Bian Yonglan lay on his side, sleeping. When he opened his eyes, he saw bamboo shadows on the ground—late spring sunlight was slanting into the room. Outside the window, a grove of bamboo swayed in the breeze, casting the dance of shadows across the floor before the bed.
He blinked, and amidst the shadows, a tall figure appeared—Tanshan had approached the bedside. Leaning slightly, he gently tucked a strand of hair that had fallen across Bian Yonglan’s face behind his ear, his voice calm: “I think it’s time to wake.”
The monk’s tone remained as indifferent as ever, yet the Marquis of Wanjiang smiled. Suddenly raising his hand, he grasped the monk’s wrist before it could withdraw, his voice gentle as he asked, “Dashi, did you kiss me?”
After being unconscious for three days, ordinary people would be dazed, inevitably pondering: Who am I? Where am I? What happened to me?
Yet some people not only fail to ponder, they also strive to make every moment count by speaking nonsense.
Only speaking nonsense would be one thing, but he also possessed strength like a donkey, showing no sign of having been unconscious for three days. The Marquis of Wanjiang had braced for the monk to pull away at any moment, but to his surprise, Tanshan had no intention of leaving. His grip and tug sent the monk tumbling straight toward him. Had the monk not reacted swiftly, bracing himself against the headboard, he would have landed squarely on top of him.
“…………”
“…………”
The figure on the bed remained motionless, yet his head turned slightly, tilting his face upward to gaze at the Buddha’s disciple mere inches away.
“…………”
“…………”
“…………”
“Yonglan,” after a long moment of mutual gaze, Tanshan spoke first, his voice cool. “Why are you blushing?”
“…I’m not!” said the donkey.
The monk’s heart was filled with a smile that couldn’t reach his face, but it slowly seeped into his eye. Saying nothing more, he straightened up and turned to leave.
Left alone, the Marquis of Wanjiang sat up distractedly, leaning against the headboard and glancing around.
Judging by the furnishings, this must be a meditation room within a temple.
Incense burned within the room. Outside the window, bamboo stood lush and green, and listening closely, one could hear the gentle murmur of flowing water.
After scanning every corner inside and out, the Marquis of Wanjiang realised his body felt clean and refreshed, without a trace of discomfort. He had been drenched in sweat from the pain, as if pulled from water, yet now he felt no stickiness whatsoever. Moreover, he was wearing a set of soft, clean inner garments.
If this were a temple, there likely wouldn’t be any servants. Tanshan probably wouldn’t have sent someone else to clean and change him… The thought sent a fresh flush to the Marquis of Wanjiang’s face, which had just cooled. He sat on the bed in a daze, finally looking like someone who’d been unconscious for three days.
When Tanshan stepped into the meditation room, he found the man sitting stiff as a board, his face flushed like peach blossoms, his expression as dazed as a wooden chicken[1].
“Yonglan, come eat something,” Tanshan said, setting the tray of food on the table before handing him a set of regular robes. “After you finish, come with me to thank the abbot of this place.”
“…………”
Bian Yonglan’s soul soared away as he took the robe, listening as the monk continued, “This place is deep within Mount Emei[2]. The abbot here has considerable expertise in nurturing and restoring hunpo. He examined you earlier and found nothing seriously amiss.”
“…………”
“Yonglan?”
“…………”
“Are you feeling unwell?” Seeing the man freeze after receiving the robe and showing no reaction to his words, Tanshan raised a hand to test his forehead.
“…Nothing’s wrong,” the Marquis of Wanjiang muttered in a muffled voice, guiding the monk’s hand from his forehead to his eyes. His vision went dark. “Just need to rest.”
“…………” Tanshan couldn’t fathom what was troubling him again. Seeing his face flushed but his forehead cool, he left him be. He took the hairband from his outer robe, taking the opportunity to tie up his hair.
Naturally, there were no combs in a monk’s temple. Tanshan used his fingers as a comb, carefully smoothing the strands of the man before him—the Buddha’s disciple had long, slender fingers, hands accustomed to chanting sutras, striking wooden fish and twirling prayer beads. Now, however, his fingers slowly threaded through the tangled strands, wrapping the hairband round and round—finally securing it into a crooked, uneven ponytail.
