarians Steal a Sacred Image; Repelling the Raiders, the Bodhisattva Manifests a Wondrous Form

The story goes that after the Bodhisattva Avalokitesvara moved freely through Dengzhou Prefecture dispensing medicine and put an end to the pestilence there, the local people, after Youtan shared what he had witnessed, knew the Bodhisattva had appeared in the world to save them. All donated what they could to build a Guanyin shrine, and commissioned a statue of the Medicine-Giving Guanyin for worship. Remaining hidden from view, the Bodhisattva rested there for a time, slipping among the townsfolk now and then to guide those with affinity toward the Dharma.

One day, a quiet knowing rose in her, and she called upon the wondrous power of the heavenly eye, sweeping her wisdom gaze across all directions, and saw all that was happening at once. She thought to herself: So those foreign raiders are up to their mischief over there—I really ought to go check. So she set off once more, traveling toward Zhejiang. You might wonder why?

It was because a group of Eastern raiders had come to the Central Plains to travel. Having heard of Mount Wutai’s famed beauty, they went there first to explore. Mount Wutai was home to countless grand Buddhist monasteries, every statue within hewn from precious gems or carved from white jade—solemn, radiant, and alive with color. The Eastern raiders were notoriously cunning by nature, and upon seeing so many treasures, greed stirred in their hearts. In the Lotus Sutra Temple, they spotted a sacred statue of the Bodhisattva Avalokitesvara, carved entirely from white jade. She held a pure vase in her hands, a single lotus bloom tucked into its neck, seated on a lotus pedestal also hewn from white jade. The whole piece was carved from a single block of fine mutton-fat jade, masterfully crafted, roughly three feet tall—a true treasure without equal.

Gazing at the statue, greed twisted into dark plans in their minds. After a quiet conference, they slipped the statue into their bags while the temple attendants were distracted, and fled before anyone noticed. By the time the temple staff realized what had happened, the group of raiders had fled to parts unknown, and the stolen jade Guanyin was gone without a trace. There was nothing to do but let the matter go.

As for that band of raiders, after making off with the jade Guanyin they were in high spirits, taking a detour through Zhejiang with plans to sail from there across the sea back to their home country. Avalokitesvara Bodhisattva sensed what had happened at once, and hurried after them. She arrived just as the raiders had moored their boat at the foot of Chaoyin Cave, waiting for daybreak to set sail.

The Bodhisattva called forth her spiritual power, and in an instant ten thousand lotus blossoms bloomed across the sea, their green leaves swaying in the wind, blanketing the entire water so the raiders could not tell east from west. When day broke, the raider crew was about to cast off their lines, but they could find no way forward. Panic was just setting in when a fierce wind and towering waves rose up, tossing their small boat so violently it pitched and rolled, nearly capsizing. The raiders were terrified out of their wits, frozen with fear. They looked up toward the cliffs of Mount Putuo, and there they saw Avalokitesvara Bodhisattva, holding her precious vase and lotus, standing tall and serene atop the summit.

Realizing then that this was the Bodhisattva’s doing, they fell to their knees again, begging for mercy, and vowed to leave the stolen jade Guanyin from Mount Wutai at Chaoyin Cave for the local people to worship. Once they had finished their prayers, the wind and waves died down at once, and the lotuses on the sea vanished. The raiders carried the jade Guanyin to Chaoyin Cave, then set sail and were gone; no more need be said of them.

When the Bodhisattva manifested her presence, a local woman from the Zhang family happened to witness the whole event with her own eyes, and spread the story far and wide. The Zhang family pooled donations to convert their home into a Guanyin shrine, where they enshrined the jade image and took refuge as devotees of the Bodhisattva. At that time, people from far and near, hearing of the marvel, came to pay their respects. Since this Guanyin would not go east with the raiders, they called her the Guanyin Who Would Not Leave. In truth, this was the sacred form of the Lotus-Holding Guanyin. The stretch of sea there came to be called the Lotus Sea, because the Bodhisattva had used lotus blossoms to block the raiders’ vessel. Mount Putuo, down to the present day, remains the most flourishing Buddhist site in the Jiangsu-Zhejiang region, and locals even refer to it as the "Little Western Heaven." Such a virtuous land, filled with good people, is why the Bodhisattva chose to leave this sacred image here.

It was the waning years of the Tang dynasty, and the empire was thrown into chaos. Rebels like Huang Chao and Li Keyong were especially cruel and ruthless, leaving the common people destitute and suffering. Qian Liu of Lin’an in Zhejiang, though merely an ordinary commoner, was fiercely loyal and righteous by nature, and highly skilled in martial arts. Seeing the suffering the chaos brought, he was filled with rage, so he gathered local militiamen to form his own army, winning victory after victory, and keeping the Wu and Yue region safe and stable.

Before he raised his army, although he had the intention of safeguarding the southeast, provisions and arms were hard to come by, and if things went wrong, he could be branded a traitor and rebel, bringing shame to the Qian name for generations. Weighed down by these worries, he kept putting off his decision to take up arms.

Then one night, he dreamed that Avalokitesvara Bodhisattva appeared to him and said: “Qian Liu, Qian Liu! Stop hesitating now. You have the heart to safeguard the southeast and rescue the people from their suffering—this pure, kind intention is all that matters. Heaven aids those who do good; you will not be defeated, no matter how many battles you fight. Take up arms at once!”

Qian Liu told the Bodhisattva of all his worries and obstacles, and she said: “Do not be afraid. Know that a thousand hands and a thousand eyes can reside within a single person. If you do not believe, watch me now.”

In that instant, Qian Liu saw a flash of golden light before his eyes, and the Bodhisattva manifested as a sixteen-foot golden body with a thousand arms and a thousand eyes, who said to him: “Qian Liu! To build a legacy that will last a thousand years, a person must have a thousand hands and a thousand eyes. Do not waver for a moment; go forward with courage. The countless lives of the entire southeast rest on your shoulders alone. Twenty years from now, you may come to Mount Tianzhu to seek me.”

Qian Liu woke from the dream stunned and full of awe. Since the Bodhisattva herself had pointed the way, he knew it could only be right, and he resolved to raise his army. He called the people together and shared the story of the Bodhisattva’s dream, and had a painted scroll of the Thousand-Armed, Thousand-Eyed Avalokitesvara Bodhisattva made, which he hung in his home. He burned incense before it morning and evening, devoted and sincere.

When people came to join him and heard that Avalokitesvara Bodhisattva was secretly protecting him, they naturally felt bold and confident, and he won every battle he fought. It all came down to that one pure intention; he truly did protect the peace of the southeastern realm. Starting as the Governor of Hangzhou, Qian Liu eventually rose to become King of Wuyue, his name remembered to this day.

Twenty years later, he remembered the Bodhisattva’s promise to meet him at Mount Tianzhu, so he went there to look for her. There he found a monk sitting cross-legged on a rock, a sutra scroll in his hands, reading with full concentration. Qian Liu took him to be an incarnation of the Bodhisattva and prostrated himself, saying: “I have followed your guidance, and now I have achieved all you said I would. No one in the world dares threaten the southeast anymore, and the situation is finally stable. I have grown tired of rank and glory, and I wish only to follow you. I beg you to take me in.”

The monk hurriedly bowed in return and said: “Great King, you must not mistake me. I am the monk Yikong. I had come to pay my respects at Chaoyin and was passing through this area on my travels. I did meet the Bodhisattva, though I did not realize it at the time. I only saw a monk sitting on the ground reading a sutra. I bowed to him in greeting, and he said we were connected by affinity, and gave me one scroll each of the Great Compassion Heart Dharani and the Great Compassion Sutra. He also said you would come to this place today, and asked me to wait here to pass on a message: Now that you have achieved merit and fame, the people love and support you, and spreading the Buddha-Dharma will bring you even greater blessings. He urged you to accumulate merit through this work, and when the time of destiny arrives, the Bodhisattva will come to receive you. I only realized later that the monk I had met was the Bodhisattva herself. After I paid my respects, she vanished once more. That is why I have been waiting here for you, Great King.”

Qian Liu said: “This is clearly meant to be. The Bodhisattva’s appearance here marks this as a blessed site. I wish to build a Sutra-Reading Hermitage here, and I would ask you, Master, to oversee the construction. Would you be willing to take on this task?”

Yikong agreed at once, and the King of Wuyue, Qian Liu, allocated a large sum of funds for the project. Yikong hired workers and craftsmen to build a magnificent Sutra-Reading Hermitage at Upper Mount Tianzhu. The statue of Avalokitesvara Bodhisattva enshrined there was carved in the pose of seated meditation, reading a sutra. The lotus pedestal she sat upon was hewn from the very white stone block the Bodhisattva had once rested on. From then on, the world had a new sacred form: the Sutra-Holding Guanyin.

Yikong served as the hermitage’s abbot. After hearing the Bodhisattva’s message from Yikong, the King of Wuyue did more than just build the Sutra-Reading Hermitage: he restored and built temples all across his territory, spreading Buddhist teachings far and wide. Over a hundred large and small temples were built east and west of the Yangtze River alone, all funded by Qian Liu. The people of Wuyue, safe and peaceful under his protection, were deeply devoted to him, as one would expect. Since their king believed in Buddhism, the common folk followed his lead without hesitation, and soon the entire region was filled with devout Buddhists. This tradition has continued to this day, and faith in Buddhism remains stronger in the Suzhou-Hangzhou area than anywhere else in the country. Travelers from far away have a saying: “Up there is heaven, down here are Suzhou and Hangzhou”—treating the two cities as a paradise on earth, a Buddhist realm.

After guiding King Qian Liu, the Bodhisattva wandered among the common people, disguised as all manner of folks: guiding those who were lost, relieving those who suffered, moving freely and unseen, unrecognized by the world. One day she came to the foot of Mount Jiuhua, and looked up to see how graceful and lovely the mountain was. It had nine peaks, each a different height, every one shaped like a lotus flower—nine lotuses blooming against the sky, which is how the mountain got its name: Jiuhua, or “Nine Lotuses.” There were many monasteries scattered across its slopes. The Bodhisattva, now disguised as a traveling monk, made her way up the mountain, hoping to guide the foolish monks there and leave traces of her presence. Reaching a quiet mountain hollow, she suddenly heard someone reciting the Heart Sutra. She followed the sound, and found a monk from the Western Regions—

An empty mountain, a place of pure stillness; The wind stirs, mixing with sacred chants.

To find out what happens next, please turn to the next chapter.

Chapter 31: A Foreign Monk Faces the Wall at Lotus Flower Peak; Li Quan Surrenders at Shaolin Temple

The story goes that when the Bodhisattva reached the halfway point up Lotus Flower Peak on Mount Jiuhua, she heard someone reciting the Heart Sutra. Following the sound, she looked up and saw a monk from the Western Regions sitting cross-legged facing the wall, chanting with deep devotion. Who was this monk? His origins were quite distinguished: he had been a prince of the Jibin kingdom, born with latent spiritual roots, and from childhood he had cast off wealth and rank to enter the monastic life and study the profound teachings of Buddhism. His cultivation had advanced greatly; he had long since mastered the Three Baskets and was thoroughly versed in the Mahayana. He took the name Guṇabhadra and made a great vow to bring the Mahayana teachings of the West to the Central Land. So he flew his staff eastward, hoping to expound the Lotus Sutra to the people. Yet, like the monk Buddhabhadra before him, the language barrier kept him from being understood, and he was deeply grieved. He berated himself for not having cultivated deeply enough to overcome this, and so he withdrew to a stone cave on Lotus Flower Peak of Mount Jiuhua, where he sat facing the wall in cross-legged meditation, ceaselessly chanting the Heart Sutra in hopes that the Bodhisattva might be moved to show him the way.

By chance, the Bodhisattva was passing through that very day and arrived upon hearing the chanting. Having long known his intention, she thought: "How rare that this Guṇabhadra has such steadfast resolve. If I do not enlighten him now, who else could?" So she hid her presence and, through her supernatural power, quietly worked to guide him.

That night, when Guṇabhadra entered deep meditation, a radiant light suddenly appeared on the stone wall. After a moment, a lotus bloomed within the light, and at its center appeared the sacred form of Guanyin Bodhisattva, with a celestial horse revealed above her crown. Guṇabhadra described the vision and implored the Bodhisattva's compassion. The Bodhisattva only smiled without speaking, and the celestial horse broke into a gallop, racing across the heavens. At this Guṇabhadra understood completely—the Bodhisattva was clearly telling him that to master the Chinese language, he must travel the Central Land and study it with care. Once he grasped this, the phantom vanished from the stone.

The next day Guṇabhadra left that place and wandered for nine years. By the end he was fluent in Chinese, and he returned to Mount Jiuhua, where he expounded the Flower Garland Sutra and everyone who heard attained understanding. At the very spot where he had once faced the wall, he built a small hermitage and had a sacred image sculpted and enshrined. The image resembled the usual depictions of Guanyin in most respects, except that a celestial horse sat above her crown. For this reason, people came to call it the Horse-Head Guanyin, also known as the Horse-Head Vidyaraja, and later generations revered it as the lord of the Animal Realm.

