Chapter Seventeen: Everyone Is a Scenery (2)

Chapter Seventeen: Everyone Is Scenery

Rather than saying it was Wang Rouhua speaking with the foreign monk, it would be more accurate to say it was Tie Xinyuan conversing with him.

Lost and helpless, Wang Rouhua grasped at the explanation offered to her, one that seemed barely plausible. Even if she was reluctant, she would choose to follow the instructions on the slip of paper. In her world, her son was everything. As long as she could protect him, she cared little for the words she spoke.

Whether a fledgling eagle or a young beast, in childhood all one can do is obediently remain under the mother’s protection. The young who attempt to strike out on their own before their time are mercilessly culled by nature.

Yang Huaiyu, after reading the note, still looked deeply unsettled. As a martial artist, he knew well what a broken neck meant. Compared to the words of this peasant woman, he trusted his own eyes—he had seen that foreign monk’s head loll back, and the force of his own whip-kick could have snapped a stake as thick as a rice bowl, let alone a man’s neck.

Seeing Yang Huaiyu hesitate, Tie Xinyuan sighed inwardly, wriggled out of his mother’s embrace, and, clutching a freshly poured bowl of tea, staggered over to the foreign monk, beaming as he offered him the drink.

Wang Rouhua, tense, quickly pulled her son back. The foreign monk smiled silently, drained the tea—most of which had already been spilled—and set the bowl aside. Pointing at Tie Xinyuan in Wang Rouhua’s arms, he said, “Drinking your tea, I form a bond with you that will last three lifetimes. You understand, you understand…”

Tie Xinyuan seemed overjoyed, flailing and insisting on pouring another bowl for the monk.

Wang Rouhua held her son tightly, panic clouding her mind.

Tongzi’s mother suddenly stepped forward, poured another bowl, and urged Tongzi to bring it to the monk.

Taking Tongzi’s bowl, the monk dipped a finger in and flicked droplets onto Tongzi’s forehead, laughing. “Let’s form a good bond. As I walk this world, if I can connect with all people, there will surely be a place for this old monk in the Western Paradise.”

Tie Xinyuan appeared to throw a tantrum, struggling fiercely in his mother’s arms, reaching out for the foreign monk to hold him. Wang Rouhua restrained him with all her might, tears glinting in her eyes.

The foreign monk laughed, tossed the bowl into Jinming Pond, and bowed to Yang Huaiyu. “If you do not wish to slay me here and now, allow this old monk to take his leave. Before long, I shall welcome the boy of the Buddha’s Kingdom with a white lotus, and I hope you will all assist in this.”

Wang Rouhua cried out sharply, “This is my son! You cannot take him!”

The foreign monk smiled. “What is yours and mine? These bodies are but foul shells. You bore the flesh, so take it if you wish; all I desire is the white lotus.”

Wang Rouhua shuddered. The wretched monk clearly wanted her child’s life. In that instant, she resolved: she would take her child and leave this accursed place as soon as they returned home.

The authorities were unreliable—the attitude of the surrounding constables and soldiers made that clear. Even someone like Yang Huaiyu, a scion of a military household, stood silent and grim. What chance did a lone woman have against the foreign monk?

Tie Xinyuan giggled at the monk, his mother’s heart aching with sorrow and helplessness.

Tongzi’s mother forcefully pushed Tongzi before the foreign monk. “Master, look at my Tongzi—is he not destined to be a novice under the Buddha? His nickname even means ‘boy attendant.’ Surely he is fated. Shave his head, please. Do you have any ordination slips left?”

The monk did not so much as glance at Tongzi, focusing instead on Tie Xinyuan in Wang Rouhua’s arms. For a moment, he thought his eyes deceived him: the small infant silently mouthed words to him, eyes sparkling with a mocking gleam.

He did not know what the child had said, but his intuition warned him it was nothing good. He hastily reviewed his own actions, searching for any oversight.

In the Great Song Dynasty, the Buddhist order was strictly regulated. Becoming a monk was not as simple as shaving one’s head—one needed an official ordination slip from the monastic authorities. The government limited the number of new monks each year; only when one died could another be ordained, a tradition known as passing on the robe and bowl.

Monks enjoyed many privileges: exemption from taxes and corvée, freedom to travel, and, most importantly, a share in temple property. If a monk established his own temple, he would immediately become its abbot.

In every region, abbots were men of great local standing, so many sought to worm their way into monasteries—Tongzi’s mother among them.

