True Sutra, False Sutra

Kunlun Year 83, the second month.

Thirteen prayer mats had been laid out in the center of the council hall of the Abbot's Court, and on each sat a monk.

The one in the middle wore a red kasaya. His frame was lean as old pine, his bearing graceful as a crane; white brows drooped low over half-closed, compassionate eyes. This was Juesheng, abbot of Shaolin Temple.

To his left and right sat six monks each, robed in yellow. On the left, in order, were Jueyun, head of the Manjushri Court; Jueguan, head of the Avalokitesvara Court; Jueming, abbot of the Right View Hall; Jueguang, abbot of the Right Concentration Hall; Jueru, abbot of the Right Speech Hall; and Juewen, abbot of the Right Mindfulness Hall.

The first man on the right was tall and broad, chest out and spine straight, his face all hard angles, his gaze sharp and commanding—like a drawn sword resting at the brow that left a man uneasy whether sitting or lying down, even when it made no threat, forever on guard, knowing that the slightest offense would leave him bloodied. This was the foremost Lay Monk of the age: Juekong, head of the Samantabhadra Court.

The second man on the right had a round face and a broad, heavy build, his fat features glistening; he was also the eldest present. This was Zide, head of the Ksitigarbha Court, and one of the few monks of the "Zi" generation still left at Shaolin Temple. The next three were Juejian, abbot of the Right Action Hall; Jueji, abbot of the Right Livelihood Hall; and Jueci, abbot of the Right Effort Hall. The last, somewhere past forty and the youngest of them all, bore the dharma name Liaozheng. He was abbot of the Right Thought Hall, and the only monk of the "Liao" generation in the room.

For a time the thirteen sat in silence, each lost in his own thoughts. At length Abbot Juesheng spoke. "What are everyone's thoughts?"

"In my view, renaming the Lay Monks must not be done." Even as he spoke, Juekong sat with his spine straight as a rule, hands resting on his knees, his dignity perfectly measured. From his bearing alone, one might have taken him for the master of the whole sect.

He went on. "It breeds the mind of discrimination."

"Head Juekong overstates the matter." The speaker was Jueguan, head of the Avalokitesvara Court. The Avalokitesvara Court governed the temple's internal and external affairs, divided between the Right Speech Hall, which handled matters within, and the Right Mindfulness Hall, which handled those without. Of all the men in the four courts and eight halls, Jueguan was perhaps the one who loathed the Lay Monks most, forever finding pretexts to thwart them. His methods were cunning and ruthless, a single stroke that drew blood, and yet his victims could do nothing against him. The Lay Monks both hated and feared him, and had given him the nickname "Knife in the Nest." This whole council of the four courts had been jointly raised by Jueguan and Jueru, abbot of the Right Speech Hall, with one aim: to force the Lay Monks to change their names.

Now this Knife in the Nest continued. "Separating Proper from lay by name is only for ease of governance. Shaolin Temple was founded as a place of quiet cultivation, but in these years its affairs have grown tangled and burdensome, a great distraction from practice, and it has fallen wholly to the Lay Monks to manage them. Their merit cannot be erased. Take the Samantabhadra Court—everything in it runs in perfect order, thanks entirely to the labor and care of Head Juekong."

Juekong said flatly, "Head Jueguan may spare us these empty words."

"Three months ago," Jueguan said, "Liaozhen went to Zhejiang on temple business, spent the night in a brothel, gambled away his every last coin, and was seized by the Beggars' Sect, who sent men to escort him home to fetch the money. Two months ago, Bengang brawled and made trouble in Shaanxi, and the Huashan Sect cut off his nose and sent him back. In both cases the Samantabhadra Court handed down light judgments—and dig to the root of it, both men were Lay Monks. Bengang is young and hot-blooded, given to brute displays of temper; Liaozhen is fond of women and gambling. None of this is so grave in itself. They give heart and strength to the temple's affairs, and have no mind for the Buddha—so why hold them to such harsh standards? Let those who break the rules be punished by the code, and that is enough. But out beyond the temple gates, will anyone ask whether you, Liaozhen, are a Proper Monk or a Lay Monk—or you, Bengang?"

"It is not only the Lay Monks who flout the precepts," Juekong said. "Liaoxin has yet to return. Has anyone asked whether he is Proper or lay?"

"The precepts are kept by the Proper Monks," Jueguan said. "The disciplines are kept by the Proper Monks. The Lay Monks need only avoid breaking the rules. The morning and evening recitations—who has ever held the Lay Monks to them? Outside Shaolin, what temple of true faith makes a distinction between Proper and lay? And yet among Shaolin's own monks, those who break the precepts are many."

"The strife within the temple springs from this very division of Proper and lay," Juekong said. "Rather than think how to dissolve it, Head Jueguan would carve the difference still deeper into our names. Would that not only inflame the quarrel further?"

"Twenty years ago," Jueguan said, "when Old Beggar Peng sheathed his saber and retired, I went to Jiangxi to offer my congratulations. While we reminisced, do you know what he said to me?" He looked at Juekong. "He said that these days, when the Qunfang House opens its doors and finds a monk standing there, the girls can't tell whether he's come to whore or to beg alms. Shaolin Temple stands among the Nine Great Houses of the martial world—but before the Buddha, we are merely disciples. In these past ten years, of every ten monks within the temple who have broken the precepts, nine were Lay Monks. Shaolin Temple is a stronghold of the Buddhist faith. How can we let our disciples defile the Three Jewels?"

"There are countless monks under heaven," Juekong said. "Who can say they all come from Shaolin?" Even with the Knife in the Nest's sneering jabs, the leader of the Lay Monks kept his commanding air, his tone steady and composed. "Hengshan, the Tang Clan—do the houses under the Nine Great Houses not have monastic orders of their own?"

"The monks elsewhere are far more dignified than ours at Shaolin," Jueguan said. "And the proposal I bring is no complicated thing. I ask only that the present Lay Monks and their disciples set the character 'sui'—'following'—before their dharma names, to mark that they follow the lay order. Take the abbot of my own court's Right Mindfulness Hall, whose dharma name is Juewen: he would become Sui Juewen. From now on the Lay Monks' disciples would no longer follow the generational sequence of 'Liao, Ben, Yuan, Ke, Wu,' but a new sequence of eight characters—'Sensation, Perception, Formation, Consciousness; a single thought, like a dream.' An outsider would hear it and know at once they were Lay Monks, and not call them to account for the precepts."

"Why is it the Lay Monks who must change their names?" The speaker was a broad-shouldered, heavyset monk of middle years. Though shorter than Juekong, he was still a large man, and the solid muscle beneath his robes was plain to see. By contrast his head, small though properly set, looked almost comical perched atop such a body. This was Jueji, abbot of the Right Livelihood Hall, himself a Lay Monk and Juekong's right hand, bold and fierce by nature. That nature, paired with the small head that ill-suited his powerful frame, had earned him the nickname "Brocade-Maned Lion."