Ever since this unusual statue was completed, some of the faithful had been puzzled—how could a perfectly fine image of Guanyin have a horse set above her crown? An animal perched highest of all—would that not profane the Bodhisattva? So after one of Guṇabhadra's scripture talks, they raised the question with him. Guṇabhadra told the assembly the story, then went on to explain:

In Buddhist cosmology, sentient beings cycle through Six Realms: the Hell Realm, the Hungry Ghost Realm, the Animal Realm, the Asura Realm, the Human Realm, and the Deva Realm. Since Guanyin Bodhisattva's fundamental vow is one of great compassion—relieving suffering and saving those in distress—she too appears in six forms. The Great Compassionate Guanyin overcomes the three obstacles of the Hell Realm. Since suffering runs deepest there, she appears in a great compassionate form—the Thousand-Armed Guanyin known in the world is the lord of this realm. The Great Loving Guanyin overcomes the three obstacles of the Hungry Ghost Realm, where beings suffer hunger and thirst; she appears in a great loving form—the Holy Guanyin known in the world is the lord of this realm. The Lion Fearless Guanyin overcomes the three obstacles of the Animal Realm, where the king of beasts is fierce and powerful; she appears in a fearless form—and this Horse-Head Guanyin is the lord of this realm. The Great Light Universally Shining Guanyin overcomes the three obstacles of the Asura Realm, where beings are consumed by suspicion and jealousy; she appears in a universally illuminating form—the Eleven-Faced Guanyin known in the world is the lord of this realm. The Heavenly Being and Manly Guanyin overcomes the three obstacles of the Human Realm. In the human realm there are both worldly affairs and underlying principle; worldly affairs subdue pride and arrogance, hence "heavenly being," while principle reveals the Buddha-nature, hence "manly"—so she appears in the form of a heavenly being and a manly one—the Cundi Guanyin known in the world is the lord of this realm. The Great Brahma Profound Guanyin overcomes the three obstacles of the Deva Realm. Brahma is the king of heaven, the standard of kingship winning the loyalty of ministers—the Cintāmaṇi-cakra Guanyin known in the world is the lord of this realm. The "three obstacles" are: the obstacle of delusion, the obstacle of karma, and the obstacle of suffering. Since Guanyin presides over each realm, her sacred forms naturally differ accordingly.

Even among the Six Guanyins, the Horse-Head Guanyin is not the strangest in appearance. The Eleven-Faced Guanyin, for example, has eleven faces: the three facing forward are bodhisattva faces, the three on the left are wrathful faces, the three on the right are vajra faces, the one at the back is a laughing face, and the one at the top is a Buddha face—each one different. The Cundi Guanyin has a single body with eighteen arms and three eyes on her face. Her upper two hands form the mudra of expounding the Dharma; on the right, the second hand grants fearlessness, the third holds a sword, the fourth a rosary, the fifth a mara fruit, the sixth a battle-axe, the seventh a hook, the eighth a vajra, the ninth a jeweled crown; on the left, the second hand holds a wish-granting jeweled banner, the third a lotus, the fourth a water vessel, the fifth a rope, the sixth a wheel, the seventh a conch, the eighth a vase of the sages, the ninth a reliquary of the Prajñāpāramitā Sūtra—all adorned with the seven treasures—yet another sacred form. The Cintāmaṇi-cakra Guanyin has six arms and a golden body, a crown of jeweled finery adorning her topknot; she sits in the easy posture of the Self-Existent King, dwelling in the mudra of expounding the Dharma. Her first right hand is in the mudra of contemplation, out of pity for sentient beings; the second holds the wish-granting jewel, which can fulfill the wishes of all beings; the third holds a rosary, for delivering those in the animal realm from suffering. Her first left hand upholds the Mount of Radiance, achieving unshakable stability; the second holds a lotus, capable of purifying all unwholesome dharmas; the third holds a wheel, capable of turning the supreme Dharma—this is yet another sacred form.

People of the world have limited knowledge, so when they see the Horse-Head Guanyin they find it strange. In truth, the Bodhisattva possesses vast supernatural powers and may manifest in any form she chooses—strange forms are plentiful indeed! From this day forth, this poor monk vows to go begging for alms in order to sculpt all six sacred images of Guanyin Bodhisattva, so as to leave a teaching for posterity. Upon hearing these words, the assembly finally understood, and each one pledged donations of gold and materials. Whatever was lacking, Guṇabhadra went among the common folk to solicit contributions, and thus the project of the Six Guanyins was completed. I shall note this in passing and not return to it again.

Now, a few more words. Buddhism's essential purpose boils down to two things: warning the world and exhorting to virtue. As for whether the Bodhisattva truly manifests such forms to the world—even though Buddhism speaks of them thus, we need not argue over their existence or absence. The benevolent forms she displays carry the meaning of exhorting to virtue; the awe-inspiring forms carry the meaning of warning. The Bodhisattva need not actually possess such forms, but those who speak of them may speak in this way, and those who sculpt them may sculpt in this way—and in doing so they already possess the heart of a Bodhisattva. It's like saying the motes of dust are too fine for my eyes to discern; that doesn't mean there is no dust, only that my eyes aren't sharp enough to perceive it. When they say the Bodhisattva has these various sacred forms and we cannot see them, we cannot say they don't exist—we can only blame our own limited vision. If we can simply accept the Bodhisattva's earnest intention of exhorting to virtue and warning, then no matter what form she manifests, she remains a Bodhisattva all the same. The phrase "noble friend"—everyone should ponder it carefully.

Now, returning to the story. The Bodhisattva's true form had long since left Mount Jiuhua and turned again toward the Henan region. That place had been the seat of emperors through the ages, long known as a land of blessed grotto-heavens, but lately it had fallen prey to the disaster of war, and the common people suffered misery and fled in all directions. The instigator of this rebellion was Li Quan. He and his wife each wielded an iron spear and were extraordinarily fierce, known as "Li of the Iron Spear." It was also said that "the Li family's pear-blossom spear" was unmatched under heaven, and so their forces swelled tremendously. Their band was sizeable; everywhere they plundered, burned, and killed, committing every evil imaginable—truly, like a breached seawall with floodwaters pouring through, their advance was irresistible, and no one dared meet their savage charge. Because they all wore red turbans as their mark, everyone called them the Red Bandits. The bandit force spread until it reached the borders of Dengfeng County, where they made camp and did not dare to push straight on. Why, you ask? Because to the west of Dengfeng County stood Mount Shaoshi, and on the mountain was Shaolin Temple, founded by Chan Master Bodhidharma. The temple was renowned for its martial arts, and every monk there was skilled in fist and staff, with secret techniques passed down exclusively to them—mysterious and ever-changing, beyond all reckoning. Though Li Quan was brave, he was awed by Shaolin's reputation and dared not provoke them. He planned to find a way to induce the monks to surrender, then organize them into a separate unit of monk-soldiers to join his own forces. He sent someone to Shaolin Temple with a message that amounted to this: surrender and enjoy wealth and honor together; refuse and he would raise an army to attack, destroying both jade and stone alike.

The abbot of Shaolin Temple was a monk of lofty virtue, and his disciples were all single-mindedly devoted to cultivation, having cut off every worldly tie. How could they possibly be willing to follow these Red Bandits in the business of killing and arson, accumulating boundless evil karma? So they refused outright. The messenger returned to camp and reported to Li Quan, but Li Quan was not yet ready to give up. He sent another envoy with sweet words and lavish gifts to tempt them, but the monks simply laughed it off. At last Li Quan grew angry and sent a third messenger, giving them three days: if they did not lead their assembly in submission, he would lay siege to the mountain temple. The abbot, weary of their endless pestering, had the messenger's two ears cut off and drove him from the mountain gate. This planted the seeds of disaster. Truly:

Upholding the right path with steadfast heart, Cutting off the ears to warn the ruthless strong.

If you wish to know what happened next, wait for the next chapter to be unfolded.

Chapter 32: At Mount Shaoshi the Great Being Drives Back the Red Bandits — In Luoyang City All Beings Behold the Treasure Mirror

The story goes that when the abbot of the Shaolin Monastery grew weary of being pestered by an envoy sent by the bandit Li Quan to urge them to surrender, he finally lost patience and said to the messenger: "A monk lives on the offerings of the ten quarters and has no quarrel with the world — how could he possibly bring himself to throw in his lot with bandits? I ought to put you to death, to rid Li the bandit of his notions once and for all. But out of regard for the Buddha, I'll spare your life. I'll just take your two ears as a warning. Go back and tell Li the bandit to put this notion out of his head for good." So saying, he had the messenger's ears cut off and drove him out through the temple gate. The man fled headlong back to camp and reported everything to Li Quan, who flew into a rage and ordered his troops to advance and surround the mountain.

The common folk in the neighbourhood, fearing the scourge of the bandits, fled in every direction, supporting the old and carrying the young. When Guanyin Bodhisattva saw what was happening and heard the whole story, she thought to herself: A pure and tranquil sanctuary of the Dharma cannot possibly allow such ruffians to come troubling it. The Shaolin monks may be skilled in martial arts, but they are vastly outnumbered — it would be hard for them to prevail. I really must go and lend a hand!

At that time the Bodhisattva had disguised herself as a wandering monk, barefoot, and was making her way toward the Shaolin Temple. Upon arriving, she paid the customary respects to the Buddha, greeted the abbots and assembled monks, and registered as a guest monk for a short stay. It happened that the kitchen was short one monk to tend the fire, so the steward put her on the job, and so she stayed for two or three days. The Red Bandits' assault on the mountaintop grew ever more urgent. Though every monk in the temple fought with one heart, they were overwhelmingly outnumbered, and it was plain they could not hold out much longer. The Bodhisattva thought: If I don't strike now, when shall I? She seized an iron staff, rushed down the mountain, and with a great roar hurled herself into the bandits' ranks like a whirlwind scattering the last clouds. From a distance, one could see the staff rising and falling, horses rearing and men tumbling. Iron Spear Li himself rode forward to engage her, but before three bouts were exchanged she struck him from his horse with a single blow, and he was trampled to death in the chaos of troops. Li Quan's wife, beaten in battle and fallen to the ground, looked up to the sky and sighed at length: "For forty years my Pear Blossom Spear has been unmatched under heaven — who would have thought that today I would lose to a monk! What face have I left to meet the people of the world?" She reversed her spear and pierced her own throat.

With their leaders gone, the bandit rabble fell, killed or wounded, and the rest scattered in every direction, fleeing for their lives. From that moment on, the Red Bandit rebellion was quashed at a single stroke. The Bodhisattva, her work done, sprang in a single bound to the summit of the imperial fortress on Mount Song and there revealed her magnificent, awe-inspiring holy form. Only then did the Shaolin monks realize that the Bodhisattva had manifested herself, and they all prostrated themselves in gratitude and praise. They had this magnificent, fierce-looking form cast in gilded bronze and built a separate Guanyin Hall in which to enshrine her. This is Amati Guanyin — wrathful of eye, fierce of countenance, holding a precious staff in her hand, a most fearsome figure, quite different in aspect from the Guanyin enshrined elsewhere.

Although the Bodhisattva had scattered the Red Bandits, she still feared they might break into small bands and go on to harm the common folk. So she once again disguised herself, this time as a country woman, carrying a brocade case in which she had placed a bronze treasure mirror, and went to the city of Luoyang to hawk it for sale. At once a crowd gathered to ask the price. The Bodhisattva said: "This mirror of mine is a treasure without peer in this world. I want a solid thousand taels of silver for it — not a single cash more, and not a single cash less. If you let this chance slip by, in future even a hundred or eighty thousand taels couldn't buy it!"

An inquisitive young fellow put in: "A tiny little bronze mirror, and you want such an enormous price? What good is it, after all? Out with it and tell us!" The Bodhisattva replied: "The merits of this mirror of mine are many! First, it can reflect the good and evil in a person's heart. Second, it can reflect everything from one's past — every deed, kind or foul, without the slightest error. With such a pair of virtues, surely a thousand taels of silver is not too much to ask?" The young man said: "Old granny, don't try your fibs on me. There's no such treasure in the world — it really makes one sceptical. I wonder if you'd let me try it for a look?" The Bodhisattva said: "That can certainly be arranged, but for one look you must pay three copper cash." The young man felt in his pocket and produced three copper cash for the Bodhisattva. She then took the bronze mirror from the case, held it in her hand, and said to the youth: "Come and look, come and look — but you must gather your spirit and concentrate. Don't let your thoughts wander. Only then will your true form be reflected."

The youth gazed into the mirror for about the time it takes to smoke a pipe of tobacco, and indeed everything that appeared within the mirror was his own past conduct, deed by deed. At the end, he saw himself fall into the animal realm and be reborn as a female dog. He was utterly shaken, and kept exclaiming at the strangeness of it. But when the people behind him looked on, they saw nothing but an empty, blank bronze mirror, not the slightest trace to be seen. The Bodhisattva put the mirror away and asked: "Satisfied with what you saw? Are three cash money's worth?" Beads of sweat stood on the young man's brow, and his face was the colour of ashes. He kept nodding vigorously: "Yes, yes, yes! Worth it, worth it, worth it!"

The bystanders, seeing his strange behaviour, all pressed him to tell them the reason. The young fellow, of course, wouldn't divulge the truth and bring disgrace on himself. He only said aloud to the crowd: "Gentlemen, don't bother asking me. If you're curious, just spend three cash and have a look yourself. I guarantee you'll be satisfied." The curious sort are many, and on hearing the young man's words they all pressed to try this novel amusement. You put down three cash, and I put down three cash; taking turns to look into the mirror. Those who had not yet looked pushed and shoved to be first; those who had looked either wore the long face of grief, or knit their brows and frowned in disappointment, or at the very least showed every sign of the utmost astonishment. They looked at one another, mouths saying nothing, yet each understanding the other without a word. And so the crowd of onlookers grew truly considerable. Once the news spread, it was a case of ten thousand households emptied as the whole town turned out to see. The Bodhisattva, however, only smiled silently at the assembled multitude. From the hour of the Dragon to the hour of the Rooster, she looked at no fewer than three thousand people, one by one. Of these three thousand, those who looked and were cast into gloom and despair made up fully nine-tenths; those who felt joy and gladness numbered no more than one-tenth.

