The Buddha's Hand and the Spider's Thread Part 1

The eightieth year of Kunlun. Summer, the fifth month.

Ming Buxiang did not move out of his quarters in the Right Action Hall. He simply rose earlier than before and made his way to the Right View Hall of Manjushri Court.

Manjushri Court was divided into two halls, Right View and Right Concentration. Right View governed the keeping of texts and scriptures and the study of Buddhist doctrine and martial arts; Right Concentration handled instruction and teaching, its monks mostly lecturing scripture-monks or martial instructors. A disciple of the temple who wished to advance in martial arts generally had to study in the Right Concentration Hall, which from time to time held classes, expounding sutras, demonstrating forms, or going out to test the disciples.

Buddhism prized scripture and commentary above all. The four courts were said to be equal, but that Manjushri stood first, Samantabhadra second, and Ksitigarbha last had long been an unspoken rule. Of the lay monks in Manjushri Court, only a scant few were permitted into its halls, and as for the head monk and the two abbots of the halls, not one had been a lay monk in decades.

"This humble monk is Benyan, foreman of your labor detail." The monk at their head was tall and powerfully built, his two brows curving downward so that he wore a perpetual look of worry; the others had nicknamed him Brother Gloom. Brother Gloom asked Ming Buxiang, "What did they have you do in the Right Action Hall?"

"Carried the night soil," said Ming Buxiang. "For a year."

"That Spotted Dog, always lording it over people. Hmph." Brother Gloom pursed his lips, looking gloomier than ever. "Here the night soil goes by rotation. No one gets out of it." He went on, "Manjushri Court used to be called the Sutra Repository, where the scriptures were kept and martial arts pursued. Later it was reorganized into Manjushri Court, and the Right Concentration Hall was added to instruct the Buddha's disciples, to teach them and resolve their doubts. The reorganization changed the name, but the Sutra Repository is still here. The Right View Hall is not like the Right Action Hall. Fewer people, larger halls, mostly rooms for storing texts. The masters spend their years immersed in study, so we have all the more labor: not just sweeping and emptying the night soil, but hauling water and splitting wood. You're young. I'll parcel out your tasks accordingly."

"Give me the same work as the other brothers," said Ming Buxiang.

"I'll judge that myself," said Brother Gloom. "Go sweep the Sutra Repository."

Manjushri Court was laid out much like Samantabhadra Court, most of its grounds given over to monks' quarters. The Right View Hall was a compound of five courtyards, its central yard a practice ground for drilling and lecturing. The Sutra Repository stood directly behind the Right View Hall, plain and unadorned yet vast and towering.

The first time Ming Buxiang set foot in this sanctum of Shaolin, he felt only solemnity and grandeur. The faint sound of his steps echoed softly through the great hall, and to walk any quicker would have seemed a sacrilege.

He entered the hall, turned to the left, and pushed open a great bronze door. A dense rank of bookcases met his eye. He looked them over: mostly works of literature and history and miscellaneous practical texts, arranged by category. This was the Natural Lore Vault.

Deeper in, through a small wooden door, was another, smaller chamber. This was the Prajna Vault, where all manner of annotated and translated Buddhist scriptures were kept, alongside the original texts. Some of the books were so weathered and ancient they could scarcely be made out.

Ming Buxiang took down a copy of the Samyukta Agama from the shelf and was about to open it when a voice spoke behind him. "If you want to read, you borrow it from the registrar-monk. It's cleaning hours now. No slacking."

Ming Buxiang turned to find a handsome youth, just past twenty, his head unshaven—another lay disciple—smiling at him.

The youth pointed to the far end of the hall. "There's one more room over there. Go sweep it."

Ming Buxiang nodded and went. The entrance was a small iron door, narrow but fully three inches thick. Had it been solid steel, anyone of less than strong build would never have shifted it at all.

The iron door stood half open. As Ming Buxiang approached, the others sweeping nearby suddenly stopped what they were doing and fixed their eyes on him. Seeming not to notice, he reached for the door—when a dark shape burst out with a shout and shoved him hard in the chest. The man was enormously strong; the blow sent Ming Buxiang flying. Yet in midair he steadied himself, came down on both feet, and stood firm—he did not fall.

