The Buddha's Hand and the Spider's Thread Part 2

Ming Buxiang tugged at Lü Changfeng's sleeve and said mildly, "It doesn't matter."

Benyue swung another slap at Ming Buxiang, cursing, "Who said you could speak?"

He knew Ming Buxiang no longer had Liaoxin to back him, and reckoned that, given his peculiar standing, no master would step up for him either—so he meant to grind him down all the harder.

Lü Changfeng wasted no more words and spun a kick at Benyue.

"Come on, then!" Benyue roared.

The two went at it. Several Right View Hall disciples shielded Ming Buxiang and Bugui; others wanted to break it up but were checked by Lü Changfeng's shout.

At the start the two traded fists and feet, only simple grappling, and Lü Changfeng was plainly the stronger. Seeing he could not win, Benyue turned fists into palms, striking out in unbroken waves as though he had sprouted extra arms, palm-shadows layered thick.

This was the Thousand-Eye Thousand-Hand Avalokitesvara Palm, a high-order skill of the temple, not the stuff of common brawls. Benyue's inner power ran shallow, but his forms were practiced; trusting in his bulkier frame over Lü Changfeng, he assumed his inner strength must run deeper, and meant to win by it.

He had reckoned wrong. Lü Changfeng suddenly struck out a palm, its force gusting into the face—the Great Vajra Palm.

In martial terms, the Vajra Palm lay in the sheer weight of its force, the Avalokitesvara Palm in deftness; each had its strengths. But skill knows no high or low—inner power does. Though Lü Changfeng was barely past twenty, his inner strength was honed deeper than Benyue's; for every three or five palms Benyue threw, Lü Changfeng need only answer with one to drive him back step by step.

A few exchanges more, and Lü Changfeng landed a palm on Benyue's shoulder, knocking him back several paces. Having taken the worst of it and judging himself outmatched, Benyue cursed, "You're trading on your numbers today, so I'll swallow this loss. We'll see how long you can shelter that wretch!" And with that he turned and left.

A disciple jeered after him, "Don't run off! We'll pick a weaker one to fight you, one on one—no ganging up!"

The crowd roared with laughter and cheered, "Brother Lü's the best!" "What a hand Brother Lü has!"—thronging around Lü Changfeng as though around a great hero.

Lü Changfeng asked Bugui, "You all right?" Bugui shook his head. "I'm fine." But there was a bitter, unsatisfied look on his face.

"Cross Benyue," said Ming Buxiang, "and sooner or later he'll find a chance to get even."

Someone else said, "If he goes and reports it, Brother Lü might be punished by his master."

"The Spotted Dog's a lay monk," said Lü Changfeng. "Hitting him, my master will praise me."

The crowd laughed again.

Lü Changfeng said to Ming Buxiang, "You live in the Right Action Hall. Sooner or later he'll come make trouble for you, and you'll have nowhere to hide. There's still an empty room in the Right View Hall. You really won't move in?"

Ming Buxiang shook his head again. "That's my master's room."

Seeing how he held to the thought of his master, they were all rather moved. Lü Changfeng said, "If he bullies you again, tell me, and I'll stand up for you."

"Brawling is forbidden in the temple," said Ming Buxiang, "and he has helpers." Then he added, "With Brother Lü beside me now, if he comes to provoke me, Brother Lü will help me too."

Lü Changfeng laughed aloud. "That's nothing. Don't worry—if he dares make a noise about it, I'll tell my master how he bullied you, and someone above will see justice done. The brothers of the Right View Hall are all your backing."

The words were scarcely out before the brothers cried in one voice, "That's right—we're all your backing!"

Ming Buxiang looked around at them and suddenly smiled, warm as the morning sun. Since entering the Right View Hall, he had never been seen to smile by anyone but Bugui; the others had supposed it was grief over Liaoxin's disappearance, and seeing him smile now, they felt they had done a good thing, and were all delighted.

All but Bugui.

He stood at the back of the crowd, his face desolate.

That night Bugui tossed and turned, unable to rest. Early the next morning, sweeping the Supernatural Power Vault, he could not stop himself from secretly slipping out a treatise on the Dragon Claw Hand and tucking it into his robe.

He chose that one because, of all the characters, so many he could not make out—only the word "dragon" struck him as mighty and commanding.