At this point the Bodhisattva said to the crowd: "A treasure such as this costs but a thousand taels of silver, and yet in the end there were only those who looked, and no one who would buy. One can see that the eyes of the world truly contain no one who knows value. The day is no longer young, and I must be going." Having spoken, she put the bronze mirror back in the case, rose to her feet, dusted the sand from her clothing, and lifted her head — but now her holy form had changed. In the eyes of each person she took on a different appearance. In the eyes of evildoers, the old granny was suddenly transformed into the fearsome likeness of a Golden Spirit or Baleful Star, terribly menacing, enough to make one's heart pound with terror. In the eyes of ordinary folk, she wore a wrathful or furious look, chilling the blood. Only in the eyes of good people did she appear as Guanyin Bodhisattva herself, with brows of kindness and eyes of compassion.

At that moment a number of terrified people scattered in all directions. In the general uproar, the old granny had already vanished, and thereupon everyone knew that the Bodhisattva had come to awaken the multitude. Each then described what he had seen, and in the main it could be divided into three aspects: one was the compassionate, kind-faced face of the Bodhisattva; one was a face of great wrath; one was a face of contained anger. Among them, several elders proposed that, since the mirror-money that each person had contributed remained here, it should be used to build a chapel on the spot and to cast and enshrine an image. This image was likewise fashioned with three faces: in the centre, the Bodhisattva's face; on the left, the face of great wrath; on the right, the face of contained anger — holding a precious mirror in her hand. Commonly called the "Three-Faced Guanyin," it is in truth the "Samādhi-at-Play Guanyin Bodhisattva"!

From that time forth, those who had committed evil, having seen with their own eyes the suffering they would undergo in their next life, were all struck with sudden awakening, mended their ways and made themselves anew, cleansing away their sins. The customs of that region, touched and transformed by this influence, became a great deal more honest and pure!

But to resume: after the Bodhisattva left this image behind in Luoyang, she departed and wandered on until she came to a place north of the river. She found that the people there were fierce, stubborn, and perverse, knowing nothing of propriety or righteousness, caring only for money and goods. If there was profit to be had, they would turn to banditry or prostitution with perfect willingness. Thus the customs of lewdness, theft, and murder were worse there than in any other place, and even the law of the land could not begin to remedy them. To awaken them, the Bodhisattva disguised herself as a fat-headed, big-eared monk and, taking with her countless gold ornaments and precious gems, made her way thither. No sooner had she caught the eye of these insatiable, greedy ones than they conceived a covetous desire, gathered into a band, and, waylaying her on the road, demanded: "Where do you come from, monk? How dare you come here? Where did a monk ever get so many treasures? Surely you've robbed them? Hand them over quick and we'll let you pass — otherwise, don't expect to keep your life!"

The Bodhisattva said: "I have no treasures, nor do I know what in the world is called a treasure. Only the doing of good and the cultivation of the heart — that is the true treasure!" The men said: "Cut the nonsense! Aren't the gold, pearls, and kingfisher jade on your person treasure enough? Hand them over, quick!" The Bodhisattva said: "You mean these things? This poor monk finds them a burden, as it happens." And she forthwith took out the heap of treasures and set them on the ground, saying: "Help yourselves, each take what you fancy."

At this they all fell upon the pile in a rush, scrambling and grabbing the most valuable pieces. In the blink of an eye, everything was snatched clean, leaving only one string of bodhi-seed prayer beads, which no one wanted and which were tossed onto the ground. The Bodhisattva picked it up, smiling, and said: "The useless things, and you snatched them all away; yet how is it that this one string of precious beads no one so much as asked after? One can see that the folk of this region are born without any seed of goodness." No one paid her any mind; each clutching his spoils, they all set off for the market to sell them off. But many of them, unaccountably, began to grow uneasy and superstitious, fancying ghosts and gods in their midst.

Even so: a Buddha's treasure — who among mortals can know? The foolish and deluded suspect instead some ghostly god. To learn what followed next, attend the next chapter's unfolding.

Chapter 33: The Magic Sandalwood Pear Warns the Greedy and Foolish; A Dream Vision Protects the Righteous

Now the group who had seized the treasures, meaning to sell them for cash, were stunned to find that everything had crumbled to dust and scattered on the wind. Amazed and bewildered, they talked it over and agreed that the monk couldn't have gotten far. They would track him down and have it out with him. So they banded together and set off in pursuit, all the way to the Temple of Benevolent Clouds, where they indeed found the monk staying as a guest. They descended on him in a fury, shouting accusations. The Bodhisattva only smiled and said, "This poor monk gave you everything I had. All that remains is a string of prayer beads and an alms bowl—things you'd have no use for, so you left them with me. Why have you come looking for me again?"

The crowd fired back: "Those treasures you gave us turned to dust the moment we took them! It must be some trick of yours. We've come to demand the real thing, so hand them over, and fast!"

The Bodhisattva replied, "So that's how it is. I told you from the start that those things were no treasures, yet you insisted on treating them as such. Now that my words have come true, you accuse me of sorcery and demand double. Where am I supposed to produce them from? If you absolutely must have them, the answer is the same as before: they cannot be turned into money. Wealth and poverty are each ordained by heaven. What is seized by force can never truly be enjoyed. I urge you all to wake up and think on this!"

But the crowd refused to let it go. They called the monk slippery and sly, declaring that nothing short of a sound thrashing would loosen his grip on the treasure. They closed in from all sides and set upon him. The Bodhisattva used the moment to slip away unseen, leaving behind a piece of sandalwood pear wood planted in the ground as his stand-in. The people pounded and struck at it until their hands ached and their legs gave out, and at last they had to stop. When they stopped to look closely, they saw a great log of wood standing in the earth—and were thoroughly shaken. This sandalwood pear log was the very one the temple had purchased at considerable expense, intending to carve it into a Buddha image. Guanyin Bodhisattva, owing to a karmic affinity with this particular piece of wood, had moved it there to serve as his substitute body. Among the crowd, some who could read noticed six characters faintly visible on the wood: "Many-Treasures Guanyin Bodhisattva" (多宝观音菩萨). Only then did everyone realize that the monk had been a manifestation of the Bodhisattva. They deeply regretted their recklessness and drifted away one by one.

The temple monks then hired a craftsman to carve the pear wood log into a sacred image of Many-Treasures Guanyin: one body with four faces and eighteen arms, each hand grasping a different treasure, not unlike the image of Cundi Guanyin (准提观音). The temple monks had drawn on Cundi's iconography to embody the meaning of "Many Treasures," but in truth, the Bodhisattva had never manifested in such a form at that time. Once the Temple of Benevolent Clouds had carved this Many-Treasures Guanyin and enshrined it for worship, word spread among the local people—carried by all those who had witnessed the original event—that the Bodhisattva was truly responsive and miraculous. Faith ran deep, and incense burned in abundance.

The Bodhisattva's original intention had been to turn people's hearts toward the Buddha and steer them away from overreaching. But the people of that region simply lacked wholesome roots, and they misunderstood the whole point. At first they came only to pray for wealth and good fortune—which might have been tolerable. But in time, no matter what the matter, they flocked before the Bodhisattva to divine and petition. Brothel madames came to burn incense and kowtow, begging the Bodhisattva to bless their trade with prosperity. Pickpockets came to light incense and make vows, asking the Bodhisattva to grant them smooth hands and fat purses. Love-struck men and pining women came secretly, entreating the Bodhisattva to make their matches. Illicit lovers prayed to grow old together. Among the incense-bearers, there was every sort of person imaginable. The whole unseemly spectacle so befouled the name of the greatly compassionate Guanyin, rescuer of the afflicted and deliverer from suffering, that there was no staying there any longer. Even Guanyin Bodhisattva, whose vow is to deliver all beings from misery, could hardly be expected to sort through such a tangle of crooked petitions. Nor could the Bodhisattva, for the sake of a few sticks of incense, bless people in their lawless schemes! He could only sigh that the karmic obstacles of this region were too thick to penetrate, and at last resolved to seek better ground elsewhere.

Now it so happened that the treasures held in the hands of that Many-Treasures Guanyin statue were indeed fashioned from genuinely valuable materials, and a certain crew of petty thieves had been coveting them for some time. Among them was a man named Hu Qi, the leader of the gang. He had pulled off several major heists, but the households had since tightened their guard, and a few recent attempts had gone sour. After lying low for a stretch, he found himself in dire need. So he called together a few of his accomplices, and after some discussion, they resolved to steal the treasures from the hands of the Many-Treasures Guanyin. The others had their reservations at first, but Hu Qi volunteered to take the lead. All they needed to do was keep watch outside, he said—whatever happened, he'd handle it. With that, they all fell in line.

That evening, their plan went into action. Hu Qi alone vaulted the wall into the Temple of Benevolent Clouds, hoisted the Guanyin statue onto his back, and carried it out. He lugged it to a secluded spot where his accomplices fell to work, prying loose every last treasure from the image's eighteen hands. Then they hurled the statue into the Yangtze River and watched it drift away on the current. Elated with their haul, they divvied up the spoils and each went his own way.

As for the Bodhisattva's true form, he had known of this all along and chose not to exercise his spiritual power to stop them—precisely because this was no place to linger. Even as they tipped the sacred image into the river, the Bodhisattva had already crossed to the other bank and arrived in Jinling, seeking out a man of virtue with whom he shared a karmic bond. This man was named Pan He, a grain merchant in Jinling who ran his own shop. His family was comfortably off, and all his life he had been a devout Buddhist, devoted to doing good and cultivating his heart. Near and far, people called him "Good Man Pan." Yet for all his devotion to the Buddha and a life of virtue, he carried one sorrow: he had only a daughter, no son. At fifty-six, he had all but given up hope and resolved to find a suitable husband to marry into the family, so that a son-in-law might serve as partial support in his old age. But his standards were too exacting—he could find no one who measured up—and so the matter had been put off again and again, until still nothing had come of it.

One day he had a remarkable dream. He dreamed that a white-robed venerable appeared before him and said, "Old Man Pan! Tomorrow, go down to the river and wait. Between the hours of si and wu, a sacred image of Many-Treasures Guanyin with four faces and eighteen arms will come drifting across from the north shore. Fish it out carefully and take it to Jiming Temple on Qingliang Mountain to be restored and enshrined. The merit in this will be boundless. And the stone lotus leaf there will do nicely, with a little reworking, as a lotus pedestal."

Pan He said, "I shall follow your instructions to the letter. But I am nearly sixty, with no heir beneath my knees. Might there still be some hope of a son?"

The white-robed figure replied, "That is easily done. I shall grant you a son." So saying, he drew a single white go stone from his robe and placed it in Pan He's hand. Pan He was about to ask the figure's name and title when the stranger gave him a push—and he woke with a start.

He immediately told his wife everything. The next day, he went down to the riverbank to wait, and sure enough, he fished the sacred image of Many-Treasures Guanyin from the water. His faith grew stronger than ever. He delivered the image to Jiming Temple and also paid to have a piece of lotus-leaf stone carved into a lotus seat and the golden body restored. The statue, however, had suffered some damage and could no longer stand upright; it had to rest on its side atop the lotus leaf. And so the common folk began calling it "Reclining-Lotus Guanyin" (莲卧观音)—yet another of the Bodhisattva's forms.

Pan He, meanwhile, had a sudden realization: the one who had appeared in his dream was none other than Guanyin Bodhisattva. He hired a renowned painter to capture the likeness of the white-robed figure from his dream, but added a small child cradled in the figure's arms. This he called "White-Robed Guanyin Bestowing a Son," and enshrined it in his home. Before long, his wife did indeed bear him a son, as bright and fair as jade and snow. Thus the good man had his heir—a fitting reward for a lifetime of faith in the Buddha.

This custom has endured down to the present day. Throughout the lands south of the Yangtze, those who are childless often pray to White-Robed Guanyin, bowing and supplicating for the gift of a child. In truth, however, the White-Robed Guanyin that Pan He saw in his dream was not holding a child at all; what she gave him was merely a single white go stone. The image with a child in arms was Pan He's own invention, meant to show others that through sincere devotion to Guanyin, even the childless may be blessed with offspring. Later generations mistook this for an actual manifestation of the Great Being! As for White-Robed Guanyin herself, she does indeed appear among the thirty-three forms. She is a deity of the Womb Realm, sovereign of the Lotus Division. Her white robe signifies the pure and undefiled Bodhicitta. The "Great Compassion Mantra of the White-Robed One" (白衣大悲咒) widely recited today belongs to this very deity's dharma gate.

From Jinling the Bodhisattva traveled on to Gusu. It so happened that the region had just suffered the ravages of war, and the number of common folk who had perished by the blade was beyond counting. Filled with great compassion, the Bodhisattva exercised his spiritual powers on a vast scale to deliver the dead from their torment. He transformed himself into a beautiful woman of middle years, cradling a willow branch and a precious vase, and came to the place where the vengeful spirits had gathered. There he piled stones into a platform several zhang high, seated himself cross-legged atop it, and began chanting the Great Compassion Heart Dharani of the Thousand-Handed, Thousand-Eyed Guanyin Bodhisattva, Vast, Perfect, and Unobstructed, Which Breaks Through the Barriers of Hell (千手千眼观世音菩萨广大圆满无碍大悲心陀罗尼). With every thousand recitations, he would take up the willow branch, dip it into the sweet dew of the precious vase, and sprinkle it across the sky in all four directions. Then he would set the willow branch back in its place and resume his chanting as before.

The local people, seeing all this, couldn't fathom the reason and marveled at the strangeness of it. Word spread from mouth to mouth until it reached every street and alley. Crowds swarmed in to watch. Some said she was begging alms; others said she was casting spells. Opinions flew in every direction. Seeing that doubts and confusion filled the crowd's heart, the Bodhisattva spoke to them—and it is precisely:

When the crowd's confusion cannot resolve itself, A single word cuts through the tangle of the path.

