Читать книгу A Sudden Dawn - Goran Powell - Страница 10

Bodhidharma

The monk followed the jungle path beneath towering rose-wood and teak, past tamarind trees laden with ripe fruit, and banana trees with giant leaves reaching out to the morning sun. He stopped at a mango tree and picked the ripest offerings for later in the day before continuing into the dark heart of the jungle. Here the trees grew so close that they formed a dense canopy over the earth. Only the occasional ray of light found its way through the mesh of leaves, to dance on the jungle floor or illuminate one of the flowers that grew in that hot dark world. And when it did, the monk considered himself blessed to see such wonders.

He moved quickly, carrying few possessions: a blanket, a bowl, an iron pot, and a pair of old sandals that hung from his walking staff and swung in time with his step.

The jungle’s carpet of twigs and leaves felt good beneath his feet and the scent of spice trees and decaying undergrowth filled his nostrils like a rich perfume. Fallen fruit littered the jungle floor, shaken down by the wind and the monkeys that jumped and shrieked overhead. Now and again a new piece of fruit would fall, narrowly missing his head. He would scowl up at the treetops and shake his staff at the monkeys, ordering them to show some respect to The Buddha’s messenger. The monkeys would screech in reply and turn, showing him their tails in a gesture that spoke as clearly as any words.

By late morning the jungle had begun to thin. Soon he left the shade of the trees altogether and emerged into the blinding light of the open country. It was springtime in the kingdom of Pallava and the distant hills were a startling blue. The kurinji was in bloom. It was a good omen because the kurinji flowered only once in twelve years. The monk considered making a detour to sit among these rarest of flowers, but time was against him and he pressed on.

He picked up a country road that twisted through fields of wild flowers and sharp elephant-grass. Hoofprints in the dried mud told of oxen that had walked the same path some time before. He followed their plodding footsteps until the shadows disappeared and the sun was directly overhead. Then he laid down his staff in the shade of a purple jacaranda and prepared to drink tea and meditate.

He collected a pile of twigs, which burst into flame at the first spark of his flint, then set a pot of water to boil. While he waited, he laid out his ingredients: tea leaves hand picked from the wild bushes that grew in the region, sugar crystals, cardamom, and cinnamon bark. When the water boiled, he added the ingredients to the pot and set it aside to cool before taking a sip. The tea was just as he liked it: strong, sweet, and fragrant.

He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, emptying his mind of all thought, fixing on nothing, until he was free to take in everything. The eye of his mind filled the sky and looked down on the green earth below before departing to explore the heavens. Moving freely in the farthest reaches of the cosmos, he occupied galaxies and worlds beyond description or knowledge, until his awareness filled the entire vast emptiness of the void. And then it was still. Neither moving nor seeking, unaware of self or other, it was one with all things, simply being.

By late afternoon, the monk had reached the banks of a slow-moving river. Reeds grew so tall that they obscured his view. He stepped among them, sweeping them aside until he saw what he was looking for, a rickety old jetty that stretched out into the brown water. He continued along the riverbank, enjoying the music of the reeds and the water, until a new melody reached his ears, the tinkling laughter of children.

A boy and girl were standing waist-deep in the water. The boy was young and bright eyed, with a ready smile. The girl was older, almost a woman. She was washing her brother’s hair and his dark curls glistened as she massaged coconut oil into his scalp. Her own hair had already been washed and combed, and hung long and straight down her slim back. She bowed to the monk and prodded her little brother to do the same.

“Greetings Master,” she called.

“Greetings, child.”

The boy bowed too, but there was mischief in his eyes. “Master, I have a question,” he shouted.

“Then ask it,” the monk said.

“Why don’t you wear your sandals?”

The girl prodded her brother angrily. It was bad karma to poke fun at monks, but this monk answered good-naturedly. “I like to feel the earth beneath my feet.”

“Then why carry them at all?” the boy asked, ignoring his sister’s efforts to silence him.

“Sometimes the ground is covered in sharp stones or thorns. Then I wear them.”

“If I had sandals, I would wear them all the time,” the boy said.

“Then your feet would grow soft,” the monk laughed, “and you would be afraid to feel the earth against your skin. And that would be a sad day because you would forget how good it feels.”

The boy was about to say more, but his sister pushed his head under the water and rubbed his hair vigorously. The monk chuckled to himself as he continued on his way to the jetty.

The old ferryman sat in his usual place, watching the river go by, as he had for so many years. A tremor in the jetty’s ancient beams told of a new passenger approaching. The old man did not turn to see who it was, preferring instead to try and guess from the footsteps. These were unusual, and for a moment he could not place them. They were not the steps of one of his regular passengers, of that he was certain. The tread was light and balanced, yet the jetty swayed under a considerable weight. He could recall such an effect only once before, when he had rowed a tall young monk across the water.

“Sardili!” he said, turning with a smile.

The figure on the jetty was not the young monk he remembered. A tangle of black hair fell onto immense shoulders. A thick beard hung down over a threadbare black robe. Worn leather sandals swung from the end of a gnarled walking staff. The stranger would have been a fearsome sight, were it not for the eyes that twinkled with mischief and laughter.

“Is that you, Sardili?” the old ferryman asked, shielding his eyes from the sun.

“Yes, my friend,” came the answer.

“I hardly recognized you,” the ferryman said with a frown, “Whatever happened to that clean-cut young man who passed this way before?”

The monk grinned and spread his hands. “He has been wandering.”

“Wandering? That doesn’t sound like him. He was such an earnest young fellow when I met him—so full of purpose. Did he lose his purpose?”

“On the contrary. I think he found it.”

“In Prajnatara’s temple?”

“Yes.”

“Well I’m pleased to hear it,” the old man said, slipping into his boat. “Come, climb in. We can talk as we cross.”

Sardili obeyed and the old ferryman began to row, his strong, steady strokes belying his advanced years and the skeletal thinness of his body.

“You’re visiting Prajnatara again?” he asked.

His passenger nodded.

“I’m sure he will be delighted to see you, if he recognizes you, that is, Sardili.”

Sardili smiled. No one had called him by that name for a long time.

“You have a new name?” the old man asked, as if reading his thoughts.

“I do,” he smiled.

“Tell me.”

“I have been given the name Bodhidharma.”

“Bodhidharma?” the old man chuckled to himself. “Well well, to be called ‘Teacher of Enlightenment’ that is quite an honor.”

“And quite a burden.”

“Perhaps, but Prajnatara is no fool. If he gave you such a name, you must deserve it. I will call you by that name from now on, Bodhidharma.” Then the old man saw the sadness in the younger man’s eyes and his tone softened. “Go and see Prajnatara again. He will help you, like he did before.”

Bodhidharma put his fingers in the warm brown water, then raised his hand and watched the golden droplets return to the river from his fingertips. “I should have visited him long ago,” he said softly.

“They say that to enlighten someone can take countless lifetimes, or a single moment,” the ferryman smiled, “so what’s your hurry?”

“You were a monk yourself?” Bodhidharma asked.

“I have been many things in my life,” the ferryman answered, steering the boat expertly to the shore and securing it against the blackened timbers of the jetty.

Bodhidharma stepped ashore. “What do I owe you?”

“Nothing,” the ferryman said with a wave of his hand.

“You said that last time you rowed me across.”

“Do you think I want bad karma by taking money from a penniless monk?” the ferryman asked testily.

“You don’t care about karma,” Bodhidharma said, looking down from the jetty, “I have never seen anyone as happy as you are here on this river. You would row the whole world across for free if you didn’t need to eat.”

“We all need to eat,” the old man said with sad smile.

“I guess we do,” Bodhidharma said, bending to grip the old man’s hand in silent thanks before entering the waiting jungle.

A parrot screeched a greeting and he returned its call without breaking stride. His thoughts were on the message he had received from Prajnatara and his fingers closed on the paper that he had kept in the folds of his robe. The hastily scribbled note had requested his presence at the temple. The tone had been casual and friendly, but Prajnatara never did anything without reason, and as Bodhidharma made his way to the little master’s temple, he wondered, not for the first time, what that reason might be.

Yulong Fort, China

Kuang’s breath came out in strangled gasps. Snot hung from his nose and a rich, thick phlegm gathered in his throat. He wanted to stop and hawk it up but that would mean giving up his slender lead over the other runners, and that lead was too precious. Corporal Chen was waiting for him at the top of the hill. By the time he reached him, Kuang’s thighs felt fit to burst, but he was still first and hoped for a word of praise from the corporal.

“Too slow, hurry up,” the corporal snarled, pushing him on down the shingle slope.

Two more soldiers were close behind. Kuang lengthened his stride to get away from them and fought the urge to look behind. It would only slow him down. The crunch of their footsteps told him they were only a few paces back. The temptation was too strong. Unable to resist, he stole a glance behind. They looked as tired as he was. It was good to know.

He reached a deserted farm building and scrambled over the outer wall. Earlier he had vaulted the same wall in a single leap, but this was his second lap of the training ground and this time he was forced to grit his teeth and haul himself up slowly. He lay across the top of the wall for a moment, wondering breathlessly how much longer he could keep up his furious pace.

The next two runners began to help one another to climb the wall. He despised them. He did not need help. He would be first, the best, the only one to get round the course unaided. He jumped down and set off again through thick mud that sucked at his feet, sapping his strength with each step. A pool of black water came into view. The stench pierced his nostrils. The place had once been a cesspit. More recently it had been allowed to fill with rainwater and Corporal Chen had thrown in rocks and tree branches to make it more difficult to cross.

Kuang jumped in up to his waist and felt his feet sink into the sludge. By the time he had reached the center of the pool, the water was at his chest and the stench had become unbearable. The first time he had crossed, he had succeeded in holding his breath, but this time he was too tired. He took a gulp of the foul air and retched. Nothing came up except a streak of yellow bile. He had not eaten for hours.

Corporal Chen was waiting on the far side of the pool. Kuang could see him beckoning and hear the insults ringing out across the water: he was too slow, too lazy, a disgrace to his parents, his ancestors, and all the soldiers who had served in the imperial Chinese army throughout the ages.

Was it true, he wondered? He was trying his best, like most of the others in his troop. They had not asked to join the army. They were not the elite cavalry that was winning glorious victories against the barbarians on the steppes. They were conscripts, little more than boys, stationed in a remote fort on the border with Tibet, a thousand li from civilization. A thousand li from home.

Corporal Chen was still shouting insults in his ear as he dragged himself from the water and stumbled along the gravel path to the remains of an old barn. The building had burned down years ago, leaving only crumbling outer walls and blackened timbers of the roof. He scaled the wall and climbed the first roof strut, ignoring the splinters that dug deeply into his hands. By the time he had reached the main crossbeam, the two soldiers behind him were at the wall. From their grunts and groans, he could tell they were suffering too, and smiled grimly to himself. They would not catch him. Not today.

He was near the end of the crossbeam when he noticed four dark shapes passing beneath him, four soldiers, crawling on their hands and knees to avoid being seen by Corporal Chen.

“Hey, you’re cheating!” he yelled, searching frantically for Corporal Chen, but the corporal was nowhere to be seen.

He jumped down and chased after the four who had stolen his lead. He saw them by a pile of logs at the bottom a grassy slope. The soldiers hefted a log onto their shoulders and set off up the hill. He grabbed a log of his own and hurried after them, his curses lost in his deep gasps for air. Soon he began to catch the last of the four. When he was close enough, he drove his log into the soldier’s back, sending him sprawling. The soldier lay in the grass, too weary to get up, his log rolling down the hill.

“You’ll pay for that, Kuang,” he snarled.

Kuang ignored him and hurried after the next man, who he recognized as Tsun. Tsun was big and powerful. During his short time in the barracks, he had already begun to intimidate the weaker conscripts. Kuang had kept out of Tsun’s way, but he now was too angry to care and jammed his log into Tsun’s knee.

Tsun stumbled and dropped his log with a curse but recovered instantly, spun around and smashed his fist into Kuang’s face. Kuang fell. His log landed on top of him. The punch had caught him on the nose and his vision misted over. He struggled to get to his feet, but was dazed by the punch. Tsun kicked him hard in the ribs. He rolled away, hoping to make some distance and let his head clear, but Tsun was too quick and pinned him on his back against the hillside. He saw Tsun’s black outline against the white sky, his fist pulled back for the first of many punches.

They never came.

Corporal Chen wrapped Tsun’s arm expertly behind his back and dragged him off. “Plenty of time for that later,” he said grimly, shoving Tsun away to fetch his log. Then he turned to Kuang. “I saw what you did, Kuang. Do fifty push-ups here and another lap of the course. Then rejoin us at the bottom of the hill.”

Kuang was about to protest, but the look on the corporal’s face changed his mind. He turned on his front to begin his push-ups. He was exhausted, and after five, his arms began to tremble. He gritted his teeth and continued to ten. Corporal Chen stood over him, waiting for him to stop or rest. “Why were you cheating, Kuang? It brings you no reward. I see everything you do. You have only disgraced yourself and dishonored your parents, your ancestors …” The corporal continued, but his words faded into the distance as Kuang slipped away to a place where nothing could reach him. He was too proud to stop or rest, and with the corporal standing over him, he would do all the push-ups. At any other time, fifty would be easy, but now, with his strength gone, he knew the pain would be immense. The only way to get through it would be to take his mind somewhere far away.

He lowered himself to do another push up. A blade of the coarse mountain grass pricked his forehead. He turned to the side, but as he lowered himself again, it tickled his cheek. It reminded him of a place and a childhood he had left behind, and all but forgotten. He followed the memory until it led him to another hillside far from the barren wilderness of Yulong Fort. He was back in the rolling green landscape of his homeland in Hubei. His friends were there, at the top of the hill, beckoning to him. He set off up the slope to meet them, but as he did, they turned and ran away. He could no longer see them, but he could hear their laughter on the wind. He ran hard to reach the brow of the hill and see where they had gone. He pushed harder, counting each step up the slope: twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine … he was on high ground and the wind roared in his ears … thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four … The sun appeared over the brow of the hill and shone so brightly that he couldn’t see. Still he pushed on … forty-five, forty-six, forty-seven. Time slowed. His counting slowed, almost to a stop, but not quite. Forty-eight. His nostrils were filled with the smell of the grass, a scent so powerful it cut off his breath. Forty-nine. His eyes were screwed shut against the sun and he was running blind. He was almost there.

Fifty. He had reached the summit.

His vision returned slowly. He rolled onto his back and stared up at the white sky, then sat up and looked for Corporal Chen. The corporal had gone, and only his voice could be heard in the distance, cursing the other soldiers. Kuang rose and walked up the hill slowly, his arms limp by his sides. When he reached the top he realized something was missing. He had left his log behind. If Corporal Chen saw him without it, he would only add to his punishment. He went back to retrieve it.

