Chapter 236 — Pude

Master Pucheng stepped forward and came before the old monk, while Mingli stood silently behind. Seen from the side, the old monk and Master Pucheng were as different as heaven and earth: Master Pucheng was radiant with vigor, kindly of brow and gentle of eye, dignified and commanding in his bearing—no wonder the countless devout had bowed down before him moments ago. By contrast, the old monk in the corner could truly be described by that common Buddhist phrase, "this stinking bag of skin."

Master Pucheng stood before the old monk and regarded him for a long while, then slowly sighed, and there, before the old monk, sat directly down upon the filthy floor. Mildly he said, "Brother, it must be ten years since we last met."

The old monk slowly pressed his palms together, and his voice was still as hoarse, as low, as halting as before. "Yes... indeed. How... have you... been, senior... brother?"

Mingli was startled to hear this. The two brothers both dwelt here in Fanyin Temple, and though the old monk's courtyard was remote, they had passed no special guard on the way—plainly he was not in retreat. Yet across ten long years the two had never once met. It was truly beyond belief.

As though guessing Mingli's thoughts, Master Pucheng turned and smiled at him. "This is my second junior brother, Pude."

Though Mingli still did not know why Master Pucheng had brought him to see this Master Pude, the man was one of Fanyin Temple's Four Divine Monks, and Mingli had come to seek a favor; he dared not be remiss. Hastily he made his salutation. "Disciple Mingli pays his respects to Master Pude."

Master Pude slowly shifted his gaze and let it fall upon Mingli's face. His movements were stiff and slow, so much so that even the turning of his eyes seemed an effort. Mingli was greatly puzzled how one of the Four Divine Monks, famed throughout the world, could be in such a state—yet he dared not, by any word or look, fail in courtesy.

Beside him, Master Pucheng said mildly, "My brother Pude cultivates a branch of our Buddhist tradition called the Bitter Chan. None but the greatly wise and greatly brave may practice it. You see him now withered of face, but as for attainment in the Way, brother Pude has long surpassed me."

At the corner of Master Pude's withered mouth something stirred faintly—whether it was a smile, none could tell from his face, for no change of expression was visible at all. Slowly he said, "Senior brother... you jest..."

Master Pucheng pressed his palms together and murmured, "Amitabha." Then he said, "Brother, I have disturbed your pure cultivation today, and my offense is no small one; I make my apology here first. But this matter is unlike any other." Here he glanced at Mingli. "Brother, do you know who this is?"

Master Pude had not taken his eyes from Mingli since first he looked at him, yet his gaze seemed forever like an old well, without wave or ripple; none could tell what he was thinking. Now, hearing Master Pucheng's words, he said slowly, "Who... is he?"

Master Pucheng sighed softly. "He is the boy from Willow Temple Village at the foot of Mount Canglan—Zhang Qingyue—the one left behind by that grievous wrong my brother Puzhao sowed ten years ago."

"What!"

For the first time, Master Pude's words came without pause; even his countenance altered slightly. After a long moment, his gaze still fixed deeply upon Mingli, he said, "He is... that child?" Whether it was that he had spoken more and more, the halts in Master Pude's speech grew fewer, until it flowed more smoothly.