"For fifty years Proper and lay have been mingled together, sharing the same generational sequence with never a problem—and now a single decree from the Avalokitesvara Court is to make every monk change his name? That is high-handed, to say the least." The Brocade-Maned Lion Jueji's voice rang out, loud and full of displeasure.

The one who wore an unbroken smile was Jueru, abbot of the Right Speech Hall. He governed the temple's many rules and regulations, and was forever grinning and chuckling; within the temple they called him "Laughing Amitabha." He was mild with everyone, a deft hand at smoothing things over; when a subordinate erred, he corrected them with a smile and seldom raised his voice in anger.

Now Laughing Amitabha Jueru spoke. "There is no harm in having the Proper Monks change their names as well—we need only set the character 'Shi' before each Proper Monk's dharma name. As for the names, they serve only to tell one from another. Proper and lay alike are disciples of the temple, and there will be no difference in their treatment or standing hereafter."

"No difference—and yet a distinction." The speaker was Juewen, abbot of the Right Mindfulness Hall, under the Avalokitesvara Court, the Lay Monk most devoted of all to the dharma. "Even a single red thread embroidered onto a robe is a distinction. And is the mind of discrimination not itself an obstacle to practice?" Unlike the sharp clash of the two court heads, and unlike Jueguan's relentless pressing, he spoke these words with great calm—even, it seemed, with a touch of worry.

Juewen had given his heart to the Buddha in his youth, but by an unlucky turn had taken a Lay Monk for his master, and so had been counted ever after among the lay order. Most men caught in so awkward a place would have been torn between both sides; but his nature was gentle, his work tireless and uncomplaining, careful and exact, and he had talent besides—he could read a man's face and unravel the affairs of the day. So he had risen step by step until he became Juekong's right hand, and at last abbot of the Right Mindfulness Hall, charged with the temple's dealings with the Nine Great Houses.

Both the Right Speech Hall and the Right Mindfulness Hall fell under the Avalokitesvara Court, and that Juewen and Jueru had never gotten along was common knowledge.

All at once a faint snore rose, strangely distinct in the great hall. Juesheng's gaze went to Zide, head of the Ksitigarbha Court. Zide was a heavy man, well over two hundred catties. The Ksitigarbha Court handled provisions of every kind—purchasing, building, budgets, expenditures—the equivalent of another house's accounting, treasury, and general affairs all in one. Over forty years Zide had saved the temple no small sum through diligence and shrewd reckoning, and so had earned his place in the Ksitigarbha Court. Only past the age of sixty had he become its head, and that owed entirely to Juekong's strenuous recommendation.

Before taking the tonsure he had been the richest man in Henan; it was said he had taken five concubines and sired a swarm of children, the newest concubine wed only a few years back—and this too was common knowledge. If anyone could stand as the very emblem of just how worldly a Lay Monk could be, it was Zide; go a step beyond him and one would be treading the edge of breaking the precepts outright.

Seeing Zide asleep, the others frowned. Then Head Jueguan, seated directly across from him, suddenly called out at the top of his voice, "Run, Uncle Zide! Head Juekong is coming!"

Zide jolted awake and sprang to his feet, crying, "Where? Where is Head Juekong?"

"Right here," Juekong said coldly. Only then did Zide realize he had been played by Jueguan, and he sat back down, his round old face flushed with vexation. Though a generation senior to Jueguan, he carried no authority and dared not scold him; and even as he seethed at this Knife in the Nest, he heard Abbot Juesheng ask, "And what do you make of this matter of renaming the Lay Monks?"

Zide, with no idea what was being discussed, hastily said, "Nephew Juekong has the right of it, Nephew Juekong has the right of it. I see it much as he does."

Juejian asked, "Is Head Juekong for it or against it? Does Uncle Zide even know?"

Zide blinked, then said quickly, "I know, I know."

He claimed to know—but by the look of him, he had likely fallen asleep not long after the council began.

Jueci, abbot of the Right Effort Hall, which fell under the Ksitigarbha Court—nicknamed the "Iron Rooster" for his stinginess—hurried to cover for Zide. "I am of one mind with Uncle Zide. We both hold that renaming would be unwise."

So now the head of the Lay Monks, Juekong; the Brocade-Maned Lion Jueji; Zide with his swarm of children; the devout Juewen; and the Iron Rooster Jueci—five Lay Monks in all—had voiced their opposition. As for the seven Proper Monks, none had spoken save the head of the Avalokitesvara Court, Jueguan, and his able lieutenant, Laughing Amitabha Jueru.

Abbot Juesheng turned his head. "And what does Head Jueyun think?"

Jueyun was head of the Manjushri Court, second in standing only to the abbot himself, and so the abbot had asked him first. Shaolin was a sect built upon the dharma, and within its lands the great majority held to the Buddhist faith. The Manjushri Court kept the temple's collected scriptures, taught its martial arts and dharma, and arranged all the important rites throughout Shaolin's domain; the monks who entered its halls were all Proper Monks, chosen first for their depth of study in martial arts and dharma. Jueyun had no gift for worldly affairs, but his cultivation of the dharma was profound. His feeling toward the Lay Monks was not as fiercely hostile as Jueguan's, yet he too found it strange and unnatural for a monk not to revere the Three Jewels.

Jueyun said, "Proper and lay are different. The disciplines of those who cultivate the Way need not, in my humble view, be applied to the Lay Monks. Let each honor his own dharma and cultivate in his own way."

Juekong said coldly, "If that is so, then let the whole line of Lay Monks return to lay life. Lay disciples can serve Shaolin just as well."

Jueguang, abbot of the Right Concentration Hall under the Manjushri Court, said, "And if a lay disciple takes the tonsure—what then?"

"Better to ask," Juekong said, "if a monk is a monk, why divide Proper from lay at all? Cultivation is a thing of one's own heart, nature, and karmic conditions—and yet you would have it that only Proper Monks may cultivate."

This Abbot Jueguang was nicknamed the "Tongue-Plucking Bodhisattva"—a cultivator he might be, but his words were the most acid and cutting of any. Now he said, "If a man's heart is truly set on the Buddha, Shaolin Temple gladly takes in all who have the karmic bond. But how many among the Lay Monks came for the Buddha's sake? Surely Head Juekong knows the answer in his own heart."

"Then why not drive out the Lay Monks altogether?" Juekong said. "The lesson of the Shaolin–Songshan conflict is not so distant. Would Abbot Jueguang have us repeat that disaster?"

This vexed question of Proper and lay had its roots in Shaolin's own rules. After the Kunlun Council, Shaolin Temple had rested and recovered, and as it grew in scale, its internal affairs grew steadily more tangled. By temple law, only ordained monks could hold posts in the halls; yet monks, having renounced the world and given their hearts to the Buddha, had neither the strength nor the skill for the struggles of the martial world or the care of the common people. In those days the various houses under Shaolin's authority were riven by strife that Shaolin could not check, and along its borders it quarreled ceaselessly with Huashan over the "Lone Grave Land." Yet Shaolin, foremost of all the great houses, swallowed its anger before Huashan again and again—until the Shaolin–Songshan conflict.