When he reached the top again, he saw the others had finished the course and the corporal had marked out a square on the ground. The soldiers had removed their tunics and were wrapping their hands in rough strips of sackcloth. He made his way down the hill to join them, wondering what was happening. When he arrived Corporal Chen yelled at him furiously. “What are you doing here, Kuang? Go round the course again like I told you. I’ll be watching you. Move!”

Some of the soldiers jeered as he went past. They hated him. He knew that. He had made no effort to fit in. He had always tried to be better than the rest, and they despised him for that. He did not care. In his heart, he knew he would leave them all behind one day. He would become a great soldier. This was just a test that had to be endured.

A different voice cut through the jeers. “Keep going, Kuang.” It was Huo, who had the bunk above his own in the barracks, “I saw who cheated.”

Kuang gave Huo a small nod of thanks before setting off around the course once more.

“The rules are very simple,” Corporal Chen told the gathered soldiers. “No biting. No gouging. No attacks to the groin. China needs her soldiers to produce more little soldiers.” He smiled, but no one shared his grim humor. “You can punch, kick, and wrestle. You win when your opponent is knocked out or submits. You stop only when I say. There are no other rules.” He scanned the pale faces waiting around the makeshift square. “Wan and Lei, you are first.”

The two fighters stepped into the square and circled each other warily.

“Hurry up!” he bellowed.

They charged at one another, flailing wildly, neither in control, until a wild punch from Wan connected with Lei’s chin. Lei’s legs buckled and his punches grew weaker. Wan sensed victory and landed another hard punch on his opponent’s nose. Bright streaks of red splashed Lei’s chest. He doubled over, shielding his face with his arms.

Wan looked to Corporal Chen, hoping he had done enough to win, but the corporal stared at him impassively. Wan shrugged and drove his knee toward Lei’s head to finish him. Lei moved his arm at the last moment and Wan’s knee connected with an elbow instead. He gasped in pain and held his knee tightly. Still dazed, Lei rose from his crouch to see what was happening. Wan could not afford to let Lei recover. Ignoring the agony in his knee, he rushed forward, grabbed Lei behind the head, and pulled him onto his left knee. This time the blow connected hard and Lei crumpled to the ground with no more than a sigh.

Kuang had been watching from the top of the hill. He had done a little wrestling at the training camp in his hometown, but this was far more serious, and he was already exhausted. Whatever happened, he knew he was going to get hurt. He made his way around the course slowly, hoping to regain a little energy before having to fight. Corporal Chen’s voice could be heard barking orders at the soldiers, and the dull thudding blows of the fights echoed around the stony training ground.

By the time he rejoined the rest, the other soldiers had recovered their energy. Some were limbering up and stretching in preparation for their turn in Corporal Chen’s brutal matches, while others stood nervously waiting their turn. He collapsed beside them, hoping to rest. His hopes were quickly dashed when the corporal ordered him into the square, scanning the others for a suitable opponent. Even before the name was called out, Kuang knew who it would be.

“Lung!”

Lung was easily the biggest soldier in the garrison, a farm laborer from Hunan, and hugely powerful. Though not vicious by nature, Lung had the look of a seasoned brawler, and Kuang prepared for the worst.

They stepped into the square and Kuang’s eyes locked onto Lung’s for the first time. The small, round eyes were impossible to read, but he knew he could expect no mercy. He stayed at the edge of the square and fiddled with his hand-wrapping, waiting for a little freshness to return to his limbs. Lung figured out what he was doing and crossed the square with a roar, launching a barrage of punches at his head. He slipped to the side and struck at Lung, but the bigger man’s power drove him back. He stumbled and covered his head with his hands. Heavy punches smashed his arms and shoulders. He threw two more punches of his own and felt his fists make contact with Lung’s face, but Lung was unstoppable.

He skirted the edge of the square, hoping for a moment’s respite, but Lung was on him, catching him with a hard punch in the stomach that doubled him over. Lung smashed a knee into his body. Ignoring the pain, Kuang threw his arms around Lung’s legs to tackle him. Lung sprawled, throwing his legs behind and out of reach. His great weight bore down on Kuang’s back and he pounded vicious punches into his sides. Kuang drove forward to get a better grip on Lung’s legs, but Lung was too strong. Something had to change.

He dropped to his knees and twisted suddenly. Lung lost his grip for a moment, but regained control by falling on top of him. Now he was trapped beneath Lung’s bulk. He pushed and struck out with his elbow, catching Lung in the face, stunning him for a second. It was the chance he needed to squirm out. He stood and aimed a kick at Lung’s head, but tiredness had made him slow. Lung caught his leg and threw him to the ground, landing squarely on top of him and driving the air from his body. Now he was pinned securely, and Lung began to strike at his head with the base of his fist.

He turned away in desperation. It was a mistake. He had given Lung his back. Lung’s massive arms wrapped around his neck and drew a strangle hold in tight. He heard a roaring in his ears, felt the prickling redness behind his eyes. The world was closing to a small dot. With the last of his strength, he stood up with Lung on his back before blacking out.

When he woke, the pressure was gone. For a moment, he thought the fight was over and he had been carried to the side. But then he saw the eyes of the other soldiers on him and saw he was still in the square. Lung was beneath him. The throbbing on the back of his skull told him what had happened. His head had flown back when they had fallen and struck Lung hard in the face.

He spun and found himself on top for the first time. Lung’s nose was broken. Blood was running into his eyes from a deep gash and his hands were rubbing frantically at his eyes. Kuang felt a stab of pity for the big man. It lasted for just a moment—the fight was not over yet—Lung was a formidable opponent and could recover in an instant. He stood over him and raised his foot to stamp on Lung’s head. Corporal Chen stepped forward but Kuang was beyond waiting for the order to stop. He dropped to one knee and began punching steadily, until he felt two soldiers dragging him off his beaten opponent.

He stood with his hands on his knees, gulping in deep lungfuls of the thin mountain air, grateful for the respite, but his ordeal was not over. Corporal Chen nodded to Tsun, who was ready and waiting with his hands wrapped. Tsun rushed at him. Kuang raised his hands in futile defense. A huge punch found its way past his guard and caught him on the temple. He crashed to the ground. Then Tsun was standing over him, kicking at his head and ribs. He curled into a ball to protect himself and rolled away, scrambling to get to his feet. Tsun followed and kicked at his head, clipping him on the jaw. He fell again, badly dazed. Tsun pinned him on his back and straddled his chest. There was no escape. Vicious punches began to fall. He fought to push Tsun off, but Tsun’s weight was planted firmly on his chest. He parried Tsun’s punches and moved to prevent them from connecting hard. He struck back, but from his position on his back his punches had no effect. Tsun gripped his wrists and pinned his hands to his chest, then moved forward to sit on them and finish him off. As Tsun shifted his weight, Kuang bucked hard with one huge final effort. It was enough to lift Tsun a fraction and he slipped out between Tsun’s legs.

Tsun spun and seized him. Kuang felt a knee smash his ribs. The stunning pain made him feel faint. He threw his arms desperately around one of Tsun’s legs, but was too weak to take him down. Tsun resisted easily and struck at his head with hard punches. Too dazed to think any more, Kuang clung on grimly as Tsun punched him. All sense of time left him. After what seemed like an age, the blows became lighter. Tsun was still striking him—now he was using his palms instead of his fists. The blows registered faintly, somewhere in the distance. He guessed Tsun’s hands were too damaged to hit hard and he clung to Tsun’s thigh with a satisfied grin.

At last Corporal Chen sent two soldiers to pry him off. They dragged him from the square and laid him on his back, staring up at the empty sky. He did not move. His eyes closed and he drifted into a dreamless sleep.

Some time later, he did not know how long, he was dimly aware of more matches going on nearby. Then the sounds faded and he heard nothing. When he woke again, the sky was grey and the air cold. He began to shiver uncontrollably. Each new breath sent a stab of pain through his side. His head was pounding. His lips were swollen and there was a metallic taste on his tongue. He tried to stand but a searing pain ripped through his body and he fell back, groaning.

He considered calling for help, but his pride prevented him. He closed his eyes and waited, wondering if he would get back to the barracks before nightfall. Eventually he heard the crunch of footsteps on the shingle track. He tried to sit up and see who was coming. It was too painful. Instead, he raised his head, breathing hard with the effort. The approaching figure was nothing more than a silhouette in half-light. He laid his head back, exhausted, and waited. Finally a head appeared above him, but he could not make out the face against the darkening sky.

The Temple in the Jungle

Bodhidharma followed the narrow jungle path until he saw the fork in the river. The temple was near. Soon it came into view, its pale stonework gleaming in the mottled sunlight between the trees. A lone figure was working in the gardens and he recognized the slight frame at once. It was Prajnatara, tending the flowers. He called out a greeting and Prajnatara turned, shading his eyes from the sun. At the sight of his old student, the little master let out a cheer and hurried through the the trees, beaming with delight.

“Bodhidharma! I knew you would come. Did you get my message? Of course you did, you’re here, aren’t you? Well, well, let me look at you. You look …” Prajnatara paused, looking him up and down disapprovingly, “… quite different from the last time I saw you. Heavens, yes. It’s understandable. You have been on the road a long time and traveled a great distance to be here. I heard you have been wandering all over India. But listen to me chattering on like an old fool and keeping you standing out here in this dreadful heat! Come inside, my dear Bodhidharma. Come into the shade and cool off. You must be tired, hungry, thirsty?”

Prajnatara led him to his private chamber and rang a bell. A novice monk appeared and Prajnatara ordered refreshments for his special guest. “It’s so good to see you again,” he continued breathlessly, “I hardly recognized you after all this time. I see you no longer wear the orange robe of the order. And you certainly have a lot more hair …”

Bodhidharma shrugged apologetically.

“Well never mind, it’s of no real concern how a master dresses, and besides, you always were a bit of a special case. I remember the day you first appeared at our temple, how you showed us your wrestling skills. What a time that was! The young monks still talk about it today. Brother Jaina still reckons you’re the finest wrestler he’s ever come across.”

“How is Brother Jaina?” Bodhidharma asked, taken aback by the master’s overwhelming warmth.

“Oh, he is fine, and looking forward to seeing you, but all in good time, all in good time. First we must talk; or rather, you must wash, and eat, and then we can talk. Where is that boy?” He grumbled. Just then the novice appeared with a basin of water for their guest and Bodhidharma washed his hands and bathed his tired feet.

“I see you still wear your sandals on your staff,” Prajnatara said, handing him a vial of warm oil to massage into his feet.

“I’m saving them for a special occasion,” Bodhidharma said with a grin.

“Then keep them nice and clean,” Prajnatara said.

Bodhidharma raised an eyebrow inquisitively, but Prajnatara changed the subject quickly. “You look as strong and fit as ever. Even bigger than before if I’m not mistaken, and all muscle by the look of it. You still exercise?”

“Every day,” Bodhidharma answered.

“Splendid! I’m delighted to hear it. Fitness is very important, a lot more important than people realize.”

The novice reappeared with refreshments and Prajnatara had him set the tray down before his guest.

“Please have some first,” Bodhidharma insisted. Prajnatara was about to decline, but knowing his former student would not eat until he had taken something first, he helped himself to a small handful of rice, leaving the rest untouched.

“When I got your message …” Bodhidharma began, but Prajnatara held up his hand to silence him. “First eat,” he ordered.

Bodhidharma was hungry. He obeyed. The food was simple but tasty, just as he remembered it. He lifted a handful of rice and vegetables in his fingers and nodded his appreciation, his mouth too full to speak.

“We have a new cook,” Prajnatara smiled. “I have been instructing him personally. Now I think he’s even better than the old one.”

Bodhidharma ate quickly, sensing Prajnatara’s eagerness to talk. He also sensed it was a matter of some importance, despite Prajnatara’s attempt at small talk. As soon as he had finished, Prajnatara leaned forward and squeezed Bodhidharma’s arm affectionately. “Forgive me for coming to the point so quickly. I asked you here because I have a very important request to make of you.”

“There is nothing to forgive, Master,” Bodhidharma said, “I should be the one apologizing, not you. I should have visited long ago. I have been remiss. And whatever request you have, consider it done.”

“It is kind of you to be so understanding,” Prajnatara said, “but please hear me out before agreeing to anything.”

Bodhidharma was about to protest but something in his former master’s face made him sit back in silence and let him speak.

Prajnatara waited, seemingly unsure how to begin.

Bodhidharma could feel the little master testing different opening lines in his head, and he wondered what sort of request could cause Prajnatara to hesitate so. All at once the answer seemed to come to Prajnatara and he spoke breathlessly, as if relating the latest temple gossip to an old friend. “Recently I have been in correspondence with The Venerable Ananda, you know who he is, of course...”

Bodhidharma nodded slowly. “Of course, The Venerable Ananda is the Buddhist patriarch, the living embodiment of Buddha on Earth. Every Buddhist knows this.”

“Quite so,” Prajnatara said. “He is also a wonderful man. He was my master when I was young. I studied with him for many years in Nalanda. It was Ananda who enlightened me and showed me The Way. Now he is the patriarch and Grandmaster of Nalanda, and no monk has ever been more deserving of such a title. Since taking up that position, Ananda has worked tirelessly to ensure the transmission of the lamp.”

“The lamp?” Bodhidharma asked, determined to follow Prajnatara’s rambling speech.

“Yes, the transmission of The Buddha’s teachings! Once the flame of enlightenment has been lit, it must never be allowed to go out. Ananda’s efforts have been rewarded. Already the teachings have spread far beyond the five kingdoms of India—west into Persia, north into Central Asia, and east into China, where they are proving to be immensely popular. Recently we learned that the emperor of China himself is an avid follower of Buddhism.”

“That is encouraging news,” Bodhidharma said.

“It is excellent news. Excellent news. The Venerable Ananda has made it his life’s work to ensure people around the world are not denied the perfection of The Buddha’s teachings.

“He must be very happy,” Bodhidharma said.

“He is, but in his most recent correspondence he also intimated that he is gravely concerned.” Prajnatara paused, his brow knotted in a frown. “He writes of visions that appear to him with great regularity and clarity. They tell him that the future of The Way lies in the East, in China. The importance of bringing the teachings to the Chinese people cannot be overstated.”

“And this concerns him, you say?” Bodhidharma said, hoping to steer the little master toward the point of the conversation.

“Yes, most gravely, because China is vast, Bodhidharma! It stretches from the Himalayas in the west to the eastern Ocean, from the tropical jungles in the south to the frozen steppes of the north; and the population outnumbers all the five kingdoms of India put together. The journey to China is long and perilous. Only a handful of teachers are prepared to make it, or capable of enduring the hardships along the way.”

