Vague and Unspoken Part 2

Ming Buxiang smiled faintly. "Master has broken a precept for his disciple, so eat the whole thing. Is there any difference between one bite and the whole bun?"

Liaoxin shook his head. "You know your master's intent lies not in eating more or less. This is following the heart—understand?"

Ming Buxiang smiled. "Following the heart means there's reason either to eat or not. First bite, second bite, third bite—where's the difference?"

Liaoxin thought there was sense in this, and was about to reach out his hand when, with a sudden start in his heart, he drew it back. "It's rare to see you so glib... Off with you. Go to sleep."

Ming Buxiang set the peach bun on the table, bowed, and went back to his room to rest.

That night Liaoxin tossed and turned in bed, ravenously hungry—a feeling he had not known in more than ten years.

......

After the Laba festival, a great snow fell on Shaolin Temple. Master and disciple swept the drifts from before their dwelling, and Liaoxin said to Ming Buxiang, "Practice is just like this. Each man sweeps the snow before his own door; to count on others to help you is to chase what isn't real."

Ming Buxiang countered, "You mean—never mind the frost on another man's roof?"

"Look at this courtyard," Liaoxin said. "The Samantabhadra Court alone has a thousand monks' dwellings. Could you ever sweep it all? If every man diligently swept before his own door, all would be pure of itself."

"So Master means the World-Honored One was meddling in others' affairs?"

Liaoxin laughed aloud. "In matters of practice, the World-Honored One can only point you the way—it's like handing you a broom and dustpan; you must sweep the floor yourself. Sweeping snow is only a figure. You can help a man sweep his snow, but you cannot practice for him."

"So if a man's practice falls short, he can blame no one else?"

Liaoxin nodded. "The world has always held many trials of the demon-kind, testing the human heart. Those trials are not curses—they are adversity bodhisattvas. Only by withstanding them can one's merit be made complete."

Ming Buxiang gazed at the snow heaped on the eaves, and seemed to understand.

The new year passed, and then came the Beginning of Spring, and after the Beginning of Spring the Rain Water term. The twenty-first of the second month was the birthday of the Bodhisattva Samantabhadra, the most important day of the year in the Samantabhadra Court: not only were the sutras chanted seven days and nights, but a scripture-monk from the Manjushri Court opened the hall to expound the Dharma, and all studied it together. In years past Liaoxin had always left Ming Buxiang at home and gone alone to chant at the assembly, but this year Ming Buxiang had turned twelve, so Liaoxin begged off his chanting duty and brought the boy to hear the Dharma.

It was the first time Ming Buxiang heard anyone but Liaoxin expound the teaching.

When the eighth of the third month came, Liaoxin summoned Ming Buxiang.

"I must go to Mount Song to see to some business; I set out tomorrow. While I'm away, take good care of yourself."

This "Mount Song" meant, of course, not the place but the Songshan Sect, which had moved to Shandong—settled in the city of Jinan, right beside the Taishan Sect.

"Will you be gone long?" Ming Buxiang asked.

"A month at the soonest, and I'll take you to Buddha City for the Buddha's birthday when I'm back. At worst, I'll still be in time to eat rice dumplings with you."

Liaoxin then gave him a number of instructions, all to the effect that while he was away Ming Buxiang must not slacken.

That night, just as Liaoxin was about to retire, Ming Buxiang suddenly pushed open the door and came in.

"What is it?" Liaoxin asked.

"I haven't slept beside Master in many years. I want to sleep with you tonight," Ming Buxiang said. "Master leaves on a long journey tomorrow."

Since his promotion to hall monk, Liaoxin had mostly handled hall affairs; even when he went out, he was back within three days. Since Ming Buxiang had come to understanding, the two had never been parted so long.

Liaoxin laughed. "As big as you are, still acting the child." He beckoned. "Come, then."

Ming Buxiang climbed onto the bed, curled up in Liaoxin's arms, and was soon asleep. Liaoxin looked at the youth in his embrace, so handsome and refined, and remembering the old days, could not help a sigh.

This child had never once given him cause for worry.

