Chapter 176 — A Mortal World's Buddha Hall

Beyond the door all at once opened wide: white jade for stone, a paved terrace for a court, stone steps tier upon tier, nine to a group, joining one to the next up to the Mahavira Hall—nine times nine, eighty-one groups in all. Between the carved jade balustrades stood the hall itself, towering and immense; before it thirteen great stone pillars soared skyward, more than ten zhang high. The roof blazed with gold, its eight ridges dividing it evenly, each carved in the shape of a dragon's head. And before each flying eave and dragon head were carved, unmistakably, ten auspicious beasts, each in its own form, each lifelike. (Note One)

The carvings below the hall were of a splendor and fineness far beyond what ordinary folk could imagine, such as no common hand could produce. Behind the Mahavira Hall, and to either side, and before it, rose one lofty hall after another, joined here by open courts, there by winding paths, some built flush against one another—layer upon layer, a magnificent sight.

Yet for all that these buildings were grand and ornate, and truly marvelous to behold, what astonished Ming Li most at this moment was not the architecture at all, but that in this sacred Buddhist ground there now thronged countless ordinary people—countless hands holding incense, kneeling and bowing before the Buddha. On the steps and in the courts, within the halls and without, the incense smoke was thick beyond imagining.

A vast Fanyin Temple—a temple of the highest standing among the orthodox sects of the world—was thrown open like any common temple of the mortal realm, for countless ordinary folk to burn incense and worship the Buddha.

Ming Li had never imagined such a thing. The strange noises he had heard before now made sense, but what lay before his eyes only deepened his confusion. Raised on Canglan Mountain from childhood, he was long accustomed to the ways of the immortal sects; immortal mountains and immortal realms belonged to cultivators alone. On Canglan Mountain, when had a common mortal ever been seen climbing the mountain to burn incense and make vows?

He turned to Fa Cheng and asked in astonishment, "What is this...?"

Fa Cheng smiled faintly. "Today happens to be the first day of the lunar month, so there are more people than usual. Our temple's incense is ever abundant, but on ordinary days there are not so many; only on the first and fifteenth of each month do the people from hundreds of li around come to worship, as is their custom." (Note Two)

Ming Li shook his head. He hesitated, but in the end asked, "No—what puzzles me is, why do you let the common folk come in to burn incense and worship?"

Fa Cheng nodded, as though the question had been expected, and gestured for Ming Li to come this way, leading him around the back of the Mahavira Hall. As they walked he said, "In the early days, Fanyin Temple was like Canglan Gate and the other great houses—closed to the mortal world. But after my master, Abbot Pu Cheng, took up the abbacy, he and three of my martial uncles together studied the Buddhist teaching and made a great vow. They said: 'The Buddha belongs to all living beings; he is not the Buddha of one man alone.' And so they resolved to open the mountain gate and receive the common people."

Here Fa Cheng stopped, turned, and pointed to the countless steps leading up to the Mahavira Hall. "Do you see that long stone stair?"

Ming Li nodded. "What of it?"

Fa Cheng pressed his palms together. "In those days one of my martial uncles saw how steep the mountain path was. Many of the common folk wished to worship, but the weak and infirm could not manage the climb to fulfill their vows. So with his great powers, by the labor of one man over ten years, he hewed this broad, level road of Buddha out of the sheer mountainside—a deed of boundless merit."

Ming Li could not but feel a solemn respect; his expression grew grave. "To think there was such a remarkable elder. May I ask his name?"

Fa Cheng glanced at him, and after an unexpected pause, said quietly, "That martial uncle's name was Pu Zhao. He has been dead these ten years and more."

Ming Li's body went rigid, as though the two words "Pu Zhao" were a thunderclap out of a clear sky, striking him full in the mind and shattering it.

Fa Cheng watched the shifting expressions on Ming Li's face—now grief, now fury—and sighed. "Enough. Let us go. The abbot is waiting for us."

Ming Li followed him woodenly. His step, which had been fairly light before, was now unbearably heavy. After some few zhang he suddenly turned back, his face a tangle of feeling: far off, the crowd surged and murmured, countless people passing along that stone stair—old men, women, children—each with a devout face, each murmuring the Buddha's name as they climbed, as though by walking this road they drew a little nearer to the Buddha.

Ming Li's face was unreadable; his hands clenched into fists and slowly loosened again. At length he turned his head and walked on. Fa Cheng, waiting ahead, pressed his palms together and invoked the Buddha's name, and said no more.

The two went on together, leaving behind them that countless throng of worshippers and that silent road of Buddha, there in the mortal world.

This place was the mortal world already, no longer a realm of immortals and buddhas.

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Past the Mahavira Hall there stretched yet another long succession of halls and shrines; Fanyin Temple was, after all, a great and famous sect, its grandeur beyond any common temple's compare. Yet Fa Cheng led Ming Li on and on without stopping at any hall or tower, making straight for the rear mountain.

Ming Li followed in silence the whole way, his face heavy with thought, the ornate and beautiful buildings around him going quite unseen.

Only at the last, when Fa Cheng brought him out by the temple's rear gate and onto a small mountain path leading up toward the summit of Mount Sumeru, did Ming Li frown and ask, "What—is Abbot Pu Cheng not in the temple?"

Fa Cheng nodded. "Correct. Though the temple is open to the world, and that is a deed of boundless merit, monks after all need quiet. My master and several of my martial uncles are all lovers of stillness, and have always lived in a small temple at the summit—what we generally call 'Little Fanyin Temple.'" He smiled, showing two rows of white teeth.

Ming Li nodded silently and said no more, following Fa Cheng up toward the peak of Mount Sumeru.

Mount Sumeru could not compare with the Heaven-Reaching Peak of Canglan Gate, which pierced the clouds, but it was by no means low. The Fanyin Temple they had just left already stood halfway up the mountain, and yet they climbed a full half-hour more before the plaque of Little Fanyin Temple came into view.

Seen from outside, Little Fanyin Temple well deserved the name "little": a compound of no more than three successive courts, far removed from the vast splendor of the temple below. But here, far from the mortal world, ancient pines and tall bamboo grew in dense groves on every side; when the mountain wind passed, the pines stirred and the bamboo swayed, with a quiet elegance beyond words—a flavor altogether different from the bustle below.

Ming Li, barely recovered from grave wounds, had walked a long way, and his brow was lightly beaded with sweat. He halted to rest a moment and looked back: far down the mountainside, Fanyin Temple was thick with incense smoke, curling up in threads and wisps, so clear even at this distance, and through it faintly came the sound of voices, devout and solemn beyond telling.

Ming Li gazed into the distance for a long while, lost in a daze, and who knows what he was thinking. At last he turned, and Fa Cheng nodded and led him into Little Fanyin Temple.