“I see.”

“I’m glad you appreciate the situation,” Prajnatara said solemnly.

A brief silence followed. It seemed Prajnatara was waiting for a reply.

“These are very important matters,” Bodhidharma offered, wondering what the master was expecting to hear.

“Vitally important! They are the key to the very future of The Way. So what do you say, my dear Bodhidharma?” Prajnatara demanded, the first signs of exasperation creeping into his voice.

“What do I say about what?” Bodhidharma asked, more bewildered than ever.

“About what we have been discussing …”

“I’m sorry Master, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Bodhidharma said with a frown.

“About going there, of course.”

“Going where?”

“Oh, by the Buddha’s bones!” Prajnatara shouted. “To China, where else?”

Bodhidharma stared into his eyes and saw that he was serious. He let out a roar of laughter that shattered the silence. “You want to send me to China?” he asked, his body still shaking with mirth.

“That was what I had in mind,” Prajnatara said coolly, “and I don’t consider it a laughing matter.”

“Oh please forgive me Master,” Bodhidharma begged, wiping the tears of laughter from his eyes, “and please don’t think me rude. I’m flattered, really I am. I’m only laughing at the irony of it all, because, well, I haven’t told you yet, but I am a hopeless teacher. In the five years that I’ve been away, I’ve achieved nothing. I’m ashamed to say I have no disciples, not even a single student. The longest anyone has stayed with me has been six weeks, and this is teaching Indians, my own countrymen, people who speak the same language as me. So you see, I couldn’t possibly go to China and enlighten the Chinese. It would be a wasted journey.”

“I see,” Prajnatara said slowly.

“I’m the last person on earth you should want to send,” Bodhidharma said with a apologetic shrug.

Prajnatara sat quietly for a while, considering his words carefully before speaking. “Why do you think you failed, Bodhidharma?”

“My methods don’t work.”

“And what methods are those?” Prajnatara probed.

“Pointing directly to reality.”

“That is a very ambitious method, as I think I told you before.”

“You did Master, and I must admit you were right. But you know my thoughts on the matter. I don’t believe in debating scriptures and following rituals. For me it’s just so many empty words and empty practices. I would be a hypocrite if I started doing all that now. I hope you understand.”

“I understand more than you think,” Prajnatara reassured him. “You see The Way clearly Bodhidharma, but you don’t see how to illuminate it, yet. That is another skill you must learn.”

“You think I should teach scriptures and follow rituals?”

“I think students need something to grasp. You can’t simply snap your fingers and set them free. Things are never that easy, not for a teacher nor for a student.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Bodhidharma conceded. “I seem to be getting nowhere by trying to take a shorter path.”

“There is no shorter path. There is only the path. Each person must be allowed to tread it in their own time.”

Bodhidharma nodded glumly, “I guess you are right, as usual.”

“It’s never easy to break the spell of desire,” Prajnatara said. “Don’t be too hard on yourself. Remember how long you yourself toiled under the yoke of delusion before you saw the truth.”

“I remember all too well,” Bodhidharma said with a bitter smile.

“Try to be a bit more patient, with yourself and your students. I imagine you drive them quite hard.”

Bodhidharma stared at the floor without comment.

“Brother Jaina tells me you’re renowned all over Pallava,” Prajnatara continued, “The villagers call you the warrior monk. I think they’re perhaps a little afraid of you.”

“What are they afraid of? They have nothing to fear,” Bodhidharma said indignantly.

“Of course not, but give people a chance to get to know you. Remember, not everyone is born to the Warrior Caste, as you were. Take them one small step at a time and they will make the final leap when they are ready.”

The old ferryman had been right. Prajnatara was wise and Bodhidharma felt he had been enlightened all over again.

“Don’t misunderstand me,” Prajnatara smiled, “I admire your conviction, really I do. You’re not wrong when you say scriptures and rituals are not the true Way. Still, they point in the right direction. And besides, the methods themselves are not the real issue.”

“They’re not?”

“No. It’s the discipline required that is important. Even students who reach enlightenment may falter if they’re not strong. You have that strength—I saw it in you when you arrived. It’s in your blood. I knew that if you grasped the subtle beauty of The Way, you would never stray from the path, and nor have you. I did not give you the name Bodhidharma for nothing. You will be a great teacher one day.”

“When you gave me that name, I thought it was the greatest honor a man could have,” Bodhidharma said with a heavy heart. “Now it hangs around my neck like a curse.”

“It is neither a blessing nor a curse,” Prajnatara said. “It is simply your destiny. The name Bodhidharma will be known throughout the world. I have seen it in a vision, and these things cannot be ignored.”

“You are too kind, Master.”

“Nonsense,” Prajnatara waved his hand dismissively, “and besides, your disdain for the scriptures will not be an issue in China. In fact, it will be something of a blessing. I’m told there are very few translations of the Sutras into Chinese, and those that do exist are of dubious quality. Your “direct methods” as you call them will be a useful way to spread the teachings, at least at present.”

“You still want me to go to China?” Bodhidharma asked, astonished.

“Of course.”

“Even after everything I told you?”

“You are the perfect envoy,” Prajnatara said, nodding vigorously, “Trust me on this. And besides, I have already mentioned you to The Venerable Ananda and he agrees.”

“He does?”

“Completely.” Prajnatara hesitated, examining his fingers before continuing. “There is another reason why you were chosen for this task, a rather more pragmatic reason. You’re young and strong, and like I said, the journey is long and arduous.”

Bodhidharma was finally beginning to see why he had been chosen for such a mission, “Long and arduous?” he repeated slowly, I believe “long and perilous” were your exact words, Master.”

Prajnatara’s pained expression returned. “They were? Yes, well, perhaps I did say that. Look, I won’t lie to you Bodhidharma. I’ll give you the facts as I know them.” He paused to clear his throat. “The Venerable Ananda did inform me that several monks who went to China seem to have disappeared.”

“Disappeared?”

“They have not been heard from again.”

“How many, exactly?”

“How many what?”

“How many monks have never been heard from again?”

“Well I’m not sure of the exact figures. I suppose The Venerable Ananda might have some more precise statistics …”

“Just approximately,” Bodhidharma persisted.

“I believe four masters went to meet with the emperor of China in recent years. None succeeded.”

“Why did they fail?”

“Two were quite old, and the journey is very demanding. There are mountains of dangerous cold, treacherous rivers, endless deserts. It’s thought they perished on the way. On top of that, there are bandits and brigands in the hills. One may have been killed, or captured and enslaved. The fourth went by sea, a very long route. I believe his ship was either lost at sea or attacked by pirates.”

“I see.”

“The Venerable Ananda and I felt that a monk with a background like yours would be the ideal candidate to succeed in such a mission,” Prajnatara said lightly, as if giving an answer to a simple puzzle. “If your skill with the bow and the sword is even half as good as your wrestling, you should have nothing to fear. In fact, heaven help any bandit who tries to stop you!”

“You make it sound easy,” Bodhidharma scowled.

“It is not easy. Not at all. But then, the path never is. It is simply the path. And this is your path. Surely you can see that?”

Bodhidharma stared at him coolly.

“Besides,” Prajnatara continued, “it’s not all doom and danger. Think of the adventures you’ll have, the places you’ll see. You can go north to Magadha and bathe in the sacred waters of the Ganges. Make a pilgrimage to Bodh Gaya and meditate beneath the Tree of Enlightenment like The Buddha. You can visit Kapilavastu, Sarnath, and Kusinagara. And after all that, you can go to Nalanda, the greatest temple in the world, where The Venerable Ananda will be expecting you. He will help you prepare for your onward journey. You will climb the Himalayas and stand on the roof of the world. I climbed those mountains myself when I was young. They are so beautiful. I only wish I could see them once again before I die, but my place is here now. And then you will see China! Just think of it, an unimaginable land, known to the rest of us only through myth and legend. How I envy you.”

He stopped abruptly to gauge the reaction of his disciple.

“It sounds like the two of you have it all planned,” Bodhidharma said.

Prajnatara laughed. “The Venerable Ananda and I have written many times on the subject, that much is true. He is very excited about the possibility of your mission, very excited about you. But there is no need to answer right now, Bodhidharma. Think it over. Take as long as you wish. I know you will make the right decision.”

“There is no need to think it over,” Bodhidharma said quietly. “I will go.”

Prajnatara’s face lit up. “You will?”

“I will. If you say it is my destiny, then I will follow it.”

“How wonderful!” Prajnatara clapped his hands in delight. “The Venerable Ananda will be so thrilled when I tell him.”

“I would not want to disappoint the living embodiment of Buddha on Earth,” Bodhidharma said with a grim smile.

“Oh Bodhidharma, you could never disappoint him, nor me! But I’m so happy that you have accepted. It is your path. I have seen it in a vision, and these things cannot be ignored.” Prajnatara poured a little water for himself and took a sip. “On a more practical note, you will need more than your bowl and sandals for this journey. I will give you funds and provisions to help you reach Nalanda, and Ananda will help you from there. But we can make all those arrangements later, much later. First we should relax, and you can tell me where you have been wandering and preaching, and why you have waited so long before coming to visit us. I am very angry with you, young man, very very angry …”

And so it was that Bodhidharma set off for an unknown land beyond the Himalayas, a place he could only imagine from a painting he had once seen, long ago, in the library of a temple he had visited. The painting had been unusual, most unlike the richly colored art of India. With just a few bold strokes of black ink on stark white paper, the artist had created an enormous winged serpent coiled around sharp towers of rock. Angry white water seethed beneath it, and a fine silver mist hung in the air. Curious markings ran down the side—Chinese writing, he had been told—though no one had any idea of their meaning. The effect had been startling; an alien world filled with unknown dangers. It was a land that could not have been more different from the warm flat jungles of his homeland, a place that was now both his destination and, if Prajnatara was to be believed, his destiny.

Kuang Returns to Barracks

Huo bent to help Kuang to his feet. “Come on, you fool,” he sighed, straining to lift him, “let’s get you back to the barracks. It’s going to be freezing out here tonight.”

Kuang struggled to stand. His body was wracked with pain. He took two faltering steps supporting himself on Huo’s shoulder, but the pain was too great and his legs buckled beneath him. Huo caught him and lifted him in his arms like a baby, ignoring his groans. “No need to thank me,” he said.

Huo had a fat lip and his left eye was black and swollen, despite which, he appeared in good spirits. He had clearly fared better in Corporal Chen’s brutal training fights than Kuang had. “Why did you come and get me?” Kuang demanded sullenly.

“Corporal Chen sent me.”

“He did?”

“When I told him you hadn’t come back, he ordered me to come and get you.”

“That’s very caring of him.”

“Try not to annoy him, Kuang. Just keep your head down and don’t get noticed. That’s what I do. It’s the best way.”

“I don’t want to be like you.”

“Good. I don’t want to be like you, either.”

They continued in silence until they reached the torch-lit compound inside the fort. Commander Tang’s residence stood before them. The commander was the officer in charge of the fort, and as they drew nearer, Kuang twisted in Huo’s arms.

“You can put me down now,” he said.

“Don’t be stupid, we’re almost there.”

“Put me down.”

“Shut up,” Huo laughed, “or I’ll drop you here and leave you on the floor.”

“Come on, put me down, please …”

Huo gave in and put him down and Kuang walked despite the pain. Huo wondered why his friend was so determined to walk. Perhaps he didn’t want Commander Tang to glance out of the window and see him being carried like a baby. When Huo noticed movement on the terrace outside the commander’s residence, he guessed the real reason for Kuang’s reaction. Weilin was outside.

Weilin was Commander Tang’s daughter and often came out in the evening to tend her flowerpots or read a few pages from her book. Like all the soldiers in the fort, Huo watched her hungrily, from a distance. She was young and pretty. She was also the only young, pretty woman in the fort. But when it came to his chances with Weilin, he knew she may as well have been on the moon. Not only was she the commander’s daughter, she was also betrothed to Captain Fu Sheng, a cavalry officer who was stationed on the northern frontier. The captain visited the fort only rarely, but his reputation was enough to deter any young man who might have been foolish enough to make advances to his fiancée.

Tonight, Weilin was reading by lamplight. The flame flickered in the sharp mountain wind, catching the soft curve of her cheek, the ripe lips. Her eyes were buried in her book. As they passed by, Huo was surprised to see her look up. Normally she ignored the soldiers coming and going around the fort but this time he saw her gaze follow Kuang as he passed. In a sudden flare of the torchlight, he was even more surprised to see a look of concern cross her face at the sight of Kuang’s bruised and swollen face.

Kuang turned to hide his face from Weilin and hobbled toward the barracks as quickly as his aching legs would carry him. Huo hurried after him. “Hey, Kuang!” he whispered urgently, “don’t even think about it!”

Kuang ignored him and continued in silence.

“Seriously, Kuang … I mean it. I really mean it.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Kuang said tersely as he mounted the barrack steps on stiff legs.

“Yes you do. You know exactly what I mean,” Huo persisted.

Kuang ignored him and went inside. Huo looked back toward the commander’s house. The flicker of the lamplight could still be seen in the distance. He waited a moment, watching the light play against the dark setting of the surrounding mountains, and then followed Kuang out of the cold night air and into the warm, stuffy embrace of the barracks.

A Pilgrim in Magadha

Bodhidharma crossed many rivers on his journey to the northern Kingdom of Magadha, but none stirred him like the Ganges. In the clear morning light, the vast expanse of sparkling brown water filled his vision. The river was the birthplace of a civilization and the artery that pumped life through the Buddhist heartland of Magadha. The Buddha himself had lived and preached all his life in this fertile plain. As Bodhidharma sat by the waters edge, he pictured The Buddha bathing in the sacred waters, speaking softly with his disciples, the river clean and uncrowded.

Things were very different now. Hundreds of people were gathered at the water’s edge and standing in the shallows, washing their hair, their teeth, their clothes, cupping their hands to drink the sacred waters of the Ganges hoping it would endow them with eternal good health. The swollen corpse of a goat float by, followed by the body of an old woman. Bodhidharma filled his goatskin from the murky waters, but did not drink. He would use it later for tea. He knew the difference between truth and myth.

He had crossed the Ganges once already on his way to Kapilavastu, the birthplace of The Buddha, and from here he had visited the other sacred sites where The Buddha had lived and died. Now he prepared to re-cross the river for the final destination of his pilgrimage. He waited on the riverbank until a boatman noticed him and steered toward him. The boat was already filled with passengers, but there was always room for one more, especially if that person was a holy man who would bring good karma.

Bodhidharma stepped into the boat and sat beside a young boy, who cowed away from him and nestled closer to his father.