Sunk deep in sleep, Ming Buxiang reached out and clasped Liaoxin just as he had as a small boy. Liaoxin closed his eyes, but his thoughts surged and would not let him sleep.

The next day, as though he had foreseen something, Liaoxin said to Ming Buxiang, "If anyone bullies you these next days, endure it, bear with it; do not quarrel. Leave any trouble for your master to handle when he returns—understand?"

Ming Buxiang nodded to show he understood.

A month later, on the twenty-fifth of the fourth month, within the Songshan territory in Shandong, seven corpses were found—all monks who had been sent to Mount Song together. They had been killed on the road back. Among them, only Liaoxin's body was missing.

Liaoxin had not died, yet no one in this world ever saw him again. He had vanished, strange and complete, and where he had gone was never known.

......

The day Liaoxin left Shaolin Temple, Ming Buxiang went as usual to serve his labor at Right Action Hall. The moment Benyue saw him, his brows shot up and his eyes glared, and he kicked the slop bucket straight into Ming Buxiang's chest.

"Your master thinks himself so grand," Benyue snarled, "he won't even give Head Monk Juekong his due?!"

Remembering Liaoxin's words that morning, Ming Buxiang knew what was happening. He silently picked up the bucket and turned to go. Benyue darted a step ahead to block his path. "You see your senior brother and don't even pay your respects? A master with no sense of rank, a disciple with no breeding—both of you cheap trash, cut from the same cloth!" With that he struck Ming Buxiang across the face.

Ming Buxiang neither answered back nor returned the blow, but walked straight on. Angrier still, Benyue kicked him from behind—a hard kick to the small of the back that pitched his body forward. Still he paid no heed. The monks at hand hurried to restrain Benyue.

Seeing Ming Buxiang about to get clear, Fu Yingcong hastened after him. "The more you ignore him, the more he'll bully you."

Ming Buxiang answered evenly, "With no hindrance in the heart, one is at ease."

"You're really not angry?" Seeing Ming Buxiang only walk on without answering, Fu Yingcong went on, "They say that after the four courts held council yesterday, Head Monk Juekong handed down a decree, and your master openly opposed it and clashed with the Head Monk. Did you know about that?"

"Master didn't mention it."

"Spotted Dog is a lay monk, and his teacher Liaowu is of the same faction as Juekong. The way he's bullying you today, it's surely on his teacher's orders. Ming Buxiang—why not go to Abbot Juejian and lodge a complaint? Say Spotted Dog is throwing his weight around."

Ming Buxiang halted, looked at Fu Yingcong, and asked, "He's bullied you no less—why don't you go?"

Fu Yingcong reddened and lowered his head. "I... in three more months I turn eighteen. Once I pass the skills trial and get my Hero's Warrant, I'll be leaving Shaolin. Why bother quarreling with him?"

"You won't pass the skills trial," Ming Buxiang said.

Fu Yingcong's heart quailed, but he would not admit it. "Who says I won't? You haven't even seen what I can do!"

Ming Buxiang shook his head and walked on.

"Wait—your robe's covered in footprints. Take it off and beat it clean first." Fu Yingcong caught up quickly. "If one of the senior brothers asks, there'll be trouble again."

Ming Buxiang set down the bucket and took off his outer robe, slapping it a few times. Fu Yingcong took it from him. "Let me." He turned and beat it a few times, and only when it was clean handed it back. Ming Buxiang put it on again, took up the bucket, and went off to work.

The two of them emptied all the night soil and returned to Right Action Hall. Usually, once Benyue had made his inspection, the group would scatter to the dining hall for the noon meal; but that day Benyue mustered all twenty-odd monks. The others seemed to have known in advance—only Ming Buxiang was in the dark, standing in the line, waiting.

Before long an old monk of about fifty arrived. Ming Buxiang recognized him as Juejian, the abbot of Right Action Hall. Benyue first made his greetings, and Juejian asked, "Today we examine the Buddhist Disciple Precepts. Was this duly passed along?"

"The abbot gave the order; how would I dare be lax? I told all my brothers, as the abbot can verify."

Several disciples in league with Benyue chimed in: "It's true, Brother Benyue told us." The rest held their tongues. Though Ming Buxiang knew nothing of it, he did not say so.