Behind him the others roared with laughter, and someone even cheered, "Not bad!" Ming Buxiang looked again at the man who had shoved him: crooked mouth, slanted nose, every feature wrenched out of place, perhaps six feet tall, stooped, with a hump on his back that drew the eye.

The man flailed his hands, snarling, "No one's allowed in here! Get out! Get out!"—the words urgent and furious. Then he glanced at Ming Buxiang once more, his pupils contracting, the corner of his mouth twitching faintly, and ducked hurriedly inside, as though afraid of being looked at any longer.

All of this Ming Buxiang noted.

"Just a joke. Don't take it hard." The handsome youth came over, laughing. "Everyone here has been knocked down by Bugui. Consider it our initiation."

A disciple said admiringly, "You're something, staying on your feet. Brother Lü took a tumble his first time too."

The handsome youth cupped his hands in greeting. "I'm Lü Changfeng. A lay disciple, same as you."

Ming Buxiang returned the bow. "I'm Ming Buxiang."

"Your stance is rock-solid," said Lü Changfeng. "Who's your master?"

"The monk Liaoxin," said Ming Buxiang.

The disciples around them let out a soft murmur of surprise, putting their heads together, whispering. Lü Changfeng turned back to them. "Everyone, back to work." They scattered, each returning to his task.

"Do you know where your master has gone?" Lü Changfeng asked.

Ming Buxiang shook his head.

"I thought as much. A pity." Lü Changfeng sighed. "Don't mind what happened just now. The brothers here are all good people."

"Who was that man?" Ming Buxiang asked, looking at the iron door. "That room can't be entered?"

"That's the Supernatural Power Vault, where the temple's martial treatises are kept. No one goes in without leave. That Bugui has a fierce temper. It's his patch to clean. Don't go provoking him for nothing."

"Cleaning?" said Ming Buxiang. "He's the same as us?"

"By rights he's the same, and yet a little different." Lü Changfeng thought it over. "The abbot lets him come and go freely from the Supernatural Power Vault, so he's the only one who tends it. Anyone who comes near, he drives off. It isn't that we shun him for being ugly. He's hot-tempered and won't speak to anyone, and no one wants to set him off."

Ming Buxiang nodded to show he understood.

The labor disciples of the Right View Hall got on well, roughhousing and trading insults in private, often going out together, close as brothers. Lü Changfeng was the standout among them—his master a hall-monk of the Right View Hall—and had become the unofficial head of the group. As for Brother Gloom, he divided the labor fairly enough, but of late he kept to himself, and the others said it was because the test of skill was coming up before long, the examination for a Hero's Warrant, and Brother Gloom was hard at his training.

As for Bugui, he did not live in the monks' quarters but in a storeroom inside the Sutra Repository. Apart from the early-morning sweeping, he was rarely seen.

The harmony of the Right View Hall did not seem to include Bugui. As Lü Changfeng had said, he was a little different.

Bugui's real name was Bu Li—Stand Upright—a name his parents had likely chosen in the hope that he might one day stand straight and tall. The crooked mouth, the slanted nose, the hunched back were all things he had been born with; a physician was said to have given the reason once, but he could no longer recall it. His deepest memory of his parents was his father saying to him, "Li'er, stand straight! Stand straight!"—and the sound of his mother weeping.

The memory was faint, so faint that Bugui himself did not know whether it was real.

His parents had died early. He had been a beggar since childhood—indeed, his memory began on the streets, begging. Every child who saw him mocked him, cursed him; he had had stones thrown at him; other parents kept their children from playing with him, as though his hunchback might be catching.

No one dared come near him, and after enough scorn and abuse he no longer dared come near anyone. He could only crouch in some corner, begging scraps and cold leavings, sometimes catching field mice, sometimes scooping fish from a pond, scraping by from one meager meal to the next.