“You are going to Bodh Gaya, Master?” the boy’s father asked.

“Yes, I am.”

“To see the Bodhi Tree?”

“Yes,” Bodhidharma smiled, “I have read about it for many years but never seen it.”

“It is a very special place,” the man assured him.

“Why do you want to go and see a tree?” the boy asked, forgetting his fear of the fierce-looking stranger.

“The Buddha was sitting beneath that very tree when he became enlightened,” Bodhidharma answered.

“What happened to him?”

“He saw the true nature of things.”

“And what was it?”

“That is a good question,” Bodhidharma laughed.

“Have you seen it too?”

“Perhaps.”

“What did you see?”

Bodhidharma leaned closer so only the boy could hear him. “What I saw was not important. It was the light that I saw it in.”

“What sort of light?”

“A very clear light.”

“If I become a pilgrim, will I see it too?”

“Maybe one day,” Bodhidharma smiled, “I certainly hope you do.”

The dusty road to Bodh Gaya was crowded with pilgrims. Some were tall and slender with light skin from the north of India. Others were dark, with round eyes and tight black curls from the south, like him. Still others had come from beyond the Himalayas. There were white-skinned men with brown hair and green-eyed women in colorful costumes who, he imagined, had traveled from Persia or another unknown land far to the West. He passed a group of traders with smooth skin and almond eyes. Their features brought to mind descriptions he had read of Chinese people but when he asked their origin, he discovered they were from Burma.

A busy market had sprung up on the road to the Tree of Enlightenment. Stallholders sold paintings, tapestries, statues, and carvings of The Buddha seated beneath the Bodhi tree. A throng of wagons and carts had become hopelessly jammed. The drivers shouted angrily at one another while their mules and oxen twitched their tails against the swarming flies. Bodhidharma passed single-humped camels from the deserts of Arabia, and two-humped camels from Bakhtar beyond the Hindukush. On the edge of the market, a group of mahouts stood in a tight circle and joked among themselves while their elephants munched on mountains of leaves and looked down on the chaos before them with laughing eyes.

The market gave way to a park with a low limestone wall around it and cultivated gardens on either side. In the center was an expanse of dry grass filled with pilgrims, and rising above them all, a giant fig tree. A steady stream of pilgrims was walking round the tree, chanting prayers. Their endless footsteps had formed a rut in the ground that had baked hard in the sun. Other pilgrims lay prostrate toward the sacred tree, and yet more sat facing it in meditation, rigid and determined, as if waiting for a miracle. Some had clearly been there for many days and were on the edge of exhaustion.

Bodhidharma found a space near a group of hermit monks who were seated in a circle. Their matted hair and beards hung to the ground. Their skeletal bodies had been smeared from head to foot with grey ash. One of them noticed Bodhidharma through half-closed eyes, and turned to take a closer look. He watched as Bodhidharma lit a fire and prepared to make tea and heat a generous portion of flat bread and spiced vegetables. Finally he caught Bodhidharma’s eye and gestured to him. “May I join you, Brother?” he called out. His companions glared and whispered to him urgently, but he ignored them.

“If you wish,” Bodhidharma replied.

The hermit rose with difficulty and took a few faltering steps toward him, unsure of his balance. He bent to sit down, but his legs gave way beneath him and he slumped in a heap on the ground beside Bodhidharma.

“What is it that you are doing, Brother?” he asked, breathless from the exertion of moving from his seat.

“Drinking tea,” Bodhidharma said.

“We drink only the water from the sacred River Ganges,” the hermit said, shaking his head disapprovingly.

“The river may be sacred,” Bodhidharma said, “but the water is dirty.”

“The water of the Ganges is the water of life,” the hermit said, his dark eyes boring into Bodhidharma’s.

“The river contains death as well as life. Take a look next time you’re on the riverbank.”

“So where did you get the water for your tea?” the hermit asked triumphantly.

Bodhidharma looked at the hermit who was grinning broadly now, his broken teeth huge inside his fleshless skull. “From the river,” he sighed.

“Ha ha!”

“The fire rids it of the spirits of the dead.”

“You believe that?” the hermit scoffed.

“I do, and it also makes good tea. Here, try some,” Bodhidharma said offering him his cup, “it’s very refreshing.”

“I cannot accept, but thank you,” the hermit said.

“Why not? Is it because you might grow to like it?”

“The Buddha told us to free ourselves from earthly desires.”

Bodhidharma took a sip of tea and smacked his lips appreciatively. “He did. But did he not also say that to deny oneself life’s pleasures is wrong too? Did he not speak of a middle path?”

“Maybe so, but where exactly does that path lie?”

“A good question,” Bodhidharma smiled, setting his flat bread to heat over the fire.

“And what is your answer, Brother?” the hermit demanded.

“In a place that cannot be named.”

“Then does it exist at all, one might ask?”

“Yes.”

“That is what you believe,” the hermit said, “but are you certain?”

“I am,” Bodhidharma said with a smile.

The hermit stared at Bodhidharma for a moment then looked around at the park of Bodh Gaya. He noticed his fellow hermits glaring at him and turned back quickly to the stranger in the black robe who was sipping his tea contentedly.

“If you are so certain of things, then why are you here?” he demanded.

“I am making a pilgrimage on my way to Nalanda,” Bodhidharma told him.

“You wish to study at Nalanda? I must warn you, it is very difficult to get in. They will turn you away at the gate.”

“I have an introduction,” Bodhidharma told him.

“An introduction, you say? From whom? They are very particular in Nalanda.”

“Prajnatara.”

“Prajnatara, you say? Master Prajnatara is your master? Why did you not say so before? Prajnatara is very famous here in Magadha, although I heard he went south many years ago to teach.”

“He is, and he did.”

“He must think very highly of you, to send you all the way to Nalanda.”

“He is sending me a lot farther than that,” Bodhidharma smiled. The hermit’s eyes darted over the body of the dark monk and examined his face, determined to take in every detail. “May I know your name, Brother?” he asked finally.

“Bodhidharma.”

“Bodhidharma, you say?” the hermit’s eyes widened in wonder, “and you were given this name by Prajnatara himself?” He shook his head urgently from side to side, “I should call you Master instead of Brother! Please forgive me.”

“You’re free to call me anything you choose,” Bodhidharma said, removing his flat bread from the fire and setting his pot of vegetables on the flame.

“I shall call you Master Bodhidharma,” the hermit said, pressing his palms together with a smile, “and I am honored to meet you. My name is Vanya.”

Bodhidharma reached for his bowl and began to fill it from the pot on the fire. “Would you like to share my food, Brother Vanya?” he asked.

Vanya’s face fell in dismay and he shifted uneasily where he sat.

Bodhidharma smiled. “Maybe later,” he said, “I can see you have no appetite at present.”

“Yes, thank you, Master,” Vanya said with relief. “Please don’t think me rude.”

Bodhidharma began to eat noisily, shoveling mounds of spiced vegetables into his mouth with hunks of flat bread and washing it down with slurps of hot sweet tea. Vanya watched uneasily. He wanted to look away, but felt the eyes of his fellow hermits on his back and did not dare to turn in case one of them should catch his eye. “Forgive me for being so forthright,” he said finally. “You eat and drink in a holy place.”

“I’m hungry,” Bodhidharma said.

“You cook for yourself, which is forbidden by the Buddhist law.”

Bodhidharma shrugged.

“And I see you carry possessions.”

“I am on a long journey, Brother Vanya.”

“How can a man who is truly free of worldly desire do such things?”

Bodhidharma looked at Vanya’s wasted body, the grey skin stretched painfully thin over protruding bones, the sunken eyes and festering sores that remained untreated on his limbs. “The Buddha once did as you do, Brother Vanya,” he answered. “He denied himself and starved himself for many years. In the end, he abandoned that path saying the true Way lies neither in denial nor excess.”

“But to put oneself above the suffering of the great Lord Buddha, that could be considered pride, one of the greatest of all sins,” Vanya said.

Bodhidharma rinsed his cup and bowl and set about packing his knapsack, but Vanya had not finished. “Detachment, that is the key to all things. That is what The Buddha said. Freedom from desires and cravings. Freedom from revulsion and loathing, until even death no longer holds any fear for us.”

Bodhidharma rose to his feet and slung his knapsack over his shoulder. “Your mind is made up Brother Vanya, and my path takes me elsewhere. I wish you well.”

“Detachment is freedom from the wheel of birth and death,” Vanya said repeating a mantra that he and his companions lived by.

Bodhidharma planted his walking staff firmly in the ground. “Quite right!” he said, and then bent low so none but Vanya could hear. “Just beware of attaching yourself to detachment.”

He walked swiftly through the throng of pilgrims, surprised by the strength of his sudden anger. The hermit had studied for many years, yet he was still so blind. Not for the first time, he wondered if he had the strength to enlighten a single person, let alone the emperor of China. His furious pace took him quickly through the crush of the marketplace, and by the time he had reached the road to Nalanda his anger was replaced by a sadness that reached deep into his bones. His pace slowed and his knapsack felt heavy on his back. Finally he stopped and closed his eyes in despair.

Suddenly, there was the sound of urgent footsteps behind him.

“Wait, Master, please!”

It was Vanya, gasping for breath as he spoke, “I would like to walk with you, if I may. Please, wait a moment. I wish to follow The Way as you do. Let me travel with you as your disciple.”

“No,” Bodhidharma said, setting off again on the road.

“Wait just a moment, I beg you,” Vanya spluttered.

“I’m sorry,” Bodhidharma said without looking back. “My path takes me far from here. I suggest you find a different teacher.”

“But you said you were going to Nalanda,” Vanya said, urging his wasted legs to go faster and catch Bodhidharma.

“I am going a lot farther than Nalanda.”

“How much farther?”

“To Nanjing.”

“I have never heard of it. Is it far?”

“Very.”

“Let me go with you, at least as far as Nalanda. I have so many questions for you.”

Bodhidharma walked. Vanya stumbled along beside him, his head so full of questions that he could not think of a single one, and soon he was too tired to utter a single word. Bodhidharma’s relentless pace quickly became too much for him and he fell behind. But Vanya knew the way to Nalanda and kept Bodhidharma in sight, far ahead in the distance.

When darkness descended and Bodhidharma stopped to rest, Vanya joined him by the fire, just as his little pot of water began to boil. Too exhausted to speak, he simply smiled happily at Bodhidharma, as if they had been traveling companions for so long that words were no longer needed. Bodhidharma handed him a bowl of rice and a cup of hot, sweet tea and this time Vanya ate and drank without protest.

Flowers on the Balcony

“Come on, my friend,” Huo said, pulling on his overcoat and heading for the door of the barrack room. “Let’s go to Longpan. We’d better hurry up, or all the pretty girls will be gone.”

Kuang remained on his bed and stared at the bunk above. “I’m not your friend, Huo, and I’m not going into that stinking town.”

Huo turned back and walked over to the bunks. He noticed Kuang’s face had almost healed from Corporal Chen’s brutal training session. The scab on his lip had all but disappeared and his left eye had reopened. The ugly swelling had gone down and only a little yellow bruising showed around his cheekbone.

“If I’m not your friend, then who is?” he demanded.

Kuang ignored him.

“Anyway,” Huo continued, “why are you sulking? It’s the end of the week. We need to relax. Come on, it’ll be good to get away from the fort. There’s nothing for you here.” He paused to let his meaning sink in. Still Kuang didn’t answer.

“Don’t be an idiot, Kuang!” Huo said finally.

“What do you mean?” Kuang said.

You know what I mean. I saw the way you were looking at Weilin.”

“She was looking at me!”

“She’s just bored—don’t flatter yourself. Weilin is Commander Tang’s daughter and she’s engaged to Captain Fu Sheng.”

“What about it?” Kuang said.

“Fu Sheng would tear you apart if he even suspected.”

“I’m not afraid of Fu Sheng. Besides, it’s none of your business.”

“I’m trying to help you, you idiot!” Huo said.

Kuang glared at Huo, his temper rising. Then he remembered how Huo had carried him back to the barracks when he had been too weak to walk, and the anger left him. “I’m staying here,” he sighed. “You go to Longpan. You don’t need me.”

“Have it your own way,” Huo shrugged and made for the door.

“I never did thank you for the other day,” Kuang called after him.

“No, you didn’t.”

Huo stood in the doorway as Kuang searched for the right words, then gave up waiting. “Never mind,” he said, stepping out of the barracks and into the dusk. “There really is no need.”

Kuang sprang up and checked his face in the polished brass that served as a mirror. He wondered whether to wait another week, but when he thought of Weilin’s pretty eyes and slim waist, he decided he had waited long enough.

He left the barracks and crossed the compound, keeping to the shadows. When he reached the commander’s house, Weilin was not in her usual place on the terrace. He wondered what to do. He could not stand around idly. Someone would soon notice him. Perhaps he would go into Longpan after all, get some food, a few drinks, perhaps a girl—someone to pass the time with until he could have the girl he wanted. He turned to go. He had only gone a few paces when he heard the faint click of a door opening behind him. Weilin was on the terrace. She glanced at him for a moment, then set about rearranging her flowerpots.

He sauntered over to her and stood in the shadows nearby. “Is something the matter, Miss?” he asked with a smile.

“Perhaps I should ask you the same thing?” she answered without looking up from her work.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s not me who is skulking in the shadows,” she replied without turning to look at him. “Is there something you want, soldier?”

“You don’t know my name?” he asked.

“Why would I know your name?” she asked icily.

Things were not going as he had hoped and he began to wonder if he had made a mistake after all. “I know your name,” he continued lightly. “You’re Weilin. I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance. My name is Kuang, from Hubei.”

“In that case, I do know your name,” she said. “In fact, I have often heard it mentioned in my father’s house, usually when trouble is discussed. Now I can put a face to the name.”

“Then at least you know my face,” he smiled, hoping to seize a small victory.

“Who wouldn’t know your face? It stands out from the rest, even among the battered faces I see here every day.”

He touched the remains of the scab on his lip before he could stop himself. He was getting nowhere. She clicked her tongue and busied herself with her flowerpots, picking out dead leaves and pouring a little water into each.

“I know your face,” he said finally. “It stands out too, but for a different reason.”

She ignored him.

“You’re very beautiful,” he said, almost to himself.

She looked at him then, waiting for a further remark, but there was none.

“That’s kind of you to say,” she said at last, “but I don’t think so.”

“Oh, it’s true,” he smiled, “believe me.”

“What is it you want, exactly, Kuang?”

“I came to tell you that you’re the most beautiful woman in the whole of Yulong Fort,” he said with a mischievous smile. Her face hardened. It was hardly a compliment, considering the age of the few other women who lived in the fort. Then, seeing the humor in his eyes, she relented and laughed despite herself.