If you wish to know what happened next, tune in to the next chapter.

Chapter 34: The Moon on Water Hides the Bodhisattva’s Kind Countenance; A Rogue’s Stirring Heart Drives Him to Lift a Cleaver

When the Bodhisattva set up a platform to chant sutras and deliver the band of wronged souls and vengeful spirits haunting the area, the locals had no idea what was going on. They streamed in to watch, chattering among themselves with all sorts of guesses. Seeing them gossiping and jumping to conclusions, the Bodhisattva addressed the assembly: “This land suffered terribly in the Jin invasion, and hundreds of thousands of innocent people were killed unjustly. But these countless vengeful spirits fall outside the Three Realms and are unclaimed by the Six Paths of rebirth. They drift with no home, trapped in great suffering. Out of compassion for the Buddha’s teachings, and because my karmic affinity brought me here, I could not stand to leave them unhelped. So I vowed to set up this platform and chant sutras for forty-nine days, scattering willow-branch sweet dew far and wide to free them from their suffering and let them be reborn in the Land of Bliss. You have no need to guess or worry. I, a humble nun, ask for neither donations nor alms—I am only here to fulfill this one vow.”

Upon hearing this, the crowd finally understood. Yet among them were a few busybodies who pressed the Bodhisattva with questions one after another—some asking what sutra she chanted, others asking why she sprinkled water—as noisy as a flock of cawing crows. The Bodhisattva spoke again: “Please, do not cause such a commotion. My vow is not yet fulfilled, so I must ask your forgiveness for not being able to speak with you all at length now. Wait until the forty-nine days of merit are complete, and I will explain everything to you in full.”

When the crowd heard she was performing this meritorious work for the people of Gusu with no thought of reward, they agreed such kindness was truly rare, so they stopped pressing her and drifted away. For the next forty-nine days, the Bodhisattva chanted sutras and sprinkled water alone, waiting until the work was complete to share the full story with them. Time flew by, and in the blink of an eye the forty-nine days had passed like a bolt of lightning.

That evening, the Bodhisattva’s merit was complete, and the multitude gathered as promised to hear her teach the Dharma. The Bodhisattva began: “Earlier you asked what sutra I chanted and what water I sprinkled. Let me now explain to you all: this sutra is called the Sutra of the Thousand-Handed, Thousand-Eyed Avalokiteśvara Bodhisattva’s Vast, Perfect, Unobstructed Great Compassionate Heart Dhāraṇī. It can shatter all barriers to the hell realms and deliver every being from the dark, bitter suffering of the netherworld. Recite it a full cycle of the canon, and eons of bad karma are completely erased. As for this water, it is the Water of Merit, scattered across the ten directions. Even a single drop is enough to grant rebirth in the Land of Bliss. I, a humble nun, came here by karmic affinity, and it was only right that I find a way to save these beings and free them from their pain. Now that the merit is complete, I too must go elsewhere.”

The people of Gusu, seeing the Bodhisattva had done this great work with no thought of reward, all bowed to her in thanks. Among them, one man asked: “I’ve heard Avalokiteśvara Bodhisattva wanders the human world and often shows his sacred form in all kinds of places. Do you think any of us here are lucky enough to see the Bodhisattva in person?”

The Bodhisattva said: “Yes, of course! Where the Buddha dwells in the heart, the heart itself is the Buddha. Since you all wish to see the Bodhisattva, you already carry a Bodhisattva in your hearts—so of course you can see him.”

The man asked: “Where is the Bodhisattva?”

The Bodhisattva pointed to the river. “Look—in the middle of the water. Is that not the Bodhisattva?”

The crowd looked where she pointed, and sure enough, they saw a figure in the water, adorned in the splendor of the Seven Treasures. One by one, they fell to their knees in worship. That night was the full moon. A bright round moon lit up the entire sky, and its full reflection glowed on the water’s surface. They watched as the Bodhisattva’s sacred form slowly stepped into the moon’s reflection and faded from view. When the crowd finally stood, the nun who had been on the stone platform was gone—no one knew where she had gone. Only then did the crowd suddenly realize the nun had been an incarnation of Avalokiteśvara Bodhisattva.

So the devout locals each chipped in funds to build a Guanyin Nunnery on the exact spot where the Bodhisattva had chanted sutras. They enshrined a statue of Avalokiteśvara Bodhisattva in the act of chanting and sprinkling water for veneration, and common folk came to call it the Water-Sprinkling Guanyin.

Among those who had witnessed the Bodhisattva’s manifestation in the water was an accomplished painter named Qiu Zijing. He used his finest brushwork to capture the scene: moonlight swaying, water shimmering and rippling, the Bodhisattva’s sacred form adorned with the Seven Treasures appearing right in the middle of it all. The painting was breathtakingly masterful, and he named it Water-Moon Guanyin. Once the scroll was finished, believers competed to commission copies from him, or borrowed the original to trace. Before long, most of the Bodhisattva images people kept in their homes were of Water-Moon Guanyin, with the rest being Water-Sprinkling Guanyin. This tradition continues to this day. In private homes across the Suzhou and Changzhou area, Water-Moon Guanyin remains the most widely venerated form.

In truth, the Bodhisattva only appeared to show people that form is emptiness, and emptiness is form, so all could awaken deeply to the great truth of non-arising and non-ceasing. It is a blessing that Qiu Zijing also had the latent spiritual capacity to grasp this truth. By painting this sacred image, he left a teaching for future generations, with no goal other than to awaken others. But these days, most people who venerate Water-Moon Guanyin and chant the Buddha’s name and sutras never truly grasp this truth. They just recite the words without ever reflecting on what they mean—perhaps not one in a hundred understands.

But let us set this aside for now. Though the Bodhisattva had not truly left Gusu at that point, she had taken on another form and blended in among mortals. She wanted to see who among the local believers had the karmic affinity to be enlightened, and to guide a few of them as an example to the world, that the Buddhist teachings might spread far and wide. Watching in secret, she soon found just such a person. She saw he had the seed of wisdom, and would one day attain the Way, but a great disaster was about to strike him. Since he worshiped her so devoutly, if she did not save him, who else could? So she took on a new form to go and guide him.

That man was Jia Yifeng, owner of a local apothecary. He ran his shop on a modest-profit model, charging less than other pharmacies for the poor and sick. If someone had no money at all, he would let them take what they needed on credit and never chased them for payment. That was why everyone called him a good man. He was a devout Buddhist. He kept an image of Avalokiteśvara Bodhisattva both at home and in his shop. Aside from morning and evening devotions, he would sit before the Buddha and chant the Avalokiteśvara Sūtra whenever he had a spare moment, never missing a day.

But for all his goodness, his wife was unfaithful by nature. She was carrying on an affair with the neighbor’s son that was no secret to anyone in the neighborhood—only Yifeng knew nothing of it. People muttered that if a good man went unrewarded, so be it—but why should he be punished for his goodness? He was a devoted Buddhist, too; could the Bodhisattva really be deaf to his pleas? The Bodhisattva could only sigh for him in secret, knowing the law of cause and effect would always run its course.

One day, Yifeng was set to travel to another province to stock up on goods. The night before he left, he dreamed Avalokiteśvara Bodhisattva appeared in his home. She held a ruyi scepter in her hand, a golden dragon gleaming at her crown. She tapped the top of his head with the ruyi and said: “Listen closely, Jia Yifeng. A great disaster is coming for you. I have come to save you because your devotion to me is so sincere, and I cannot bear to see you suffer. Listen well to these four lines of verse:

When you come to a bridge, do not stop your boat; When you meet oil, rub it on your head; Three sheng of rice from a single dou; Bluebottle flies lift the brush tip. Remember these words, and do not forget them.”

Yifeng accepted the teaching reverently and woke up. He repeated the four lines over and over until he had them memorized—how could he ever forget what the Bodhisattva had told him? The next day he boarded a boat and set off. He had not traveled half a day when a sudden torrential downpour hit, and the boat happened to be passing under a bridge. The boatman wanted to take shelter under the bridge arch to wait out the rain, but Yifeng remembered the Bodhisattva’s words and shouted repeatedly that they could not stop—they had to row past quickly, no stopping! The boatman didn’t know why he was so agitated, but since his passenger insisted, he had no choice but to row on through the rain. They had barely gone the length of an arrow’s flight when they heard a deafening crash behind them: the bridge had collapsed.

“That was too close!” the boatman cried. “If you hadn’t told us not to stop, we’d all be dead! Master Jia, you looked like you knew that was going to happen—so strange!”

Yifeng told him the whole story of his dream visit from the Bodhisattva, and from that day on, the boatman became a devout Buddhist too.

Yifeng reached his destination, sorted out his business with the local merchants, paid for his goods, loaded them onto his boat, and headed home. The round trip took a full two months of hard travel. During that time, his wife and the neighbor’s son had been carrying on a torrid affair, so caught up in each other they seemed impossible to pull apart.

Yifeng got home just as dusk was falling. Grateful the Bodhisattva had saved him from the collapsed bridge, he went straight to her altar as soon as he walked in the door to burn incense and give thanks. When he finished his devotions and stood up, the long-burning lamp hanging from the beam suddenly fell: its cord had snapped, and oil poured all over his shoulders and back, soaking him through. He suddenly remembered the second line of the verse, and without hesitating for a second, he smeared the oil all over his head, slicking his hair back until it was as smooth as a woman’s. He changed out of his travel clothes and caught up with his wife on their time apart, of course telling her about the broken bridge. After a while they ate dinner and went to bed together—there is no need to elaborate further.

As for the neighbor’s son, he was furious to see Yifeng back home, now unable to sneak over to be with his wife. He lay in bed tossing and turning, unable to sleep. The more he thought about it, the angrier he got, until finally he resolved to kill Yifeng. He went to the kitchen, grabbed a chopping cleaver, climbed over the wall, and slipped quietly into the house. He crept to the bedside, lifted the curtain, and raised the cleaver to strike—then paused. What if he killed the wrong person? That would be a waste. He thought for a moment: the woman would smell of hair oil, that would be an easy way to tell them apart. He leaned down and sniffed. A strong smell of oil wafted from the outer side of the bed, so he was sure the person on the inner side was Yifeng. He raised the cleaver again, swung with all his strength, and brought it down hard on the head of the person on the inner side of the bed. There was a dull thud, and the skull split clean in two.

Yifeng jolted awake and shouted at the top of his lungs. It took a few minutes to strike a flint for light, and by then the neighbor’s son had already fled. They searched the whole house, but there was no sign of him.

Today he slips the net and gets away, But the day will come when the snare holds him fast. If you wish to know what happens next, Please turn to the next chapter.

Chapter 35: Interpreting the Verse to Capture Kang Qi; Taking the Tonsure and Entering the Order as Yifeng

The story goes that the neighbor's son swung his blade in a single stroke, striking the woman on her left temple. With a dull thud, half her skull was split open; her feet kicked wildly a few times, and she was dead. Yifeng was jolted awake from his dream. He called out at once to the servants, then took out his fire steel, struck a spark, and lit the lamp. After much frantic scrambling, precious time was lost, and by then the neighbor's son had already slipped away. When Yifeng saw his wife murdered, he was utterly grieved. He searched high and low for the killer, but not a trace was to be found. Left with no choice, he went through the night to inform his father-in-law's household. When the old man arrived and examined the scene, he insisted that Yifeng was the culprit. "The door wasn't opened, the gate wasn't lifted," he said, "and yet this murder took place. If it wasn't you, then who?" Yifeng was given no chance to defend himself. The next day, the case was reported to the magistrate.

After the official examination, the authorities also suspected Yifeng. They questioned him under severe torture. But Yifeng was an honest merchant, no river bandit or great thief, and his constitution was exceedingly frail. How could he possibly endure one cruel punishment after another? When the suffering grew unendurable, he could only sigh that it was fate, the karmic debt of a former life — better to die and be done with it than to go on suffering. Having made up his mind, he confessed outright. The authorities threw him into prison and began drafting a confession to submit to the higher court. But when they took up the brush, a dozen or so bluebottle flies gathered at the tip and clung to it. When brushed away by hand, the moment the brush touched paper to write, the flies swarmed back again. This happened repeatedly, no matter how many times they tried. The county magistrate grew suspicious, thinking to himself that perhaps there really was a wrongful accusation within, and the spirit-flies were showing an omen. He consulted his private secretary, who said: "Let me go to the prison and question him about it."

When he arrived at the prison, he found Yifeng reciting the Buddha's name. The secretary said: "Your crime is already determined; what use is there in reciting the Buddha's name?" Yifeng replied: "The Bodhisattva promised to save me. She would not deceive a person." He then recounted in detail the matter of the verse she had given him. When the secretary heard the line about the bluebottle flies clinging to the brush, he was startled. But the third line, "three sheng of rice from a whole dou of grain," he could not interpret. He thought for a while, then suddenly had an inspiration: "If you take three sheng of rice from one dou of grain, what are the remaining seven sheng if not chaff? Do you happen to know a Kang Qi?" Yifeng exclaimed: "Yes, yes! The young man who lives to the left of my house — his name is Kang Qi." The secretary nodded and departed, informing the magistrate of the matter. The very next day, a warrant was issued, and Kang Qi was brought in for questioning. He confessed at once — indeed it was he who had done it. Yifeng's extraordinary injustice was at last cleared.