That afternoon, while Ming Buxiang taught him to read, Bugui asked about the bad blood between Benyue and him. "He used to be foreman of the Right Action Hall's labor monks, like Brother Gloom," said Ming Buxiang. "Only he lorded it over those under him, giving orders and doing none of the work himself. People feared him but did not respect him."

"But Brother Lü is so beloved by everyone," said Bugui.

"He's warm-hearted, always helping the brothers, so of course he's loved," said Ming Buxiang. "If you helped the brothers often too, you'd be loved as well."

Bugui nodded and asked no more.

After that Bugui took to helping the brothers of his own accord. He learned that whenever the brothers needed supplies they had to buy them in Buddha City, a full five li away, and that some, forbidden to leave the temple without their masters' leave, inevitably needed someone to buy for them, and when they couldn't find anyone convenient, had to go begging help all around. Bugui had no master and could come and go freely, so he volunteered, buying supplies for all the brothers. At first they were a little embarrassed and tried to decline, but seeing Bugui insist, they accepted his kindness.

Short and hunched as he was, Bugui was strong, and no quantity of goods was too much for him to haul. Whenever he came back from a buying trip, everyone thanked him and praised him, and though Bugui was drenched in sweat and worn out, he always smiled with delight.

As time went on they grew used to it, and whenever they wanted something but didn't care to make the long trip, they entrusted Bugui with the buying—sometimes sending him on the ten-li round trip for nothing more than a missing toothbrush.

In the last month of the year, snow fell heavy over Mount Shaoshi, and then came the New Year. Shaolin observed the Buddha's Birthday rather than the New Year, but there was still merrymaking to be done. After that came the birthdays of the bodhisattvas Avalokitesvara and Samantabhadra, and over those months the Right View Hall disciples were run quite off their feet.

In the blink of an eye it was the warm third month of spring. One day someone came knocking at Ming Buxiang's door to say the abbot Juejian was asking for him in the Right Action Hall.

"I'd meant to come see you sooner," Juejian said. "But there's no end of business in the Right Action Hall, and I could never spare the time, and after a while I forgot, until lately it came back to me."

"This disciple knows how to look after himself," said Ming Buxiang. "I only hope my master may be found soon." He paused, then went on, "It would also spare the temple its strife."

Juejian raised an eyebrow. "I hear you've borrowed a great many books in the Right View Hall. Which have you read?" Ming Buxiang reported them one by one, and Juejian put questions here and there, to which Ming Buxiang answered without a stumble, leaving Juejian full of admiration.

His examination done, Juejian said, "You've studied hard in the Right View Hall, and that gladdens me—your master, I should think, would be glad of it too. What gift would you like? I'll give it to you."

"This disciple needs no gift," said Ming Buxiang.

"This is a reward, not a debt," said Juejian. "It's to encourage your diligence. If you remember it, you'll strive all the harder."

Ming Buxiang thought a moment. "I'd like a pair of shoes."

Juejian asked, puzzled, "Shoes?"

"Yes. A pair of shoes."

Juejian laughed. "Where's the difficulty in that? I'll have someone bring them to you in a day or two."

Ming Buxiang bowed. "Thank you, Abbot."

Juejian commended him a little more and had someone see him back.

In that same third month, two things happened in the Right View Hall.

The first was that Brother Gloom passed his test of skill and was appointed an overseer-monk, to leave Shaolin and go to Shanxi.

The others were glad for him, and saddened at the parting, and at the same time the post of labor foreman fell vacant. The foremanship was nothing much to covet; by custom the departing foreman nominated his successor and the abbot approved, and the choice could only be Lü Changfeng.

At the farewell feast, the others pooled their money to buy Brother Gloom a set of monk's robes and shoes—bought down the mountain by Bugui, of course. Each in turn spoke his words of parting.

When it came to Ming Buxiang, Brother Gloom said, "Since you joined the Right View Hall I've had little to do with the management and seen little of you, and taught you nothing. Looking back now, I feel I've wronged you."

"The brothers of the Right View Hall are all good people," said Ming Buxiang. "Brother Lü is good, and Brother Bu is good. I'm only a little sad—and next year, I expect, I'll be sad again."

