Mingmei Yip - Song of the Silk Road

Fifteen minutes later, as Pure Wisdom cleared away the bowls and plates, Floating Cloud asked, “Miss Chen, are you feeling better now?”

I looked up to him from my steaming tea. “Yes, much better. Thank you so much for your hospitality.”

“If you want to leave today, Pure Wisdom can take you down the mountain. If not, you’re welcome to stay as long as you want. But I’m afraid there’s not much to see around here.”

The young monk blurted out, “Master, what about our library and art collection?”

“You have an art collection here? I’d definitely love to see it. That should be something very useful for my writing.”

Floating Cloud asked, “What do you write?”

Still expressionless. I didn’t have a clue what could possibly be inside his bald, monkish head.

“I’m a novelist. My second book will be a family saga about siblings fighting over a huge inheritance of precious artwork. Since I don’t know much about art or how to research it,” I said, putting up the sweetest smile I could muster, “may I have both the honor and pleasure to see your temple’s art so I’ll be inspired?”

He studied me for a few moments before, to my delight, a faint smile finally made its delayed appearance on his face. “All right, maybe you’re meant to be here. I’ll let you see the art collection, which almost no one knows about. This will be the most auspicious day in your life.”

I put my hands together in the prayer gesture and made a deep bow. “Thank you, Master Floating Cloud. I’ll never forget.”

He picked up the ceramic teacup and noisily sipped his tea before he spoke again. “Fortunately, as monks, we don’t have to deal with families.”

After that, Floating Cloud asked Pure Wisdom to prepare two kerosene lamps. He cast his disciple a commanding look. “Now you stay here and meditate.” Then he turned to me. “Let’s go, Miss Chen.” He extended his hand in a gesture of invitation; I noticed that one of his wrists was wrapped with several strands of amber prayer beads. Each gem, sparkling and lustrous, seemed to beckon me to uncover its little secret.

Floating Cloud led me around corners, then down steep stairs where, after a seemingly endless descent, we finally arrived at a narrow corridor. While I strived to keep up with the monk’s brisk steps, my heartbeat accelerated. Where was he taking me? A secret torture chamber? But I’d already stepped onto a path—or stairs—of no return. What could I do now? Rush back up to the temple, then dash down the mountain just to hit my head on a boulder and have my brains splashed like vomit?

As these thoughts were running through my head, we arrived at a small antechamber with paintings on the stone walls. In the flickering lamplight, I could see the bulging eyes of a fierce guardian, his hair raised as if he was being electrocuted. On the other wall, even more intimidating, another angry god brandished a huge sword to ward off invisible, evil forces.

My temples pounded and cold sweat broke out under my arms and down my back. I felt as if I was about to have a panic attack. There was not a single book in sight! Had the monk lured me here for some evil purpose?

Just then Floating Cloud muttered something unintelligible, touched the third eye of the electrocuted god, and gave it a gentle push. To my astonishment, a door swung open to another room—or another dimension.

He motioned for me to go in.

I hesitated, but he walked inside, putting down one lamp on a table while still holding the other in his mala-bead-wrapped hand.

The other “dimension,” now lit up by the two kerosene lamps, revealed walls covered with wooden shelves. Filling the shelves were books, manuscripts, and embroidered boxes.

Mesmerized, my feet pulled me inside as a “Wah!” shot out between my lips. A slight bitter smell of old paper mixed with the fragrance of residual incense penetrated my nostrils.

As the monk walked around the room, his lamp cast shafts of light on the books and boxes, which seemed to stare back at us with suspicious eyes.

“How many books are stored here?” I asked, my fear subsiding slightly as I saw this was indeed a library.

Floating Cloud stared hard at me, his tone chiding. “It’s never the quantity but the quality that counts. I’m very proud to say that we own a few of the orphaned sutras here.”

“What do you mean…”

“These are the only copies in China, indeed, in the whole world.” Pulling out one manuscript he declared, “This one is worth hundreds of thousands.”

When I reached out to touch it, the monk caught my hand in midair, his grasp light but extremely powerful. A pained “Ouuuch!” escaped from my mouth.

Floating Cloud’s expression turned cold. “No outsider may touch anything here. Every single item is priceless. You’re lucky I even let you in here.”

“I’m so sorry, Master,” I said, while noticing that a red welt had already made its impression on my wrist. Floating Cloud must be a master of internal kung fu, like those legendary Shaolin monks.

He set the manuscript down on a table and unrolled it slowly so I could have a good look. As the writing revealed itself, I sensed something peculiar about the vibrations rolling out from the document. Instinctively, I leaned back a little as the monk gave me a disapproving look.

The worn, yellowed paper was covered with neat calligraphy written in the regular style. The title of the work was Diamond Sutra. I’d vaguely heard of this sutra before, but I had no idea if it had anything to do with diamonds—the kind that is forever and supposed to be a woman’s best friend.

I didn’t want to reveal my ignorance by asking how diamonds have anything to do with sutras, so I came up with the banal “It’s beautiful, and the calligraphy so elegant.”

“Can you tell what it was written in?” the monk asked, or challenged, me.

“Chinese ink,” I said. What else? It was such an obvious question.

“Look more carefully, Miss Chen.”

When I scrutinized very carefully, the writing appeared to be in a very dark shade of reddish brown. “Some kind of red Chinese ink?” I asked, feeling another wave of odd vibrations from the manuscript.