Songshan had once been a great sect in its own right, and after decades of deepening its foundations, its power stood no lower than Huashan's, one of the Nine Great Houses. Naturally it chafed at bowing to Shaolin. At first, Songshan's renaming of itself the Songyang Sect was merely the fuse; from it grew the Shaolin–Songshan conflict.

No one had foreseen that this single conflict would very nearly drive Shaolin to ruin. The monks' poor head for scheming and their meek, conflict-shunning ways brought the war again and again to the brink of disaster. When Songshan at last laid siege to Shaolin Temple, that thousand-year-old monastery stood on the verge of perishing in the battle.

At that hour of peril, the rescue of Shaolin came from five lay disciples led by Zhang Qiuchi. But hobbled by the rule that none but ordained monks could hold a post in the halls, these five had to take the tonsure to enter. Zhang Qiuchi, nicknamed "Iron Brush Painting the Tide," was master of both pen and sword; he laid Shaolin's plans and strategies, and since Shaolin's foundations ran deeper than Songshan's to begin with, before long the tide of the war had turned. Songshan removed its entire sect to Shandong, spoke no more of changing its name, and its dealings with Shaolin grew steadily more delicate thereafter.

These five monks were the beginning of the Lay Monks. From then on, what Shaolin asked of its monks was no longer founded solely on religious faith, as in the past, but added to it the demands of practical need—and that was the Lay Monk. Zide was skilled in commerce, and so became head of the Ksitigarbha Court; Juewen was deft with people and could read the shifting currents of the martial world, a smooth and able hand—just the man to govern the Right Mindfulness Hall.

Since the Lay Monks had come to handle worldly affairs, they were not necessarily loyal to the faith. At first they still held strictly to the precepts, but over fifty years of change, the divide between Proper and lay had gradually emerged. Now the disciples a Proper Monk took were Proper Monks, and the disciples a Lay Monk took were Lay Monks.

The reason Juekong's proposal to return the Lay Monks to lay life could never work came down, in the end, to that same rule: none but ordained monks could hold a post in the halls. To rise at Shaolin Temple—never mind the heights of court head or hall abbot—even an ordinary hall monk had to take the tonsure. So even if every Lay Monk were returned to lay life, would they not still have to be tonsured to enter the halls? And if they did not enter the halls, how were the affairs of the temple to be handled? If lay disciples were to govern the four courts and eight halls, then the whole vast Shaolin Temple would rest in lay hands—and could it still be called a "temple" at all?

This quarrel between Proper and lay had until now run as an undercurrent; with Liaoxin's disappearance, it had risen openly to the surface.

Of the seven Proper Monks present, the eminent Head Jueyun and the Tongue-Plucking Bodhisattva Jueguang seemed to lean toward renaming the Lay Monks as well. Only three had yet to speak: Jueming of the Right View Hall, Juejian of the Right Action Hall, and Liaozheng of the Right Thought Hall.

Abbot Juesheng looked to Jueming. Jueming said, "Let us first hear Brother Juejian's view."

Jueming was nicknamed "Not a Leaf Clings"—even when he had an opinion, he liked first to see which way the wind blew. He had pointedly asked after Juejian first. Everyone knew of the friction between Juejian and Juekong; for all that they stood as superior and subordinate, their quarrels had been many—the older one being Liaoxin's disappearance, the more recent ones the death of Fu Yingcong and this month's madness.

Juejian pondered a long while, then said slowly, "I believe the renaming of the Lay Monks calls for deeper thought."

At this the others were taken aback. The Right Action Hall governed punishment; of every ten monks who broke the precepts, nine were Lay Monks. If anyone in the four courts and eight halls loathed the Lay Monks more than Jueguan, it was Juejian, keeper of the disciplines—and now, of all people, he had taken the Lay Monks' side?

In truth Juejian's hesitation sprang from practical considerations. Unlike the three monks of the Manjushri Court who shunned all conflict, he was a pragmatist. To press for renaming now would only be pouring oil on the fire of the Proper–lay quarrel.

Juejian went on. "We are all disciples of Shaolin, all giving our strength wholeheartedly to the temple. Draw a distinction in our very names, and the Lay Monks will feel their standing diminished—which does nothing to quell the quarrel between Proper and lay."

The Knife in the Nest, Jueguan, said, "If there is to be no distinction, then let the Lay Monks keep the precepts just as the Proper Monks do. Monks within the temple, laymen the moment they step outside it—it is neither one thing nor the other!"

As he said this his gaze went to Zide, who only nodded along ceaselessly—having dozed off again.

Then Not a Leaf Clings, Jueming, spoke as well. "We are all disciples of the Buddha—why divide Proper from lay? If cultivation follows one's karmic conditions and joys, then whether a Lay Monk is lay or monk, what does it matter? Dissolving the prejudice between them is what comes first. As for names, they are mere designations—why study them so closely?" Seeing Juejian break with the others to become the first Proper Monk in opposition, he had set aside his reservations. He opposed the renaming, but not out of pragmatism—he truly held that to rename the Lay Monks ran against the Buddhist principle of equality.

Still Jueguan would not give up. He pressed on. "If it is karmic conditions and joys you want, there are dharma-gates aplenty for cultivation. The Sangha is one of the Three Jewels, and the Jewel of the Sangha must honor the precepts and cultivate in truth—how can it be allowed to mingle with and defile such men?"

Juekong said coldly, "Is Head Jueguan saying the Lay Monks defile Shaolin Temple?"

"If a man cultivates with a true heart, he is not among their number," Jueguan said. "Then again—a name is an empty appearance. Why should one who cultivates care for a paltry dharma name?"

"You say with your mouth that the dharma name does not matter," Juekong said, "and yet you propose to rename the Lay Monks. Does Head Jueguan not feel he contradicts himself?"

"The renaming is to mark Proper from lay for those outside; cultivation is each man walking his own road. The two do not conflict," Jueguan said. "Or will the Lay Monks somehow forget how to cultivate once their dharma names are gone?"

The two clashed point against point, and seeing the matter grind to a deadlock, Abbot Juesheng said, "This is a weighty thing, and I would have each of you reflect on it with care. In another month it will be the Buddha's birthday, and the work is endless—pilgrims beyond counting will come to Shaolin Temple then, and we must all bend ourselves to it with diligence."

The assembly pressed their palms together. "We humbly obey the abbot's command."

Abbot Juesheng was about to rise when his eye fell on Liaozheng at the very end of the row, and only then did he recall that the man had not yet spoken. "Does Abbot Liaozheng have any thoughts?"

Liaozheng had become abbot of the Right Thought Hall only recently, the lowest in seniority and shallowest in standing of them all. The Ksitigarbha Court was the last of the four courts, the Right Thought Hall the last of the eight halls; before every other court head and hall abbot he had to bow and scrape, and so the temple had lately given him a new nickname, "Steamed Bun"—a mockery that he could be kneaded into any shape. In this council of the four courts they had nearly forgotten to let him speak at all.