He stepped up to the balcony rail with a broad grin and she saw how handsome he was beneath the cuts and bruises. “If someone sees you here, there’ll be trouble,” she warned.

“No one will see me. Besides, we’re only talking, nothing more.”

“Why aren’t you in Longpan this evening like everyone else?”

“There’s nothing for me in Longpan.”

“I’m sure there are plenty of pretty girls.”

“None like you.”

“You’re out of your mind, Kuang!”

“Maybe,” he said, reaching over the rail for her hand and drawing her to him slowly, drawing her so close he could only see the curve of her cheek and the top of her lip. He leaned forward to kiss her. To his surprise, she did not resist. When a lingering moment later she pulled away, he drew her back and they kissed again.

“This is a bad idea,” she whispered urgently. “You shouldn’t be here. If someone sees you, there’ll be serious trouble.”

“There’s no one around,” he assured her. He vaulted the balcony rail and pulled her body to his, pressing his lips to hers. His hands cupped her neck lightly, then smoothed down her back, settling on her slender hips. His knee found its way between her thighs. Her body tensed. He wondered if he had gone too far when he felt her press into him, her small hands pulling on his shoulders.

A sound came from inside the house—a door closing—foot-steps in the hall. Kuang vaulted back over the rail and darted into the shadows. Weilin returned to her flowerpots. They waited, breathlessly, but no one appeared. He returned to the terrace, but she put her hand on his chest to prevent him from jumping over the rail. “I’m betrothed, Kuang! I’ll be married soon. And don’t forget to whom. You know what Fu Sheng would do if he found out.”

“I’m not afraid of Fu Sheng. I’m not afraid of anyone.”

“You should be. He would kill you. He would probably enjoy it,” she shuddered.

“But where is Fu Sheng now? Out in the steppes, more concerned with killing Turks and Uighurs than with being with you. If I was him, I would never leave you on your own.”

“Fu Sheng has important duties.”

“Your father arranged the marriage?” Kuang asked.

“Father did what’s best.”

“Best for who?”

She looked so sad that he did not know what to say next. Instead he kissed her and she did not resist.

There was another noise from the house. He leapt away into the shadows just as Weilin’s mother put her head out.

“Are you out there, Weilin?” she called.

“Yes mother, I’m tending the flowers.”

“You’ve been out a long time. It’s cold tonight. Come inside and sit with me. Keep me company.”

“I’m coming, mother.”

She looked at the shadows where Kuang was hiding, turned away, and was gone before he could say anything.

He waited for a minute, before returning to the barracks. The empty room was cold and silent. He lay on his bunk and closed his eyes, thinking of Weilin. Kissing her again. It was a dangerous game he was playing but he did not care. Whatever happened, he had to find a way to be alone with her again.

Monks Enter Nalanda

“There it is, Master,” Vanya cried, “Nalanda!”

The point of a giant stupa rose over the treetops, glinting gold against the blue sky, and Bodhidharma felt his heart quicken. He had read many descriptions of Nalanda and seen its golden tower in countless paintings, yet nothing had prepared him for the sight of it rising before him. Nalanda was the jewel in the Buddhist crown, a monastery the size of a city, the greatest temple on earth. Monks came from all over the world to sit in its lofty lecture halls and study in its libraries, which, it was said, housed over a million books and scrolls. The stupa towered over everything, dwarfing the trees that grew nearby, reminding all living things of their place in the world—they were a mere speck in the universe, their lives as temporal as that of an insect, over in the blink of an eye.

Nalanda’s outer wall was high enough to defend a fortress. A row of brightly colored flags fluttered in the warm breeze and palm swifts darted overhead. At the entrance, two guards stood by enormous doors of black wood and iron. The doors barred the way inside save for a small gap between them. There was a young man talking with the guards and as they drew nearer, Bodhidharma could hear them discussing a passage from the Lankavatara Sutra. He turned to Vanya for an explanation.

“They do this, Master,” Vanya whispered loud enough for all to hear. “They ask questions about the scriptures. It’s a test. You can’t enter Nalanda unless you know the answers.” He lowered his voice so that only Bodhidharma could hear, “I have tried several times myself, but they were never satisfied. I think it’s because I’m not of noble birth.”

Moments later, the young man was turned away by the guards and brushed past them in obvious distress. Then the elder of the guards glanced at the two waiting figures. “State your business at Nalanda,” he said curtly.

“I am here to meet with The Venerable Ananda,” Bodhidharma said.

The guard glanced at the wild-looking monk, taking in the shabby robe, the bare feet, and the skin beaten black by the sun. He was little more than a beggar. “The Venerable Ananda does not give an audience to casual visitors,” the guard said.

Bodhidharma had only to produce Prajnatara’s letter of introduction, but he did not. Instead he planted himself firmly before the guard. “He will see me.”

“On what business?”

“No business of yours, Brother,” Bodhidharma answered, “and before I see him, perhaps you can enlighten me on this practice of turning away young monks who wish to study and barring the gates of a monastery to visitors?”

The younger guard stepped across to stand by the shoulder of his companion, who was about to answer when Vanya hurried forward and spoke quickly. “Brother Guards, it appears you have failed to recognize Master Bodhidharma! He is a disciple of Master Prajnatara himself and has traveled all the way from Pallava to meet with The Venerable One.” He leaned closer to the guard, speaking in a whisper, “You’re keeping him waiting at the gate like a novice. Do you think that wise?”

The senior guard hesitated.

“Perhaps you want to debate the scriptures with him?” Vanya smiled.

“No one is allowed into Nalanda without the correct papers or authority,” the junior guard said. “Those are our orders.”

“You are following orders. That is very commendable,” Bodhidharma said, keeping his gaze fixed on the senior guard, who looked more closely at the stranger before him. This time he noticed the expanse of hard muscle beneath the threadbare robe. The man was built like one of the wrestlers who competed in the arena at Rajagriha. His bulging forearm suggested many years of wielding weapons and the calloused fist that gripped the walking staff was that of a Vajramukti master, able to shatter bone as easily as snapping a twig. The guard looked into the fierce black eyes and saw that if the stranger wished to enter, two guards would not delay him for more than a heartbeat. At that moment, Bodhidharma smiled.

The guard made up his mind. “I will escort you personally,” he said, hushing the objections of the younger guard with a frown.

He led Bodhidharma into the monastery and Vanya hurried after them before anyone could object. In the broad courtyard, monks and nuns strolled in pairs, deep in conversation. Novices hurried to their lessons with scrolls under their arms and senior monks sat with one another in the shade of the many trees. The guard led Bodhidharma and Vanya down a wide avenue that ran between the many lecture halls, libraries, and temples of Nalanda. They entered a beautiful garden with fruit trees and flowerbeds of orange, purple, white, and yellow. Young monks bathed in tranquil pools of spring water. Towering above them all was the great stupa of Nalanda, so high that from where they looked, its top disappeared from view.

They entered a great hall lit by a wall of lamps and decorated with exquisite tapestries depicting scenes from The Buddha’s life. A gong as tall as a man stood in the entrance and reflected the flickering lamplight in its gleaming surface. An attendant monk emptied incense from a burner and ghostly clouds of white dust caught the lamplight and swirled up toward the ceiling.

The guard spoke privately with the attendant before bowing to Bodhidharma and taking his leave. The attendant introduced himself and led the two visitors down a maze of dark halls and passages. They climbed several long flights of stairs and Vanya became breathless with the exertion. On the upper floors, the corridors were brighter and the ceilings higher. These were the living quarters of the senior monks and sunlight poured in through high windows, falling on bookshelves filled with scrolls and manuscripts, comfortable seating areas and quiet rooms for private study. They passed a little meditation hall that housed a beautiful gilded shrine, complete with offerings to The Buddha and freshly cut flowers from the gardens.

At the end of the corridor, they came to an ornate screen door and the attendant tapped it once. After a brief wait, the screen opened a crack and another monk appeared. They spoke quietly and the screen door slid shut again. Vanya walked in circles impatiently while Bodhidharma took his time examining the paintings on the wall. Finally the door slid open and an older monk appeared with a smile. He invited Bodhidharma inside and instructed the attendant to show Vanya to his quarters.

Bodhidharma found himself in a lofty chamber with high windows. The walls were decorated with silk tapestries crafted with an artistry he had never before encountered and intricately carved panels gilded in silver and gold. The air brought a faint waft of incense, mixed with a subtle floral scent that reminded him of his homeland.

An old man was seated by the window at the far end of the room. He wore a simple orange robe like any other monk and no visible adornments, but The Venerable Ananda emanated power and Bodhidharma knew him instantly. He went closer, pressing his palms together in greeting and bowed low. The grandmaster looked up, noticing his visitor for the first time, and squinted to get a better view. With a yelp of delight he rose on unsteady legs and hurried forward until he was one step away. Here he stopped to examine the unkempt monk from head to foot, his mouth working silently as he did, before bowing long and low.

When Ananda straightened, he was beaming with delight. He extended his hands in welcome and Bodhidharma took them. Ananda squeezed, shaking them gently, his grip surprisingly strong, then released them and embraced him warmly. “Bodhidharma,” he said, his voice light and reedy, “you are exactly as I imagined you! Prajnatara describes you perfectly. It is wonderful to meet you at last. I am so very happy that you have come.”

“It’s a pleasure to be here. I have dreamed of seeing Nalanda for many years,” Bodhidharma said. “Master Prajnatara sends his regards. He always speaks most fondly of you.”

“Ah Prajnatara, what does he know?” the old man laughed. “Prajnatara is young and foolish, easily impressed, but at least he was right about one thing. He told me you would come, and you did! Come and sit beside me, Bodhidharma. Let us sit by the window, where I can see you properly. My eyes are not good any more.”

Bodhidharma helped Ananda lower himself onto his seat and they sat in silence for a moment. Ananda’s face filled suddenly with concern. “You have traveled a great distance to be here. You must be exhausted! Have they given you refreshments? A room? Have you had time to rest?”

“There will be plenty of time for resting,” Bodhidharma assured him.

“If you’re sure,” the old man said, still uncertain. “After all, I forget that you are still young and strong. Nevertheless, you must eat and take some juice to restore yourself.” He summoned his assistant and asked for refreshments to be brought, then sat back once again and fixed his watery eyes on Bodhidharma.

“You have only just arrived. You have not had a chance to see everything that we do here in Nalanda. Did you know we have over ten thousand monks, over five hundred teachers. Monks come from all over the world to study with us. They come in such numbers that recently, we have been forced to turn most of them away.

“I saw such an instance when we arrived,” Bodhidharma said.

“You did?” Ananda’s brow creased in concern.

“Yes, a young man was turned away at the gate.”

“Oh how tragic,” Ananda cried. “It saddens me greatly to deny the blessing of an education to anyone, but there is simply no more room here, Bodhidharma. No room at all! The dormitories are already overcrowded. Each single room is already occupied by two and sometimes three monks. This is why we are striving to open new centers of learning where people can go and study The Way. Masters from Nalanda have traveled all over India to open new temples. Prajnatara went to the South long ago, as you know. Others have gone into the Himalayas and beyond, to Persia, Samarkand, and Khotan. Some have even reached China, where there are millions of souls waiting to be freed.” He paused. His mind was drifting and he needed a moment to collect his thoughts. “However in recent years, I regret to say, the missions to China have not been so successful.”

“I heard,” Bodhidharma said evenly.

“Yes,” Ananda said, “the journey is testing in many, many ways. That is why, when Prajnatara wrote and told me about you, Bodhidharma, I knew you were the right person for this mission. I am so delighted that you have answered your calling.”

“I only hope I can fulfill your wishes.”

“Oh come! You must have faith in yourself, Bodhidharma. You are young and strong, still in your prime. No one is saying it is easy. Remember how The Buddha himself struggled before his own enlightenment and how hard he worked afterward to spread his wisdom. It took him his whole life …” His old eyes glistened with emotion and he paused to collect his thoughts. “Have you visited the sacred sites yet?”

“Yes, I made a pilgrimage before coming here.”

“That is wonderful! Let it inspire you,” he said, squeezing Bodhidharma’s shoulder, “and it also means we can start preparing for your journey right away. China is a long way, and we are going to help you in every way we can.”

He paused, nodding to himself, and leaned in as if divulging a secret to a close friend, “There is someone I would like you to meet, a monk who will be of great assistance to you. He has been with us for eight years now. He is a skilled teacher and an inspiring orator. In debates, he is more than a match for even the most senior of monks. His knowledge of the Sutras is unequalled. He would make the perfect traveling companion for you. There is only one problem. He is so happy here, I fear he will be reluctant to leave.”

“I don’t want to drag anyone away from the joy of their studies,” Bodhidharma smiled.

“Do not concern yourself with that. One could easily spend a lifetime debating the finer points of doctrine, but there comes a time to pass the basics on to the next generation, don’t you agree?”

“I do. To keep it all to ourselves would be a little selfish,” Bodhidharma answered with a grin.

“Selfish?” Ananda said, looking up in surprise. “Yes, indeed, it would be selfish,” he said nodding seriously. “In fact, it would be more than selfish. It would be a sin!” His old face creased with laughter and he tapped his own leg in delight, dabbing at the tears that ran down his cheeks.

Bodhidharma waited in silence until the old man had recovered his composure.

“Now what was I saying?” Ananda mused, still shaking his head in mirth. “Ah yes, well, I am sure this monk can be persuaded, once we put the argument to him. I will arrange for us to meet with him in due course.”

Bodhidharma waited to hear more about the mysterious monk, but Ananda’s assistant appeared with refreshments and once they were served, Ananda demanded to hear of Bodhidharma’s journey from Pallava and his pilgrimage to the holy sites. Next he insisted on knowing every detail of Prajnatara’s temple in the jungle, so that he could visit it in his mind whenever he wished. They talked on and as the shadows lengthened Bodhidharma saw the old man had grown weary.

“I think my journey has taken its toll, Venerable One,” he sighed. “I hope you will forgive me if I retire to rest.”

“Of course you must rest, dear Bodhidharma,” Ananda smiled, ringing the bell for his assistant. “We must both rest. My assistant will show you to your room. You will find everything in order.”

Bodhidharma’s room was spacious. Crisp, clean white bedding lay on the floor and a plump new cushion had been set out for his meditation. In the corner was a chest for his possessions, and two small paintings hung on the wall. In one, The Buddha was descending a staircase from Heaven. In the other, an elephant was kneeling at The Buddha’s feet. On the window was a beautifully carved statue of The Buddha seated in meditation, and beside it a tray of incense, a burner, and a small vase of flowers. Someone had taken a good deal of trouble to prepare the place for their new guest.