This lasted until the year he turned ten, when he met his master—Liaoyin, a hall-monk of the Right View Hall.

Pitying him, the monk Liaoyin brought him back to Shaolin Temple and took him in, and only then did he have enough to eat. To show his gratitude he threw himself into every task. But Liaoyin did not have him in his care for long. In less than two years the monk fell ill for no apparent reason and, within a short while, was gone. Bugui wept bitterly, grieving for the kindness shown him and dreading, too, that his good days had ended.

Mercifully, the monks of the Right View Hall did not turn him out; these proper monks were merciful and willing to keep him. But there was one thing—a thing Bugui himself did not know. Liaoyin had transferred in from Avalokitesvara Court, and though he had come up as a proper monk, in life he had kept close company with lay monks, and often said, "Shaolin owes the lay monks a great deal. We do not ask after a man's origins—so why divide proper from lay?"

At this the monks of the Right View Hall only shook their heads and sighed, lamenting that so fine a monk as Liaoyin should have stumbled and fallen, sinking to mire himself with the lay monks.

Since Liaoyin was reckoned among those who consorted with lay monks, Bugui's position became an awkward one. The proper monks, to avoid suspicion, dared not befriend him; the lay monks, taking him for a proper monk's heir, paid him no mind either. So it was that not one of the temple's monks was willing to look after him. Luckily he was simple and hardworking, and the abbot of the Right View Hall, the Chan master Jueming, assigned him to clean the Supernatural Power Vault—a place that normally took three men to keep in order, which he alone kept spotless. Because of his hideous looks and solitary nature, they housed him in a storeroom within the Sutra Repository, and there he had lived for ten years.

Bugui treated the work of the Supernatural Power Vault as his one worth in all of Shaolin. He was born strong, and anyone who tried to come near, he drove away.

He dreaded only that, the work gone, he would be back on the streets begging. He feared the streets, and he feared those people.

It was not that Bugui had no longing. Every day, his sweeping done, he would return to his room, lean far back, brace his hands on the ground, and practice the Iron Plank Bridge. This was a skill he had begged from Liaoyin. Day after day he stretched his back, biting down against the searing pain, holding the posture for two hours at a stretch, hoping only that his hunched spine might straighten a little. He did not ask to be like other men—only to stand a little taller, a little straighter, even just a little.

The posture made him look for all the world like a turtle flipped onto its back, and the irony was that he prayed this very posture might keep him from looking so much like a turtle. That was why he chose to live in the storeroom rather than share quarters with the other disciples—it was the secret he would never let anyone uncover.

"Long ago there lived a great robber named Kandata, who in life did endless evil. When he died he fell into hell, there to suffer the torment of fire. One day the Buddha passed by a well and heard the screaming and wailing below. He looked—and found that the well ran straight down to hell, where Kandata burned in the flames. Seeing the Buddha, his sacred form so majestic, so pure and holy, Kandata cried out: Buddha, save me!"

That day the abbot Jueming, moved by sudden inspiration, summoned the disciples to be examined on the Buddhist Disciple Precepts, and at the same time expounded the dharma. Bugui was among them, and Jueming told this story.

"Hearing Kandata's cry, the Buddha opened his dharma-eye and surveyed the three thousand worlds, past and future. Now Kandata, for all the evil he had done in life, had once been walking and was about to crush a spider underfoot when a thought stirred in him: Why take a life needlessly? And so he stepped over it and spared the spider. The Buddha then reached out his hand, took up a spider, and set it at the well's mouth. The spider spun a thread and let it down into the well. Seeing his chance, Kandata seized it and began to climb. Partway up he tired and paused to catch his breath, and looking down, he saw the other damned souls climbing the same thread behind him. He thought: This thread is so thin—how can it bear all this weight? If it breaks, won't I be cast back into hell to suffer? So he kicked at the demons climbing below him and cursed: This spider's thread is mine—you may not follow! And with that kick the thread snapped at once. As Kandata fell back into hell, he heard only the Buddha's faint, soft sigh."

