Chapter Seventy-Five: The Monk

During the reign of the Yuan Dynasty, when Lihua Temple was first founded, most of the Mongol rulers adhered to Buddhism, and the temple's construction was overseen by a distinguished monk from the distant lands of Japan. Thus, from its very inception, Lihua Temple occupied an immense tract of land, enclosing more than a hundred acres within the city. Later, as Xuande Prefecture became Xuahua City and the Ming Dynasty expanded the city several times to defend against the remnants of the Yuan in the north, each expansion centered around Lihua Temple. Over the course of more than a century, the temple's grounds grew in tandem with the city, and now it sprawls over two hundred acres, a far cry from its original size.

Such vast land, all in bustling districts, should, in principle, belong to monks who have renounced worldly pursuits—men of compassion, devoted to saving all beings, never competing with the common folk for profit. Yet, throughout history, monks disguised as ascetics have proved more greedy than any and possess not the slightest trace of the Bodhisattva's heart. They wish for nothing more than to make slaves of the world. The venerable abbots appear gentle and kind, preaching virtue and good deeds, but when faced with wealth, they are no different from ordinary men, often a hundred times more avaricious.

Ever since the area around Lihua Temple became the most prosperous in the city, the monks have schemed relentlessly to seize the surrounding homes and shops, so they might collect rents and live off the marrow of others. Why do they need so much silver? Monks must eat and spend, idols require gilding, the city's pawnshops demand capital, and the young mistresses hidden in private residences crave rouge and powder. In short, monks have endless uses for money, and it is indispensable to them.

But being monks, it is hard to let go of wealth. Expecting them to pay fair market prices for anything is folly; were it so, who would still believe in their teachings? Faith must confer privileges; without them, who would bother? The Buddha has granted monks special prerogatives. Should they fail to use them, they are betraying the Buddha and will surely descend into hell.

Forced purchases and sales are considered a courtesy; if you refuse, the monks will band together and make a scene at your home until your property is theirs. Should the authorities intervene, the monks will cause trouble for them as well. In their eyes, monks are never wrong—the error lies with the secular folk, who do not believe in the Buddha. Their attitude is not unlike that of the domed faith of later ages, perhaps even less restrained; that association is formidable, beyond the power of the people or the officials, and even the Buddha himself must yield, for he has only words, while the sect’s gods come wielding blades.

...

Just as Xuahua City revolves around Lihua Temple, so the temple itself centers on a grand pagoda. This pagoda rises five stories, octagonal, built of brick and wood, with a crypt below said to house the relics of the Japanese monk. Around the pagoda, the temple boasts numerous buildings: bell tower, drum tower, the Hall of Heavenly Kings, the Great Buddha Hall, Scripture Pavilion, monk’s quarters, refectory—everything one would expect, along with many statues of Bodhisattvas. Yet the most numerous structures are the incense chambers.

These incense chambers, despite their name, serve as lodgings for pilgrims. But unless your donation for incense oil is sufficient to please the Bodhisattva, you are deemed unworthy and cannot stay there. Were everyone allowed to lodge in the temple, the monks’ investment in these buildings would have been wasted. Thus, the incense chambers are, in truth, inns—except they are far more luxurious than any outside the temple, with superior surroundings, for only wealthy families can afford to stay, and the wives and daughters of officials are frequent guests. If the environment were poor, how could they attract returning clientele?

The monks have their difficulties too; in these times, earning money is hard, and common folk are not so easily deceived. Without careful attention to the facilities, how could the temple attract wealth and prosperity?

Among these incense chambers, the most popular are a row of two-courtyard suites, ingeniously designed by the previous abbot, situated at the eastern end of the temple, shaded by trees and exceptionally tranquil. Many official families in Xuahua City have these suites reserved for their relatives, who occasionally come to stay for a few days.

Though the female guests usually arrived with numerous guards, today the men stationed outside the courtyard are not mere household sentries. Even from afar, they exude a stern and forbidding air, wholly out of place in the temple’s atmosphere of benevolence.

Within the guarded courtyard, flowers and trees flourish, and there stands a rare osmanthus tree. It is early autumn, and the blossoms are just about to open, so the tree fills the air with a faint, sweet fragrance.

Behind the osmanthus tree, the door to one room is ajar, and two men stand outside, one on each side, hands resting on their swords, keeping vigilant watch on their surroundings.

Inside, two people are seated, and one is kneeling.

Of the two seated, one has a head full of white hair; the other is bald. The former is none other than Yang Hong, the general of Xuande whom Ge Quan longed to meet but could not; the latter is the current abbot of Lihua Temple, Master Dahong.

The kneeling man has remained thus since entering, but Yang Hong has never spoken to bid him rise. Master Dahong sits with closed eyes, silent, offering no plea on the kneeler’s behalf.

At Yang Hong’s side sits a bowl of fragrant, thick tea, long gone cold, yet untouched.

At length, just as the kneeling man’s legs began to numb, there was finally movement outside.

“Father.”

Yang Jun dared not enter directly but called softly from the doorway.

Moments later, Yang Hong’s voice came from within: “Come in.”

Yang Jun entered, avoided his father’s gaze, and knelt as well. Master Dahong shook his head slightly, sighed inwardly, wishing to offer a word of comfort, but seeing Yang Hong unmoved, he dared not speak.

Looking at his eldest son Yang Jun and his godson Zhao Mei, both kneeling, Yang Hong felt a deep disappointment, his heart churning with frustration.

Once kneeling, Yang Jun kept his head bowed, dared not speak, fearing his father’s anger would erupt again.

...

Too much wine, my condition is poor—I am wretchedly sick, my head is spinning, and I simply cannot weave the story or set pen to paper as I should. I have managed to write this much, but cannot continue. Tomorrow, when I am clear-headed, I will devote myself to the task. At this point, the story has reached two hundred thousand words. Most readers may feel it progresses slowly, with little excitement, perhaps even unbearably dull. Some have criticized the protagonist’s character. All I wish to say is that I am striving, and will continue to strive.