After suffering this unexpected disaster, though Yifeng had escaped mortal peril, he felt more keenly than ever the impermanence of worldly things, and his heart was utterly weary. He gave away all his property to the poor and resolved to go to Lingyin Temple in Hangzhou, to seek a teacher, take the tonsure, and bow before the Buddha. He journeyed on foot, and one day arrived in the district of Jiaxing. He was asleep at an inn when, half in a daze, he thought he heard someone calling his name. He looked up and saw his wife and Kang Qi approaching him, drenched in blood. One held a dripping, severed head; the other had half a skull dangling from his face. Their forms were ghastly beyond words, and they were about to pounce on him to claim his life. How could Yifeng not be paralyzed with terror? Just as he tried to flee, the two vengeful spirits blocked the door, and there was no other way out — he was trapped with nowhere to escape. In his desperate panic, he suddenly thought of the Bodhisattva, so he shut his eyes tight and silently recited the holy name of Guanyin. After a while, the spirits did not come any closer. He gathered his courage and opened his eyes: the vengeful spirits were nowhere to be seen. All that remained was a single Bodhisattva standing on a lotus leaf, with a naked child beside her. The two faced each other with palms joined in reverence. In an instant, they too vanished. Only then did Yifeng awaken as if from a dream. Reflecting on what had just occurred, he could not tell whether it had been a dream or something real, and could make no sense of it. But the two forms in which the Bodhisattva had revealed herself were etched deep in his heart. In truth, the realm is created by the mind, and his wandering was no different from a soul straying during deep meditation.

The next day, he left Jiaxing county and continued along the road toward Hangzhou, passing through many villages and market towns. Near a place called Hujiazhuang, he saw a crowd of people gathered at the edge of a paddy field, for some reason he couldn't tell. He moved closer to see, and it turned out that a farmer surnamed Wang had been hoeing his field when his hoe struck something hard. Working around it carefully with his hoe, he dug to a depth of two chi, and there emerged a Buddha image about one and a half chi tall, made of green glazed tile, exquisitely crafted. Though covered with mud and sand, the features were still clearly visible, and many people had come to see it, gathering in a large crowd around the spot. Yifeng pressed through the crowd and examined it carefully, then said: "It must be that the people of this region are blessed with good fortune, and so the Bodhisattva's image has been entrusted to this spot. You should all venerate it with devotion, and I assure you it will protect you and grant you abundant harvests year after year. Is there a temple hereabouts? You ought to take this sacred image there for veneration."

Farmer Wang asked: "You keep saying Bodhisattva, but Bodhisattvas have so many different names. Which Bodhisattva is this one?" Yifeng said: "This is Guanyin Bodhisattva!" The crowd objected: "No, no, that's not right. We've seen Guanyin Bodhisattva before, and they don't look like this. Besides, they are usually female. Why is this one in male form? Explain that, if you can." Yifeng replied: "Since attaining the Way, the Bodhisattva has roamed the whole world, manifesting at will — now male, now female, now old, now young; the form is never fixed. At times she takes on sacred forms to warn the world. Why be so alarmed?" He then told them of the two times he had witnessed the Bodhisattva's manifestation, and only then did the crowd believe him. They carried the image to a nearby temple for veneration. Because the image had been found in a field, everyone called it the Field-Discovery Guanyin.

Yifeng, then, came to Lingyin Temple in Hangzhou, took Chan Master Yuanji as his teacher, and received the tonsure. He practiced alongside the others, reciting sutras, performing rites of repentance, sitting in meditation, and inquiring into Chan. As for sitting in meditation, the author has said more than once that it is no easy matter. Not a single grain of dust may lodge in the mind; if even a trace of dust settles there, one strays into demonic states, and if matters go awry, may even lose one's mind. Though Yifeng had a foundation in practice, the dust of worldly habits still clung to him, and at first he could not settle into calm. Whenever he sat, the vengeful ghosts of Kang Qi and his wife would appear, carrying their blood-dripping heads, and prevent him from entering samadhi. The matter troubled him deeply. One day, as he sat again in meditation, struggling to still his mind, Kang Qi and his companion suddenly led a band of headless wild ghosts to torment him. Just as the peril reached its peak, a Green-Necked Bodhisattva appeared — one head and three faces. The central face beamed with compassion and gentleness; the right was a lion's face, the left a pig's. A jeweled crown adorned the head, and within the crown was the transformed body of Amitayus Buddha. The body had four arms: the right upper held a staff, the right lower a lotus; the left upper a wheel, the left lower a conch. A tiger skin formed a skirt; a black deer hide was slung over the left upper arm; a black snake served as a sash. The figure stood upon an eight-petaled lotus. Necklaces, armlets, and pendants blazed with light — a form of terrible majesty. In an instant, the entire band of wild ghosts was devoured. The Bodhisattva struck Yifeng with the staff, and at once his mind grew luminous, with not a trace of dust remaining.

The next day, after the morning service, he went to consult Chan Master Yuanji about the night's vision, asking what Bodhisattva it was he had seen. Chan Master Yuanji said: "Excellent! Excellent! What you saw was the Green-Necked Avalokiteshvara Bodhisattva — the kingly aspect into which Guanyin Bodhisattva transforms. With sincere devotion to this Bodhisattva, one can be freed from all dread." He then transmitted to Yifeng one volume of the Dharani Sutra of the Green-Necked Avalokiteshvara Bodhisattva, telling him to recite it whenever fear arose, and it would dispel the dread. From then on, Yifeng applied himself with great diligence, and his practice advanced swiftly. After some years, he traveled to pay homage to famous mountains across the land. Out of gratitude for the Bodhisattva's repeated guidance, wherever he came upon a notable peak or an unusual rock, he would study the setting and carve a sacred image of the Bodhisattva, leaving it for later generations. What he carved was the very form he had once beheld, and so the stone images of the Bodhisattva preserved in various places to this day are either the Dragon-Head Guanyin, the One-Leaf Guanyin, or the Green-Necked Guanyin. The One-Leaf Guanyin is popularly known as the Child Guanyin; its images are the most numerous, found almost everywhere — all the work of Yifeng's hand.

Later, Yifeng went on pilgrimage to the South Sea, and quite by chance, amid the great waves of the seashore, he beheld a sacred image of the Glazed Guanyin, one chi and three cun in length, its entire body luminous and translucent, adorned with the seven precious substances. Yifeng managed, amid the towering waves, to retrieve it and bring it back to Lingyin Temple in Hangzhou for veneration. It is sometimes called the Glazed Guanyin, or, because it drifted ashore from the water, the Drift-Ashore Guanyin — names people have given it.

Yifeng served as abbot of Lingyin Temple for many years, and when the time of his passing came, he knew it beforehand. He bathed in fragrant water, sat cross-legged in the shrine, and the entire room filled with sweet fragrance. Two long nasal filaments, more than two chi in length, descended from his nose. More than ten thousand came to pay their final respects. Seeing this, people said he was an Arhat reborn; at the moment of his tranquil passing, such auspicious signs appeared — he had simply returned to the Buddha-land. From that time on, the people of Hangzhou's faith in Buddhism grew even stronger than before. Indeed:

A good cause is planted early; The fine fruit is gathered at the right hour.

To find out what happened next, please listen to the following chapter.

Chapter 36: Painting Guanyin to Guide the Righteous, Selling Herbs to Meet a Dutiful Son

The last chapter followed the story of Jia Yifeng, so we turned away from the Bodhisattva for a moment. Now let us pick up Her trail once more. After the Bodhisattva saved Jia Yifeng, the people of Gusu—seeing that Yifeng had done good only to meet with cruel ill fortune, his wife slain and he himself framed, beaten until he falsely confessed, and all but condemned to death—were deeply indignant on his behalf, and a few even muttered that the Bodhisattva had lost Her miraculous power. But once the magistrate cracked the headless case and learned it was the verse the Bodhisattva had left that had led him to the truth, all their doubts fell away. Their faith in Her power only grew stronger, and they worshiped Her with sincere devotion.

The Bodhisattva continued on Her way and came at length to Taicang, where She met a virtuous man named Wang Xijue, whose art name was Jingshi. He had once held a high official post, but had now retired to private life, enjoying the quiet of his home. Though he had once served in high office, he was always generous and kind, loyal to his wife his entire life. In his later years he grew fond of Buddhist teachings, and his faith never wavered. Every temple, big or small, near or far, received a plaque bearing his own calligraphy, which he hung on their walls to guide the faithful.

Now a monk named Yuantong—a master of deep spiritual attainment—had come to Taicang to spread the Dharma. Jingshi spent much time in his company, and their conversations about Chan and the Dharma were remarkably clear and profound. With a high official and a monk of such stature working side by side, the people of Taicang flocked to them, and the Buddhist teachings flourished throughout the region.

Jingshi was overjoyed. Remembering all the wondrous deeds of Guanyin Bodhisattva, he made a great vow: to hire skilled painters to create one thousand images of the Bodhisattva, and give them freely to the people, that all might turn their hearts toward goodness. He hoped this would both express his sincere faith in the Buddha and gently shift the customs of the land, so that the people of his region would turn away from wrongdoing, and fill the gaps that civil governance alone could not address.

Having settled on this plan, he went to speak with Master Yuantong. “I have heard,” he said, “that Guanyin Bodhisattva has appeared in countless ages, each time taking a different sacred form. I want to paint one thousand images of Her and distribute them to the people, so that all may grow in faith. But I do not know which form would be most appropriate to depict.”

Master Yuantong replied, “For a layman to devote himself thus to the Buddha’s work—his merit truly knows no bound. As to which form to paint, according to the Sutra of the Thousand-Eyed and Freely-Looking Bodhisattva's Secret Practices, there are eight forms in all: first, the Vajra Avalokitesvara; second, the Wish-Granting Avalokitesvara; third, the Rosary Avalokitesvara; fourth, the Hook-Summoning Avalokitesvara; fifth, the Obstacle-Removing Avalokitesvara; sixth, the Sword-Wielding Avalokitesvara; seventh, the Treasure-Seal Avalokitesvara; and eighth, the Non-Retrogressing Golden-Wheel Avalokitesvara. Each of these eight Bodhisattvas has a different form, and each possesses a different miraculous power. As to which should be painted, this humble monk dares not decide—it must be for the layman to choose.”

Jingshi paused for a moment, then said, “Then let us do this: we will hire a group of painters, and first ask them to fast, bathe, and pray devoutly to the Bodhisattva for a sign. Whichever form the Bodhisattva chooses to reveal, let them see it in a dream, and paint it exactly as they saw it. Would that not work?”

Master Yuantong answered, “That would indeed be well.” Jingshi so put out word that he was hiring painters. Within a month, exactly eight painters had answered the call, and he told them the plan to pray for a dream to guide their work. All agreed to follow his instructions, but after nine days, none of the eight had received any dream-sign. Jingshi was deeply perplexed.

It so happened that the Bodhisattva was passing through just then. Hearing of this, She transformed Herself into a young scholar in white robes and went to Wang Jingshi’s door to request an audience, saying She was skilled at painting every manifestation of Guanyin. When Jingshi heard this, he was overjoyed, and hurried to welcome Her inside. They spoke at length, and found they were very much in accord. The young scholar said She had seven times dreamed of wandering in the Buddha-land, and so was familiar with the faces of all the Bodhisattvas. “Since you, as a devout layman, have made this great vow,” She said, “I would be glad to help you fulfill it.”

Jingshi asked, “Which form should we paint first?” The scholar replied, “Since Master Yuantong has already told you of the eight forms, I think it would be best to paint all eight, so there are no gaps in your gift.” Jingshi was delighted. He ordered a fragrant altar to be set up, gathered the finest brushes and inkstones, spotless paper, and gold and silver needles, and asked the scholar to begin.

The scholar did not pause for thought. She lifted the brush and began to paint, moving with astonishing speed: the brush flew like the wind, ink flashing like lightning. The first image was finished in no time at all. She took up another sheet of paper, spread it flat, and with another quick flourish of the brush, the second was done. In less than half a day, all eight sacred forms were complete—eight distinct Dharma bodies, each unique.

Behold the first: it was labeled Vajra Avalokitesvara, painted with fierce brows and glaring eyes in a wrathful aspect, this is the form that subdues all demons. The second was labeled Wish-Granting Avalokitesvara, with gentle brows and kind eyes, left hand holding a sutra scroll, right hand extended in the gesture of granting wishes—this is the great compassion form, which creates good karmic ties with all beings. The third was labeled Rosary Avalokitesvara, with eyes closed in meditation, hands holding a string of prayer beads as if silently counting them—this is the great compassion form, which transcends the dust of countless eons. The fourth was labeled Hook-Summoning Avalokitesvara, with one head and three faces: the front face calm and joyful, wearing a heavenly crown in which sits the emanation body of Amitabha Buddha; the left face fierce and terrifying, hair standing on end, wearing a moon crown; the right face scowling in anger, with sharp fangs bared. She has six arms: one holds a silken lasso, one a lotus, one a trident, one a battle axe, one displays the fearlessness mudra, and one grasps a wish-fulfilling jeweled staff. She is seated in full lotus position. This is the form of perfect penetration, which hooks the fish of humans and devas to the shore of Bodhi. The fifth was labeled Obstacle-Removing Avalokitesvara, with one head and three eyes, right hand holding a precious mirror, left hand extended in the wish-granting gesture—this is the form of universal illumination, which dispels the three obstacles of the six realms. The sixth was labeled Sword-Wielding Avalokitesvara, with a lotus blooming from Her crown, one hand holding a precious sword, the other raised to Her chest—this is the form of liberation, which cuts through the six thieves. The seventh was labeled Treasure-Seal Avalokitesvara, with one body and three faces, all bearing compassionate expressions. She holds a precious seal in one hand, a ringing bell in another, a banner and standard in a third, a sword in a fourth, a precious mirror in a fifth, and a lotus in the sixth. This is the swiftly-rousing form, which moves unhindered through the three realms. The eighth was labeled Non-Retrogressing Golden-Wheel Avalokitesvara, with a face like smooth jade wreathed in smiles, wearing a precious crown in which sits the emanation body of Amitabha, the Buddha of Infinite Life. Both hands hold a golden wheel in a turning gesture—this is the wish-fulfilling form, which turns away evil karma.