Jueming said, "Do no evil; do all good. Neglect no good deed because it is small, and commit no evil because it is small. You are all young, your blood running hot—you must take special care. The Buddhist Disciple Precepts are your good teacher. See that you keep them well."

Bugui sat in his corner, listening with rapt attention; the story seemed to have stirred something deep in him. Then Jueming had the disciples recite the rules aloud, and they read them out in chorus, books in hand. Bugui, coming to himself, hastily fixed his eyes on the text and chanted along—always half a beat behind.

One afternoon the disciples, seeking relief from the heat, lounged about chatting in the Sutra Repository, Ming Buxiang among them. Their talk was in full swing when Ming Buxiang suddenly stood up. They all started. "What is it?"

"I saw a rat," said Ming Buxiang.

That was alarming. Rats were the great dread of the Sutra Repository; if one gnawed the books and did damage, the whole detail would answer for it.

"Are you sure?" Lü Changfeng asked at once.

"It might have been my eyes," said Ming Buxiang.

"That's no joke to make. Everyone, search!"

They split up to look, opening every storeroom in turn, working through them one by one. All of them, consciously or not, skirted Bugui's room, meaning to leave it for last—all but Ming Buxiang, who, wholly unaware, came to the door of Bugui's room, pushed it open, and saw Bugui belly to the sky, all four limbs braced against the floor, practicing the Iron Plank Bridge, the very image of an overturned turtle.

In that instant, for the first time, Ming Buxiang saw such terror on Bugui's face.

Bugui tried to right himself, but his back had locked stiff and for a moment he could not move. Hearing the other brothers drawing near, he was seized with dread—if they saw him like this, there was no telling how they would mock him.

In his panic, he saw Ming Buxiang swiftly pull the door shut, and heard his voice say, "I've checked this one. No rat." And someone answered, "We've searched every room. Nothing." Ming Buxiang added, "Maybe it was just my eyes. Sorry to send everyone running for nothing." The voices drifted away, and only then did Bugui breathe easy, cutting his practice short. Thinking it over after, his heart was still pounding.

Bugui remembered Ming Buxiang—he had marked the man at their first meeting. Ming Buxiang had a beautiful, refined face, like a figure carved of jade. Lü Changfeng was handsome too, but beside Ming Buxiang that handsomeness seemed coarse and dull, the face of a rough laborer.

He envied that face a little. That face was, in itself, the cruelest mockery of his own. The same eyes, ears, nose, and mouth—how could one man be made so exquisite, and he so coarse?

If there was anyone Bugui least wanted catching him in his ugliness, it was Ming Buxiang—and of all people, it was Ming Buxiang who today had seen him aping a turtle.

Would he tell the others what he had seen?

That night Bugui lay awake, sick with worry.

At the next morning's sweeping, Bugui peered out from the Supernatural Power Vault and met Ming Buxiang's eyes, then hurriedly drew back. He listened closely to the talk outside; nothing seemed amiss, and he was a little reassured.

In the days that followed nothing happened, yet the matter hung over Bugui's heart the whole time.

One afternoon, after the others had gone back, Bugui stood blankly in his room. He had no heart for practice and only paced back and forth. Then he heard a voice outside: "Didn't you just borrow the Surangama Sutra? Why ask for the Vimalakirti Sutra now?" Another voice answered, "This disciple wishes to cross-reference more of the scriptures." Bugui's heart jumped—he knew it was Ming Buxiang. The first voice went on, "How old are you? You can fathom these scriptures already?" "What I can't fathom, I write down," said Ming Buxiang. "The Right Concentration Hall has plenty of masters." The other laughed aloud. "The abbot Juejian said you were clever, and so you are. Don't lose it."

Bugui pushed the door open a crack. He saw Ming Buxiang standing in the long corridor, and a little way off a young monk strolling away with a lazy stretch. He vaguely recognized the back of him—the registrar-monk of the Sutra Repository—though he had scarcely ever spoken to the man.

Bugui hesitated a long while, and seeing Ming Buxiang about to leave, could not help but clear his throat. Ming Buxiang turned, as Bugui had hoped. He saw Bugui half hidden behind the door, seeming to waver, saying nothing.

