Chapter 1, Mo Can.
Mo Can stood before a tall blue brick stupa, the body of the tower inlaid with stones inscribed with the following text: "Inscription of Master Dandang's Stupa, beginning with Confucianism, ending with Buddhism, one and two, two and one. The autumn waves of Erhai, the snowy cliffs of Diancang. The region of Kasyapa, the chamber of Dandang"
"Hush." Mo Can waved his hand, sending the young monk away
This tea is harvested from two ancient tea trees at the Gantong Temple, brewed with the cold spring water beside the trees. If the water is too hot, the tea loses its flavor; it must be brewed to perfection. When Xu Xiake visited this temple that year, he praised this tea endlessly. I invite all esteemed guests to taste it," said an elderly monk with a white beard, addressing the guests.
"What are you looking at?" Su Niang asked in confusion
Sitting next to Wu Jue is a middle-aged man with a yellow face, dressed in a dark purple robe. He has three strands of beard and a stern expression. At this moment, he slightly leans forward and clasps his hands, saying: "Today, I have come in plain clothes to attend this gathering. Firstly, the debate and Dharma assembly is purely a matter of the people and has no connection to the court. Secondly, Master Wu Jue is a close friend of mine, and I feel honored to be invited here. Everyone, Master Dan Tang is a highly esteemed monk from Dali. Not only is he a master of poetry, calligraphy, and painting, but he also has profound insights into Zen. When he passed away at the age of eighty-one, he left behind a verse known as the 'Final Verse.' Unfortunately, over the past century, countless eminent scholars have come, yet no one has been able to decipher it. Today, seeing that each of you possesses extraordinary bearing and exceptional knowledge, if any of you can unravel this century-old verse, it would indeed be a blessing for the Gantong Temple and a fortune for our Dali Prefecture."
Can even those learned individuals from the Central Plains not unravel this?
In those years, my grandfather was a renowned hunter in this area, having hunted down something unclean on Cangshan Mountain, after which he soon became blind. My father and Old Mo were born blind, coincidentally fulfilling an ancient local legend about the retribution of three generations. It is no wonder that since Su Niang became pregnant, he has been constantly worried.
The next day, before dawn, Su Niang set out with a bamboo basket full of vegetables on her back. Old Mo accompanied her with a wooden stick all the way to the village entrance, as there were ten li of mountain roads to cover to reach Dali City.
"Well, this poem 'The Final Verse' has remained unsolved to this day. Every seven years, on the anniversary of the old monk's passing, the Gan Tong Temple holds a memorial service. This year marks the seven-year period again, and monks, Daoists, and Confucian scholars from all directions come to debate the verses, yet for over a hundred years, no consensus has been reached," Mr. Mu sighed.
Mr. Mu, the teacher, is a gaunt and emaciated old man with yellowish-brown teeth, a hoarse voice, and a pair of small eyes that are always squinting, as if he can never fully awaken. It is said that he came from the Central Plains and has been residing at the Gantong Temple for several years, barely making a living by teaching in a private school.
Mo Can often comes to the temple to play, and the monks generally recognize him
"October 19, the beginning of winter, will be tomorrow." Mr. Mu glanced at him and replied.
"Good tea," said the scholarly gentleman in a fish-patterned cap, smacking his lips and holding a folding fan, "During the Ming Dynasty, in the reign of Wanli, Liu Wei, the inspector of Yunnan, wrote in the 'Record of the Cold Spring Pavilion at Gantong Temple' that at the foot of Diancang Mountain lies Dang Mountain, and within Dang Mountain is Gantong Temple, beside which flows a spring with sweet and clear water suitable for drinking. Next to the spring are tea trees, which are said to have been planted no less than a hundred years ago. Since this mountain has existed, this spring has existed; since this spring has existed, this tea has existed. Although the water is clear and cold, it does not reveal its origins, yet the flavor of the tea is fragrant and captivating, possessing a lingering charm. He then composed a poem: 'In the bamboo house, the white mist drifts away, the monk lingers over the fragrant tea. For a long time, I have only dreamed of the mountains and seas, yet in my heart, it remains ever-present, unaware of the passing years.'"
Sitting in the front row on the right is a burly man with a bushy beard, who furrows his brow and says in a gruff voice: "Tea is just tea; it quenches thirst, that's all. Why all the sour nonsense? We are here today for the old monk's saying, whatever it is. If anyone can decipher it, speak up quickly. I don't have time for idle chatter."
The old woman reminded him: "Has the child been named?"
Beside the stream stands a dilapidated courtyard featuring three halls and a screen wall, with white walls and gray tiles, where a few clusters of weeds grow on the eaves. The owner, named Mo Wenli, has been blind since childhood and relies on the support of relatives and neighbors to barely make ends meet. During difficult years, he often resorts to begging. It was not until he was over forty that he met a refugee woman from another town named Su Niang in Dali City, whom he brought back to the village, and finally established a family.
On this day, Mo Can, after finishing his reading of poetry and books, was wandering leisurely in the temple as usual. Unintentionally, he walked into the pine forest beside Jizhao An on the back mountain. Scattered among the wild grass were several monk towers, mottled and varied, covered in moss, surrounded by the chirping of insects, with the air filled with the fresh scent of pine resin
"Hello, Mo Can, what are you doing here?" a young novice monk approached and asked softly
Dali's Diancang Mountain, formerly known as Lingjiu Mountain, is situated between Shengying Peak and Foding Peak. A clear stream meanders through the dark pine forest, winding around the village and flowing eastward into Erhai Lake. The village is called Mojia Yi, home to about a dozen households of the Bai ethnic group, most of whom make a living through hunting. Occasionally, they bring their game to Dali City in exchange for some firewood, rice, oil, and salt. Although their lives are modest, they are quite content.