"Then everyone, take out your Buddhist Disciple Precepts."

Each man drew out the little booklet. Ming Buxiang felt about in his robe and could not find his Buddhist Disciple Precepts. He looked to Fu Yingcong, who wore a guilty expression and turned his face away, refusing to meet his eyes, and from his own robe drew out a little booklet—vaguely familiar. At once Ming Buxiang understood.

Benyue bellowed, "Ming Buxiang, where is your Buddhist Disciple Precepts?"

"Lost." Ming Buxiang turned back to look at him and said it lightly. "I threw it away."

At these words the whole group buzzed in uproar, and Benyue, seizing his chance, cursed in a fury, "Threw it away? A Shaolin disciple—precepts before all! Didn't your master teach you that the Buddhist Disciple Precepts must be kept on you at all times, consulted always, to discipline the body and examine the nature? How dare you be so bold?!" He turned to Juejian. "Abbot, this Ming Buxiang is a shameless, incorrigible boy. You must punish him severely, or there's no telling what other tricks he'll pull!"

Juejian walked over, looked at Ming Buxiang, and asked, "You are Liaoxin's disciple?"

Ming Buxiang nodded.

"Liaoxin has always kept the precepts with steadiness and care. Do you know why?"

Ming Buxiang answered, "When the World-Honored One entered nirvana, Ananda asked him: While the Buddha is present, we take the Buddha as our teacher; when the Buddha is gone, whom shall we take as our teacher? The World-Honored One answered: Take the precepts as your teacher. And so my master keeps the precepts strictly, with especial care."

Hearing him speak so out of the ordinary, Juejian asked further, "Shaolin requires its disciples to carry the Buddhist Disciple Precepts at all times, so that when there is an examination they may consult it—for this same reason. Since you understand the principle, why did you throw it away?"

"Your disciple only said he threw it away," Ming Buxiang said. "He did not say it was not on his person."

Juejian found this most curious. "What do you mean?"

"All three hundred and sixteen precepts are engraved on my heart," Ming Buxiang said. "That is to carry it on my person."

Benyue scoffed, "You claim you've memorized the whole thing? What empty boasting is this?"

Ming Buxiang pressed his palms together. "Let the abbot examine me."

Juejian knew Benyue had always bullied newcomers and guessed there was more to this than met the eye; but seeing Ming Buxiang so brimming with confidence, he asked, "What is the seventy-seventh precept?"

"A Buddhist disciple shall curb desire and abstain from lust, forbidding all licentiousness. To debauch another's wife or daughter, to ruin another's good name—Hero's Warrant revoked, expelled from the temple gate, arrested for trial, tried for sentence."

"The tenth?"

"Without the permission of the master who taught him, one may not take disciples of his own. Without the leave of the eight halls' abbots, an outside disciple shall not be taught the Upper Hall Martial Arts recorded by Right View Hall."

Juejian picked out several more precepts to ask. As they listened, the others followed along in their booklets, and indeed not a word was off—every one of them was struck with amazement. Juejian himself marveled inwardly, thinking, Liaoxin often said this boy had a bond to the Buddha; I never imagined him so brilliant.

Benyue said angrily, "You say you've got it memorized cold—then I'll ask you: what's written on page thirty-seven, line five?"

This was sheer malice, but to everyone's surprise Ming Buxiang answered without the least hesitation, "Buddhist Disciple Precepts, precept two hundred seventeen: A Buddhist disciple shall not covet wealth, nor contend with the common folk over property."

Benyue flipped to the page and found it was exactly so, and his mouth fell open in astonishment. Ming Buxiang went on, "Page twelve, line five, character six is the word 'no'; page thirteen, line ten, character seven is the word 'fall'; page sixteen, line two, character nine is the word 'word'; page nineteen, line six, character eight..."

There he fell silent. Juejian drew out his own Buddhist Disciple Precepts, turned to page nineteen, and saw that the character Ming Buxiang meant was 'script.' Strung together, the four characters read: "no reliance on the written word."

Juejian understood: this was Ming Buxiang's way of declaring that he kept the precepts in his heart, with no reliance on the written word, and so had thrown the booklet away.