Bugui watched him a moment, then at last put out his hand and beckoned.

Ming Buxiang came over. Bugui asked, "That day... when you saw me... practicing... did you tell the other brothers?"

Ming Buxiang shook his head. "No."

"Don't tell anyone, all right?"

"No," said Ming Buxiang.

Bugui's alarm flared, and he was about to ask why not, when Ming Buxiang went on, "Practicing like that won't do. It won't cure you."

So that was what he meant. Relieved, Bugui said quickly, "Never mind about me. Just don't tell anyone."

"A hunched back is hard to mend," said Ming Buxiang. "There are plenty of medical texts in the Natural Lore Vault, and the temple has its medicine-monks. Why not ask them?"

"My master took me to ask, long ago." Bugui shook his head. "They said it was hopeless."

"I thought nothing of what I saw that day," said Ming Buxiang. "But since it matters to you, and you want me to keep it quiet, then you'll do me a favor in return—otherwise I'll tell."

"Do you what?" Bugui asked.

"I come here to borrow scriptures, but I can only take two at a time. You borrow two more for me. How about it?"

"No," Bugui said hurriedly. "I—I can't."

"Why not?"

Bugui stammered and could not get it out, only saying, "Not that. Ask me something else."

"You can't read, can you?" said Ming Buxiang.

Struck on his sore spot, Bugui flushed crimson and bowed his head. "How did you know?"

"That day, reciting the Buddhist Disciple Precepts, you couldn't keep up. You were only mouthing along. I noticed." Ming Buxiang said, "That's easily solved. I'll just teach you to read."

Bugui looked up, startled. "You'll teach me to read?"

Ming Buxiang nodded. "If you can't read, you can't borrow books for me." And with that he walked straight into the room.

Before Bugui could stop him—the room was for storage, with no windows, and even in daytime it was too dark to see—Ming Buxiang said, "It's too dark in here, you won't be able to see. Let's go outside."

Bugui shook his head. "I won't go outside."

Ming Buxiang nodded. "Then I'll fetch paper and a brush. Wait for me."

He left, and Bugui fretted, not knowing what to do. After a while Ming Buxiang returned, as promised, with an oil lamp and the tools of the writing desk.

"I'll start you on the simple ones. One, two, three, four—have you learned those?" Ming Buxiang lit the candle, spread the paper, and ground the ink, and as he asked he wrote five characters: Sutra of Forty-Two Chapters.

"I know one through ten," said Bugui.

"Then I'll teach you 'chapter' and 'sutra' first, and tomorrow you'll borrow this sutra for me." Then he reconsidered. "No—if your uncle Liaojing learns you can't read, he's sure to ask what you want the book for. You'll need to learn a bit more, so you have an answer if you're questioned."

Bugui's heart stirred. He had never wanted to face outsiders; each day he went to the dining hall only at mealtimes, head down, in and out quickly, neither speaking to anyone nor meeting anyone's eyes. He had long wanted to learn to read but was too ashamed to ask, and Ming Buxiang offering to teach him was more than he had dared hope for. Turning it over, and still afraid Ming Buxiang might give away his secret, he could only say, "All right. I'll help you."

Ming Buxiang looked at him and suddenly smiled, a smile warm and radiant as sunlight on an autumn afternoon. Watching that smile, Bugui thought, How can he smile so beautifully?—and seemed quite struck dumb.

From that day on, every afternoon Ming Buxiang came to Bugui's room to teach him to read. When Bugui asked about Ming Buxiang's past and learned that he too was an orphan, his master vanished, he could not help feeling a kinship of shared misfortune, and the two of them gradually grew close.

After that Bugui gave up his practice and devoted himself to reading. His memory and quickness were nothing remarkable, but he was diligent to a fault: every day, his labor done, he set to studying, and after Ming Buxiang left he reviewed it again, not sleeping until deep in the night. In under a month he had learned over a hundred common characters.