He was about to open his mouth when the Knife in the Nest, Jueguan, said coldly, "Seven here are against it. Does it matter what he says?"

The Steamed Bun could only swallow, press his palms together, and say respectfully, "I have no thoughts for the present."

…

The eighth day of the fourth month was the birthday of Shakyamuni, also called the "Festival of the Buddha-Jewel," the greatest celebration of Shaolin Temple's year. It was also one of the few days the temple opened to the common folk—though "open" meant no more than the carriage road before the gates, where the people were permitted to bow toward the temple doors from afar.

On the Buddha's birthday, the liveliest place of all was Buddha City.

Beginning on the third of the fourth month, for seven days running, Buddha City would raise its altars to receive the Golden Buddha, the Buddha's Relic Bone, the Seven-Colored Sarira, and other treasures Shaolin Temple held in keeping, set out for veneration. The faithful would bathe the Buddha, offer flowers and fruit, and feed the monks, and pilgrims came from all four directions in an unbroken stream. Seven dharma assemblies opened at the same time, where scripture-monks of the Manjushri Court expounded the sutras—and among the listeners were no small number of leading figures from the martial world's various sects.

In this season the Manjushri Court took charge of expounding the scriptures and answering the faithful; the Samantabhadra Court kept the peace and guarded the temple treasures; the Avalokitesvara Court received honored guests from within and without; and the Ksitigarbha Court raised the various altars and apportioned the expenses. The whole third month was, for everyone at Shaolin Temple, the busiest and most grueling of the year.

Only one man had the easiest time of it—Liaojing, the registrar-monk of the Sutra Repository.

The registrar-monk's task was to record which monks borrowed books from the Sutra Repository, and to report and press for the return of any not given back. So Liaojing's work amounted to little more than jotting down a few notes in the Sutra Repository—and if one spoke of tedium, this was likely among the most tedious posts in all of Shaolin Temple. On the Buddha's birthday, when monks within and without the temple were rushed off their feet, no one came to borrow books at all, and Liaojing had even less to do than usual. As a hall monk he was excused from sweeping; each day after his morning meal he read, then practiced his arts, and beyond that—nothing.

But this year Liaojing was not at his leisure. He had something weighing on his mind.

Something to do with Ming Buxiang.

Liaojing had first taken notice of Ming Buxiang because of the startling speed at which the boy borrowed books. By the rules of the Sutra Repository, no one could check out more than two volumes at a time. Ming Buxiang always borrowed and returned at the swiftest possible pace; Liaojing could not tell whether he was truly reading them or merely skimming. In any case, every two or three days Ming Buxiang came to borrow, the subjects varying—mostly sutras, but all manner of miscellaneous books as well. Liaojing had once teased him with a few questions, and Ming Buxiang only said, "I've finished them. The ones I don't understand, I'll understand once I've read enough." It happened so often that Liaojing stopped giving it any thought.

The next time Ming Buxiang caught his notice was when Bugui borrowed his first sutra. Liaojing was surprised, and so he greeted Bugui, telling him, "If you run into trouble with the scriptures, you can come ask me."

He knew Bugui was illiterate. From that time on he began to watch the boy, and from Bugui's dealings with Ming Buxiang he saw that it was Ming Buxiang who had taught Bugui to read.

Then he saw the change in the disciples of the Right View Hall. He had sighed over Bugui's having stepped onto the wrong path, thinking it an unlucky tragedy.

What had truly caught his attention was a small matter the year before. A hall monk of the Right Action Hall had borrowed a copy of the Flower-Plucking Finger Art. This was an Upper Hall martial art, drawn from the parable of the Buddha plucking a flower and the faint smile it brought—an art prizing a finger-strike that left no trace, so that at times a struck opponent never even sensed it, never knowing he had been wounded. It was one of the twenty-seven arts that could be studied only with the approval of a hall abbot or higher. Liaojing, seeing Abbot Jueji's written authorization, took the secret manual from the Supernatural Power Vault, and while leafing through it to check it over, found a loose page. It was pages thirty-seven and thirty-eight—which naturally should have fallen between pages thirty-six and thirty-nine.

This ordinary, self-evident thing was exactly what struck Liaojing as wrong.

Many of the books in the Sutra Repository were old, and loose or damaged pages were common enough. Apart from the two great true classics, the Sinew-Changing Classic and the Marrow-Cleansing Classic, the Right View Hall would generally send someone to copy out fresh duplicates for safekeeping, and when even a duplicate grew old, another would be transcribed.

This copy of the Flower-Plucking Finger Art was such a duplicate.

Liaojing was by nature a lazy man. When a sutra was returned, he was supposed to check it for missing or damaged pages, but he had always done no more than ask a few offhand questions and flip through a page or two before calling it done. After all, if anything were missing, the next borrower would report it; and since this was only a duplicate, damage was no great matter—at worst he would take a scolding. And were he truly to be scolded, the previous borrower would bear the brunt of it first.

He remembered clearly that the last time this book had been returned, the borrowing monk had told him a page had come loose. He had shaken the volume, and sure enough a page had fallen out; he had tucked it back in and canceled the loan, then returned the book to the Supernatural Power Vault.

But now that page sat tucked in its correct place.

Liaojing was lazy, but he was meticulous. His master had once told him that if he weren't so slothful he would surely have been a first-rate man at the temple—as it was, he was only a first-rate idler.

To this he offered no opinion. He had become a monk because it was the easiest living he knew. He had entered the halls at twenty-five and become a registrar-monk, and his one wish was to go on being a registrar-monk for another forty years just so.

Someone else has gone through this book, Liaojing thought. The first person who came to mind was Bugui.

But this copy of the Flower-Plucking Finger Art was an Upper Hall martial art, kept on the topmost shelf of the Supernatural Power Vault, and Bugui was hunchbacked and short—even stretching, he could not have reached it. Of course, with a single jump, or by fetching a stool, he could have gotten the book down. But the question was: did Bugui have any reason to take this book?

With Bugui's grasp of the martial arts, he had no idea which book held a profound technique—why would he set his heart on this one in particular? The Dragon Claw Hand that had gone missing sat only on the vault's second shelf; he hadn't even mastered the Dragon Claw Hand, so how could he take up the Flower-Plucking Finger—and go to such trouble to reach it besides?

The second question was: even if he truly had taken the book, how could he have put it back? Jump up and stuff it in? With his scant reading, how would he remember where it belonged? Looking at the rows upon rows of densely packed books, Liaojing set the possibility aside.

Then who had gone through this book—right under his nose? After handing the book over to the borrowing monk, he began to turn the matter over in his mind.

The next day, at the usual hour for sweeping, he came to the Sutra Repository early and took his place, watching Ming Buxiang walk into the Supernatural Power Vault.

Just as it had been in Bugui's day, the Supernatural Power Vault was now Ming Buxiang's own private sweeping ground.