"How do you mean?" Brother Gloom asked.

"Within two years it should be Brother Lü's turn to take a Hero's Warrant and leave the temple," said Ming Buxiang.

Brother Gloom raised an eyebrow, thinking, Brother Lü has learned his skills well; he may not even need two years to go down the mountain. These past six months I've been busy preparing for the test, and let a good deal of the labor work slide—run ragged at both ends, with no peace—and I leaned on him for all of it. After I'm gone, who will Brother Lü turn to for help?

Thinking this, he could not help glancing at Bugui.

Just then Lü Changfeng raised his teacup and called out, "To Brother Gloom—a smooth road, an early posting, and a swift return to Shaolin!"

They all raised their cups and clinked them, laughing together.

Two days after Brother Gloom left, the abbot Jueming handed down his order: Bu Li would replace Benyan as foreman of the labor detail.

At this appointment, not only Lü Changfeng but everyone was dumbfounded—Bugui no less than the rest.

Lü Changfeng had indeed considered that serving as labor foreman would interfere with his test of skill, but he thought highly of himself and judged it not impossible to manage both; Brother Gloom's good intentions had been, it seemed, a one-sided notion. Bugui had grown well liked among the brothers of late, was of a fitting age, and the labor needed no great talent; since he had no ambition for a Hero's Warrant and would not be leaving the temple, the post suited him well enough. Yet for some reason Lü Changfeng always felt a knot of resentment lodged in his chest.

Taking up the post, Bugui stammered, "I... well... I'll do my best." Watching him stutter and fumble, the others wavered a little more.

That afternoon Ming Buxiang came to teach Bugui to read. Over this past half year and more, Bugui had learned a great many common characters and now and then would bring out some obscure one to ask about, which Ming Buxiang would teach him on the spot. Young as he was, Ming Buxiang had become a half-teacher in Bugui's eyes; whenever he was at a loss, he had only to ask.

"Brother Ming, I... I've become foreman, and... well... what should I do?"

"I've never been a foreman, so I don't know how to teach you," said Ming Buxiang. "But leading by example is surely never wrong."

Bugui asked what that meant, and learned it was to set himself up as a model—to do more himself, and those under him would fall in willingly.

Bugui understood. But he did too much.

For hauling water each man carried ten buckets; trusting in his strength, Bugui carried dozens more, so that everyone else carried two fewer.

For splitting wood, Bugui alone did the work of five, and everyone split a few bundles less.

For cleaning, Bugui was foremost of all, shifting the heavy things, scrubbing the old grime by his own hand.

He only did the work, and assigned none of it, but every brother was delighted, all praising Bugui: since he took the post, their work had grown much lighter. Bugui laughed with pleasure too, and his gratitude to Ming Buxiang deepened a little more.

The second great event of the third month also concerned Bugui.

He lost the money the other disciples had given him to buy snacks.

"I had it with me, I'm sure of it!" Bugui was wretched with vexation. "When I got to Buddha City and reached into my pocket, it was all gone..."

"You weren't picked, were you?" a disciple said. "Buddha City's full of cutpurses. I told you to be careful."

"I was careful," Bugui said dejectedly. "I'm sorry, everyone."

Lü Changfeng comforted him. "It's only a few dozen coppers. Don't take it to heart."

The monks of the Right View Hall were all proper monks, with no income beyond their stipend, and the pocket money given to disciples was scant—some relied on help from family. The snack-buying had drawn many in this time, a few hundred coppers at most, a few dozen at least; the sum was not large, but it stung.

Stinging or not, there was nothing to be done, and Bugui could not make it good. Besides, these past months he had relied on Bugui to run his errands; a good pair of shoes had been worn to rags in the doing of it—how could anyone have the face to lose the money and then lay it on him?

Bugui went back to his room, low in spirits. Then came a knock, and he saw it was Ming Buxiang, a bundle in his hand.

Bugui said miserably, "Brother Ming, are they still angry with me?"

"Brother Bu, have you heard the story of the broken oil jug?" said Ming Buxiang.

"What story?"

"A man went to the market and bought a jug of oil. Carrying it home in his arms, he slipped on the way and dropped it, and it shattered. The man didn't even turn his head; he just walked on. A passerby called out, 'Hey, your oil jug's broken!' Brother Bu, can you guess how the man answered?"