The hardest part of learning to read is the foundation; once the foundation is laid, progress comes by leaps. So Ming Buxiang had him go borrow the Sutra of Forty-Two Chapters. Bugui begged off several times, and each time Ming Buxiang shook his head, until at last he had no choice but to steel himself, go into the Prajna Vault, take down a copy, and tell the monk on duty he wished to borrow it.

The registrar-monk was a young man with the dharma name Liaojing. Seeing Bugui, he was taken aback. "It's rare to see you borrowing scriptures."

Bugui reddened, his heart hammering, ashamed of himself; he bowed his head and dared not answer. Liaojing did not press him, only said, "If you run into anything you can't follow as you read, come ask me. If I don't know, I can ask it of the scripture-monks for you."

Bugui had not expected such kindness, and thanking him over and over, took the book and hurried away.

Ming Buxiang was already waiting in the room. The moment Bugui got inside, he felt like a man reprieved, gasping for breath.

"It wasn't so hard, was it?" Ming Buxiang said mildly.

Bugui nodded and handed over the sutra, but Ming Buxiang did not take it. "I can finish this book in a couple of days. If you return it that fast, they'll grow suspicious. Better to use it to learn your characters first."

So Ming Buxiang went on teaching Bugui to read, and explaining the scriptures besides. Bugui half understood the texts, and bit by bit came to grasp their gist from the words themselves.

A few days later Ming Buxiang again had Bugui borrow a book—this time a miscellaneous one, the primer Thousand Character Classic.

"My master said the Thousand Character Classic is the fastest way to learn characters," said Ming Buxiang. "Many of the characters in it you've already learned. It shouldn't be hard."

Bugui studied for a few days, then it struck him: He has me borrowing scriptures—why a Thousand Character Classic? And then another thought: His talk of borrowing scriptures is a pretext. What he really wants is for me to learn to read and write, to face other people. Working this out, Bugui's heart swelled with feeling, and he looked at Ming Buxiang, choked, unable to speak. Seeing his odd expression, Ming Buxiang asked, "What is it?"

"You... you borrowed the books for my sake?"

Ming Buxiang neither confirmed nor denied it, only saying, "The borrowing can wait. You can help me with it later." Then he added, "If there's a book you'd like to read, you can borrow it yourself."

Bugui said, moved, "Besides my master, you're the first person to treat me this well. Why?"

Ming Buxiang thought for a moment. "You're like me—no parents, no master. Maybe I've come to think of you as a friend."

"A friend!" Something turned over in Bugui's heart. The only kin he remembered in all his life was the master he had known for those two brief years; he had never had a single friend. Ming Buxiang was the first person to call him one, and he could not help being moved.

"I... I've never had a friend... Do you have many?" Bugui asked.

"Back in the Right Action Hall there was one who carried the night soil with me. Maybe he counted as a friend. But later he helped Benyue bully me, and stole my copy of the Buddhist Disciple Precepts." Ming Buxiang paused, brooding a moment. "There are friends who do you harm, too."

Bugui said hastily, "I'd never be that kind! Besides you, I have no other friends!"

"You could make a few more," said Ming Buxiang.

Bugui hung his head. "Me... looking like this, no one would want to be my friend."

"The brothers in the Right View Hall are all good people," said Ming Buxiang. "You've tried once already. Why not try a few more times?"

"How?" Bugui asked.

"Tomorrow, when you sweep, step out of the Supernatural Power Vault and say hello to them."

"What do you mean?"

"Just a greeting. One a day is enough," said Ming Buxiang. "After that you'll understand."

The next day, his sweeping done and the time nearly up, Bugui remembered Ming Buxiang's words and hesitated.

He thought of his childhood, of how, when he got close to the other children, he either frightened them to tears or brought down their parents' curses and blows.

He was afraid—of those scornful looks, that contemptuous bearing, as though he were a monster who should never have been born.

He had hidden in Shaolin for ten years, building his whole world in that solitary little room; that was all he had. And now he was to step out of that world, into another that had once been full of hostility toward him.

It's only a greeting, he thought. What more could I lose?