Liaojing watched Ming Buxiang's back. From outside the door, only a small portion of the Supernatural Power Vault was visible, and the spot where the Flower-Plucking Finger Art had originally sat fell just outside his line of sight.

He walked over and passed through the little iron gate. Ming Buxiang was sweeping; seeing him, the boy only nodded in greeting—his bow, such as it was—then went on with his work.

"The books in here are not to be read. You know that, don't you?" Liaojing asked.

Ming Buxiang nodded. "No one below the rank of hall monk may read the martial texts kept in the Supernatural Power Vault. I understand, Uncle."

"You're young and don't know better, and you love to read," Liaojing said. "I'd hate for you to break a precept by accident."

"Thank you for your concern, Uncle," Ming Buxiang said.

After Liaojing left, Ming Buxiang swept a quick glance around, and at last his gaze came to rest on a spot on the upper shelf.

It was where the Flower-Plucking Finger Art had originally sat.

That afternoon, when the labor-monks had all departed from their sweeping, the doubt still gnawed at Liaojing's heart. He hoped it was only his imagination, but he could not work out how that loose page of the Flower-Plucking Finger Art had returned to its place. Could a careless tuck of his own truly have slid it back into exactly the right spot?

He lifted his head; Ming Buxiang was walking toward him.

"Come to borrow a book again?" Liaojing asked.

But Ming Buxiang hung back, hesitating, starting to speak and stopping—nothing like his usual composure. Seeing something amiss, Liaojing asked, "What is it?"

Ming Buxiang said, "If someone secretly read a text from the Supernatural Power Vault, what would the punishment be?"

"That depends," Liaojing said. "At worst, expulsion from the temple—or like Bugui… well, you know. If it was only an accidental glance, not much read, then a tongue-lashing, or the rod, or labor service, depending."

"I secretly read one of the texts," Ming Buxiang confessed. "The Flower-Plucking Finger Art."

Liaojing was greatly startled by the confession, and said, "Do you understand that this is a grave offense?"

"Please, Uncle, take me to the Right Action Hall to receive my punishment." Ming Buxiang lowered his head, seemingly in repentance.

"You've always kept the rules," Liaojing pressed. "How did you come to open that book?"

"Three months ago," Ming Buxiang said, "I borrowed the Sutra of Mahabrahma's Inquiry to the Buddha, which tells the story of the Buddha plucking a flower and smiling. I turned its meaning over and over and still couldn't grasp it. While sweeping, I saw the Flower-Plucking Finger Art, and without thinking I took the book down. I'd barely opened it when I saw a page come loose; I hurriedly tucked the loose page back in and put it away in a rush."

"You didn't read what was inside?" Liaojing asked.

Ming Buxiang hesitated a long moment, then said, "Actually—I read a few pages."

"They say you never forget a thing you've seen," Liaojing said. "So you've learned it already, haven't you?"

Ming Buxiang shook his head. "I remember it, but I don't understand it. If you wish to hear which pages, Uncle, I can recite them for you."

The Flower-Plucking Finger was an Upper Hall martial art, and Liaojing could not help feeling a flicker of curiosity. He was about to agree when a thought turned him: This is a superior art. If I should chance to commit it to memory, my own curiosity might get the better of me, and I'd be the one tempted to study it. He said quickly, "No need." Then he asked, "What made you come to confess to me today?"

"You asked about it this morning, Uncle," Ming Buxiang said. "I guessed I couldn't keep it hidden. It's weighed on me these past days, so I've owned up to it."

And with that the matter of the loose page seemed answered. Liaojing said, "We'll let it go this time. But I'll keep a close eye on you from now on—don't let it happen again."

Ming Buxiang bowed. "Ming Buxiang will never do it again."

Liaojing nodded. "It's settled, then. Off you go."

Could it truly be such a coincidence? No sooner had his suspicion stirred than Ming Buxiang came to confess? Liaojing felt the doubt, yet he reasoned that Ming Buxiang was a boy of barely fourteen or fifteen, with no master to guide him—and even if he had read the Flower-Plucking Finger Art, there was no way he could have learned it.

He sat idle the whole afternoon, and when the Sutra Repository closed and the guard-monks came up, he skipped his evening meal, went to the Buddha Incense House in Buddha City to buy a few vegetarian rice dumplings, and went to visit his master and reminisce.

Liaojing's lineage was no ordinary one. His master was none other than Jueru, abbot of the Right Speech Hall, who governed all the temple's administrative affairs—one of the leading figures among the Proper Monks, nicknamed Laughing Amitabha. But Liaojing knew his master's true character: if not for the dagger behind that smile, how could he have joined hands with the Knife in the Nest to deliver a swift two-bladed stroke and stir up this whole storm over renaming the Lay Monks?

"So kind, coming to reminisce with me? You're not after some martial art, are you?" In the abbot's quarters of the Right Speech Hall, Jueru ate a rice dumpling and grinned.

"You misjudge me again, Master—this is pure filial piety," Liaojing said. "Last month was your birthday."

"Oh—that was last month? I'd have forgotten if you hadn't mentioned it," Jueru said dryly.

"You'd never forget. The gifts started piling up the month before that, into a small mountain. Plenty of people line up to flatter you—I didn't care to join the crowd, so I waited a whole month before coming."

"I'd have guessed as much. Even if I tried to teach you a martial art, you'd be too lazy to learn it," Jueru said. "I sent you off to the Right View Hall to be a registrar-monk—as cushy an idle post as there is. Have you been diligent at your sutras, serious at your arts? Has your kung fu gone to seed? Come, try a few moves with your master."

"That's enough, Master—spare yourself the effort and spare your disciple the bruises," Liaojing said.

"You're just lazy," Jueru said. "If you'd apply yourself, I'd have one more helping hand."

"You've no shortage of senior brothers—they can all lend a hand," Liaojing said. "Besides, it's only by wanting nothing and seeking nothing that one comes to see one's true nature."

"Do you know why I took no more disciples after you?" Jueru said. "I'd pinned all my hopes on you."

"Seventh Brother says you told him the very same thing," Liaojing said. "And you told Eldest Brother he was fit to be molded—that taking him as a disciple was enough for you."

Jueru roared with laughter. "Enough of your glib tongue—you'll never cultivate the Buddha that way."

"If I can't, I'll return to lay life," Liaojing said, then asked, "Anything interesting lately?"

"What could there be but the Lay Monks stirring up trouble?" At the mention of the Lay Monks, Jueru set down the rice dumpling he had just unwrapped. "Dragging all their filth in with them."

"What happened?" Liaojing unwrapped a dumpling and put it in his mouth; finding it a bit dry, he poured tea and washed it down—only to scald himself.

"Drink slower, you'll burn yourself to death!" Jueru went on. "That fellow in the Right Action Hall who hanged himself—you know the one?"

"I heard of it," Liaojing said. "What of him?"

"What of him? Do you know what they wrote down as the cause of death? Suspected suicide over a love affair!"

