Chapter Forty-Three: The Wanderer of Hejian

Xiangshan Temple was a Buddhist sanctuary, its halls filled with statues of the myriad Bodhisattvas. At this moment, however, someone’s irreverent words—using the Way to suppress the Dharma—had drawn the attention of both the monks and the crowd of worshippers within. The commotion also caught the notice of Li Sanjian and Zeng Gongming.

The speaker was a Taoist priest, robed in flowing blue-green garments with wide sleeves, his hair tied into a topknot held in place by a wooden hairpin. It was difficult to guess his age. Three wisps of a long beard dangled from his chin, though they looked almost as if they had been glued on. In his hand he held a horsetail whisk, on his back a ritual sword—whether true or false, none could tell. His attire fluttered gently, giving him an air of ethereal transcendence, the very image of an accomplished immortal.

“Namo Amitabha,” intoned a venerable monk, seeing the growing crowd gather. He asked, “May I ask, benefactor, what do you mean by such words? Are you claiming that our masters of the Complete Reality School are mere charlatans, deceiving the world?”

“Raising sand and stones, summoning wind and rain—these are but tricks of the trade, mere sleight of hand. There are many in this world who practice such arts, but they amount to nothing more. The mysteries of the Source and of Clarity, all the myriad paths arise from the same root; the Ten Attainments spring from this source, wondrous practices blossom forth. Within and beyond the Three Realms, it is the Way alone that reigns supreme,” replied the Taoist.

The high monk of Xiangshan Temple was not angered by these words. Smiling faintly, he said, “If that is so, let me ask you: is the ‘Sutra of the Supreme Emperor’s Conversion to Buddhism’ truly the words of the Elder Lord?”

“Indeed, it is the teaching of the Elder Lord,” the Taoist nodded.

“If so, the sutra describes the rituals and conduct of those monks who shave their heads and take the precepts. You must be familiar with these, yes? Please, describe in detail the ordination rites for us,” the old monk pressed.

The Taoist, not well-versed in the specifics of Buddhist ordination rituals, nor understanding the monk’s underlying intent, could only reply vaguely, “That is your own affair—what has it to do with a humble Taoist such as myself?”

The monk nodded. “If you know nothing of the ordination, then the so-called ‘Sutra of the Conversion to Buddhism’ must have been plagiarized from our own Buddhist scriptures. It claims the Elder Lord journeyed west and became a Buddha, but do you even know what Buddha means?”

“Buddha means enlightenment,” the Taoist replied after a moment’s thought.

“And what is enlightenment?” the monk pressed.

“To perceive and to realize,” answered the Taoist.

The monk nodded again, then asked, “Who is it that perceives? What is it that is perceived?”

With this, the monk had shifted to the Zen method of questioning, luring the Taoist into a philosophical snare of which the latter remained oblivious.

“To perceive Heaven, Earth, the yin and yang, benevolence and righteousness, knowledge and faith—there is nothing that cannot be perceived. That is the meaning of Buddha,” the Taoist finally replied.

Li Sanjian was thoroughly confused by the exchange, but the monks nearby all laughed quietly, for this answer plainly did not conform to the principles of Zen dialogue.

“A Buddha is a sage among sages, who exhausts the path of life itself. Is it merely to perceive benevolence and righteousness? True enlightenment is to awaken oneself, to awaken others, and to perfect the practice of awakening. When these three are complete, one is called Buddha. How could it be limited to perceiving Heaven, Earth, yin and yang, benevolence and righteousness? As for benevolence, righteousness, propriety, wisdom, and faith—these are the Five Constant Virtues spoken of by Confucius. If Buddha only knew these, why would not Confucius himself be called Buddha?” another monk scoffed.

“Taoism is an outside path, a heterodox way,” yet another monk mocked.

“You Buddhists call yourselves the ‘Inner School’ and label us the ‘Outside Path.’ Yet throughout history, that which is outside is always greater than what is inside. Therefore, your Inner School is lesser, while our Outside Path is greater,” the Taoist retorted, his shame turning to anger.

The high monk of Xiangshan Temple remained unruffled. He joined his palms and offered a respectful bow. “The Son of Heaven resides in the inner palace, the people dwell in the outer city. The palace may be small, but the emperor is great. A single grain of sand or a pebble can contain three thousand great worlds—the sand may be small, but it is greater than the world itself. The mind lies within the body, the hands and feet are without; the mind’s potential is boundless, yet the limbs are severely limited—this, too, is the superiority of the inner over the outer. If you reflect for a moment, you’ll see the Buddhist Inner School far surpasses the so-called Outside Path.”

“This…” The Taoist was left speechless.

The crowd wore amused expressions. Was this all the skill he had, to come to Xiangshan Temple seeking to provoke? Did he not overestimate himself?

“What is the use of words?” the Taoist retorted, producing two books. “These are the true scriptures of my tradition. It is said that the true scripture fears not the trial of fire. Do you dare bring out your Buddhist scriptures to burn alongside mine? The ones that burn to ash are false, those that remain untouched are true.”

With that, the Taoist, not waiting for a reply, lit his books with a fire striker. The flames licked hungrily, but the books were unscathed. The onlookers were astonished. Proudly, the Taoist extinguished the fire and displayed the unmarred texts for all to see.

Next, he performed feats such as producing an egg the size of a bowl, blowing out and reigniting a candle, arranging ashes into characters, and inscribing words deep into wood—all of which left the crowd gaping in silent wonder.