He drew a breath, his legs gone a little weak, and walked slowly, step by step, to that small iron door.

The door was heavy—hard to open once shut, hard to shut once open. He stood in the doorway where everyone could see him. Soon someone noticed, and before long every sweeping disciple had turned to look.

"Everyone..." His mind went blank; he did not know what to say, and at last managed, "Good morning."

By now it was nearly noon. Seeing his awkwardness, they all burst out laughing. Bugui felt the shame of it and was about to shrink back—when he heard them call out in answer, "Good morning!" "Good morning!"

He could tell there was no hostility in their voices. At most, only surprise.

After that, from one greeting a day, he went to greeting them on meeting and on parting, then bit by bit to two or three lines of simple talk; in under three months he had worked his way into the circle of disciples. He could feel it—they had been a little afraid of him at first, but later treated him no differently than anyone else, sometimes even cracking jokes at him. Slow and tongue-tied as he was, when he didn't get the joke he could only grin foolishly along.

He couldn't follow the jokes, but the grinning was genuine.

In under half a year he could read, and he had made friends—and not just one.

All of it was because of Ming Buxiang.

He was as grateful to Ming Buxiang as he had been to his master Liaoyin.

One afternoon Lü Changfeng abruptly proposed an outing to the hills behind the temple. Some of the disciples said they would have to ask their masters' leave; others agreed on the spot. Lü Changfeng asked Ming Buxiang, "We're all going up the back hills to ramble. Are you coming?" Then he turned. "Bugui, are you coming?"

Caught off guard by the question, Bugui glanced quickly at Ming Buxiang. Ming Buxiang nodded, and Bugui nodded along, saying yes.

Lü Changfeng did not notice the understanding that passed between them.

So several dozen monks and laymen gathered outside the Right View Hall and set off in a great, cheerful procession for the back hills.

Ming Buxiang had been up the back hills a few times before, taken there, of course, by Liaoxin. The way was bright and lovely, alive with the chirr of insects and the calls of birds, the whole party laughing and chattering. Reaching an open clearing, Lü Changfeng directed the gathering of firewood; one disciple brought out tea leaves, another cakes and fruit, and they shared everything around, sitting on the ground, talking and laughing, in perfect good humor.

Bugui had not left the temple in ten years, and though this was only the back hills, it felt to him like seeing the sun again. His heart eased and his body loosened; he wandered everywhere, beside himself with excitement.

The talk turned to lore of the martial world, and someone brought up how, more than half a year before, the Head Monk Juekong had led a great body of monks out, gone for over two months. Lü Changfeng said with a grin, "Head Monk Juekong went to the Kunlun Council, to choose the new alliance leader."

Someone asked, "Isn't the leadership rotated among the six great sects? Qingcheng, Huashan, and the Tang Clan can only stand by and drool—what's there to choose?"

Lü Changfeng laughed. "That's where you're wrong. The rule is that he's chosen, and even if in practice the post just goes round by turns, you still have to go through the motions for appearances' sake. Once every ten years, that's the one time the masters of the Nine Great Houses are all gathered under one roof."

"They say the sect masters attend in person," a disciple put in, "but Head Monk Juekong isn't the abbot."

"Are you addled? When is the Kunlun Council held? The fourth month!" Lü Changfeng asked with a smile. "And what great day falls in the fourth month?"

This was a question even Bugui could answer, and the disciples cried out in one voice, "The Buddha's Birthday!"

"The Buddha's Birthday is a grand affair for Shaolin," said Lü Changfeng. "For that very reason, it was agreed decades ago that unless the date is changed, Shaolin can only send a representative. All these decades, except when it's our turn to lead the alliance and we have no choice but to go, we always send someone of weight in the abbot's place."

"It's only because Head Monk Juekong is away that the abbot Juejian has been able to drag out the case of our uncle Liaoxin so long," Lü Changfeng went on.