"Inside the temple?" Liaojing said. "Hm… that is a bit strange. Still—well, it's not as if such things are unheard of."

"How does an autopsy turn up suicide over love?" Jueru said.

"Was there a note left behind?" Liaojing asked. "Or did they go by his associations?"

"No note, no associations," Jueru said. "The 'love' was right there in his back gate."

The back gate meant the anus, and at these words Liaojing understood at once. There were no women in the temple, and a taste for cut sleeves was no rare thing; he asked, "Do they know who the other party was?"

"Nine times out of ten," Jueru said, "it was Benyue."

"Spotted Dog?" Liaojing thought it over. "Quite the appetite."

"Juejian flew into a great rage over it," Jueru said, "and said it was a good thing they'd sent Ming Buxiang away, so he wouldn't be tainted by such filth."

At the name Ming Buxiang, Liaojing's ears pricked up at once, and he asked, "How does this have anything to do with Ming Buxiang?"

"This Ming Buxiang was doing labor service in the Right Action Hall," Jueru said, "alongside Benyue and that dead Fu Yingcong. Juejian treats the boy like a treasure—praises him to everyone he meets, till we're all sick of hearing it. He even brought up how he once gave Ming Buxiang a pair of shoes, and the boy turned around and gave them to Bugui. A pity that Bugui never came to any good—Juejian made a special trip to counsel him over the matter."

"Bugui's shoes came from him?" Liaojing let out a small exclamation. As a registrar-monk he had always known the Right View Hall's disciples well, and after the Bugui affair he had asked the other disciples what had truly happened. He knew the gist of how it had all begun and ended—it was those very shoes, the ones Bugui would never say where he'd gotten, that had made the sweeping disciples suspect him of stealing money.

First Bugui, then Fu Yingcong—a curious coincidence indeed. Liaojing said, "Spotted Dog doesn't seem the cut-sleeve sort. My guess is Fu Yingcong was deceived by him, and afterward hanged himself in a fit of rage."

"If that were all, well and good," Jueru said. "But if Benyue forced him, then the matter isn't so simple. Settling on suicide over love—at bottom, I'd say it's because digging deeper would turn up something too ugly to bear, and they wanted to cover the shame."

Liaojing ate another rice dumpling and said, "If that's truly how it is, Abbot Juejian won't let it rest."

"One after another," Jueru scolded, "did you buy these for your master to eat, or for yourself?"

"Ah—I got so caught up listening, my mouth couldn't keep still," Liaojing said.

Jueru rose, fetched some melon, fruit, and pastries from the cupboard, and set them on the table. "Gnaw away at your leisure. Whatever you can't finish, wrap up and take home."

"How could I?" Liaojing said. "Oh—what's this, it smells so good?" He picked up a piece of pastry and asked.

"Osmanthus chestnut cake," Jueru said. "Sent last month."

Liaojing knew it was one of the gifts—all of the finest quality—and indeed it proved soft and fragrant and sweet in the mouth. He praised it a few times, then asked, "And what came of it all?"

"Benyue's master, Liaowu, pleaded with Abbot Juejian to have the matter wrapped up quickly. Benyue's been moved outside the temple, to wait for next year's trial of skill."

Liaojing thought a moment, then said, "So that's how it is." And he picked up another piece of pastry.

"Same generation, both of you 'Liao,'" Jueru complained, "and Liaozheng's already abbot of the Right Thought Hall, while you just sit there eating."

Master and disciple chatted on for a while longer, until weariness set in and Liaojing returned to his room at last.

That was in the sixth month of last year.

The months that followed brought nothing further. After winter came, a blizzard struck, and Ming Buxiang vanished for several days—so much so that Juejian, in a panic, sent out all the Right Action Hall's disciples to search for him. Later it was heard that Ming Buxiang had reconciled an old feud between Yao Yunda, who ran the smithy down the mountain, and an enemy of his. Abbot Jueming was greatly impressed, and brought the boy in as a resident lay practitioner of the hall. Not yet sixteen, and already a resident practitioner—Jueming personally assigned men to teach him martial arts, and it was said his progress was swift beyond measure.

A boy of barely a dozen-odd years, talking two grown men into beating their swords into plowshares? Liaojing thought, This Nephew Ming is a clever one indeed.

But a vague unease lingered in his heart, and that fallen page of the Flower-Plucking Finger Art would not stop circling in his mind.

By every measure, Ming Buxiang was beyond reproach—clever, diligent, kind, modest. And yet, beginning with Liaoxin—Bugui, Lü Changfeng, the Right View Hall disciples, Fu Yingcong—everyone whose path crossed his met with one accident after another.

After the New Year, Liaojing heard yet another piece of news.

Benyue had gone mad in Buddha City and gouged out his own eyes.

So now it's Benyue's turn? Liaojing thought. When he spoke of it with his master Jueru, everyone said Benyue had gone mad because he could not bear the reproach of his own conscience. But Liaojing said, "If Spotted Dog had a conscience, he wouldn't be Spotted Dog."

In the third month, as the piled snow began to thaw, Liaojing threw on an outer robe and went to Buddha City.

He arrived at Benyue's lodging in Buddha City, a small hut with two monks standing guard outside. Liaojing greeted them and said he wished to see Benyue.

"You want to see Spotted Dog?" one monk asked. "What for?"

"We've met a few times," Liaojing said. "Call it a bit of concern for him."

Liaojing was only twenty-seven, yet he was a monk of the "Liao" generation. Shaolin Temple had disciples beyond counting, and ranked by generation the gaps could be vast; a man high in generation but young in years was a common sight. The guard-monks were only of the "Ben" generation, and did not bar him much, saying merely, "Mind he doesn't fly at you."

Liaojing nodded, pushed open the door, and at once heard Benyue's panicked, raging roar—a sound like a wild beast.

Benyue's eyes were a pair of sunken hollows, gouged out by his own hand, so it was said. Hearing the door open, he bellowed wildly, "Don't come near me! Don't come near me!"

Liaojing frowned and stepped forward.

Hearing the footsteps, Benyue did not stop to speak but slashed out with a stroke of the Thousand-Hand Avalokitesvara Palm. Sunk in madness, his strength was boundless, and the palm came down with a howl of wind. Liaojing slipped aside, hooked out a foot, and tripped him; Benyue bounced straight back up and, heedless of all around him, struck and slashed in a wild storm.

Liaojing thought, If he keeps flailing like this he'll surely do himself an injury. So he sent out both hands and worked the Left-Right Flower-Threading Hands.

These Left-Right Flower-Threading Hands prized meeting force with emptiness, hinging on a four-word formula: divide, turn, shed, strike. "Divide" meant splitting the force—when an enemy's fist came, you struck its midstream and aimed at the elbow and forearm to scatter its power. "Turn" meant rotating the arm, changing the direction of the enemy's attack as though tracing a circle. Past these two gates, the force of the enemy's attack was already greatly reduced; then came "shed," using body and arm to slough off the opponent's strength, and at last the counterstrike. Its principle bore a likeness to Wudang's Cloud Hands—both used the tracing of circles to dissolve an opponent's force.