“You…” The Marquis of Wanjiang paused for a long moment, as if finally catching his breath. The flush on his face gradually faded. Without turning his head, he asked, “…Did you retrieve the seal?”
“Mhm.” Tanshan hummed, realising his own hair-tying skills were lacking, and reached out to adjust it again.
“You have no hair yourself—why fiddle with mine?” The Marquis of Wanjiang seemed slightly impatient, snatching the ends back from the monk’s grasp and retying them himself in a few swift motions. He muttered softly under his breath, “…I wondered why you are being so kind to me for no reason at all. “When we recover the Chang’an seal, that will likely be the moment we part ways.” The speaker’s tone held not a trace of reproach, only a hint of unmasked sorrow.
“…………” For a moment, Tanshan didn’t know what to say. After a pause, he reached under the covers, pulled out a warm little creature, and placed it in Bian Yonglan’s arms. “Linu hasn’t seen you for several days and has missed you terribly… It transformed into its true form which drained too much of its qi. It hasn’t woken up yet, but it should be awake in ten days or so.”
The little beast lay sprawled out, utterly relaxed in the Marquis of Wanjiang’s embrace, a state of complete ease and unguarded.
Bian Yonglan lowered his head, his nose gently brushing against the furry belly that rose and fell with each breath. Only then did he realise how easy it was to shed tears—he wanted to ask him, If Linu missed me, what about you? Did you miss me?
He also wanted to ask, “Why not leave Linu with me? With it for company, perhaps I wouldn’t miss you so much.”
But in the end, he asked nothing more. Silently suppressing the warmth in his eyes, he took his outer robe and dressed himself properly. With a faint smile, he said, “Come, let us go and thank the abbot of this temple.”
The temple bore the name Puxian[3], solemn and ancient in its simplicity. While the front hall echoed with the murmurs of worshippers, the rear hall held only the songs of birds and the sound of meditation.
Tanshan had some prior connection with this abbot, or perhaps all Buddhist disciples are equally close regardless of ties. The old monk, with his kind and benevolent features, treated everyone with great gentleness. He first dismissed formalities, then explained to Bian Yonglan, word by word, the methods for nurturing and preserving his hunpo. Finally, he smiled and said: “Young benefactor, don’t worry too much. Your hunpo is far more substantial than most, and your destiny is unparalleled in fortune and auspiciousness. This monk sees your life unfolding in peace and health, free from sorrow or worry.”
Just as Bian Yonglan was about to express his gratitude, the old monk added, “Do not regard yourself as a guest, young benefactor. Feel free to wander the temple grounds at your leisure. Mount Emei is a place of profound tranquillity, its spiritual qi pure. Unless urgent matters call you away, I urge you to linger a few days longer. Restore your body to full vigour before setting out again.”
The Marquis of Wanjiang was momentarily speechless, feeling it inappropriate to respond himself. But then he saw Tanshan nod and bow in his stead, replying, “We shall gladly accept your kindness.”
Mount Emei, renowned as the world’s most beautiful place, brims with natural resources, its verdant peaks layered in emerald hues. Within the temple grounds, a stream of water flows. Ascending against its current and exiting through the rear mountain gate, one encounters a winding path leading into seclusion. A narrow trail of gently sloping stone steps twists and turns, its destination unknown.
The two men walked along the path, one ahead, the other half a step behind. After a short while, they found themselves deep within the mountains. The Marquis of Wanjiang left the mountain path, following the sound of water to the stream’s edge. He wandered aimlessly along its course, surrounded by lush foliage and vibrant wildflowers. Occasionally, small creatures darted from the woods to drink and play by the water. Perhaps having lingered too long in this unspoilt earthly paradise, they showed little alarm at his presence.
“Yonglan, your health is not yet fully restored. Do not go too far.” Tanshan had accompanied him for more than half a shichen. As dusk approached, he finally spoke up with a gentle admonition.
“I’m fine. It’s merely that lying still has made my limbs stiff, and I feel a bit stifled.”
Yonglan circulated his qi once, finding no significant ailment. His body moved with effortless grace as he glided away. He scooped a live fish from the stream, weighed it briefly, then gently released it back into the water. Clearly, his hands were idle.