Bugui, who was not quick, scratched his head. "I don't know."

"The jug's broken—it's broken," said Ming Buxiang. "What good would looking back do?"

Bugui blinked, half catching the sense.

"The money's lost," said Ming Buxiang. "What use is regret? From now on, just help the brothers a bit more."

Then it dawned on Bugui, and he nodded again and again.

Ming Buxiang crouched, opened the bundle, and drew out a pair of brand-new monk's shoes. "Try them. Do they fit?"

"What's this?" Bugui asked hurriedly.

"It's the gift the abbot Juejian gave me. I thought they'd suit you. Only don't tell anyone—if Abbot Juejian were to hear of it, it wouldn't look well for him."

"And if someone asks?" said Bugui. "What do I say?"

"Just say you bought them yourself. You earn a little stipend for your labor in the hall."

"These shoes are so fine, I can't take them."

"Your old pair, up and down the mountain, are worn through and past wearing," said Ming Buxiang. "Put on these new ones, and you'll be able to move faster when you buy things for the brothers."

Bugui was overcome. He threw his arms around Ming Buxiang and wept. "Brother Ming, you're a truly good man!" Ming Buxiang waited for him to finish crying, then had him try the shoes on; they were a touch narrow, but they fit well enough.

The day after he put on the new shoes, Bugui noticed that the way everyone looked at him had changed. He took it for the lost money, that they still hadn't gotten over it, and only thought how petty they were—nowhere near as generous as Brother Ming.

But from that day on, no one ever again sent him down the mountain to buy things. Little by little he felt himself being shut out, and behind his back came whispers he could not understand.

Bugui grew anxious. These "friends" had cost him such effort to win, and he did not understand what had gone wrong. He could only work all the harder, taking on more and more, to win this group of friends back.

And bit by bit the brothers of the Right View Hall grew slack, no longer putting their hearts into the sweeping and the chores. The less heart they put in, the more Bugui had to do, and the more Bugui did, the less heart they put in.

By the fourth month, when Juejian came to the Right View Hall to see the abbot Jueming, he found Ming Buxiang, Bu Li, and the others splitting wood, and noticed that Ming Buxiang still wore his old shoes. Puzzled, he saw Ming Buxiang shake his head at him, and following his glance, found that the new shoes were on Bugui's feet.

He knew Bu Li's story, and knew that after Ming Buxiang came to the Right View Hall, Bu Li—who had not been seen by anyone for ten years—had been willing to step out of his room and even grow close to the other disciples; this, he thought, must be Ming Buxiang's doing. He gave Ming Buxiang a faint smile, nodded, and turned to go.

This child has not disappointed me after all, Juejian thought. But he had not gone two steps when he turned back, frowning, and after a moment closed his eyes, then turned and left.

A while later a hall-monk came and called Bugui over.

"How much wood was to be split today?" the monk asked.

"A hundred bundles," said Bugui.

"How much did you split, and how much did that child?"

"I split twenty bundles, and Brother Ming split ten."

"The two of you split thirty bundles, and the remaining seventy are left for twenty-odd disciples to share?"

"Brother Lü split five too," Bugui said quickly, but his defense found no favor.

"You're the foreman. With the labor so unevenly shared, what kind of work is this?"

Bugui stammered, "But the wood gets split in the end, every day. The work's never held up past the deadline."

"A foreman isn't about who does the most work," said the monk. "It's about dividing the labor fairly, overseeing and managing it, each man to his task. If it were about doing the most, you'd just pick the strongest as foreman—why would you need an older man at all?"

Bugui had no answer.

"From now on the labor must be shared fairly. Next time I'll come to oversee it, and if I see anyone slacking again, you'll be the one punished."

Bugui mumbled his assent.

But he could no longer command the brothers of the Right View Hall.

The labor he assigned, much or little, was never finished. The numbers had not dropped, yet the great hall of the Sutra Repository was never as bright as before; the wood-splitting and water-hauling fell behind day after day, and he took no end of scolding for it.

When he grew anxious Bugui would chide them; in time chiding did no good, so he cursed.

But cursing did no good either—and what was more, over this stretch of days, no one had asked him in a long while to go rambling or drinking or chatting.