"Remarkable—a rare memory you have. Yet memory or no, you should not have thrown the Buddhist Disciple Precepts away. Know that the scriptures are the source of the Dharma. To presume on your cleverness and cast them aside at will is a mind of arrogance," Juejian said. "If I let you memorize every word in the Sutra Repository, would you then set a torch to them all? What would those who come after rely upon?"

Benyue said hastily, "Just so! This one's always been arrogant—the abbot should punish him, lest he presume on his cleverness and hold others as nothing!"

Ming Buxiang bowed respectfully. "Your disciple will bear it in mind."

"The rest of you should be like Ming Buxiang—commit the precepts to memory and keep them with your heart." With that, Juejian set about examining the other disciples' knowledge of the precepts. Seeing that Juejian had no intention of pursuing the matter, Benyue's resentment showed plain upon his face.

From then on, Juejian kept Ming Buxiang in mind. He watched the boy and learned that his daily recitation never once lapsed; that after his labor he returned to his room and did not come out again until the evening meal, after which he doused his lamp and slept, keeping little company with others.

A month or so later came grim news from Mount Song: seven bodies had been recovered, and among them Liaoxin alone was missing. The corpses were brought back to Shaolin Temple, and the proctor of Right Action Hall in the Samantabhadra Court examined them; before any finding was reached, rumors were already flying.

Juejian sent someone to inform Ming Buxiang that Liaoxin had vanished. Ming Buxiang only nodded and shut his door.

Before anyone marked its coming, the Dragon Boat Festival drew near. Each feast day a great flood of gifts arrived at Right Action Hall, and Juejian, unwilling to let his monk's quarters be tainted by such worldly things, had them set in the main hall. After the festival he would send half the gifts to Right Thought Hall in the Ksitigarbha Court for temple use, and pass the other half to the hall monks as recompense. Those hall monks, receiving their share, chanted the Buddha's name and protested they dared not accept, yet the corners of their eyes brimmed with delight; only a few could take not a single thing and turn all they received over to Right Thought Hall.

How had Shaolin Temple come to this? Juejian wondered. Did it begin with the Kunlun Council more than eighty years ago, or with the Shao-Song Dispute some forty years back, when the lay monks were brought in?

The change was like water wearing through stone—each erosion too fine to see, yet day by day, year by year, the old face was lost beyond recovering. Forty years ago lay monks could not enter the halls; now, of the four courts, two had head monks who were lay monks. In another twenty years, what then?

Juejian dared not follow the thought. He felt that the contest between lay monks and proper monks at Shaolin was slowly gathering into a storm. Should he stand at the storm's heart, or withdraw while the current still allowed? He had never been able to decide.

By now the storm was no longer merely gathering, but had taken dim shape. Of the eight hall monks sent to Mount Song, lay and proper were even; the bodies of the seven who died were brought back to Shaolin, and Right Action Hall's examination yielded an exceedingly ugly result. All seven had died by Shaolin martial arts, and by one another's signature techniques. If one had to render a verdict, it was this: proper monks and lay monks had fought, were gravely wounded unto death, and Liaoxin alone survived and, dreading the blame for his crime, had fled into hiding.

The hall monk who examined the bodies dared not pronounce a verdict and reported to Juejian. Juejian ordered a second examination, but the examiner answered that the wounds were unmistakable, and a second look would yield the same. The Right Action Hall examination report now lay on Juejian's desk, wanting only his signature.

Fortunately this year fell the once-in-a-decade Kunlun Council, with a change of alliance leader at hand; Head Monk Juekong would go to Kunlun Palace in the abbot's stead to walk through the formalities, and the matter could be put off a while longer.

But how would Head Monk Juekong handle it on his return? The best course would be to enter a finding of "perpetrator unknown, cause of death pending inquiry," to wait until Liaoxin was found and the truth pressed from him before deliberating further; and if Liaoxin was already dead, to let the matter rest there.

But would things go so smoothly?