“That old man Xia Chunqiu, who knows whether he’s dead or alive,” the Marquis of Wanjiang muttered coldly, his thoughts turning to Qiulong now in enemy hands. “Once this Marquis returns to the capital…” He had intended to say that upon reporting the Southwest Prince’s actions to the emperor, he would lead a full contingent to settle scores with those two old men. Yet, recalling that Tanshan would likely not accompany him back, the rest of his words died on his lips.
“He’s still alive. He dares not come to Mount Emei. Once you…”
Tanshan thought to himself: Once you return to the capital, there’s no need to trouble yourself with this matter. As he was once of my monastic sect, this humble monk shall see it through. Yet for some reason, he found himself unable to voice the full thought.
As dusk descended, a thin mist rose from the stream. Standing a zhang apart, the two men stood in silence for a moment. Then, simultaneously, they lifted their heads to gaze towards the horizon—the evening bell of Puxian Temple had begun to toll.
The sacred chime neither hurried nor lingered, steady and dignified, each toll following the last. From the distant foothills, it rode the evening breeze and twilight, climbing high into the sky to echo through the mountains.
After eighteen rings, the bell fell silent. Tanshan lowered his gaze once more, opening his mind to contemplation as he looked at his fingertips. The crimson thread remained, yet no longer stretched across a thousand li. It extended but one zhang before ending, tied to another’s fingertip.
The bells began again, ringing eighteen times more. Each toll seemed a question from the Buddha to his most devout disciple: “Are you willing to let go?”
During those five days of relentless pursuit, the monk’s heart had not once harboured thoughts of the Buddha—he dared not. He feared that to think of Buddha would be to abandon the mortal, severing the crimson thread of karmic connection.
But now this thread served no purpose—the Buddha said: Let go.
Is it difficult to stop loving someone?
Not if one is willing to let go.
The temple bells tolled intermittently, repeating six times, eighteen strokes each time, totalling one hundred and eight chimes.
From afar, the chimes were not particularly loud, yet the mountain’s echoes made them resonate even deeper and longer.
The Marquis of Wanjiang did not worship Buddha, nor had he ever made vows to the bodhisattva. But he understood the meaning of these one hundred and eight chimes—twelve months in a year, twenty-four solar terms, seventy-two seasons. These one hundred and eight chimes were a wish for one year of reincarnation and eternal love in the world.
Buddhist compassion sought not only peace but also happiness for mankind—it’s said that one endured one hundred and eight sufferings in a lifetime; thus, these one hundred and eight chimes were offered to dispel the departed’s sorrows, leaving only gladness in their hearts.
Bian Yonglan stood silently, eyes lowered, listening to the hundred and eight evening prayers of the sacred bell. Unnoticed, a layer of moisture gathered in his eyes—eternal peace and joy were not so easily attained. He blamed neither heaven nor earth, nor reproached any soul. He only acknowledged his own greed.
“Yonglan…” The chimes had finally stopped ringing, not even an echo lingering. The world held only the evening mist and two figures standing face to face.
Bian Yonglan lifted his gaze to see the monk walking towards him through the mist. His grey robes, simple beyond measure, seemed to shield him from the tumult of the mortal world.
“Yonglan, I wish to treat you better, but not for the reason you think.” The monk spoke, standing before him, his voice soft and measured as he uttered each word: “I wish to treat you better… simply because I wish to treat you better.”
Hands clasped, fingers intertwined, a thread of fate so short it could scarcely be shorter, it transformed into a knot, fastened at the tips of two fingers.
Bian Yonglan stared in dazed wonder as the monk took his hand, clasping their fingers together. Then, leaning forward, he placed a light kiss upon his lips.
The Buddha asked his most devout disciple, a hundred and eight times: “Are you willing to let go?”
Time and again, each time with greater resolve, the disciple told his Buddha: I am not willing.
T/L note: if you didn’t know by now, the red thread is the red thread of fate (姻緣紅線).
[1] 呆若木鸡 idiom, literally as dumb as a wooden chicken
[2] In Sichuan, one of the four sacred mountains of Buddhism
[3] 普贤 Samantabhadra, Buddhist lord of truth
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