At last he saw it: he had been frozen out.

But he did not know why.

Only when Lü Changfeng now and then urged them on did the disciples set to work in earnest.

No one took him seriously at all.

Frantic, he turned to Ming Buxiang for help, and Ming Buxiang only urged him to let it go and suggested he have a talk with Lü Changfeng.

But Lü Changfeng always pointedly avoided him.

One day, in a fit of rage, he actually struck one of the younger brothers. Everyone seemed shocked, and only then began to work in earnest. He remembered the Benyue that Ming Buxiang had told him of, and felt remorse; he apologized to the young brother, who put him off with a few words and then kept his distance.

After that day the other brothers began working in earnest, and the work was finished on time at last, and Bugui won the hall-monks' praise once more.

The method was crude, but it worked: whenever the brothers slacked, he had only to roar a few times, or even strike someone, and the rest would set to. And no one, it seemed, complained of him to the hall-monks.

But Lü Changfeng stopped working.

He looked at Bugui always with scorn, and however Bugui bellowed and raged, he would not be moved—as though he were goading Bugui into striking him.

And the work Lü Changfeng left undone was all taken up by Ming Buxiang, which made Bugui feel all the more in his debt.

One day Bugui finally could not hold back and swung a fist at Lü Changfeng. But Lü Changfeng seemed to have waited a long while for it; he slipped aside lightly, caught Bugui's arm and wrenched it, until Bugui howled with pain.

He heard all the brothers clapping and cheering.

He felt utterly humiliated—humiliated as he had been in childhood when other parents drove their children away from him, humiliated as when the other children threw stones.

Only Ming Buxiang anxiously urged Lü Changfeng to let go.

Only Ming Buxiang was his friend—the first friend, and the last.

"It's my fault you've come to this," Ming Buxiang said in Bugui's room, handing him a jar of bruise salve.

"It's nothing to do with you," said Bugui. "They hate me."

"They think you stole their money." Ming Buxiang pointed at the new shoes on his feet. "They think you bought these shoes with the stolen money. I heard them say it."

Only then did it all come clear to Bugui—so this was why they had drifted away from him.

"I explained it to them, but they wouldn't believe me," said Ming Buxiang.

"What do I do?" Bugui asked.

"Tomorrow I'll go and bring Abbot Juejian to bear witness and clear your name—then they'll believe you," said Ming Buxiang.

"Will it work?" Bugui asked.

"Hand the foremanship back to Brother Lü," said Ming Buxiang. "Brother Lü will forgive you. If Brother Lü forgives you, the other brothers will forgive you."

Forgive? After Ming Buxiang left, Bugui lay on his bed, turning it over and over.

This once, and only this once, he did not believe Ming Buxiang—because he had cursed them, had struck them.

So long as Lü Changfeng was there, he could never win back everyone's trust, because everyone loved Lü Changfeng. Handsome, tall, skilled in martial arts, well-bred, and ready to act for justice's sake.

Beside him, Bugui was only a hunchback.

In these days Bugui had finally come out of his room. The world outside was vast, but too heavy—so heavy he could not straighten his back under it. It was as though he had shrunk back into that little dark room, alone in its cramped walls, practicing the Iron Plank Bridge, struggling with all his might to straighten his hunched spine by even a fraction.

At last he understood: all along, he had been jealous of Lü Changfeng.

He took the Dragon Claw Hand treatise from the drawer, tucked it into his robe, and slipped out under cover of night.

He knew where Lü Changfeng's room was. He was no thief—but he could make a thief of Lü Changfeng. To steal a treatise from the Sutra Repository was a grave crime; he had only to report tomorrow morning that a scripture had been stolen, and every monk's quarters in the Right View Hall would be searched, and Lü Changfeng would be caught with the goods on him.

He could say, too, that Lü Changfeng was the one who had stolen the money—and with Ming Buxiang's testimony proving these shoes had not been bought with stolen coin, Lü Changfeng would be the likeliest thief.

Then he and his "friends" could put the "misunderstanding" behind them—this was how he would win their trust back.

He crept along, dodging the patrolling watch-monks, and came outside Lü Changfeng's room. It was a two-room lodging; he eased the main door open. Lü Changfeng slept in the room on the right. He gave the door a push—curse it, it was locked.