Juekong was the head of the lay monks. Would he proclaim the truth, or swallow it and keep silent? In the Shaolin Temple of today, lay monks made up well over six parts in ten, yet of the one hall, four courts, and eight minor halls there were only five head monks' seats; and though no written law governed the abbacy, it was an unspoken rule to pass it to a proper monk, never a lay one. Was Head Monk Juekong truly devoted heart and soul to Shaolin, or did he harbor some private design?

Lay monks could not be trusted, Juejian thought. Those who took the tonsure not out of faith—who knew what they schemed? And this single sheet of paper was the very implement for stirring up trouble.

If he were to bypass the Samantabhadra Court and submit it straight to the abbot, then wait for Juekong's return to convene the four-court council, Juejian could already guess the conclusion: that Liaoxin had murdered his brothers in the faith and fled the temple in betrayal.

Liaoxin could never have turned traitor—of that he was certain. But that conclusion both avoided the strife between proper and lay, and meant the Samantabhadra Court and the other three courts had reached a common understanding, after which Juekong could hardly make further trouble of it. It was the cleanest way. Yet to submit it over his superior's head would surely bring Juejian into conflict with Head Monk Juekong—and Liaoxin would have to bear the outcome. Whatever the truth, the man Liaoxin could not, and would not, ever appear again; and Juejian himself would step from the storm's edge into its very heart.

As to what the truth really was—he believed that in this martial world, no fewer than seven men died every day.

Of a sudden Juejian felt very tired. Since taking up the abbacy of Right Action Hall, ten-odd years of heavy official duties, of human niceties and courteous exchange—less chanting, more endorsing of documents; less stilling of the mind, more vexing of it; and at every great juncture, deceiving those above and concealing from those below, acting as expedience demanded.

For all his years of practice, he had only drifted further from the Buddha. At times he wished to let it all go—yet he thought, if I do not enter hell, who will? What proper monk does not wish to devote himself to quiet practice? Was he to hand the whole great expanse of Shaolin Temple over to the lay monks' keeping?

But where, in the end, had Liaoxin gone?

He had once thought highly of him—until, a few years back, Liaoxin had reported that the four-year-old Ming Buxiang could recite the Diamond Sutra. In that instant Juejian had grasped it: the steady gravity, the pure heart and few desires, were only a surface; at bottom Liaoxin still chased name and gain, a worldly man with his mind on entering the courts and halls. To force a four-year-old to memorize the Diamond Sutra—what bitter suffering that must have cost the child? Thinking of it, Juejian had grown cold toward him.

Now, thinking it over, Liaoxin had spoken no falsehood, and it was Juejian, in the end, who had misjudged him.

And thinking further: a brawl between proper and lay, and Liaoxin killing men and then fleeing the blame in hiding, was not impossible. Liaoxin would have broken the precept against killing and the precept against wrath—so Juejian had not been wholly mistaken either.

Only—Liaoxin's disciple, that boy—how was he now to find his footing in Shaolin Temple?

Juejian called a disciple and bade him bring Ming Buxiang.

Liaoxin's affair must not be allowed to drag the child down, Juejian thought, looking at the examination report on his desk. Whatever came, he would keep this boy safe within the temple, and decide his disposition only after he came of age.

Before long the disciple brought Ming Buxiang in. Ming Buxiang first made his bow. Juejian asked his age, praised his cleverness, then asked, "You serve your labor at Right Action Hall—are you settling in well enough?"

"There is nothing I find hard to bear," Ming Buxiang said.

"That Benyue is a small-souled boy; he won't be reasoned with, however often I try. I've seen that he often bullies you—is that so?"

"My master used to say that every adversity bodhisattva is an aid to practice," Ming Buxiang said. "Besides, he hasn't truly bullied me."

Juejian found the answer most surprising, and could not help asking, "How can you say he hasn't bullied you?"

"At ease and following the heart, depending on nothing outside myself—how can he bully me?"

"He strikes you. Doesn't it hurt?"

"The pain is of a moment. It has injured neither sinew nor bone, nor put my life in danger."

"And if it should injure your life, or sinew and bone?"

"Then it would no longer be a question of bullying. If my life were threatened, I would have to strike back."

Juejian sighed in admiration. "When Liaoxin spoke of you, I did not believe him. I came near to letting fine jade lie buried in rotted earth."