“I hope the room is to your satisfaction,” the assistant said.

To a wandering monk who spent countless nights under the stars, it was untold luxury. “It is perfect,” Bodhidharma answered. “Thank you.”

“Please summon me if there is anything further you need,” the assistant said with a smile, then pressed his palms together in the traditional Buddhist greeting and bowed low. “Welcome to Nalanda.”

A line of orange robes lay neatly folded by the edge of the bathing pool. A group of novices were washing in the water, their smooth limbs and shaved heads glistening in the bright sunlight. They laughed and splashed each other gently, not wishing to earn a reprimand from one of the more senior monks. Unruly behavior was frowned upon in Nalanda.

One of the boys froze abruptly, his mouth agape. The others followed his gaze to the giant form at the water’s edge, etched in black against the bright sky, a dark demon from an ancient scroll. As the stranger stepped into the water, the boys could see his hair, face, and limbs were streaked with grey dust from the road, which added to his unearthly appearance. They shrank back as he waded into the deeper water. When the water reached his chest he set about washing himself thoroughly, applying oil to his hair and beard and massaging the mass of muscle in his neck and shoulders, before dipping below the surface to rinse himself clean.

When he emerged, he snorted a fine spray from his nostrils, like a buffalo at the riverbank. Murmurings rustled through the group of novices. One of them snorted, and the rest began to giggle. Meanwhile, the dark stranger floated on his back, ignoring their antics. The boy snorted again and the others laughed helplessly. Suddenly the stranger stood, eyeing them coolly, then sank beneath the surface and disappeared.

Swimming and diving were strictly forbidden in the bathing pools. These were sacred places created for the cleansing of the body, not frivolous enjoyment. The boys watched, bewildered, as the water settled and all trace of the dark man disappeared. A minute passed and he did not appear. When a second minute passed, they became concerned. They swam around the surface of the pool, looking, but there was no sign of him. Should they call for assistance? Would anyone believe them if they said a huge black stranger had washed in the pool and then disappeared without trace? A third minute passed and they began to wonder if he had existed at all. A chill of fear took hold of them. Had it been a demon after all, who would drag them under too?

Suddenly the water exploded around them and a giant shape rose in their midst. The stranger seized one of them and raised him high above the water. It was the boy who had snorted. Now he was shrieking with fear. The demon spun him in the air, round and round, until the boy began to laugh uncontrollably. The others grew bolder and began to splash the stranger, shouting at him to put their companion down.

“You want me to put him down?” he roared.

“Put him down! Put him down!”

The boy was hurtled through the air and landed in the middle of the pool. The others jumped at Bodhidharma. He threw them, one by one, until the commotion began to attract the attention of other monks nearby. Then he settled in the cool water to relax. The novices gathered around to speak with the strange monk from the south who was so unlike their usual teachers.

Soon, they were joined by another equally strange monk. Vanya’s skeletal form shivered uncontrollably as he removed his robe and entered the cool water.

“I have some good news for you, Master,” he smiled as he sat beside Bodhidharma. “I have discovered the whereabouts of Nanjing.”

“You have?”

“Yes, and I know what you did not tell me. You are traveling to China.”

“I told you it was far.”

“You did, and now your journey will be shorter because I will be traveling with you.”

“You think you can cross the Himalayas on these skinny legs?” Bodhidharma said, gripping Vanya’s thigh and squeezing until Vanya winced in pain.

“These legs have walked the length and breadth of Magadha,” he said indignantly, puffing his chest out as far as it would go. “I have not always been a hermit, you know. I was once a great hunter, a warrior, like yourself.”

“Vanya,” Bodhidharma sighed, “I’ll be leaving soon. You’re too weak to travel with me.”

“Who says I’m weak?” he shouted, “I’m as strong as a tiger.” He jumped up from the shallows and threw wild punches, roaring and grimacing. Bodhidharma watched unmoved.

“You don’t react very quickly for a warrior,” Vanya said, panting from the exertion.

“I only react to a threat,” Bodhidharma said gravely.

“You were very lucky, Lord,” Vanya said, shaking his head at the thought of the damage he could have inflicted. When he turned to sit down again in the water, Bodhidharma scooped him up and held him high in the air. Vanya roared his defiance but it was no use, and the next moment he was flying through the air.

He emerged from the water with a curse and sat apart from Bodhidharma.

“If you really want to travel with me, you need to make yourself strong,” Bodhidharma said from across the pool.

Vanya scowled. “I am strong,” he said half-heartedly.

“If you can climb to the top of the stupa, then you are strong. Do it before I leave and you can come with me. If you can’t, I’ll ask The Venerable Ananda if you can stay here and study in Nalanda. It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

“It was, but not any more. Now I want to follow you.”

“Why?” Bodhidharma demanded.

“I wish to know my own nature, as you do.”

“You can learn that in Nalanda.”

“Perhaps, but I am certain I will learn it from you.”

Bodhidharma stared at Vanya, and Vanya saw that his request had pleased the master.

“The journey is long and dangerous,” Bodhidharma warned.

“I’m not afraid,” Vanya assured him.

“You intend to cross the Himalayas with me?” Bodhidharma asked seriously.

“Yes, as your disciple,” Vanya said eagerly.

Bodhidharma’s eyes hardened. “Then you’d better get to the top of the stupa,” he said with a finality that brooked no further discussion, and Vanya knew he must meet the challenge.

The Scholar

“Today you will meet a very special monk,” The Venerable Ananda told Bodhidharma, “an interesting character, one of the most learned masters at Nalanda. He has studied the scriptures in great depth and is able to debate them with consummate skill. Yet he has been unable to attain the simple beauty of The Way.”

“Why is that?” Bodhidharma asked.

“He does not trust his own judgment.”

“That is a difficult step.”

“A terrifying step,” Ananda nodded seriously, “and I believe you are the one to help him take it.”

“I’m afraid you’re wrong. I have had no success in the past,” Bodhidharma said.

“Well you will have plenty of time to perfect your methods,” Ananda smiled. “It is a long way to China. If we can persuade this monk to accompany you, he will be of great help to you. Let me introduce you to him.”

He rang a small handbell and his assistant entered, followed by a short monk in a simple orange robe. The monk’s head was shaved like the others, yet there was something unusual about his appearance. As he came into the light, Bodhidharma saw the same almond eyes that he had seen in the Burmese on the road to Bodh Gaya, but this man’s skin was as smooth as silk and shone pale silver in the dim light. The monk was Chinese! Bodhidharma was surprised he had not considered the possibility.

“Brother Yin Chiang,” Ananda said warmly, rising unsteadily, “how wonderful to see you. Thank you so much for coming to meet with us at such short notice. I hope we are not keeping you from your studies.”

Brother Yin Chiang was unsure how to answer, and the sight of the wild-looking man beside The Venerable Ananda did nothing to ease his concern.

“Let me introduce you to our special guest,” Ananda continued, ignoring Yin Chiang’s obvious dismay. “This is Master Bodhidharma, from the Kingdom of Pallava. He was born to the Kshatriya, which, I’m sure you know, is India’s ancient Warrior Caste. He is an invincible warrior, but he is also a Buddhist master. His name is most apt, since he brings enlightenment wherever he travels.”

Vanya turned to Yin Chiang, “And this is Brother Yin Chiang, who has come all the way from the Chinese city of Changan. Brother Yin Chiang has been a resident in Nalanda for eight years, I believe, and in that time he has translated many of the most important Sutras into Chinese.”

“Delighted to meet you, Brother Yin Chiang,” Bodhidharma said with a bow, “though The Venerable One exaggerates more than a little when he speaks of my abilities.”

“Nonsense,” Ananda said beaming with joy. Yin Chiang stared wide-eyed for a moment longer until he recalled his manners and returned Bodhidharma’s bow. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, too, Master Bodhidharma,” he said in perfect Sanskrit.

His words had a pleasant timbre that Bodhidharma had never heard before and it delighted him to hear the sacred language spoken so well.

“Now please sit, both of you,” Ananda urged, “so we can talk more comfortably. There is much to discuss.”

Once seated, Ananda smiled and waited a moment before beginning.

“Master Bodhidharma is only visiting Nalanda for a short time, in preparation for a far greater journey. Soon he will be leaving to bring the sacred teachings to China. As you know, Brother Yin Chiang, it is our duty to offer enlightenment to all living beings. There are many millions in your homeland, so I am sure you appreciate the enormity of this task.”

Yin Chiang remained lost for words, so Ananda went on. “I know you planned to return to China one day when you felt ready, but this is a chance we cannot miss. My dear Brother Yin Chiang, we have delighted in your company and I know you have enjoyed being here, but Bodhidharma’s arrival is a sign that we cannot ignore. I ask you to consider returning to China with him now and sharing in his divine mission of enlightenment.”

He waited, giving the little Chinese monk time to compose himself.

“It is a great honor to be considered for such a task,” Yin Chiang answered at last, “but I fear I am not ready to leave Nalanda. There are so many scriptures that I have not translated, so many questions left unanswered.”

“Brother Yin Chiang,” Ananda said gently, “there is a limit to what you can learn from the Sutras. To grasp the true nature of life you must look beyond the scriptures. I believe Bodhidharma can help you in this. In return, you can teach him about the wonders of China and your delightful Chinese language. He is an excellent linguist.”

Bodhidharma had to suppress a smile at this, since Ananda had no way of knowing his ability.

“There is another reason why you must go,” Ananda continued cheerfully. “After meeting Bodhidharma, I was visited by the spirit of a Bodhisattva who showed me a wondrous scene. I saw monks sailing on a river inhabited by an angry dragon. The journey was filled with danger, but the monks were protected by the Bodhisattva who appeared to them in many different forms. At the end of the river, they came to mist-covered mountains. I saw them enter a beautiful temple of red and gold, set in an emerald forest. I have had the same vision each night since Bodhidharma arrived. It is surely a sign, and when a Bodhisattva points the way so clearly, it is destiny.”

Yin Chiang did not answer.

“Take some time and consider my request at your leisure,” Ananda said gently, though Bodhidharma knew that behind the softness of Ananda’s words, there was no doubting the force of his request.

“In the meantime,” Ananda continued, “perhaps you could tell Bodhidharma of your journey to Nalanda. I believe it was as difficult and dangerous as it was magnificent, and he is certainly going to need your expert advice.”

This was a subject that the little scholar felt far more comfortable with, and no sooner had he begun to speak than Bodhidharma saw the tension in Yin Chiang’s shoulders melt away.

“Most Chinese pilgrims travel northwest on the trade routes through Central Asia, skirting the Taklamakan desert and entering India through the mountain passes of the northwest. This route avoids the Himalayas, but it is very long and in recent years, it has also become extremely dangerous. The Huns have occupied the passes and prey on travelers. There is an alternative route, by sea, but this goes countless li away from the right direction and is also dangerous, with treacherous waters and equally treacherous pirates.”

“You came by a third route, did you not?” Ananda asked, though he knew the answer well enough.

“Indeed, there is a third way, a route which I discovered while visiting a remote temple in Yunnan in southwestern China. There I met a hunter who knew the mountain country far to the West. He told me of a wild region of hidden valleys and primitive warring tribes, each with their own customs and language that no outsider can understand. Some are not even fully human but part animal. Some have two heads and eat the flesh of their enemies. The mountains are also home to demons and deadly serpents, and the rivers contain angry dragons that drag unwary travelers to their doom. The hunter told me of a direct route through these mountains to India, a route few believed existed. He assured me that in just two months one could reach the borders of Assam. I checked with local guides and they confirmed that the journey was difficult, but not impossible. I asked the hunter to take me but he refused, saying it was too dangerous. It was only when I offered to pay him a staggering sum that he finally agreed. We waited for the snow to melt on the high ground and then set off, following the course of the Yangtze River into the mountains. When we reached the high ground there was no air and I could scarcely breathe. I became ill and was forced to rest for several days before I was strong enough to continue. It took us many more weeks to reach a Tibetan village. Here the hunter entrusted me to local guides who, for many more pieces of silver, took me through endless high wastes of Tibet. We crossed the upper reaches of the Mee Kong River and the Salween. The rapids were so fierce that I feared for my life many times. Finally, we reached the Tsang Po, which we followed into Assam, where it becomes the Brahmaputra. Here I paid yet another guide, an Indian this time, to take me to Nalanda.”

“You endured great hardship and made great sacrifice to come here, Brother Yin Chiang,” Ananda said, “and I hope the return journey will be easier for you. We will arrange for trustworthy guides to take you to the farthest borders of Assam and give you ample supplies and silver to smooth your path.”

Ananda rubbed his eyes and put his hands on his knees to help him rise, “Now I hope you will excuse me. I am weary and must retire for the evening. Please stay and make use of this chamber as long as you wish. There must be many things you wish to discuss.”

Once Ananda had gone, Bodhidharma turned to Yin Chiang eagerly. “I must commend you on your knowledge of the holy language, Brother Yin Chiang. You speak so fluently. I only hope that one day I might master your language in the same way.”

“Thank you,” Yin Chiang said. “If I can be of assistance, please let me know. I will do my utmost.”

“The Venerable One says you are an excellent teacher.”

“He is too kind.”

“He is also far too generous in his praise of me,” Bodhidharma said. “Nevertheless, if you’re willing to instruct me, I would like to begin learning Chinese as soon as possible.”

“I would be delighted,” Yin Chiang said. “Simply let me know when you would like to begin.”

“Tomorrow,” Bodhidharma said.

“Tomorrow it shall be.”

“Perfect,” Bodhidharma said happily. “Now please tell me more of your journey. Did you meet any warriors with two heads?”

“I met a warrior with five heads,” Yin Chiang smiled mischievously.

“Tell me every detail,” Bodhidharma insisted, hungry for information, and by the time they finally retired, the lamps of Nalanda had long since been extinguished and a new friendship had been bonded.

Soldier Helps a Lady

“You’re very quiet,” Huo said.

Kuang shrugged.

“I can guess why.”

“Leave it, Huo!”

They had been standing guard at the entrance to Yulong Fort for an hour and there was another hour to go before their shift would finish. Kuang looked out over the barren wilderness that surrounded the fort, the sharp rocks, coarse mountain grass, and white-tipped peaks in the distance. The only man-made feature on this desolate landscape was the rough track that led to Longpan.

“You’re thinking about Weilin,” Huo said. Kuang ignored him. “No good will come of it,” he continued. “I’m only trying to stop you from making a big mistake.”

“Shut up Huo! I’m warning you!” Kuang snarled.

They returned to a long silence.

“So you won’t be interested in the whereabouts of a certain young lady, then?” Huo said finally.

“Which young lady? What are you talking about?”

