Chapter 4 — The Great Vow

At this thought he gave a bitter laugh, rather self-mocking, and said to himself: I have only three days of life left, yet I still dream of immortality—am I not a fool vexing himself for nothing?

Yet though he had opened his heart, seeing the two children still lying on the ground, he truly could not let go. For a time he could think of no good plan; he looked left and right, and saw in the distance a single pine tree that might still offer some little shelter from the wind and rain—better than nothing. Mustering his spirit, he gathered up the two children and struggled toward it.

With great effort he reached the tree, set the two of them down carefully, and Puzhao, utterly spent, dropped to the ground, his back against the trunk, gasping without pause.

Heaven and earth are not benevolent; they treat all things as straw dogs!

This saying of the Daoists, tinged with a bitter, fierce indignation, Puzhao slowly recited aloud.

The vault of heaven was black as ink, canopied over the earth. Boundless dark clouds pressed down from above; threads of rain fell from the sky, fine and dense; a cold wind blew, and drop by drop the rain struck his face, chilling him to the heart.

He gazed up at the heavens. After a long while he slowly lowered his eyes and looked at the two children before him, and said in a low voice: "Little benefactors, this old monk wishes with all his heart to save you, but the spirit is willing and the flesh is weak. It was I who brought this about, and I have harmed you both instead—truly a sin! Ah, if only you two were disciples of Qingyun, up there on Canglan Mountain, among the others, you might be safer. But now—"

Suddenly Puzhao trembled all over, murmuring: "Disciples of Qingyun, disciples of Qingyun—" His thoughts raced. He seemed to have grasped something, to have thought of something, yet it was about to slip away in the blink of an eye. In that brief moment he broke out in a cold sweat.

Then, for some reason, that inexplicable fervor kindled in his eyes once more.

He threw back his head and laughed at the sky—but there was a trace of madness in the laughter!

"Wonderful, wonderful! My days are numbered, but if I transmit the Buddhist divine arts to one person, and then have him join the Canglan Sect to study the Daoist arts—would that not kill two birds with one stone? It would save both their lives and fulfill my own wish!"

"Buddhists and Daoists have been estranged since ancient times, never mingling in life or death. The Canglan Sect would never suspect that a young boy, raised at the foot of Canglan Mountain since childhood, might carry Buddhist ** within him. If one man could master the learning of both houses, he would surely break through the ten-thousand-year riddle of immortality. Heh heh—if so, what regret could I have in dying?"

His decision was made in a single thought; his whole body seemed fiercely exhilarated, his cheeks flushed, his eyes bloodshot. Instinctively he looked at Lin Jinghong and reached out his hand. But halfway there he stopped, thinking: this matter is grave. The sects today cling fiercely to their own gates and view the stealing of teachings with the utmost taboo; if it were known, if the matter came to light, death would be certain. This child Lin Jinghong is extremely gifted; if the Canglan Sect takes him in, he will surely draw his masters' attention. At his young age, he could never keep such a heaven-shaking secret!

At this thought something stirred in him, and his gaze shifted to Zhang Qingyue. He remembered the boy's stubborn temper that very day—facing death without bowing his head. He nodded and said: "A little less gifted—that does not matter. From here on, it depends on your own fortune."

With that he hesitated no longer. He reached out and struck Zhang Qingyue several times, using his remaining Buddhist power to revive him.

Zhang Qingyue came slowly to himself, his vision blurred, his ears still ringing. After a good while he recovered, and seeing what lay before him, he gave a start, his mouth falling open and refusing to close.

He saw the old monk sitting before him, covered in wounds, the left side of his body as though scorched by fire, withered and blackened and hideous to look at, his face heavy with black vapor and the pallor of death. Yet for some reason the old monk looked excited, his eyes full of smiles. And he also saw his playmate Lin Jinghong lying to one side, unconscious.

"You—what are you doing?" Zhang Qingyue stared blankly for a long while before stammering out the question.

Puzhao did not answer. He studied the boy closely, and instead asked: "Little benefactor, with such wind and rain, why would a child like you come to this remote place?"

Zhang Qingyue was taken aback for a moment, then said: "At dusk I saw you still standing in the temple, and later I saw the sky was going to rain. This place is so broken-down—I thought it would be very cold, so I brought you something to eat."

The corner of Puzhao's mouth moved. He pressed his palms together and said: "Good, good. All things are karma, ordained from the start. Compassion of my Buddha."

Zhang Qingyue said, puzzled: "What did you say?"

Puzhao smiled faintly. "This old monk means: you and I are fated. Since that is so, I have a method of cultivation—would you be willing to learn it?"

Zhang Qingyue said: "What is a method?"

Puzhao was taken aback, then burst out laughing. He reached out a thin, withered hand and rubbed the boy's little head. "It is not a thing—it is just a way to teach you some methods of breathing. After you learn it, you must promise me a few things. Will you?"

Zhang Qingyue only half understood, but he still said: "Go on."

Puzhao said: "You must never speak of this to anyone—not even to your closest kin. Can you do that?"

Zhang Qingyue nodded. "I understand. I will not speak of it even if I die."

Puzhao was shaken. He saw that on the boy's young face lay sheer fortitude, and the rain falling all around like blades, like swords, like frost, soaked his small face and left it somewhat wan.

Puzhao suddenly drew a deep breath, lowered his eyes, and looked at him no more, though he went on: "Also, you must practice this method once every day. But you must not practice it before others—only late at night, when all is quiet. Finally, unless you stand at the brink of life and death, you must never, ever use this art—otherwise great disaster will surely follow."

Having said this, he opened his eyes again and stared at Zhang Qingyue. "Can you do it?"

Zhang Qingyue hesitated, tipped his head to one side, scratched his head, his face all bewilderment—but in the end he nodded heavily.

Puzhao smiled faintly, said no more, and began to transmit the oral formula to him.

The formula was neither long nor short—some thousand characters or so—but it was dry, harsh and difficult. Zhang Qingyue spent all his effort, and it took him a full three hours before he had memorized it all.

When he was sure the boy had it completely by heart, Puzhao let out a breath, his expression utterly exhausted. He looked at Zhang Qingyue, unable to keep a look of affection from his eyes, and said: "All my life in cultivation, I never once thought of taking a disciple. To think that at the point of death I should find a master-disciple bond with you. You ought to know my name." He paused. "My dharma name is Puzhao; I am a monk of Brahma Sound Temple. Er—child, do you know of Brahma Sound Temple?"

Zhang Qingyue thought for a while, then shook his head.

Puzhao laughed despite himself. "Truly a child." Then something else came to him; he reached into his robe, fumbled out a deep-purple bead, studied it closely for several looks, and handed it to Zhang Qingyue, saying: "Keep this bead safe, and let no outsider see it. When things are settled in the days to come, find a deep valley or a cliff and cast it down—that will be enough. And the name I told you just now—you must never speak it before others."