Mo Can, are you also interested in this verse?" Suddenly, someone behind spoke in a hoarse voice
The Confucian scholar's face flushed upon hearing this, and he was about to defend himself
The autumn wind rises, and the weather gradually becomes cooler
I would like to attend the Dharma assembly at the Gantong Temple tomorrow
Mo Can was hiding outside the window, recognizing that the old monk was the abbot, Master Wu Jue.
During recess, the students enjoy running into the woods to play hide and seek, while those who are slightly older and more diligent stay in the classroom to review their lessons. Mo Can, on the other hand, goes alone to the temple to observe the Buddha statues and listen to the monks recite scriptures, and over time, he even learns to chant a few verses.
In the blink of two or three years, Mo Can, under the urging of Su Niang, diligently studied and made significant progress in his studies. Mr. Mu was quite satisfied and often provided him with individual guidance.
***
Mo Can had breakfast and, filled with excitement, set off up the mountain. Along the way, he saw various outsiders walking or riding horses towards the Gan Tong Temple, including monks, Taoist priests, and Confucian scholars. He also noticed an official sedan chair being called forward, undoubtedly carrying a high-ranking official inside
Mo Can was startled and turned around, only to find it was Mr. Mu
Hmph, several grand scholars from the Hanlin Academy of the court have come, yet they are still just making random guesses
What day is the anniversary of the Zen master's death? asked Mo Can.
Sir, I did not know you were here as well
The abbot smiled faintly and indicated, "What this benefactor said is indeed correct. Therefore, the debate and verse ceremony for this year shall commence. Allow me to introduce, this is Li Suizhi, the governor of Dali Prefecture."
After Mo Can turned to the tower, he discovered inscriptions carved on the square bricks, and he softly murmured: "The heavens are shattered, the earth is broken, if one takes on the burden, it is a mistake, who would dare to sit with a severed tongue?"
When the azaleas bloom in spring, several children of the same age in the village begin to attend a private school. Despite the family's poverty, Su Niang still economizes and saves enough tuition to allow Mo Can to attend school as well. A few miles to the west of the village, next to the Gan Tong Temple, there are two or three vacant and dilapidated monk's quarters that serve as the schoolhouse, where children from nearby villages come to study.
Two monks respectfully presented a scroll and then gently unfurled it
Autumn has passed and winter has arrived, the time for childbirth has come
Oh, study your lessons well at home. Mother will be going to Dali City to sell vegetables for the next few days
Everyone present nodded in agreement
Beneath Shengying Peak, an ancient temple is hidden among the verdant ancient cypress trees. The temple, formerly known as Dangshan Temple, was established during the Nanzhao period and has a long history.
In the house, the young woman was sewing clothes, as the child was growing quickly and the old clothes had become too small. A few days ago, she found an old piece of animal skin under an old box at home, which was very soft, resembling rabbit fur, with a tuft of white hair in the gray center. As the weather gradually turned cooler, it would be quite suitable to make a leather vest for Mo Can.
Many learned individuals have come from the Central Plains. Tomorrow, there will be a gathering at the temple to decipher Master Dang's "Final Verse," which is sure to be quite interesting. Mo Can recounted the legend he heard from Mr. Mu regarding that peculiar verse.
The abbot, with a gentle touch on the prayer beads, spoke aloud: "What Lord Li said is indeed correct. Our esteemed master passed away on October 19 in the twelfth year of the Kangxi era, and it has now been over a hundred years. During this time, the debate on the verses has been held more than ten times, yet we have never reached a resolution. Now, I would like to present the 'Final Verse' of our master from that year for all the benefactors to review."
Upon entering the mountain gate, one is greeted by the main hall, the Great Cloud Hall. Beneath the eaves hangs a plaque inscribed with the four characters "A Smile Brings Spring," written in a vigorous and ancient style, which is said to be the handiwork of a Zen master from years past. On either side are side halls, with the tea hall on the east already filled with a number of people, who are exchanging pleasantries as they take their seats, while a young novice serves fragrant tea.
At the beginning, when the villagers discussed how ugly Su Niang was, Lao Mo thought to himself that having a blind person around was already good enough, since he couldn't see anyway; whether it was beautiful or ugly, it was all the same. Su Niang was very capable, and before long, she had cultivated a small piece of wasteland behind the house, planted some vegetables, and raised a few chickens and a piglet. Life gradually began to show promise. In the spring of the following year, his wife became pregnant, and Lao Mo was naturally overjoyed to have a child in his middle age, yet he couldn't shake off a sense of unease in his heart. Su Niang was very capable, and before long, she had cultivated a small piece of wasteland behind the house, planted some vegetables, and raised a few chickens and a piglet. Life gradually began to show promise. In the spring of the following year, his wife became pregnant, and Lao Mo was naturally overjoyed to have a child in his middle age, yet he couldn't shake off a sense of unease in his heart.
Mo Can leaned out his head and caught a glimpse of Mr. Mu sitting in the corner, who was squinting his eyes as if he were dozing off
The midwife from the neighboring house was busy inside, while Old Mo leaned on his wooden stick, anxiously waiting at the gate of the courtyard. After a long while, he finally heard the cry of the newborn.
Let’s call him Mo Can. Old Mo thought for a moment and said, I hope this child can put an end to the nightmare that has haunted three generations.
Old Mo was taken aback by the words, and tears suddenly welled up in his sunken eyes
Several years later, Mo Can was already seven or eight years old, resembling his father closely. He had a round forehead, a strong physique, and a certain spirit in his brows, yet his personality was reserved, and he did not speak much
"He is a boy, Old Mo," the old lady came out, her face full of joy, "The child's eyes are... good."
"Mother, I am back," Mo Can said as he set down the bamboo box containing books and writing implements, "There is no school tomorrow due to the holiday."
***