“Nothing, I shouldn’t have said a word.”

“You’d better tell me now.”

“No, it’s nothing.”

“Tell me!”

“Alright, alright, calm down,” Huo laughed. “It’s just that I saw a girl leaving the fort a few hours ago.”

“Which girl?”

“Didn’t I mention her name? It was Weilin.”

“Where was she going?”

“Well since you ask so nicely, she was with a maid and they were going into Longpan to pick up some medical supplies.”

“And why are you telling me this?”

“Because I think I can see her now, coming this way.”

Kuang looked up and saw that Huo was telling the truth. Two figures had appeared on the road to the fort. When they drew a little closer, he could see they were both carrying bags.

“Perhaps we should help them,” he said. “Their bags look heavy.”

“We’d be deserting our post,” Huo said. “You go. I’ll cover for you.”

“Fine,” Kuang said, and loped down the track to help the women with their burdens. When he reached them, he saw Weilin’s cheeks were red from the effort of walking and the harsh mountain wind. Stray strands of her hair had escaped from her bonnet and fluttered in the air. She had never looked lovelier. He smiled and held out his hand to take her bag.

“There is no need, thank you,” she said curtly.

“Forgive me Ma’am, but I was ordered to help you by the duty officer,” he answered. She frowned. Kuang ignored her and held out his hand for the maid’s bag, which the maid handed over gratefully. Then he reached for Weilin’s bag, and this time she relented and gave it to him.

The women followed him up the track in silence. When they reached the fort, Huo bowed smartly to the ladies and saluted Kuang. Weilin knew enough about military life to know one trooper did not salute another and glared at him, but Huo looked straight ahead and avoided her eyes.

“If you tell me where the bags need to go, I will deliver them for you,” Kuang offered.

“My bag has medicines for the hospital,” Weilin said. “The other has supplies for the house.”

“Then please don’t concern yourself. I’ll deliver this one to the hospital for you.”

“There’s no one there,” she replied. “The doctor and all the orderlies are out with the cavalry. Someone will need to show you where the medicines go. They have to be stored correctly.”

“Then one of you can come with me,” he smiled.

“I suppose I had better go,” Weilin said to the maid, “since I know where things are kept. You go back to the house. I’ll be there soon.”

As soon as the maid was out of earshot, Weilin turned on Kuang angrily. “What are you up to, Kuang?”

“What are you up to Weilin? You don’t come out in the evenings now.”

“That’s no concern of yours.”

“Yes it is. I’ve been waiting for you.”

“I told you before. It’s not safe. Someone will see us. Fu Sheng will find out and kill you. He would probably kill me too, if it weren’t for my father.”

“Then come away with me. We can leave this place and go to Hubei.”

“Oh, Kuang,” she sighed.

“Let’s do it,” he said seriously, opening the door to the hospital.

“You’re insane,” she said, shaking her head in frustration as she followed him inside.

The deserted hospital was cool and dark. It consisted of little more than a cramped entrance hall, which served as a waiting area, an operating theatre with three tables, a ward of a dozen or so beds, and a storeroom where the medicines were kept. At the back of the hospital was the doctor’s private room where he stored the most powerful drugs, which he prepared himself, and which he kept permanently under lock and key.

Kuang carried the bag through to the storeroom and began to hand over its contents to Weilin, who started stacking the medicines and provisions on the appropriate shelves. Once the last of the supplies had been stored, she rearranged the new jars carefully until everything was neat and tidy for the doctor’s return.

When she had finished and left the storeroom, Kuang was waiting for her in the main ward. He stood before her, barring her way. She did not step aside. Slowly, wordlessly, he took her in his arms and drew her in. She allowed him to hold her despite herself, and when he pressed his lips to hers, she did not resist. Instead, she let him kiss and caress her—hating herself for her weakness—and loving him for his foolishness and his bravery and for being so handsome and for wanting her so badly that he would risk everything to be with her.

Kuang began to undress her. She closed her eyes and raised her arms so he could remove her clothing more easily. He folded her robe carefully and placed it on a nearby bench. Then he gathered her in his arms like a child and laid her gently on one of the hospital beds. In the dim light her pale skin looked perfect and unblemished against the rough mattress. Her eyes never left his—whether seeking trust or simply because she did not want to see his nakedness, he could not be sure. He undressed slowly, not wishing to appear too eager, not wanting to frighten her—not now. He placed his clothes neatly beside hers on the bench and stood beside the narrow bed.

There was no room to lie beside her, so he leaned over and placed his knee between hers, grazing her lips softly with his own as he did. He felt her warm breath on his cheek and felt the tension in her thighs melt away. Pushing them apart gently, he knelt between them, his mouth never leaving hers, and she enveloped him in her arms. He felt his head swim, intoxicated by the delicious softness of her body against his, a feeling made all the more exquisite by the contrast with their surroundings. The sensation of her warmed him to his core, bringing back memories of home and comfort and laughter around the hearth, a feeling he had not felt since he was a child.

He nuzzled her breasts and circled her hard nipple with his tongue, then took it in his mouth and pressed it firmly against the roof of his mouth. She sighed, stirring beneath him. He moved to her other breast and a low moan escaped her lips. All thoughts of home left him. He needed her now, urgently, and pressed himself into her. He felt her hand between his legs, feeling for him, guiding him inside her, and watched as she bit her lip to suppress a cry as he entered her.

He moved slowly at first, his eyes on hers, waiting until he saw the subtle change from fear to desire. As his movement quickened, her lips parted and her brow knotted in concentration. Her breathing grew louder with his, and her lips urged him silently onward. He felt her tiny finger dig deep into the skin of his back and clasp the hair on the back of his head. When he felt her nails sink into the flesh of his buttocks and heard her cry out, he could wait no longer and within moments he had spent himself inside her.

They lay still for a short time and she caressed the back of his neck, but then the tension returned in her. He climbed off her swiftly and sat at the foot of the bed. She rose instantly and hurried to fetch her clothes. He watched her dressing in the dark.

“There’s no mirror in here,” she complained, running her fingers through her hair and flattening it down hastily.

“Let me see you,” he said.

“She turned and stood before him. He straightened her robe and adjusted her collar. “You look fine. Beautiful.”

“I don’t feel beautiful,” she said, turning to go.

He reached out and caught her by the wrist. “Meet me here again tomorrow night?”

“I can’t, Kuang.”

“You can. The troops won’t be back for another five days. No one will know.”

She tried to pull away. He gripped her more tightly and saw her wince in pain. He let go instantly, sorry for hurting her.

“Tomorrow at midnight,” he called after her retreating form. “I’ll be waiting for you. Will you come?”

She did not answer.

“Weilin?”

Light flooded into the hospital for a moment as she opened the main door to leave, then the place returned to the dim light of before. He rose to get his clothes, unsure what to make of their encounter, and wondering if she hated him now or whether she would be there again tomorrow.

The Golden Stupa

Vanya woke in a sweat. The sun had not yet begun its assault on the day, and already excitement and fear gathered in the pit of his stomach. He would not be free of either until much later.

He dressed quickly and slipped out into the dark corridors of the dormitory. An attendant monk in the entrance hall noticed him, but said nothing as he passed. Outside the air was cool. A faint glow behind the buildings of Nalanda was the only indication of the coming dawn, but in the cloudless sky, the moon provided ample light to guide him to the stupa. He stood before it and looked up. The tower disappeared above him into the darkness. He muttered a short prayer and went inside.

After two paces, he found himself in complete darkness. Keeping one hand on the wall, he stepped carefully until he came to the staircase at the back of the entrance hall. He began to climb slowly, feeling his way in the darkness. He came to a window that let in a trace of moonlight. Here he waited, reluctant to plunge himself back into the darkness. It was not long until daybreak, but with the light would come the heat of the sun. He decided to press on.

At the second window, he stopped again to catch his breath before stepping once more into the dark. By the time he had reached the third window, his legs were heavy and he wondered how much farther he could go. A weak spray of sunlight seeped into the stairwell, bathing the grey stone in an unearthly glow. He rose and pressed on to the fourth window, where he stopped to look out over the surrounding jungle.

Could he really travel to China, he wondered, and cross the highest mountains in the world? He attempted the next flight, but his wasted legs would take him no farther. He sat on a step and tears of frustration welled in his eyes. He feared he could not even make it back down the staircase alone. The thought of being rescued was too much to bear and it drove his descent on trembling legs.

Outside in the courtyard he counted the windows of the stupa. There were thirty-three.

He made his way miserably to the dining hall and a novice monk set a bowl of rice-gruel before him. He left it untouched and hung his head in sadness. A heavy hand touched his shoulder.

“You are not yourself this morning, Brother Vanya,” Bodhidharma said, taking the seat beside his. “Is something the matter?”

Vanya shook his head from side to side in bitter regret. “I am very much afraid I will not be accompanying you on your journey to Nanjing.”

“Really? Why not?” Bodhidharma demanded.

“I tried to climb the stupa this morning and was easily beaten.”

A novice appeared quickly by Bodhidharma’s side and served him with a bowl of gruel, which he began to eat noisily. “That is your reason?” he asked between mouthfuls.

That was the condition you set for traveling with you,” Vanya said.

“It seems your desire to travel with me is not so strong after all,” Bodhidharma said.

“I want to! I tried my utmost, but I couldn’t go any higher than the fifth level and there are thirty-three in total!”

“Maybe so, but I am not leaving today, Brother Vanya. There is still time. You can’t become strong overnight. You need to build your strength gradually. If you really want to climb the stupa, I will help you.”

“You will?”

“Of course. You can start by eating properly,” Bodhidharma said, pushing Vanya’s untouched bowl toward him. “Then you can walk in the countryside and do exercises. In the evening, you can climb stairs. Not too many, just enough to grow a little stronger each day. Then, when your body is ready, you can attempt the tower again.”

Vanya’s face transformed from sorrow to joy and he hugged Bodhidharma.

“I will do as you say, Master,” he promised, and spooned down his breakfast with new resolve.

While Vanya was exercising, Bodhidharma spent hours learning Chinese with Yin Chiang and the little scholar was delighted with the progress of his new student. When Yin Chiang announced that he would return to China with Bodhidharma, The Venerable Ananda was duly informed and was overcome with joy.

In the cooler hours of dawn and dusk, they walked far across the countryside with Vanya. In shaded clearings they performed squats to prepare their legs for the hardships ahead; and when they had finished and returned to the monastery, Bodhidharma went deep into the dark forest to practice alone long into the night. After three weeks, Vanya climbed the tower again and reached the eleventh window.

Summer was approaching and word from the mountains was that the snow was melting at the high passes. A team of guides was found to take them to the farthest borders of Assam and detailed travel plans were made. Vanya redoubled his efforts. Ten days before their departure, he reached the twentieth window. The next day, Bodhidharma ordered him to rest and massaged his thin legs with warm oil until they were able to bear his weight once more.

Their preparations continued until three days before their departure, when all three monks had agreed to attempt the giant stupa. They rose at dawn and climbed together. Vanya slowed after twenty flights, but refused all help. Bodhidharma and Yin Chiang continued without him, until Yin Chiang was forced to rest and ease the cramps in his legs.

Bodhidharma continued alone, placing one foot ahead of the other with no thought of the searing pain in his limbs. When he reached the top, breathless and drenched in sweat, he went to the window and looked out over the green landscape below. To the west he saw steaming jungle, to the south and east scrubland and desert, and to the north a soft haze blurred the horizon—the warm damp air of the Ganges.

Some time later Yin Chiang appeared at his shoulder, too breathless to speak. They stood side by side and gazed out over beautiful Magadha in silence. Somewhere beyond the northern mist, they both knew the mountains awaited them, soaring peaks so high that the stupa of Nalanda was no more than a thorn in a green carpet that lay at the mountains’ feet.

Vanya appeared on the staircase, grim-faced and determined, and hobbled slowly to the window. Bodhidharma put his arm around his shoulder to steady him and together they looked out over the verdant landscape below. No words were spoken. None were needed. Tears of joy pricked Vanya’s eyes at the sight of such beautiful country, followed some time later by tears of sorrow at the thought of leaving his beloved India to venture into an unknown land with his new master.

Cavalry Charges

The troop of Chinese cavalry had ventured far beyond the protection of The Great Wall and onto the endless steppes that belonged to none but the nomads. By day, the wind bit through their leather and armor and slashed at their faces with sharp desert dust. By night, the temperature plummeted far below freezing and any horse or pack animal that strayed from the herd was dead by morning.

Their leader, Captain Fu Sheng, rode at the front of the troop, accompanied by his second-in-command Lieutenant Pai. Pai had served under Fu Sheng for almost two years, but still found himself uncomfortable in the young captain’s presence.

“This is how I imagine the edge of the world,” Pai said, trying to make conversation, “Who would want to live in a place like this?”

“Our fight with the nomads is not about land,” Fu Sheng said. “It’s about teaching the barbarians to respect the emperor’s power.”

“Yes, Captain,” Pai replied smartly. It seemed Fu Sheng was in no mood for small talk.

“You’re clear about your orders?” Fu Sheng demanded.

“Perfectly.”

“Then await my signal.”

They had been tracking a Uighur warband that had been plundering Chinese settlements on the frontier. The attacks had begun when the emperor had decreed that all trade with the nomads should cease. The decree had deprived the tribesmen of essentials like rice and salt, as well as the luxuries they had grown accustomed to: spices, elixirs, teas, and silks. What they could no longer acquire through trade, they had begun to take by force.

General Lo in Changan had been alerted about the raids. The general had learned the lessons of the steppes the hard way and did not even consider sending infantry to deal with the tribesmen. The speed and mobility of the Uighur riders made them invulnerable to foot soldiers. Instead, he sent the newly-formed cavalry unit that had been commissioned to deal with just such incidents.

The captain in charge of this unit was Fu Sheng, a young man who was fast becoming a legend on the frontier. Little was known of his origins, though it was said he was from humble beginnings, the son of a petty official from Shandong Province in the east. Fu Sheng had first come to the attention of his superiors for his skill with the sword. He had been unmatched in swordplay throughout his military training and wielded a blade as naturally as others moved a hand or limb.

When the formation of an elite cavalry was announced, Fu Sheng had volunteered, eager to see action on the frontier. Though he had never sat on a horse before, he took to the saddle as naturally as he wielded a sword. Soon he found himself in charge of a small platoon that patrolled the northern border around Lanchou on the Yellow River.

In between skirmishes with the fierce tribesmen, he spent his time studying their methods of war. He read histories and military records, pored over maps of old battlegrounds, and spoke to the officers and men who had faced the horsemen on the plains and survived. He filled journals with notes and sketches of the maneuvers, feints, and ambushes they had used to defeat the Chinese infantry; and he found himself filled with a grudging admiration for these savage men who practiced the art of war with such perfection.