Jingshi examined the eight images and was overjoyed, praising them endlessly. The young scholar then said, “Now that you have these eight originals, you can give them to the painters to copy. As for me, I must be going.” Jingshi tried earnestly to detain Her, and offered Her gold and silver, but She would not accept them. Instead, She took out a round soapberry seed from the West and gave it to Jingshi, saying that wearing it close to one’s body at all times would ward off disaster and increase wisdom. Jingshi thanked Her over and over, and walked Her all the way to the outer gate, where they finally clasped hands and parted.

He then brought the paintings to Master Yuantong and told him everything that had happened. The master clapped his hands and said, “Congratulations, layman! Today you met the Bodhisattva Herself!” Jingshi asked, “What do you mean? Could the young scholar in white who painted these really be Guanyin Bodhisattva?” The master replied, “Of course! If it were not the Bodhisattva, how could a mortal painter create such sacred forms? And where would a soapberry like that come from, if not from Her?”

Only then did Jingshi grasp the truth, and his joy redoubled. He hung the eight original paintings in the great hall, and hired eight painters, each to choose one of the images to copy. As soon as a copy was finished, he would write out a scroll of the Heart Sutra in his own hand and give both the painting and the sutra to the recipient. He also planted the soapberry seed in the ground, and it sprouted and bore fruit as promised. He gave the fruit to everyone he met, that all might gain blessings and be spared harm. He continued this work for more than a full year, until at last he had given away one thousand images of Guanyin. The eight originals the Bodhisattva had painted Herself he kept in his home, venerating them as a family treasure.

From that time on, Buddhism thrived across Taicang. The entire Wang household, young and old, believed in the Bodhisattva. Descendants like Wang Yinke all went on to pass the imperial examinations with high honors, and everyone attributed their good fortune to the blessings their ancestor had earned through his devotion.

After leaving the paintings with Wang Jingshi, the Bodhisattva transformed once more—this time into a wandering herbalist, carrying two rattan baskets filled with dozens of different herbs. She made Her way to the busy market, found a clean spot amid the crowds, set down Her baskets, spread a cloth on the ground, and sat cross-legged, waiting for customers. As She watched the passersby, She silently sorted the loyal from the treacherous, the virtuous from the base.

Suddenly a child of twelve or thirteen came running up, clad in tattered rags, barefoot, with messy, unkempt hair. He rushed up to Her and blurted out, “Old man who sells medicine—can you cure sickness?”

The Bodhisattva replied, “Silly child—if I couldn’t cure sickness, how would I dare sell medicine? I’d be endangering people’s lives.”

The boy asked, “How much would it cost to have you cure someone?”

The Bodhisattva said, “A healer makes half his living from accumulating hidden merit, and half from earning a wage. If I meet someone poor and helpless who I am karmically connected to, I won’t just waive the consultation fee—I’ll give them the medicine for free.”

The child’s face lit up with joy. He hopped up and down, clapping his small hands. “Wonderful, wonderful! Today my father has met you, old sir, and he’s saved! Please, out of compassion, cure my father and let him live. I will never forget your great kindness, not for a hundred thousand lifetimes!” Before he finished speaking, he grabbed the Bodhisattva’s hand and tried to pull Her away.

The Bodhisattva said, “Slow down, now. First tell me about your father’s sickness, so I can see if I can help him. If I can, I’ll go with you right away.” The boy then told Her about his father’s illness.

This pure, dutiful child is clearly a soul of great karmic affinity. But to hear what happened next, please turn to the following chapter.

Chapter 37: Treating a Critical Illness with Mint Decoction — Sha Syndrome Cured Through the Tradition of Guanyin's Willow

The boy, hearing the Bodhisattva's words, let go and said: "My father's name is Zhang Si. He makes his living selling flatbreads. At home there's just the two of us—no one else. We're poor, poor as can be. What we earn in a day is barely enough for thin porridge. Then two days ago, Father said he wasn't feeling well, but he forced himself out to sell his bread, because a day without selling meant a day without food. When he came home that evening, he couldn't keep himself upright. He lay down and slept, and once he slept, he sank into a stupor. Calling him brought no answer, shaking him brought no response. His body burned hot, like the oven he bakes his bread in, dry and scorching to the touch. I rushed off to find my second uncle, but he was just as poor, with not a single coin to his name, and could do nothing. The next day I tried to get a doctor to come, but we had no fee to offer, and not one would come. He collapsed the night before last. Yesterday he lay silent and still the whole day. Today another half-day has passed, and the fever is worse than ever. It looks beyond saving. I was just thinking of going outside the city to fetch my mother's brother when I ran into you here, old gentleman. What luck! Please, I beg you, go see my father. It would be such an act of kindness and hidden virtue."

The Bodhisattva said: "Then let us go together." He gathered his shoulder pole and basket and followed the boy. After two turns in the road, they came to a ramshackle little Earth God temple. There lay Zhang Si on a rough plank bed, teeth clenched, eyes shut, looking as though he were already dead. The Bodhisattva saw the illness stemmed from wind-cold congestion within the body, so he took out a bundle of herbs from his rattan basket and gave them to the boy to brew and administer. In no time the brew was ready. Poured into an earthen jar, it gave off a fragrance that filled the air, clearing the head and sharpening the appetite. The Bodhisattva helped the boy pry open Zhang Si's clenched teeth with bamboo chopsticks and poured in a hot bowlful. Half an hour later he poured in another, thick and strong. Slowly, sweat began to seep from his brow and face. The Bodhisattva said: "He's out of danger now. Once a good sweat breaks, he'll come to on his own, and the illness will pass."

He made ready to leave. The boy said: "Please wait, sir. Your medicine must have cost you something. I have five copper coins on me—let me give them to you. Don't think it too little; it's only a small token of my thanks!" The Bodhisattva thought to himself how rare it was to find a poor household raising such a filial son, and told him: "There's no need for you to spend anything. This herb I gathered myself from the mountains, without any cost. I see that, young as you are, you already possess such a filial heart—truly admirable. Now I'll give you a packet of seeds. Plant them by the riverbank; once they grow and you've harvested them, you can cut them and sell them to the medicine shops. The plant is called mint, and it should bring you a small profit to keep your father going." The boy took the seeds, bowing again and again, thanking him again and again, and the Bodhisattva walked on into the distance.

That night, Zhang Si broke out in a full sweat, had a thorough bowel movement, and suddenly came to. Before long he was well. He followed the Bodhisattva's instructions and made his living from then on growing mint, eventually attaining a modest prosperity. Mint is grown everywhere now, but the output from Taicang has always been considered the finest. It's said this is because of the lingering touch of the Bodhisattva's hand, which made it unlike anything ordinary. In truth, it may simply be a matter of the soil and the climate.

But to continue: the Bodhisattva left Taicang and journeyed northwest into the Haiyu region. Along the road he heard people talking of a strange creature that had lately appeared on Mount Yu. Resembling a snake yet not a snake, entirely emerald-green, with four legs—looking like an oversized gecko—the locals called it the four-legged snake. It lay hidden in the grass and moved with extraordinary speed; its color blended with the plants, making it terribly hard to spot. Worse, its venom was extraordinary: a single bite meant the victim could not run ten paces before the poison took hold and dropped them dead, beyond any remedy. So the mountain folk, who made their living off the forest, had been terrified into not daring to enter the slopes anymore. Their livelihoods were cut off, and they were crying out in bitter complaint.

The Bodhisattva, hearing this, noted it carefully. He disguised himself once more—this time as a snake-catcher and peddler of eye medicine—and made his way to the outskirts of Haiyu. Indeed, the reports were true. The locals, seeing a stranger who caught snakes for a living, assumed he must have some skill and pressed him to help find some way to be rid of the four-legged snakes' plague. The Bodhisattva never refused those who sought his aid; he agreed on the spot. Carrying his bamboo snake-basket on his back, he went alone into the deep mountains, found the snakes' den, and by his supernatural power captured every four-legged snake on the entire mountain, putting them into his basket. He brought them down the mountain and announced to the crowd: "Though venomous, this creature can be used as medicine and save lives; the world cannot do without them, so I cannot bring myself to kill them. I shall use a binding spell instead, to seal their mouths, and after this they shall bite no one." The woodcutters, asking nothing more than that, gladly consented. They watched the Bodhisattva bite open his middle finger, take the snakes out of the basket one by one, and let a single drop of his blood fall upon each one's forehead before releasing it back into the grass. Strangely enough, from that day to this, the four-legged snakes on Mount Yu, though still numerous, will only flee at the sight of a person and never again bite. To this day they still bear that bright red dot upon their foreheads—it is said to be their distinguishing mark, and four-legged snakes elsewhere have no such sign.

But enough of this. In those days it was the turn from spring into summer, and because the weather swung abruptly between cold and warm, a great many children fell ill with sha sicknesses nearly everywhere. The most dangerous form was the scarlet sha: once it broke out, a moment's carelessness—even a breath of wind, or overheating—could send it retreating inward. The toxic miasma attacked the heart, and nothing could be done. The Bodhisattva saw how pitiful this was, and searching through his remedies, he determined that only the red willow could save them in such a crisis. Fortunately, the plant grew abundantly in the wilds, and being summer, it was exactly the season when it flourished.

He resolved to find someone of true affinity and pass the recipe on to them, so that the children of the region might be saved. He made his way to the foot of Xinfeng Peak, where he heard two men sitting on the hillside in conversation. A young man was saying: "These days the way of heaven is turned upside down. The good are always thrown into ruin, while the wicked prosper and live easy. Old uncle, just think: Old Master Yan of the east side of the city—what a good man he is! Building bridges, mending roads, there's no good deed he hasn't done. In summer he opens a clinic and gives out free consultations and medicine; in winter he sets up a soup kitchen and hands out porridge and clothing. Who knows how many lives he's saved! Yet now his own grandson has come down with scarlet sha. They say the boy caught a bit of wind, and the rash retreated inward. The doctors are helpless; there's no hope left. Tell me, isn't that maddening?"

The old man replied: "It's simply fate. By rights, a household like Master Yan's ought never to know such misfortune—they should be blessed for ten thousand generations. But now that the illness has fallen on him, what can anyone do? We can only sigh in unison, that's all."

Now, the Yan family were in fact descendants of Duke Yan Wenjing. Among them had been a gentleman named Daoche, a man born with a heart of compassion who loved doing good. At thirty he had no son. People urged him to take a concubine, but he only said he had not met the right person. One day, visiting a relative's house, he happened to notice a maidservant whose head was bare—she had never been allowed to grow her hair out. The gentleman asked about her and was told she was a mute. He said to the relative: "Tell her to let her hair grow, and I'll take her as my concubine." The relative could hardly credit it. Daoche made a formal betrothal agreement, and the next year he took her home. When people asked him why he would take a mute as his concubine, Daoche said: "She was born mute, which is pitiful enough. And since her master wouldn't let her grow her hair, everyone who saw her knew she was a mute, and naturally no one would marry her. Wouldn't her later years be even more wretched? That is why I have taken her in." At the time, people could not help but ridicule him. Later, he was blessed with three sons, and his good works became all the more devoted. The Old Master Yan of whom the two men had been speaking was, in fact, this very Mr. Daoche.

The Bodhisattva, who was on the road at that moment with a bundle of red willow in his hand, overheard their talk and went over to them. He said: "Scarlet sha retreating inward is indeed hard to treat, but this red willow, brewed and taken, is effective. Take it to the Yan residence and tell them to boil it down into a thick juice at once and drink it. If after two hours' time there is still no effect, take another method: a small charcoal stove, fill it with glowing coals, put red dates inside a jar and let them roast in the heat. The rash will naturally be pushed back out. This is a secret recipe. If you can spread it far and wide, the merit will be boundless."

The young man took the red willow and was about to leave when he stopped and asked: "Sir, may I ask your honored name? And where do you presently live? When Old Master Yan asks me, I shall need to give him an answer." The Bodhisattva said: "I have no name. If the old master asks, simply tell him that someone called the person of Mount Luojia passed through this place, and on hearing that his grandson was gravely ill, specially transmitted this prescription. He will understand when he hears it." Having said this, he bade them farewell and went down the mountain, and no more need be said of him.

The young man, with the bundle of red willow in his arms, ran at full speed straight into the Yan residence and reported the whole matter clearly. The old master asked: "In that case, did you get that person's name?" The young man said: "He said he had no name, but was called the person of Mount Luojia." When the master heard this, he dropped to his knees at once and bowed toward the sky, which startled the young man so badly he nearly leapt out of his skin—

It is the true face of compassion—the worldly one has never known it. If you wish to know what happened next, you must wait for the next chapter to unfold.

Chapter 38: The Layman Yan Builds the White-Robed Nunnery — The Virtuous Woman Liu Cuts Flesh to Heal Her Mother-in-Law's Ailment

Hearing the young man speak the four words "Person of Potalaka," Yan Daoche knew at once it was the Bodhisattva manifesting herself. He could not help but prostrate himself toward the heavens to give thanks. After rising, he asked the young man to wait a moment, then took the bundle of red willow twigs inside himself, explained what had happened, and told his household to decoct the remedy quickly for the boy to drink. When the family, high and low, heard the Bodhisattva had given instruction, they were overjoyed — smiling from ear to ear — and hurried off to brew the medicine, knowing the boy was saved this time. Daoche took fifty taels of silver and gave them to the young man as a reward. He also told him plainly who they had met and asked after the place where the Bodhisattva had shown herself. The young man — who had only run an errand and spoken an extra word — now held fifty taels of gleaming silver in his hands. Of course he was delighted. He thanked Daoche and went on his way.