And so the talk came round again to the case of Liaoxin's disappearance. Months earlier, Juejian had submitted the autopsy findings to Samantabhadra Court, and Head Monk Juekong had handed down a verdict: "Death apparently from a mutual brawl; doubts remain, pending inquiry." This had set off a great upheaval within Shaolin, with rumor and gossip running unchecked—and the one key figure in all of it was the missing Liaoxin. In that time, more than a few hall-monks had called on Ming Buxiang, but found no thread to follow.

Reaching this point, they all fell to guessing, but with Ming Buxiang sitting right there it was awkward to debate it, so they steered the talk elsewhere—which abbot was strict, which lenient, along with all manner of petty rumor.

A disciple said, "Did you hear? Head Monk Juekong had a wife and family down the mountain!"

Several burst out laughing. "Who doesn't know that? Juekong didn't take the tonsure until he was forty. It'd be strange if he had no family."

"Looking at how dignified and upright he is, I'd taken him for a proper monk," the disciple said. "Only later did I learn..."

Ming Buxiang suddenly asked, "Proper monk, lay monk—how do you tell them apart?"

They all looked at him, surprised at the question, but seeing how young he was, said, "You don't know how to tell them apart?"

"Master Liaoxin mentioned it," said Ming Buxiang. "A proper monk enters the temple for the sake of cultivation; a lay monk does not. A lay monk's disciple, even after taking the tonsure, is still a lay monk. Only a proper monk's disciple can be a proper monk."

"That's about the size of it," a disciple said. "Let me tell you—some lay monks only keep the precepts inside the temple. Outside it, never mind the ones with wives and families; there's drinking, whoring, and gambling too."

At this, several disciples wore looks of disdain.

"When I went down to Buddha City to buy things a while back, I got to know a few disciples from Ksitigarbha Court. My master particularly charged me to keep my distance from lay-monk disciples," said one already tonsured, sipping his tea. "When I ran into them lately, I didn't even greet them."

"My master said the same," said another youth. "Said those people don't keep to the right path."

"The Right Action Hall is the real spectacle. I heard from a brother there that the moment you walk into the dining hall, the proper monks sit on one side, the lay monks on the other, with a whole row of empty seats between—like fire and water."

The rift between proper and lay monks was widening, a hidden current running deep, and even the disciples were beginning to sense that something was wrong.

"Don't talk nonsense," said Lü Changfeng. "Brother Ming still lives in the Right Action Hall. Ask him and you'll know." He looked to Ming Buxiang. "Is it really like that?"

"There aren't enough seats in the dining hall to leave a whole row empty," said Ming Buxiang.

They all laughed.

A familiar voice cut in, cursing. "Living high, aren't you, you little wretch!" They looked over to see a monk whose face was covered in dark blotches—none other than Benyue, who had somehow come up to the back hills today as well.

Benyue strode forward, snarling, "Your master kills a man and flees, and here you are, living it up!" With that he drove a kick into Ming Buxiang's back, sending him sprawling.

A roar went up, and Bugui charged forward, throwing his arms around Benyue's waist. By now Bugui regarded Ming Buxiang as kin—how could he stand by while he was abused? Seeing him struck, he had rushed in. Benyue, startled by Bugui's fearsome shape, gave a jump; Bugui was strong and was about to heave him to the ground. Benyue, not about to suffer such insolence, propped his hands under Bugui's arms, locking onto his meridians, then drove a knee up into Bugui's belly. Bugui took the pain but still flung Benyue off with all his force. Benyue staggered back a few steps, then threw two punches in quick succession, left and right, into Bugui's face. Bugui's hide was thick and his flesh tough; he gave ground a step or two and meant to fight on, but several disciples rushed in and held him back.

Lü Changfeng rose, furious. "What right have you to hit people?!"

"The wretch is a disciple of the Right Action Hall," said Benyue. "What business is it of the Right View Hall's?"

"A floor-sweeper has the right to discipline disciples? Is that the rule of the Right Action Hall?"

"What of sweeping floors?" Benyue spat. "Aren't you a floor-sweeper too? Where's your right to discipline me?"

"You hurt my friend, so it's my business!" said Lü Changfeng.