Liaojing meant no harm now; he only divided and parried with both hands, sweeping aside Benyue's every palm-shadow until none was left, and before long Benyue collapsed to the ground, spent.

So long without a fight, and my kung fu has actually improved, Liaojing thought. Master's always scolding me for not applying myself—turns out it serves well enough. Then another thought turned: Master would probably say, "You beat a 'Ben'-generation monk and have the nerve to brag about it?" And he supposed it was true—Benyue was only a labor-service disciple, and beating him was nothing to boast of. Still, not only had he won with ease, he had worn the man down to exhaustion, which was no such simple thing. Then again, he thought, Master would only say I'm getting proud. Ah—do what I might, the man's never satisfied.

After this jumble of stray thoughts he looked again at Benyue and asked, lowering his head, "What did you see?"

Benyue was gasping for breath; hearing Liaojing draw near, he shrank in terror into the corner of the hut and sobbed, "I didn't see… I didn't see anything, don't come near me…"

Thinking of how vicious Spotted Dog had once been, reduced now to this—was it pity with a thread of satisfaction running through it, or satisfaction with a thread of pity? Liaojing bent down and said, "I won't hurt you. I only want to ask—what did you see?"

No matter how Liaojing questioned him, Benyue only raved, panic-stricken, clutching his head and weeping. Unable to get anything sensible out of him, Liaojing fretted a while, then thought he might fight poison with poison and try a little probing.

"I'm Ming Buxiang. Spotted Dog—you dared to bully me, and now I've come for my revenge!" Liaojing changed his voice and deliberately named Ming Buxiang.

Benyue only twitched, then bellowed, "You worthless cur, one day I'll kill you, kill you! Come here, I'll kill you!"

His hatred for Ming Buxiang was beyond doubt—but at the name itself he showed no special terror. Could it truly be that Liaojing was only imagining things?

Liaojing lowered his voice again, and in a ghostly, eerie tone said, "I'm Fu Yingcong. Give me back my life!"

At the name Fu Yingcong, Benyue jolted upright in fright and shrieked, "Fu Yingcong, don't come near me! Dead is dead! No—don't! Don't touch me!" And he shrank into the corner, arms wrapped about his shoulders, gripping so hard his fingertips nearly dug into the flesh.

He sobbed and cried, "I did everything you asked—I gouged out my eyes to repay you. What more do you want, what more?"

Pity stirred in Liaojing's heart, and he thought, So Fu Yingcong was indeed driven to his death by Benyue. His conscience won't let him rest; nightmares hound him day and night, and that is why he's gone mad. This man did endless evil—he deserves to die.

He rose to his feet and was about to leave when his eye fell once more on Benyue huddled in the corner, arms locked about his shoulders. At first glance he had taken it for simple terror—shoulders clutched, body driven into the corner. But looking closer, it was different. A frightened man wrapping his arms about himself would have his hands fall a little below the shoulders—the natural posture for such an embrace. But Benyue's hands pressed at the upper part of his shoulders, his knees drawn up, his upper body leaning back, as though straining to push his torso into the corner rather than curl into a ball.

A thought sparked in him. He walked over, pulled Benyue's hands away, and tore open his robe. On Benyue's shoulder were five bruised marks—where he had pressed his own hand so hard he'd bruised himself. On the other shoulder, in the very same spot, were the same finger-prints. The instant Liaojing's hand brushed the bruises, Benyue sprang up, screaming, "Don't grab my shoulders! Don't grab my shoulders!"

Looking only at that placement, Liaojing thought, It's as if, in the act of coupling, the one beneath had clutched the shoulders of the one above. In a flash of comprehension he understood, and in that ghostly, bone-chilling tone he said, "I'm Fu Yingcong—I've come to grab your shoulders!"

Benyue dropped to his knees begging for mercy, arms wrapped about his shoulders, kowtowing again and again until blood ran, wailing, "Don't grab me! Don't grab me! Go take your revenge on Ming Buxiang! It was him I meant to do, not you—who knew you'd turn up there? Who could have known!"

At the name Ming Buxiang again, Liaojing pressed him at once, but Benyue was tangled and incoherent, raving in circles, every word looping back to Fu Yingcong.

Liaojing left the hut and asked the two monks at the door what was to be done with Benyue.

"His family's been notified," they answered. "If no one comes to claim him, he'll be imprisoned at Shaolin Temple."

Liaojing nodded and left Benyue's lodging.

Benyue had laid a trap, meaning to abuse Ming Buxiang; somehow it was Fu Yingcong who became the scapegoat instead. Unable to bear the abuse, Fu Yingcong had hanged himself—Abbot Juejian's reading had been correct. And to shield his disciple, Liaowu had brought in Head Juekong to stand for the boy and see him spared.

A single question to Liaowu would settle the matter. But Liaowu was a Lay Monk, and a subordinate of the Brocade-Maned Lion Jueji; the Brocade-Maned Lion had never been on good terms with Master Jueru, and lately Master had joined hands with the Knife in the Nest to push this proposal to rename the Lay Monks. Were he to ask, would it not be suspected that he meant to reopen an old case? Better to make his own quiet inquiries.

He went round the nearby shops, and at an apothecary learned that in the days before he went mad, Benyue had come to buy salve for treating bruises.

"I asked him where he was hurt, and he wouldn't say—only that he wanted it, and the best there was," the apothecary said.

"How did he seem at the time?" Liaojing asked.

"A bit out of his wits," the apothecary said. "I'd never seen him like that before."

"Before?" Liaojing said. "You knew Benyue?"

"Before he went mad he beat a man at the Chan Wind Teahouse. The fellow said he'd report it to the Nameless Temple, so Benyue had to pay him off and brought him here for medicine. He was muttering then about how, once he had his Hero's Warrant, he'd go to Jiangxi and taste what a real woman was like—one look and I knew he was a Lay Monk. With that face of his and those vicious ways, how could I help but remember him? My shop sees plenty of custom; otherwise I'd never have."

"How long ago was that?" Liaojing asked, deeply puzzled.

"A little over three months, give or take."

By then Benyue had not yet gone mad, and Fu Yingcong was already dead—yet he had shown no flicker of guilt. So why had his demons risen up so suddenly? Had it been thinking on it that bred his fear? Liaojing himself had never believed Benyue possessed much conscience; only when he saw the man raving had he supposed suspicion was conjuring phantoms—but by the apothecary's account, it did not seem to be that either.

The bruises on Benyue's shoulders were indeed pressed there by his own hand—but he had done it to keep a ghost from seizing his shoulders. That was the very place where, as Benyue violated him, Fu Yingcong had clutched at his shoulders, trying to push him off.

He questioned the nearby residents too: when Benyue went mad, had any strange person passed by? They all said no. Only one man said that one day he had seen a figure flash past outside Benyue's hut, like a ghost.