Daoche went back inside. By then the medicine was ready, and a cupful was fed to the little boy. Within about an hour, dark spots appeared across his face as the clots were driven out, and by evening the eruptions had all come forth. The family nursed him carefully, and after about a week he began to rally. Doctors attended him, and before long he made a full recovery.

The young man went home and told the old man about his encounter with the Bodhisattva. The whole household, believing that a remedy passed on by the Bodhisattva must surely work, spread the news far and wide. Families whose children had fallen ill with the same sickness rushed to prepare the remedy the same way — and it worked wonderfully, saving many a child's life. Everyone praised Guanyin's great compassion, and the red willow came to be renamed "Guanyin Willow" in her honor.

Once his grandson had recovered, Yan Daoche hired workers and craftsmen and broke ground on a grand building project. On the sunny south-facing slope of Xinfeng — the very spot where the Bodhisattva had revealed herself that day — he erected a temple and inscribed it "White-Robed Nunnery." Inside, a statue of White-Robed Guanyin was enshrined: in her hand she held not the usual willow branch but a sprig of red willow, posed as if bestowing it. Because the Bodhisattva had rescued the children and given them years to live, she was given the name Guanyin Who Prolongs Life. The nunnery's incense flourished from the start, and down to the present day it still stands upon the mountainside, its smoke unbroken. On the nineteenth day of the second, sixth, and ninth months, people stream in from all the surrounding towns to burn incense, and the occasion is no less grand than Hangzhou's March fair.

Meanwhile, after transmitting the prescription, the Bodhisattva left Haiyu and made her way along the riverbank, going wherever she could to help and rescue sentient beings. She did not lightly reveal her true form, however, and not all who benefited recognized her as Guanyin Bodhisattva, savior from suffering and misery. One day she reached the territory of Cangzhou and stopped at a small village to ask for lodging. Her choice of household was no accident: she had seen an auspicious aura enveloping the place and wished to see for herself what it portended.

When she reached the door, a woman came out — worry on her face, a medicine pot in her hands, on her way to dump the dregs. Guanyin, now disguised as a middle-aged woman, stepped forward and said: "Sister, I'm a traveler passing through. Night is falling and I have nowhere to stay — could you spare me a bed for the night?"

The woman replied: "I'd gladly have you stay, but my mother-in-law is ill and there's no one else to help me. I couldn't look after you properly — how could I take in an honored guest? Please try somewhere else."

The Bodhisattva said: "The other houses all have men in them — it wouldn't be proper. I'd be so grateful if you could make an exception, sister. I don't need any looking after — just a corner to sleep in. I'll be off at first light; I won't be any trouble, I promise."

The woman had a kind heart. Seeing a traveler in need, she couldn't bring herself to refuse. She agreed on the spot, finished dumping the dregs, led her inside, and seated her by the stove. "There's rice in the pot and tea in the kettle," she said. "Help yourself if you're hungry or thirsty. I need to see to my mother-in-law — I'll bring bedding in a bit." With that she left. The Bodhisattva settled by the stove.

Now let me say more about this household. The family was surnamed Wang, though the woman herself had been born a Liu. Her husband had long since died, leaving her alone with her seventy-year-old mother-in-law. Fortunately the family had enough to live on. Liu treated her mother-in-law with deep devotion, anticipating her every wish and never going against her in anything; the two had lived in perfect harmony. But on this occasion the old lady had fallen ill with hiccoughs. Physicians had treated her, but no remedy seemed to help, and she grew worse by the day.

Liu was at her wits' end. She had heard the old tales of how a daughter-in-law might cut flesh from her own body to heal a parent — said to be wonderfully effective. She made up her mind at once: she would cut a piece of her own flesh to cure her mother-in-law's dangerous illness. Just then the Bodhisattva arrived at the door, and — unable to refuse her — Liu let her in and settled her by the stove. Liu went to check on her mother-in-law, and seeing her sound asleep, returned to her own room. She took up a pair of scissors, rolled up her sleeve, bit down on a fold of flesh on her left arm, tugged it taut, and with one snip blood spurted out. She spat out the flesh, set the scissors aside, sprinkled incense ashes over the wound to stanch the bleeding, tore off a strip of cloth, and bound it tight. Taking the flesh, she went to the outer room and set it in an earthenware pot to decoct.

The old saying goes that the one who cuts flesh feels no pain — but in truth, if a needle prick on healthy flesh hurts, how much more does the cutting away of a whole piece? The one who performs the act, however, with her will fixed on a single purpose, does not feel the worst of it. While Liu was decocting the flesh, the Bodhisattva was roused by the sound and came over. "Sister," she asked, "what are you doing?"

Liu said only that she was preparing medicine, but the Bodhisattva replied: "Don't hide it from me. Just now your left arm was whole — why is it bandaged now? What you're cooking there can only be human flesh, can it not?"

Liu knew she could not hide it and told her the truth. The Bodhisattva sighed and said: "When has human flesh ever cured an illness? To damage the body your parents gave you for such a thing goes against reason. Still, a heart of pure devotion like yours is beyond reproach. And the bond between daughter-in-law and mother-in-law is not like the bond between mother and daughter — many who try are censured for it. That you should be so filial to your mother-in-law, sister, is truly rare, and earns my deepest respect. But tell me — what is her illness?"

Liu replied: "It's the hiccoughs. She can't stop hiccoughing. The medicine quiets them for a while, but they soon come back. She's so old — if this keeps up, how can she hold on? That's why I cut flesh from my arm to try to cure her. Now that you know, sister, I'm at my wit's end. If it still can't be cured, what shall I do?"

The Bodhisattva said: "It is nothing serious. I have a recipe that works: go to the pharmacy and buy one liang of sword beans and one liang of persimmon calyx, decoct them in water, and have her drink it. It will surely work."

Liu memorized the recipe. At dawn the next day, the Bodhisattva bade her farewell and left. Liu sent someone to the pharmacy for the two ingredients, decocted them into a strong bowlful, and gave it to her mother-in-law; she also prepared two more cups. After the first bowl, the hiccoughs eased at once, and the old lady fell into a deep, easy sleep. When she awoke, there were still a few hiccoughs, but nothing like before. Liu gave her the other two cups, and by that afternoon the hiccoughs had stopped altogether — like some immortal's elixir. Under Liu's devoted care, in just a few days the old lady was fully recovered, vigorous as before — needless to say more.

Meanwhile, the Bodhisattva had now traveled all through the Central Kingdom, spreading the dharma wherever she went, and was glad to see Buddhism flourishing in the Central Plain. She turned south, intending to make her way through Fujian and Guangdong and back to the Southern Sea. But on the road she happened to meet a man named Wu Zhang. She thought to herself: "Of late, everyone I've met has been a filial son or virtuous wife — rare indeed in this world. But this man is fated to suffer many trials in his coming life. I must watch over him." What manner of man was Wu Zhang? Let me tell you in detail.

Wu Zhang was an orphan. When he was ten, his father died. His mother, Lady Lu, was skilled in embroidery — chaste, gentle, content in her widowhood. But then an imperial edict was issued selecting common women for service in the inner palace and the princely mansions, and Lady Lu was chosen and sent to the capital, leaving her son Wu Zhang to be raised by his uncle. Wu Zhang was by nature deeply filial, and after his mother left he could not stop thinking of her. He studied for years until he was sixteen, and then thought: "How can a man live without his mother? I have a mother — I must go find her, or what sort of man would I be?" So he took leave of his uncle, packed a few belongings, scraped together some travel money, and set off by boat to the capital to find her.

He traveled overland and by river for many days, asking everyone he met. At last, after much inquiry, he learned his mother had been assigned to a certain princely mansion, and his heart lightened. Many days later he reached the capital. He left his luggage at an inn and went to the mansion — only to find, to his bitter disappointment, that the prince had already been sent to his fief in Guangdong, and of course Lady Lu had gone with him. It was as if a ladle of cold water had been dashed over his head. But he rallied: "If they can go, surely I can too. Even if my money runs out, I'll beg along the way if I must — I'll go." Mind made up, he returned to the inn to rest before setting out at dawn. But alas, the demon of illness found him first. And so:

The loving mother he has not yet seen — Disease comes upon him once more. If you would know what happens next, Pray listen to the chapter to come.

Chapter 39: The Filial Son Wu Travels Ten Thousand Li to Find His Mother; Guanyin Manifests Herself Several Times

When Wu Zhang heard that his mother was in Guangdong, he was deeply disheartened at first. But then he thought to himself: if others could travel to such places, surely he could too. Even if his travel money ran out, he could beg his way there. So he returned to the inn, planning to rest a night before setting out. But that night, a fierce pain gripped his belly, and he suffered bout after bout of dysentery. By dawn he was utterly drained, yet he still paid for his room and forced himself onto the road. After three days of walking, he could go no farther. The dysentery had grown worse, and he had no choice but to take shelter in a ruined temple. There a raging fever seized him, and he lost consciousness entirely—though in his delirium he kept calling out for his mother.

As it happened, the Bodhisattva was passing by at that very moment. She transformed herself into a wandering monk and set about treating him. It took five or six days of care before he could be considered cured. When Wu Zhang asked the monk's name, the Bodhisattva would only say "Yunkong," revealing nothing more. She also gave him a few hundred copper coins for the road, and at last Wu Zhang was able to continue his journey.

He endured every hardship imaginable along the way, but somehow he managed to reach Guangdong—only to find another dead end. Why? Because the prince had been reassigned and enfeoffed anew, this time to Raozhou in Jiangxi. He was no longer in Guangdong. With a lead at last and his heart set on finding his mother, Wu Zhang turned toward Raozhou. The road took him through sandy wastes where the ground rose and fell in wild unevenness, and he grew utterly exhausted. After several days, his shoes fell apart and his stockings wore through. He had no money for new ones, so he went barefoot. A few more days, and both feet cracked open, oozing pus and blood until he couldn't take a single step. He collapsed in the stable of a wilderness temple. As he reflected on all that had befallen him, grief overwhelmed him, and he burst into loud weeping:

"Mother! I've never flinched from traveling thousands upon thousands of li, rushing here and there, all because I longed to see you once more. But Heaven wouldn't have it, and now I can't move another step. I'll never reach your side again!"

His cries were truly heartrending. They startled an old Daoist priest named Jiao who lived in the temple. He came out, asked what had happened, and said, "Don't cry, don't cry. I have medicine right here that can cure you." He went inside and brought out a vial of medicine and a basin of clear water. He washed the wounds clean, mixed and applied the salve, then carried Wu Zhang to a bed and told him to rest easy—within three days, he'd be back on his feet. Wu Zhang bowed his head against the pillow in gratitude, thanking the old man again and again. The next day the Daoist washed the wounds and changed the dressing. After three days, Wu Zhang was indeed fully healed. The Daoist also gave him a pair of hemp sandals and said, "Now you can be on your way. But the road ahead leads through deep mountains and dense forests—be on your guard. Don't let your guard down."

Wu Zhang accepted the advice respectfully, bade the Daoist farewell, and pressed on. The road did indeed climb over one ridge after another. Keeping the Daoist's words in mind, he proceeded with the utmost caution, and for two days all was well. But on the afternoon of the third day, as he crossed a hilltop where thickets choked the path, he pushed through brambles and thorns. He was nearly at the level road when a sudden hiss came from the tall grass—a long snake slithered out. Wu Zhang tried to dodge, but there was no time. The snake darted in and sank its fangs into his ankle. He knew at once this was no ordinary bite. The pain shot straight to his heart. His vision went dark, his legs gave way, and he crashed into the undergrowth.

The snake was a two-headed viper, and its venom was beyond compare. In less than half a shichen, the poison reached his heart, and no elixir or miracle cure in the world could have saved him—though with the right medicine, given in time, it might not have been hopeless. As it was, Wu Zhang lay on the ground, senseless.

This time Guanyin manifested herself in her full form of great compassion, walking toward him from afar. She lifted him onto a flat boulder, then sprinkled sweet dew from her willow branch over the wound. After a while, Wu Zhang slowly came to, crying out, "Where is my mother?"

The Bodhisattva, standing beside him, answered: "Wu Zhang, you have risked your life for your mother's sake—a true man of pure filial devotion. Heaven will not betray such devotion. The day you see your mother again is not far off. But there is still one small trial ahead of you. If you hold fast with a steadfast heart, you may yet avoid it."

When Wu Zhang realized it was the Bodhisattva Guanyin herself who had appeared to guide him, his joy was beyond measure. He scrambled up from the stone, dropped to his knees, and thanked her for saving his life.

The Bodhisattva said, "Now you may cross the ridge. It's getting late—remember what I've told you and don't forget it. I must go." With that, her form faded from sight.

Wu Zhang found his way down the mountain. He had barely reached the foothills when the sky turned dark, but a mountain-spirit temple happened to be nearby, and he took shelter there for the night. At daybreak he set out again. It was the middle of the twelfth month, and the cold was deepening. Heavy clouds massed overhead, the north wind howled, and it cut through him like knife slashes and needle pricks—nearly unbearable. He marshaled his courage and pressed on, but his pace slowed considerably. After a full day of travel, cold to the bone and famished, he watched the sky darken as snowflakes the size of goose palms came swirling down, making the going even more miserable for the weary traveler.

Ahead, though, stood a tiny hamlet of three houses, with thin curls of cooking smoke rising from a chimney. Wu Zhang made for it. At the door of one house, a white-haired old man stood leaning in the doorway, watching the snow. Wu Zhang stepped forward, clasped his hands in greeting, and said, "Good sir, I'm on my way to Raozhou to find my mother. I happened to pass through your village as night fell and the snow grew heavy. I can't go on—might I beg a night's lodging? I'll leave at first light, and I'd be deeply grateful."