"That saying of the abbot's only bears out that Brother Benyue is an adversity bodhisattva," Ming Buxiang said.

"Even so, I cannot let him bully you," Juejian said. "Have you any thought of taking vows?"

"Your disciple has not yet considered it."

"You have the Buddha's wisdom; when the moment comes, you'll decide of yourself. I mean to move you elsewhere for your labor. Is there a place you'd like to go?"

"Your disciple would like to go to the Manjushri Court."

Juejian gave a small "Oh?" and asked, "Why the Manjushri Court?"

"All the temple's texts are in the Sutra Repository of Right View Hall, and the scripture-monks are in the Manjushri Court as well," Ming Buxiang said. "Should I meet with a difficulty, it would be easy to ask."

Juejian nodded, thinking, this boy is gifted by nature, and knows besides to seek ever finer mastery; rarest of all, he is neither self-satisfied nor proud. "Very good. From tomorrow, then, report to the Manjushri Court. I'll let them know to set you to cleaning the Sutra Repository."

"Am I to move to the Manjushri Court to live?" Ming Buxiang asked.

"There are vacant monks' quarters there. Move if you like."

"Does the abbot believe my master won't be coming back?"

Juejian started—truly this child was not to be underestimated; in a few short words he had drawn the words out of him. But mindful that the boy cared for his master, all of it filial feeling, Juejian could only say, "If your master returns, I will let you know."

When he had said it, Juejian found that Ming Buxiang made no reply, but only watched him with a pair of clear eyes, and a discomfort crept over him. Yet Ming Buxiang asked nothing more, saying only, "If the abbot has no further instructions, your disciple will take his leave."

"Wait a moment." Juejian rose and went to the main hall next door, picked from among the gifts a string of vegetarian rice dumplings, and came back to hand them to Ming Buxiang. "Take this string of dumplings back to eat."

Ming Buxiang shook his head and did not put out his hand. Curious, Juejian asked, "You don't care for rice dumplings?"

"These are gifts from outside, aren't they?" Ming Buxiang asked.

"What of it?" Juejian returned.

"My master said that what is sent to Right Action Hall is not a gift but a debt. Accept the debt, and however many hands it passes through, in time it must be repaid with interest. Whoever eats this string of dumplings will one day owe a debt to the one who sent them—only there's no knowing in what manner it will be repaid. This is called karma."

Juejian chewed the words over carefully, and felt he had grasped it. His generosity was nothing but the shifting of these dirty trinkets of flattery onto the others of Right Action Hall. It was karma; the debt had to be paid. He was merely letting others bear the evil deed he himself had planted.

To let others bear the evil deed—was that not the very thing he was preparing to do? In that instant Juejian felt that Ming Buxiang had seen clear through his design.

But that was impossible. Ming Buxiang was only a child...

"Go now. From tomorrow, report to the Manjushri Court," Juejian told him.

After Ming Buxiang had gone, Juejian sat in thought a long while, then summoned a disciple and ordered, "Send all the gifts to the Ksitigarbha Court."

"Keep none back?" the disciple asked, astonished.

Juejian saw the disappointment in the disciple's eyes—yet he was more disappointed still in this whole band of disciples. "Keep none. And hereafter no gift sent here is to be accepted."

On the examination report Juejian wrote his conclusion: "Likely death by brawling; doubts remain pending inquiry." Then he signed his name. He had resolved to submit the finding to the Samantabhadra Court and let Head Monk Juekong handle the matter. The strife between proper and lay at Shaolin was a shared karma; it could not be laid on Liaoxin alone, and even if today they papered over the peace, it would have to be settled in the end.

If this was a storm, then he ought to throw himself into its heart.

For years afterward, Ming Buxiang remained in the Manjushri Court, sweeping the Sutra Repository.

Two years later, late one night, Fu Yingcong hanged himself in the woods beyond the temple.

A year after that, Benyue suddenly went mad, gouged out his own eyes, and from then on was out of his wits, day and night beside himself with terror.

Yet in the vast expanse of Shaolin Temple, these were but a few trifling things.

No one would take any notice.