The giant egg trick began with the Taoist producing, from who knows where, an enormous egg. He cracked the shell and revealed clear white and yolk inside—plainly a real egg. For the candle trick, he produced a candle, blew out its flame, and it reignited itself. As for inscribing words in wood, he drew characters so deeply that when he shaved away the outer layers, the writing remained.

Li Sanjian, curious, tried to circle behind the Taoist to see how such a trove of things could be conjured up, but no matter how he looked, he could uncover no secret.

“Guihai surpasses Guihai discarded; Jiazi, the three primes, starts with the child. Gathering the qi, the spirit soars, and the post is transferred; ten thousand years, a thousand generations, ever shifting anew. No need for intercalations or divisions, the secrets of Qimen transcend connection. The true talisman of hidden armor follows this rule—how could one fear inaccuracy in omens?”

Amid the dumbfounded crowd, the Taoist burst into song, laughing as he strode away in triumph.

Onlookers exchanged baffled glances. Was this man truly an immortal—or simply a madman?

…

“Taoist, Taoist, wait, please wait!” Li Sanjian, Zeng Gongming, and Shankui hurriedly chased after the Taoist, with Zeng Gongming calling out breathlessly as he ran.

“What might you gentlemen want?” The Taoist flourished his whisk with a flourish and turned to face them, a look of satisfaction on his face. At last, someone had taken the bait, he thought to himself, eyeing Zeng Gongming, Li Sanjian, and Shankui.

Of the three, only Zeng Gongming was dressed decently; Li Sanjian and Shankui wore coarse cloth, looking even poorer than the Taoist himself. Clearly, Zeng Gongming was the only one with any money to spare.

“Master, master,” the rotund Zeng Gongming, panting from the run, bowed respectfully. “Master, I am Zeng Gongming, a scholar from Lingshan County in Qinzhou, here in Guizhou to sit for the examinations. I humbly ask for your guidance.”

Zeng Gongming had witnessed the Taoist’s miraculous feats with his own eyes. To receive such a master’s advice would surely double his chances of success—perhaps even reveal the exam topics.

“Hmm… Let me divine it for you,” the Taoist said. He formed a mystical gesture with his fingers, closed his eyes, and muttered incantations.

“You are soon to encounter a calamity of blood,” he suddenly announced, staring at Zeng Gongming.

“What?” Zeng Gongming was aghast. He had only wanted some guidance for the exam—how had it become a prediction of disaster?

“A calamity of blood?” he asked, flustered. “What sort of calamity? Please, master, tell me plainly…”

“This…” The Taoist put on a look of great difficulty. “The secrets of heaven must not be revealed. To divulge them would bring divine punishment upon me.”

“Please, master, save me,” Zeng Gongming begged, believing more deeply the more reluctant the Taoist seemed. “Tell me, I promise a rich reward.”

“What about you? Do you have a request?” the Taoist now turned to Li Sanjian.

“And how should I address you, master?” Li Sanjian asked with a smile.

“I am known as the Hermit of Hejian,” the Taoist replied. “If you have something to say, speak it. If not, then be on your way and let me get on with my business.”

Better keep them at a distance, he thought to himself. He had finally caught a fat sheep and did not want anyone spoiling his good fortune.

Li Sanjian did not take offense nor did he leave. Instead, he smiled and asked, “I would like to know what you applied to the surface.”

Li Sanjian did not disbelieve in spirits and deities—his own experiences had long since cured him of atheism—but this was clearly not the work of a true immortal. It was sleight of hand or some special prop, and he understood as much. He hadn’t meant to meddle, but being dragged along by Zeng Gongming, he now saw his friend about to fall victim to a scam and felt compelled to expose the Taoist’s trickery.

“What do you mean, ‘applied to the surface’?” The Taoist was startled and feigned ignorance. “What are you implying, young man? Are you suggesting that I—hm?”

“Are you not?” Li Sanjian persisted with a smile. “Do you dare let me examine your props?”

“Brother Hanren, what are you doing…?” Zeng Gongming, still worried for himself, cut in anxiously.

Li Sanjian smiled and gestured for Zeng Gongming to wait.

“Ah, gentlemen, I am suddenly taken with a pressing need. Would you mind waiting here a moment? I will return shortly,” the Taoist said, seizing the chance to make his escape.

“Not so fast—say your piece before you go,” Li Sanjian now insisted. Otherwise, Zeng Gongming would worry himself to death. He seized the Taoist’s robe and shouted.

“Ruffian, to pester me so—what is it you want?” The Taoist, unable to break free, turned angry and snarled.

“Ha! Today—ow!” Li Sanjian was just about to continue his argument when suddenly, he saw the Taoist wipe a hand across his face, and in an instant, his fair, smooth features transformed into a ghastly skull.

A blood-red tongue lolled from the skull’s jaws, green lights flickered in the deep, hollow sockets, and from the ear holes squirmed several white maggots.

Li Sanjian cried out in alarm, hastily letting go and stumbling back—not from fear, but from sheer disgust.

Zeng Gongming was so terrified that he fell flat on his backside, bouncing on the ground several times.

“Cackle, cackle, cackle…” The skull shrieked as it lunged at them.

“Shankui, hit its face!” Li Sanjian shouted as he retreated.

An illusion, it must be an illusion, he thought. He had encountered such tricks before—was this really happening again? He was exasperated.

Shankui, though afraid, was fiercely protective. With a roar, he swung his fist at the skull.

“Ow, that hurts…”