He circled around to the back, saw a window standing open, and climbed in through it.

He had no practice at climbing through windows, and just when he thought he was through, the hump on his back struck the window frame with a great crash. Horror-struck, before he could pull back, Lü Changfeng had already woken; seeing the figure at the window, he shouted, "Thief! Thief!"

Lü Changfeng rushed over. Bugui tried to back out the window, but his hump was wedged fast and for a moment he could not move, and Lü Changfeng seized him by the collar. Recognizing Bugui, he said in astonishment, "It's you? What are you doing breaking into my room in the dead of night?!"

There was a roaring in Bugui's head, everything a blur; he could think only of struggling free and escaping. If he were caught here, he would never make a friend again in all his life. But Lü Changfeng's skill far outstripped his own—how could he break loose? With no time in the crisis to think it through, Bugui hooked his right hand into a claw and thrust it forward, loosing the one move of the Dragon Claw Hand he had drilled for over half a year—Adamant-Crushing Force—clamping it at Lü Changfeng's throat.

Lü Changfeng knew the shallowness of Bugui's skill and paid the strike no mind; his hands still gripping Bugui's collar, he merely turned his neck aside to dodge.

But he was wrong. Bugui's claw closed on his throat all the same, and with one wrench it tore his windpipe apart. Lü Changfeng clutched his throat with both hands, unable to breathe, gasping for air, and in moments toppled to the floor, dead.

Bugui did not escape either. The watch-monks and disciples who came at the noise seized him and pinned him to the ground.

The thing shook all of Shaolin. A monk of the Right View Hall had framed an innocent man, killed a brother of his own order, stolen a treatise and murdered, and studied a martial text in secret—any one of these crimes was punishable by death.

The temple was already in turmoil over the case of the fatal brawl between proper and lay monks, and at this very juncture Bugui, in his standing as both proper and lay, had killed a disciple of the temple—touching the temple's most sensitive nerve, so that the matter seemed once more to rise to the pitch of the proper-and-lay struggle.

Ming Buxiang visited Bugui once in his cell. He asked nothing, and Bugui had nothing to say. The two sat facing each other without a word, Bugui only staring at Ming Buxiang's face.

Brother Ming's face is as fine as ever—far finer than Lü Changfeng's. From their first meeting he had carried that face in his mind. If in my next life I were born with that face, Bugui thought, I too would have many friends.

As Ming Buxiang rose to go, Bugui said, "Thank you, friend. What I owe you, I'll repay in my next life."

Ming Buxiang nodded and did not look back.

The Right Action Hall's ruling came down swiftly.

Execution, carried out at once.

A Shaolin execution was not by beheading; in keeping with the Buddhist spirit of mercy, they chose a death as painless as could be. The condemned was bound and made to kneel forward, while the executioner stood behind him—a monk who must have trained in a hard, fierce finger-skill of the Dragon Claw Hand's order or above. Such monks were mostly lay monks, who with their finger-force shattered the lung-shu and heart-shu points on the condemned's back; at a single blow the heart and lungs burst, and death came without a sound, without pain.

The executioner that day used the very art Bugui alone had known, the one with which he had killed Lü Changfeng—the Dragon Claw Hand.

Kneeling in the execution yard, Bugui looked around him, but he did not see Ming Buxiang.

This is karmic retribution, Bugui thought, and closed his eyes. Suddenly he remembered the story the abbot Jueming had told, the one he had loved so well—Kandata and the spider.

Perhaps that spider's thread was never meant to save Kandata, Bugui thought. Perhaps it was only there to let him fall deeper, and harder...

He felt a pain in his back, the pain reaching through to his chest, and before it could spread to the rest of him, his awareness was already dissolving, a heavy drowsiness sweeping over him.

...

After Bugui's death, Ming Buxiang asked that the Supernatural Power Vault be given to him alone to clean. The others took it for a way of honoring Bugui's memory, and agreed.

An older brother became the new foreman, and the sweeping of the Right View Hall went on as before—windows bright, tables clean, everything neat and trim, every disciple earnest and diligent, not one of them slacking now.

Only they would never go out together again, and there was far less that passed between them than before.

Each of them carried a heavy weight of sin.

Like the hump on Bugui's back.