劍問蒼天 - 第4章 宏願 - 翰墨軒

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.