“No, not ink.” He paused for effect. “It’s blood.”

The mystery of the vibration was suddenly revealed. Blood. Slowly a chill crept up my spine. What was I doing in this secret chamber inside a creepy temple on a remote mountain in China with a monk who collected manuscripts written in blood?!

I looked up to stare at his face, now eerie under the flickering light. “Animal blood?”

The monk let out a hearty laugh. “You’re probably too young to have heard about this.”

A polite way to say that I was downright ignorant.

He caressed the yellowish paper. Was that made of skin, animal—or human? And whose blood? Was he or she murdered? Committed suicide? But I was too agitated to tell if the vibration was from a bitter ghost or an appeased one.

The monk spoke again, his words clear and heavy as if etched on stone. “Almost a thousand years ago, a high monk needled his finger and used his own blood to write the entire Diamond Sutra. Because the high monk sacrificed his own blood, this manuscript is a living spirit possessing magical power to bless, protect, heal. Or, if need be, sold on the art market for a huge sum of money.”

After the explanation, my frightened nerves calmed down a few notches. “Very impressive,” I said.

“Using one’s own blood shows complete sincerity and devotion. The longer the sutra, the more blood will be used, and thus the greater the proof of the monk’s faith. Sometimes they even compete to write the longest sutra.”

To compete for something spiritual? And to sell the manuscript in the art market for a high price? Did Floating Cloud realize how un-Buddhist this sounded?

With great care and attention, the monk put the scroll back into its box and returned it to the shelf. After that, he turned to me. “Miss Chen, you said you got lost and that’s why you ended up at our temple. But the Buddha taught us that everything that happens to us is the result of karma. Losing your way was just an excuse.”

My heart skipped a beat upon hearing this. But I quickly realized that it was not that he saw through to the real purpose of my visit but because Buddhists believe all things happen for a reason, even if we do not know what that reason is. That’s what he meant by “an excuse.”

“So it’s heaven’s will that I show you our treasures here,” Floating Cloud said, then took down another box, which was embroidered with abstract red and gold patterns. He opened it and peeled off layers of silk to reveal a small, gold Buddha statue.

Even though I am not an art connoisseur, I could tell this was an exquisite piece. The shape of the metal was very precise, yet fluid, as if the sculptor had been carving for many lifetimes. However, the metal was eggshell thin, so as to minimize the amount of gold needed.

As if able to read my mind, Floating Cloud said, “It’s not the gold that makes this Buddha valuable, but what’s inside.”

“What is it?”

With a gentle push of the monk’s finger on the lotus base, a tiny drawer slid open. Inside were small crystals in white, green, yellow, red, orange, purple. As I was dazzled by the crystals’ colorful glitter, I felt waves of compassionate energy radiating through me.

The monk spoke. “You’re lucky. Tonight the moon will be big and full, so I feel generous to share. These”—his fingers caressed the crystals—“are the Buddha’s relics, or sharira.”

“But… didn’t the Buddha live more than two thousand years ago? So how… can this be possible?” I asked, though I did feel a strong connection with the sharira.

“Our temple was destroyed by the red guards during the Cultural Revolution. To save the treasures, my master and two of his disciples disguised themselves as farmers and carried them up here to hide them. In the past, we didn’t even have stairs. It was only two years ago that Pure Wisdom built them, but due to the constant strong wind there’s nothing much left.”

“Were the stairs built for visitors?”

“No. One time I hurt my leg, so he built them to ease my climb.”

“Then how did your master climb up here?”

“We all practice martial arts since childhood. Have you heard of the ‘floating martial arts’ or the ‘lizard kung fu’?”

“I’ve seen them in Hong Kong kung fu movies.”

“Ha, those are fakes, but what we practice is real. Or surreal when you actually see it. Tomorrow I’ll ask Pure Wisdom to perform for you.”

“Thank you, I’d really love to see it.”

“Everybody does. Today I’ve let you see more than I should, and you’ve accumulated lots of merits by glimpsing the two most valuable treasures here. You might even gain some supernatural power from their aura.”

Floating Cloud wrapped up the statue, put it inside the box, and carefully placed it back on the shelf. After that, he gestured for me to leave. We both bowed, but my feet dragged as I was reluctant to separate from the strong, soothing energy of the Buddha.

After the library visit, I found Floating Cloud not only much less intimidating but also much more appealing. I was starting to like this square-jawed floating cloud and his secret chamber.

Sitting on the skimpy mattress in my room, I was finally left alone to reflect on this weird temple and the even weirder Floating Cloud. Since he was manly, he shouldn’t be hard to seduce. But still, I’d known him for less than twenty-four hours. Was there a skillful Dao of Seduction that seemed artless and spontaneous?

I hoped the sex part would not be too painful or perverse. Although since my teens I’d tried a few daring poses with my different boyfriends, I’d never heard of this hanging-upside-down-lotus, and the upside down part made me nervous. Back in New York, I’d looked it up at the New York Public Library and found a description of this posture in the two-hundred-year-old Erotic Art of China. The book, a sex manual referred to as The Spring Palace Pictures, was supposedly meant to educate newlyweds in the art of the bedchamber. For each pose there was a picture and a poem. The one for hanging-upside-down-lotus read:

A baby swallow floats in the Spring wind.

The evening is seductive and the breeze saturated with desire.