What if someone had played the ghost to frighten Benyue, and driven him mad? But Benyue was a bold man—a mere ghost-act would not have shaken him. How had it been done? Benyue had bought salve for bruises before ever going mad; if the bruises on his shoulders had not been pressed there by himself, then by whom?

That spot was near the front of the shoulder—to press it, one would surely have been seen. However swift a man's movements, the hut was cramped, with no room to dodge and circle—unless one struck across empty space. But what martial art could leave a bruise while the wounded man felt nothing at all?

The Flower-Plucking Finger Art! It could strike an opponent with a formless finger-force, leaving the victim wholly unaware!

Liaojing's heart gave a lurch, and he turned and started back toward Shaolin Temple.

Someone had used the Flower-Plucking Finger, and while Benyue was off his guard, pressed bruises into his shoulders with finger-force across the empty air. Washing himself, Benyue had seen the marks on his body and taken them for the vengeful ghost of Fu Yingcong; tormented day and night, he had then been frightened all the more by that someone playing the ghost, until he gouged out his own eyes.

So the maddened Benyue clutched his shoulders with all his might—and the bruises he pressed there himself covered over the wounds the Flower-Plucking Finger had left.

The details were murky, but this was the likeliest of all explanations.

And if such a person truly existed—could it be Ming Buxiang?

A boy of barely a dozen-odd years, mastering the Upper Hall art of the Flower-Plucking Finger to such depth—and using it to toy with Benyue?

More terrifying still was the calculation behind it…

If it were truly so… if it were truly so…

Liaojing's suspicions churned without resolution, and he had not a shred of proof.

......

Head Jueguan came to the Manjushri Court; this Knife in the Nest had come to call on Abbot Jueming. At the same time, he had invited Abbot Juejian of the Right Action Hall.

In the council of the four courts, only these two Proper Monks had opposed renaming the Lay Monks. He wished to win them over, though he was far from sure of it. Jueming knew his scriptures well and held that renaming the Lay Monks bred the mind of discrimination; but if Juejian could be won over, then given Jueming's "Not a Leaf Clings" nature, he would surely change his tune. The trouble was that Juejian was a pragmatist through and through, who held it unwise to pour oil on the fire of the Proper–lay quarrel just now—winning him would be no easy thing.

Jueguan was still turning over how to persuade Jueming when a youth came barreling headlong into him. Jueguan was a court head, his martial skill beyond question; he stepped back a pace and, with an offhand motion, steadied the boy, saying, "Careful, now."

The youth, having nearly knocked into someone, found his footing and bowed hastily. "Disciple Ming Buxiang, greeting Head Jueguan. I beg your forgiveness."

Jueguan had often heard Juejian and Jueming speak of this disciple, and knew him for the newly raised resident lay practitioner who helped Jueming with documents and records. He had never paid him any mind, but seeing him now, the boy was indeed a handsome youth, and so he asked, "So you're Ming Buxiang? Have you seen Abbot Juejian?"

"Abbot Juejian arrived just now," Ming Buxiang said. Then he yawned hugely, and catching himself in the rudeness, lowered his head at once. "Forgive my lapse, Disciple."

Jueguan laughed. "Didn't sleep enough last night?"

Ming Buxiang smiled faintly. "I was reading scripture yesterday, and one story was so dreadful it frightened me into a sleepless night, and left me ill at ease—which is how I came to bump into you, Head."

His curiosity piqued, Jueguan asked, "What story could be so dreadful?"

"Yesterday I was reading the Mahaparinirvana Sutra," Ming Buxiang said, "and I reached the seventh scroll—and it terrified me."

The words fell on Jueguan like nectar poured upon the crown of his head, and all at once he understood.

The Mahaparinirvana Sutra recorded the teachings the Buddha gave before his passing, and the seventh chapter ran thus:

"The Buddha said to Kasyapa: Seven hundred years after my parinirvana, this Mara Papiyan shall gradually come to corrupt and disorder my true dharma. As a hunter clothes his body in the dharma-robe, so too shall the demon-king Papiyan—taking on the likeness of a bhikshu, a bhikshuni, an upasaka, an upasika; transforming even into the body of a srotapanna, and on up to the body of an arhat, and the very form of the Buddha. With this defiled form the demon-king fashions an undefiled body, and so corrupts my true dharma."

The meaning was that the Buddha foretold that seven hundred years after his death, the demon-king would conjure himself into the likeness of a monk, and use a false dharma to destroy the true.

Some had distilled the saying into a single line: "In the age of the dharma's end, to slay the Buddha with the Buddha."

"I've often heard the two abbots praise you," Jueguan said, clapping Ming Buxiang on the shoulder with a smile, "and they had it right. Good boy!"

Ming Buxiang asked, "Shall I show you the way?"

Jueguan laughed. "No need. I know the way."

Jueguan strode into the hall. He knew now how to persuade Juejian and Jueming both.

These Lay Monks were exactly the demon-king's disciples of the scriptures—draped in the kasaya of the Jewel of the Sangha, working to destroy the dharma. Shaolin Temple was a stronghold of the Buddhist faith and a bellwether besides; should the day come when even the abbot's seat fell to a Lay Monk, what would be destroyed was not Shaolin Temple alone but, very possibly, the dharma itself, in catastrophe. The division of Proper and lay might be set aside; the rise and fall of Shaolin Temple might be set aside; but the dharma could not be set aside. To let such men seize Shaolin Temple was to let them seize the right to speak for the dharma.

They must be set apart; the Lay Monks must never bear the same names as the Proper Monks. From this argument, he was certain, he could win over both Juejian and Jueming.

Thanks to this boy, Jueguan thought.

......

Liaojing raised his head and saw Ming Buxiang, who had come to return two sutras borrowed a few days before.

They were the Mahaparinirvana Sutra and the Surangama Sutra.

In the past Liaojing had seldom spoken with Ming Buxiang, but today he opened with, "Interesting sutras, aren't they?" He picked up the Mahaparinirvana Sutra. "This book has a story in it—about how, after the Buddha's passing, the heavenly demon disguises himself as a disciple of the Buddha, slips into the Buddhist fold, and destroys the true dharma."

"It's recorded in the seventh scroll," Ming Buxiang said. "I remember."

Liaojing then picked up the Surangama Sutra. "As for this Surangama Sutra, ever since it appeared in the world there have been no few who called it a forged sutra—simply because its contents are so marvelous as to strain belief. Many an eminent monk and lay scholar has argued over this book again and again."

Liaojing looked at Ming Buxiang and asked, "Do you think the Surangama Sutra is true or false?"

Ming Buxiang said, "Our forebears argued it many times, and never once produced proof that the book is false."

"I happen to think it's false," Liaojing said. "I just haven't found the proof yet." He fixed his gaze on Ming Buxiang and turned the question back on him. "And what do you say?"

Ming Buxiang gave no answer. He only smiled at Liaojing—a smile as radiant as a flower bursting open in the first warmth of spring.