He taught himself some of their harsh Turkic language, and during periods of truce, spent time in their settlements on the pretext of trading horses and supplies. While there, he observed their daily lives and rituals, their customs and manners, and how they trained for battle. He saw young Uighur men, little more than boys, shooting hares at full gallop and snatching up their carcasses from the ground without slowing a pace.

No amount of training could make his Chinese riders equal to the tribesmen in the saddle, that level of horsemanship took a lifetime to learn—time he did not have—but he did have one advantage. The tribesmen fought when the mood took them, forming loose alliances, looking for quick victories and easy spoils. Their leadership was often shared by the heads of several tribes. There was rarely a strong, central command, and once their bloodlust had been satisfied they were keen to return to their flocks and their women. In short, they lacked the iron discipline of the imperial Chinese army.

It was this discipline that allowed Fu Sheng to drill his cavalry for weeks without respite, until every formation was perfect, every maneuver precise, every command and signal known, understood, and instantly obeyed. He spent countless days on the plains, re-enacting the tactics that the tribesmen had used against the Chinese in the past: charging, flanking, retreating, even scattering in mock panic before regrouping for a deadly new charge. He drilled his troops relentlessly, until formations of man and horse moved as one, and he wielded his cavalry as effortlessly as his sword.

When new unrest erupted to the west, Fu Sheng had been sent out with a troop of cavalry to investigate, and he led them to a stunning victory against a far larger warband. It was the first of many victories, and he had been promoted quickly. By the time he had reached the rank of captain, he had taken personal control of the training of an entire company. It was the finest cavalry unit in the empire.

His men revered him for the skill and power he had bred in them and the victories he had brought them. With him at their front, they were invincible. But they had also witnessed his savagery on the battlefield. They had seen his youthful face lose its mask of serenity, replaced by a demon that dealt out death on all sides with a bloodlust that made even the most hardened veteran turn away.

Now Fu Sheng was tracking a huge warband, over a thousand riders led by the powerful warlord Gulnar. After ten days on their trail, his scouts had caught sight of the Uighurs on a dark plain of rock and shale, where the only feature to punctuate the flat landscape was a row of black hills in the west. His troops had been in good spirits despite the hardships of the terrain, but the Uighur force was larger than expected—considerably larger than their own—and seeing the enemy in such numbers was making the men nervous. The savagery of the Uighurs was well known and every Chinese soldier knew he would rather die than be captured alive.

Now that the enemy had been sighted, the riders milled around uncertainly, wondering why the order to form-up was not given.

Fu Sheng ignored their concerns. “Go now, Lieutenant,” he ordered Lieutenant Pai, and Pai wheeled around and galloped away alone in the direction they had come, disappearing quickly into the dust.

The men were eager to charge, but Fu Sheng made them wait. He was asking a lot of them, he knew. The line between bravery and panic was much thinner than most people realized. If they did not engage the enemy soon, there was a danger they might turn and flee instead. But he had trained his men personally and knew them well. They would wait, at least a while longer. He rode among them, smiling, talking earnestly with his men, discussing the fine details of the weather conditions, the ground and the direction of the prevailing wind, bristling with confidence. He was a man who knew that victory was assured, and his mood was infectious. The troops steadied their mounts and waited for the order to charge.

Two li to the north, the Uighurs organized themselves in a loose formation. Three figures in black armor and furs rode to the front. Their helmets were decorated with gnarled antlers, and they carried high the banner of their tribal crest—a fierce black bird, with a hooked beak and sharp talons, that fluttered in the desert wind. The largest of the three was Gulnar; the others were his sons, Bayanchur and Kul.

Gulnar called his sons to him and they conferred. With a terse nod he broke away and rode along the battle line of horsemen, the bloodlust visible in his eyes. His riders cheered as he passed, raising their weapons in the air—crossbows, axes, swords, and war-clubs. Gulnar shouted to them promises of blood, victory, and spoils, and they rose to his cries. He turned and began the advance toward the Chinese position. A roar went up along the ragged line as they set off after him.

The Chinese heard the distant roar and saw the barbarians approaching. Still they waited for the order to form-up and advance, but it did not come. Instead, Captain Fu Sheng gave the order to fall back in a loose formation. There was a moment’s delay as they waited, wondering if they had misheard, but he repeated his order loudly and they turned as instructed and rode away.

Gulnar looked across to his elder son, Bayanchur. “A trap, you think?”

“I have never seen any Chinese retreat before,” Bayanchur shouted to his father.

Gulnar had seen Chinese generals put infantry in front of a river to block their retreat and force them to fight. He had seen them order a paltry force of Chinese cavalry to charge directly into a superior force. But he had never known them to retreat. He himself had no such objection to it and often used a retreat to lure the enemy into a fatal ambush. Perhaps the Chinese leader was doing the same? He scanned the terrain ahead, but there was no obvious advantage for the Chinese in fighting farther down on the plain. He noticed their retreat had grown disorganized. Some of the troops had already lost formation. He encouraged his horse into a canter, hoping to scatter the Chinese into a panic that would make them easy prey for his riders. Then he noticed a lone horseman approaching with a white banner. It seemed the Chinese wished to talk. Perhaps they wanted to surrender?

Gulnar held up his hand to halt the advance. He smirked at his sons. They would amuse themselves with this messenger first, before sending him back to the Chinese with no eyes, ears, or tongue. That would be their answer. The approaching messenger wore the uniform of a captain, but he looked too young for such a rank. He was almost certainly a decoy, Gulnar decided. Chinese leaders never went near the front lines, preferring to guide the battle from a safe vantage point at the rear.

The messenger halted before them. He appeared perfectly calm and Gulnar wondered if he was too inexperienced even to be afraid. Gulnar’s younger son, Kul, whipped out an arrow and loaded it into his crossbow, but Gulnar raised his hand to stop him. They would have some amusement first.

The messenger, still oblivious of the danger he was in, began to address them in a high, ceremonial voice. He seemed to be reciting an official Chinese message with all the dignity he could muster. Gulnar could not understand the exact words, but the meaning was clear enough. The messenger was demanding his surrender. He grinned at his sons, who began to circle the messenger as he spoke, riding so close that their horses brushed against his. It had no effect on the pompous young man and he continued with his long speech. He appeared to be laying down the terms of their surrender in great detail. As he spoke, he did not look at them directly, but instead gazed into the distance behind them. It was all rather comical. Gulnar allowed him to continue. Impatient, his riders began urging him to dispense with the messenger so they could set about the business of slaughter.

He was about to allow his sons to have their fun with the messenger when the messenger seemed to sense his time was up. He raised his hand, as if to say he was not finished yet. Gulnar found this highly amusing. It bought the messenger a few more seconds of life. But Kul had tired of the man’s arrogance and began to spit angry words in his face. Still the messenger continued, until Kul drew his short, razor-sharp sword and made several cuts in the air. Still, the messenger’s eyes remained fixed on the horizon.

Furious, Kul raised his sword high and struck at the messenger with such force that he overbalanced in his saddle. Gulnar watched in surprise as Kul slumped forward—his son had not been unseated from a pony since he was a small boy. Then the awful truth dawned on him as Kul’s body hit the ground and his head fell away at a grotesque angle. Gulnar had not seen the messenger move, but somehow a sword had appeared in his hand and bright blood dripped from its blade.

An eerie quiet fell over the plain. Even the incessant wind seemed to stop for a moment, until a roar from Gulnar and Bayanchur broke the silence. They spurred their horses forward and drew their weapons in fury. Fu Sheng slipped from his saddle and stood behind his horse. They circled to reach him, but he slipped beneath the horse and reappeared on the other side. Gulnar smashed at the horse with his war-club to get it out of the way while Bayanchur rode around the screaming animal to reach his brother’s killer. The horse reared up, kicking furiously. Gulnar saw the messenger pass unscathed beneath its thrashing hooves and emerge at Bayanchur’s flank. A deep gash appeared across Bayanchur’s thigh, while his horse, pierced in the belly, bucked wildly. Bayanchur had to dismount before it fell. He roared in agony as his wounded leg buckled beneath him.

Gulnar dismounted to help his son. As he did, the messenger appeared from nowhere and cut his bicep to the bone. Gulnar’s war-club slid from his useless fingers and he waited for the next cut—the killing blow.

It did not come.

Instead, the messenger surveyed the scene around him. Gulnar heard the cries of his men and saw arrows falling on them from the rear. He realized they were facing cavalry on two sides. His front ranks were already swarming forward to assist him, while those at the rear did their best to wheel around and face the enemy behind them.

Amidst this chaos, the main Chinese force began its charge. Satisfied that everything was going as planned, Fu Sheng turned his attention to Gulnar and his son once more. They were side by side now, observing the destruction of their warriors helplessly. Gulnar picked up his war-club in his left hand and Bayanchur drew his axe grimly. They were both afraid of the messenger now; he was a demon and not of this world, but they had no choice but to attack. Gulnar began to swing his lethal war-club. The deadly spikes whirred brutally through the air. In two turns, Fu Sheng had picked up his rhythm and anticipated the crude path of the approaching club. He slipped through its arc effortlessly, cutting as he passed, opening a deep wound across Gulnar’s abdomen. Bayanchur swung his axe with savage force. Fu Sheng evaded it with a graceful twist of the shoulders and circled, keeping father and son in a line to prevent them from attacking on both sides.

Bayanchur was nearer, but he hesitated, fearing the messenger would kill him. Fu Sheng sneered at him, mocking his fear. The insult was too much for the son of a Uighur chief and he lunged forward, his axe whirring in the air. Fu Sheng read the crude cadences of his attack easily and severed his arm. Gulnar attacked through a fountain of blood, but he was weak. Fu Sheng slashed his left arm so deeply that it hung limply from his side.

The front ranks of the Uighur horsemen were almost upon him, but he could not resist one more lingering look at the broken figures before him. Their eyes spoke of the horror of Kul’s severed head, the agony of their wounds, the dread of their own deaths, a heartbeat away. It was a sight Fu Sheng would treasure as one of his most exquisite memories.

He took two heads with two swift cuts and strode to Kul’s horse, which was standing riderless nearby. The Uighurs shot their arrows as he urged the horse into a gallop. He hung from its side to shield himself. The horse was hit, it stumbled and fell, but it did not matter. The oncoming Chinese cavalry reached him and parted in perfect formation to go around him. They had seen what he had done to the Uighur leaders and seen the red banners appearing at the enemy’s rear. Their captain had returned to them, miraculously unscathed. A roar of battle joy went up among them as they charged into the barbarians. There would be no stopping them.

They tore into the Uighurs with unbridled savagery. Leaderless and surrounded, the tribesmen quickly fell into confusion and panic. The slaughter was swift and cruel. Some of the Uighurs died fighting. Others threw down their weapons and tried to surrender, but no prisoners were taken that day. When the killing finally ended, a hellish silence hung over the plain, punctuated only by the screams of dying horses and the groans of the few Chinese casualties.

The doctor and his orderlies tended to the wounded quickly, as they had trained to do, while the soldiers pitched their camp for the night. Only when the perimeter was secure and all the wounded had been treated did Fu Sheng give permission to collect the spoils of war. The bodies of the dead were stripped of armor and weapons and searched for gold, silver, gems, and any other items of value. The Uighurs’ supplies and mule carts were added to their own and their horses rounded up and led into a makeshift corral.

The battle had been easier than expected, but there was little celebration among the soldiers. The bloodlust had left them now and they were weary to the bone. Some spoke in hushed voices of the captain’s exploits and shivered in the icy wind of the plains. What they had witnessed filled them with a gnawing unease. No ordinary man could have done what he had, and some whispered that a spirit from the underworld walked among them.

Fu Sheng sat apart, cleaning and resharpening his sword. Even his officers left him alone as he tended to his blade with infinite care. Only Lieutenant Pai approached to inform him that his tent was set up and his meal was ready to be served.

“You took your time today, Lieutenant,” Fu Sheng said without looking up.

“We came as quickly as we could Captain, I assure you.”

“You didn’t stop in a tavern on the way?”

Lieutenant Pai waited in silent dread until he saw the smirk playing on the captain’s lips.

“We searched, because we were parched, but there’s nothing in this godforsaken place,” he said dryly.

“You did well today Lieutenant,” Fu Sheng grinned. “It will be mentioned in my dispatch to General Lo.”

“I was only doing my duty, Captain.”

“Nevertheless, it will be noted.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

Fu Sheng wondered about inviting Pai into his tent to dine with him. They could discuss the battle and savor their victory together. But Pai was uncomfortable in his presence, that was clear. No, he would dine alone and compose his report to General Lo instead. It was better that way. Better to be feared than to be loved.

A Second Vision

The Venerable Ananda’s assistant brought juice for him, as he did every day at that hour of the evening. He found the old master sitting in his favored spot by the window and set the juice down beside him. Normally The Venerable Ananda never failed to thank him and often exchanged a few pleasantries too, but this time he was silent, lost in some deep reverie. The assistant left quietly, not wishing to disturb the great man over a trifle.

However, when he returned an hour later, he found the juice untouched and his master’s eyes wet with tears. He touched Ananda on the shoulder, concerned, and inquired if he was unwell. Ananda turned slowly, seeing him for the first time, and assured him that he was fine. The assistant was reluctant to leave him in such a state, but Ananda insisted, so the assistant complied.

But The Venerable Ananda was not fine. The vision he’d spoken of to Bodhidharma and Yin Chiang had changed, and ever since their departure, a new vision had taken its place. It returned to him each day, entering his mind during meditation and invading his dreams when he slept, and each time the vision was more vivid than the last. In it, he saw his greatest desire would be fulfilled. Bodhidharma would bring The Way to China. But far from making him happy, the vision filled him with dread.

He could still make out Bodhidharma’s powerful figure on a slope of startling green in a place that could only be China. Bodhidharma was walking with two companions. They were entering a monastery together, the same little red monastery he had seen before. Everything was as it should be.

But then the eye of his mind descended from the sky, and settled closer to the gates of the monastery. From here he could see that Bodhidharma’s followers were not the same two who had left Nalanda with him. Ananda stretched his mind, hoping for a glimpse of their faces, but that much he could not see. All he knew was that the Indian hermit and the Chinese scholar were no longer with Bodhidharma. He searched for them on the green mountainside and followed the rocky road from the temple to the main highway, all the way to the long river that cut China in two, but there was no sign of them. He searched the countless towns and cities of the Empire, the vast grasslands and endless deserts, the high mountains and the deep lakes, hoping to find them, but he searched in vain.

And finally, he prayed for them, and wept for what he had done.