Gazing at the crowd, the foreign monk suddenly felt himself a lofty Buddha, gazing down on the ants of the mortal world, believing he need only extend a hand to crush them all.

Years of pent-up violence erupted like a volcano. He seized the fawning Tongzi’s mother with both hands, tearing her new jacket down the middle and exposing her green dudou and pale flesh to the crowd.

Terrified, Tongzi’s mother could not even scream at first; only after the monk kicked her aside did she let out a piercing wail.

All the women present immediately clutched their clothes tightly—except for Wang Rouhua, who awaited a change in the situation.

Tie Xinyuan hadn’t expected the mushrooms to have such a dramatic effect. He hurriedly patted his mother’s cheek, urging her to run. Who knew what one in such a delirious state might do?

Beneath the starry sky, the white-robed old monk’s face twisted with fury. He seized a constable by the throat with skeletal hands, hissing like a snake.

The constable barely escaped strangulation, not daring to fight back, and fled as the monk pounced like an eagle upon the soldiers and constables.

Wang Rouhua, clutching Tie Xinyuan, hid behind the stove with two other women, peeking out. Tongzi’s mother, stripped and wailing, was like a hog prepared for slaughter, her clothes gaping open, while Tongzi clung to her, sobbing.

Unable to seize anyone else, the monk snatched a burning log from the fire beside Jinming Pond and roared, “All things are impermanent; arising and passing is the law. When arising and passing cease, tranquility is bliss. In a moment, all is a dream—dream or not, inside or outside a dream, dream! Dream! Dream! Dream!”

He brandished the flaming staff and shouted, “Burn! Burn! Burn!” Tossing the log onto a thatched hut, he watched the fire grow, laughing wildly.

Desiring a greater blaze, he set his sights on other huts, seemingly impervious to pain as he pulled burning logs from the flames and flung them onto the roofs. The fiery branches streaked through the night like meteors.

The huts stretched for a full li along Jinming Pond. The crazed monk leapt and hurled burning wood, and not even seven or eight constables and soldiers could stop him.

Once the monk dashed off, Wang Rouhua, with the help of Chen Shi and the two other women, began moving their few belongings from the hut. In no time, they had cleared everything out.

It was already the third watch. The Tie family’s shop, being prepared, managed to save some goods, but others were not so lucky; shopkeepers, awakened by fire, fled half-dressed and cursing the arsonist, caring nothing for their possessions.

By now, flames raged along the pond’s edge. The city’s fire brigade soldiers banged their gongs as they hurried over. Bright jets of water separated the market from the royal tents, and more soldiers drew water from Jinming Pond, desperately dousing the flames.

War horns sounded from the barracks; heavy footsteps closed in from all directions.

Tie Xinyuan craned his neck, searching for the foreign monk, but he was nowhere to be seen. Soon, banners bearing the words “Upholding the Sun” filled the area.

Wang Rouhua clicked her tongue, marveling at the spectacle. She seemed in good spirits—surely, she thought, the monk was doomed, and the enraged emperor would grind him to bits.

Still, the thought of the monk’s rumored resurrection skills left her uneasy.

Hut after hut collapsed in the flames. Suddenly, a burning figure burst from a hut near the royal tents, staggering as he tried to break through the soldiers’ line to spread the fire further, shrieking like a beast. Even so, his words were full of madness: “Burn! Burn! Burn! All things are as illusions, as dew or lightning—mere phantoms! Only the pure fire lotus reveals my true Tathagata nature. Burn! Burn! Burn!”

A heavy crossbow bolt shot from the darkness, piercing the burning man and falling, still aflame, into Jinming Pond.

The fire-ridden figure did not fall. More bolts rained down like locusts, and in an instant, he was torn to pieces.

Tie Xinyuan, unable to comfort his stunned mother, discreetly took out his vial and poured out the remaining mushroom powder. The wind carried the powder into the inferno, releasing a pleasant aroma that rose with the smoke—a small regret for Tie Xinyuan.

The great fire turned Jinming Pond crimson. By now it was too late to save the burning huts. The thatched roofs, once aflame, were lost in moments. The fire brigade could only save what had not yet caught fire; the rest was beyond reach.

The area was ringed by troops; no one could leave. Wang Rouhua sat on the grass, holding Tie Xinyuan, watching the blaze. The scene at Jinming Pond was even more spectacular than when they had set the puppets in motion.

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