Hearing his Jiangnan accent, the old man knew he was telling the truth. "Of course, of course! Please, come in and sit." They went inside, exchanged courtesies in the central hall, sat down as host and guest, and told each other their backgrounds. The old man's name was You Ding. In his younger days he had worked as a peddler and had managed to save a fair sum. He had one son who had followed him into trade and was now away on business. His daughter-in-law, née Bai, was still young and a woman of loose virtue. Besides the two of them, no one else lived in the house. So when Wu Zhang came in to talk, You Ding called Bai Shi out to meet him as well and had tea served to their guest.

No one could have predicted that the moment Bai Shi laid eyes on Wu Zhang, she would be seized by lust. You Ding ordered wine and meat brought out for the guest, and after supper, led Wu Zhang to a side room to sleep while he and his daughter-in-law each retired to their own quarters.

Bai Shi lay down fully dressed, but her mind was full of Wu Zhang—so handsome, so refined—and sleep wouldn't come. Around midnight, she slipped quietly to the door of the side room and knocked softly. Wu Zhang had just woken and called out, "Who's there?"

"It's me," Bai Shi replied. "I took pity on you, sleeping all alone, and came to keep you company."

Wu Zhang was startled. "No, no—that's impossible! Madam, your honor is at stake. Don't trade a moment's pleasure for a lifelong stain. Please go back to your room."

But Bai Shi, consumed by desire, wouldn't take no for an answer. The door had no bolt, and she pushed it open and came in. Wu Zhang hastily threw on his robe and got out of bed, trying to reason with her gently, but she crawled straight under his covers. Seeing no other way, Wu Zhang thought it through and concluded that unless he left at once, neither of their reputations would survive. He gathered up his things, slipped out without a word, and fled into the night. The snow on the ground caught enough light to show the path, and he trudged onward through it. Bai Shi, thwarted, hid a couple of odds and ends from the side room and went back to her own bed.

The next morning, You Ding noticed Wu Zhang was gone and was puzzled. Bai Shi, pretending to take inventory, declared this missing and that missing, and accused Wu Zhang of being a thief. Since the losses were trifling, You Ding didn't pursue the matter—nor did he ever suspect what had really happened in the dead of night.

As for Wu Zhang, though wind and snow dogged his road, it was a level, broad highway, and in less than a day he reached Raozhou. He asked around and located the prince's residence. His mother, née Lu, was indeed there. He submitted a petition to the prince, begging to be allowed to take his mother home to care for her in her old age. The prince refused. He petitioned again and again, but the prince would not consent.

So he rented a room just to the right of the prince's mansion and settled in. Above the lintel he hung a placard with two large characters: "Seeking Kin." On the door he pasted a pair of couplets:

Ten thousand li in quest of kin, through a hundred hardships without regret; One day to see his mother—though nine deaths come, what of it?

He lived there alone, devoutly reciting the Guanyin Sutra. About a month passed. Then one day the prince happened to walk past his door. Seeing the placard and the couplets, he exclaimed in wonder, "I had no idea this Wu Zhang was truly such a filial son." He summoned Wu Zhang for an audience and asked him to explain everything. Wu Zhang recounted the events of his journey from beginning to end, leaving nothing out. The prince was deeply moved and granted his request. He had Lady Lu brought out to meet her son, gave Wu Zhang permission to escort his mother home, and bestowed a generous sum for travel expenses.

Mother and son knew that the success of their quest owed entirely to the Bodhisattva's protection, so they decided to take a boat first on a pilgrimage to the Southern Sea before returning to their native Wujiang. Their descendants prospered greatly in later years—a fitting reward for pure filial devotion.

To sum up in a word: at the very time mother and son were making their pilgrimage to the Southern Sea, Guanyin Bodhisattva had transformed herself into a fisherman on the shores of the Guangdong Sea. There she was casting the Unempty Silk Cord and the Myriad-Dharma Purple-Gold Radiant Hook to snare a monstrous creature from the sea and rid the local people of a scourge. Truly:

With Unempty Cord, the golden turtle was hooked; Great compassion and mercy return to the Southern Sea.

If you wish to know what happens next, read on in the next chapter.

Chapter Forty: Hooking the Golden Ao to Relieve Suffering — Returning to the Southern Sea to Close the Book

The story goes that since the Bodhisattva had rescued Wu Zhang from the venomous snake bite on his foot, she had been wandering on cloud-paths all the way to the shores of Yue. Finding this place where southern tribes lived alongside Han settlers, its customs nothing like the refined regions of Suzhou or Hangzhou, she could feel the karmic dust of this place ran especially deep. The miasma and poisonous vapors of the southern wilds were already harsh enough, of course, but recently a monstrous creature had appeared in the sea, bringing great harm to the local people. Guanyin Bodhisattva reflected inwardly: though the karmic dust here was fixed and impossible to undo, wherever she could use expedient means to help the people, she wanted to offer what relief she could. Seeing the sea-monster, if she did not remove it for them, who else could? Thus she transformed herself into a fisherman and came to the seashore, where she prepared precious ropes and golden hooks to catch the creature.

Readers! What do you suppose this creature was? Let me tell you. The creature was like a fish yet not a fish, like a turtle yet not a turtle. Its head resembled a dragon’s, yet it had no whiskers. Its body was covered in a thick, hard shell like a turtle’s, but it stood more than twice as tall as any turtle. Its head and neck were exactly like a turtle’s, but its tail was shaped like a large fish’s. It had four legs too, with thick skin webbing between the toes that it used to row through the water. Its entire body was deep brown, streaked with a faint golden sheen. It was roughly sixteen or seventeen feet long, and its look was downright frightful.

Usually the creature hid at the bottom of the sea, but when it went looking for food, it would shoot up to the surface, moving as fast as a small boat. Strangest of all, it could move just as easily on land as it could in the water. Between its sharp teeth, thick hide, and hard shell, it was afraid of nothing. It loved to eat pigs, sheep, cattle, and dogs, but people were its favorite meal. It was impossibly strong: if any ship ran into it, no matter how big, it would flip the vessel with a flick of its back. Either the hull would be punched full of holes and sink, or the boat would capsize and roll—there was no escaping it. On land, even the biggest farm water buffalo was no match for it: once the creature bit down and held on, the buffalo would be dragged away, no matter how hard it struggled. Other animals stood even less of a chance, obviously.

This creature had never been seen in Yue’s waters before. The summer before, it had appeared out of nowhere, invading the southern coast. At first it only attacked fishing boats and merchant ships, and everyone who worked the sea was put in danger. Merchants refused to sail the route, and fishermen could no longer make a living. So the local fishermen banded together to come up with a plan to catch it. They tried again and again with great nets and rolling hooks to fight it, but not only did they fail to capture the monster, they lost dozens of men in the attempt. This only made the monster angrier. Before, it had only caused trouble in the water and never come on land to hurt people. After the fight, it started charging onto the shore and running wild. If it saw people or animals, it would grab them whenever it wanted to eat. Sometimes it would crash through walls in the middle of the night, breaking into houses to grab people for meals. There was no way for sleeping families to protect themselves. Even when they fired fire-tubes and bird-guns at it, it didn’t take a single hit.

Villagers from all around couldn’t take the monster’s attacks anymore, so they all moved further inland. There was nothing anyone could do to stop it. When the Bodhisattva passed through and heard about the Golden Ao’s rampage, her heart filled with compassion. She knew she had to get rid of the scourge for the people.

Right away, the Bodhisattva found an empty house on the seashore to use as shelter. She gathered one hundred and eight thousand strands of heavenly silkworm silk, braiding them into a long silken rope. Next, she took willow branches from her precious vase, carved nine barbed hooks from them, and threaded them onto one end of the rope. Then she gathered sand and soil from the shore, molded it into the shape of a person, and buried the nine barbed hooks deep inside the clay figure’s belly. It took the Bodhisattva quite a while to make all these things. A few of the braver local villagers often came to the shore to check in on her, and when they saw what she was making, they asked her what she was doing. The Bodhisattva told them she was preparing to capture the Golden Ao. None of them believed it at first: if fire-guns couldn’t even hurt the creature, how could a few small, simple tools possibly stop it? They kept asking her questions, so the Bodhisattva told them: "Everything in the world has something that can control it. Have you ever noticed that even the mightiest elephant is afraid of mice, and the snakes of Mount Ba fear centipedes? That just goes to show size doesn’t matter."

Word spread quickly, and curious villagers came to the shore every day to see how the Bodhisattva would pull off catching the Golden Ao. Once the Bodhisattva finished her preparations, she waited a few days. One evening, the Golden Ao, which had been hiding at the bottom of the sea and was tired of eating nothing but fish and shrimp, swam up to the surface to look around. There were no ships in sight. It figured it would have better luck finding food on land, where there might be people or animals to eat, so it rode the waves straight toward the beach.

At that exact moment, around a hundred villagers were gathered on the shore talking to the Bodhisattva. When they heard the strange, rumbling sound of the waves, they all shouted: "The monster is coming!" Sure enough, the water churned, and waves rose up like walls dozens of feet high. The Bodhisattva took one end of the silken rope in her right hand, held the clay figure in her left, waved the crowd back, and walked forward to meet the creature.

The Golden Ao reached the shallow water and poked its head out, but when it saw the Bodhisattva, it ducked back under. The crowd heard a loud, slurping sound, and a huge whirlpool formed on the surface. The creature sucked in a massive gulp of water, then burst back up, head raised and neck stretched. A jet of water, fast as a swimming dragon, shot straight at the Bodhisattva. The Bodhisattva didn’t move an inch. The water hit her and exploded into spray that scattered everywhere, like a sudden rainstorm soaking all the onlookers to the bone. Everyone was terrified for her at first, but when they saw how calm and steady she was, they realized she had everything under control, and leaned in to watch her catch the monster.

The Golden Ao kept spraying water for as long as it takes to smoke a whole pouch of tobacco before it stopped. When it saw the water hadn’t knocked her over, the creature looked shocked, then furious. It let out a huge roar, bared its fangs, and charged straight at her, claws out. When it got close enough, the Bodhisattva shouted: "You wicked beast! How dare you act so insolent, you don’t even recognize me? I’ll give you a person to eat, as a reward!" With that, she threw the clay figure straight at its head. The Golden Ao saw an easy meal and opened its giant mouth, snapping the figure up whole in one bite. It was just about to charge the Bodhisattva too, when it realized the clay figure had melted the second it hit its stomach. The nine barbed willow hooks attached to the rope had lodged themselves tight around the creature’s heart, and there was no way to pull them out. As it lunged at her, the Bodhisattva gave the rope a soft tug. The Golden Ao shrieked like a pig being slaughtered, thrashing around on the sand over and over, all its fierce strength gone.

The Bodhisattva said: "Wicked beast, you’ve lived among humans for too long and killed who knows how many innocent lives. By all rights, heaven should have struck you down already. But out of compassion, I’ll take you to the Southern Sea to practice cultivation, so you can repent for all the bad karma you’ve accumulated. Will you come with me?" With that, she loosened her grip on the rope. The Golden Ao, after all, had a spark of spiritual awareness. When it heard her words, it lay down on the sand, staring up at the Bodhisattva without moving a muscle, as if to say yes. The onlookers were shocked. They couldn’t figure out how one simple silken rope could possibly tame such a huge monster. But everything in the world has a weakness. Think about the biggest ox: all it takes is a rope through its nose, and even a small child can lead it around. It will lower its head and obey quietly, not daring to fight back at all. Take that rope away, though, and the ox won’t listen to anyone. Not just a child—even a grown man couldn’t control it. That’s what people mean when they say every creature has something that can master it. The Golden Ao had the Bodhisattva’s willow hooks clamped around its heart, so of course it couldn’t fight back at all.

The Bodhisattva secured the Golden Ao and took leave of the crowd, saying: "I’ve taken care of this monster for you. You can all move back home and live in peace now. I have to return to the Southern Sea, so I can’t stay long. Tell everyone to do more good and less harm. Anyone who sincerely believes in the Buddha will be rewarded for it." With that, she climbed onto the Golden Ao’s back and showed her true form. The creature stretched out its four legs, turned, and swam into the sea, floating on the surface as it headed south. The villagers watched, and suddenly realized it was indeed Guanyin Bodhisattva who had come to save them. They all fell to their knees in thanks, grateful to be free of the monster. The families that had moved inland came back and picked up their old lives. To thank the Bodhisattva for her kindness, they all chipped in money to build a Guanyin Meditation Hall, and carved a sacred statue of the Bodhisattva standing on the Golden Ao, which they enshrined and worshipped with great devotion. We don’t need to go into more detail about that.

Now, to pick up the story: when the Bodhisattva returned to Mount Putuo Luojia in the Southern Sea, she was greeted as always by Sudhana and the Naga Girl. The Bodhisattva let the Golden Ao into the Pool of White Lotuses and told it to repent and cultivate its mind. Then she went into the Purple Bamboo Grove, climbed up onto her Lotus Throne, and rested in the peace of her blissful state.

Here, as the author, I’ll take the chance to wrap up this story, and not go into any more extra details. The Bodhisattva’s deeds are, in fact, far too many to count—there’s no way to record them all. Besides the sutras, there are books like the Records of Guanyin’s Miraculous Responses, Various Records of Putuo and Tianzhu, and the Biographies of Eminent Monks, all of which have long, detailed accounts of her life and work. Since those books already exist, I won’t copy from them or pad this story with old, repeated material.

From the time Guanyin Bodhisattva first walked into the Central Plains barefoot, she appeared in thirty-three different sacred forms, taking both male and female shapes. That’s why the statues of Guanyin in temples all over the country don’t all look the same. This final form is what people call the Ao-Head Guanyin. Temples all over carve her on the back wall behind the Buddhas of the Three Worlds—at least that part is the same everywhere!

See past the Bodhisattva’s many forms, and you’ll find the Ao-head is your own.

The End of the Legend of Guanyin Bodhisattva