Shaolin
The worst of the summer heat had passed.
Now and then, a cool breeze would stir his hair, but the air still clung heavy and humid.
The party pressed on, pausing here and there to wipe their sweat.
For the past few days, a great mountain had loomed in the distance. At last, today, Tang Mujin and his companions arrived at its foothills.
"This is Mount Song."
Goiyi stated the obvious, as if sharing a secret known to all. They had walked for days toward Shaolin, nestled within Songshan—of course it was Mount Song.
He raised a finger, pointing toward a particular peak.
"And that is Shaoshi Peak."
Halfway up Shaoshi Peak lay a forest. And within that forest, a monastery. A temple in the woods of Shaoshi Peak . Their destination—Shaolin.
Instead of climbing at once, the group lingered to take in the surroundings. From time to time they saw travelers stop in their tracks, jaws dropping as they stared up at Songshan.
But to Tang Mujin and Hong Geolgae, the sight was underwhelming. They were sons of Sichuan, raised amid peaks famed for their jagged grandeur.
The two youths from the mountain backwaters wore faintly smug expressions as they looked upon the Central Plains folk gaping in awe. A strange sense of pride welled within them.
"Think these people even know what a real mountain looks like?"
"Ha. They'll never know in their lifetime."
Goiyi's dry remark cut through their amusement.
"Forget the damn mountain. Let's eat first. I'm starving."
"Now you're talking."
Hong Geolgae jumped to agree. Tang Mujin nudged him in the ribs.
"What, you don't beg for food anymore?"
"Why? Want me to go scrounge something up for you?"
"…No, never mind."
When they first met, Hong Geolgae had cared nothing for fine food. Eating meant shoving into his mouth whatever scraps he'd begged off strangers.
But wandering the world alongside Tang Mujin and Goiyi, he found no time—or chance—for begging.
Forced to share the meals of his companions, he had slowly, almost without realizing, awakened to the pleasures of taste.
Once, he had stubbornly declared, 'I'll beg for my own meals.' Now he walked into inns without hesitation, sitting shoulder to shoulder with them.
His shabby clothes and roguish manner still marked him as a vagabond, but his tongue had already become that of a man of the orthodox sects.
The three entered a nearby inn and ordered simply.
"Four bowls of wheat noodles. One fatty dish—whatever's good. And your best white liquor."
"Yes, sir! Four noodles, Eight-Treasures Duck, and one jug of Jingye Liquor!"
Two of the noodles were destined for Hong Geolgae's stomach.
Lately, he claimed he needed to eat double to make up for the lack of elixirs. To Tang Mujin, it just looked like gluttony.
"What's Eight-Treasures Duck?"
"They debone the duck without splitting it open, stuff the cavity with rice, mushrooms, shrimp—whatever else they please—steam it, then roast it again."
"Steaming and roasting? Sounds like it'll take forever to come out."
"Hardly. With so many visitors, they keep it prepared ahead of time, so they can pawn it off on guests like us. You won't regret it though—it's famous for a reason."
Just as Goiyi predicted, the duck arrived almost alongside the noodles. The flavor was every bit as excellent as promised.
Tang Mujin finished first and let his gaze wander across the inn.
It was spacious, yet crowded to the brim.
Dozens of wandering swordsmen filled the room, along with several monks—four martial monks and three scholarly monks.
The difference was plain at a glance.
The scholars were slender, slight of frame, while the martial monks were broad-shouldered, their fists and palms thick with calluses. Clearly, Shaolin's arts were founded on fists and palms.
Tang Mujin studied them curiously. Male monks were a rare sight to him.
In his hometown of Chengdu, the monks he encountered were nearly all from Emei, and nine out of ten of those were nuns. Even then, it was uncommon for them to descend into the city at all.
"Different from Emei, isn't it?"
"Yes. In every way."
"Emei's warriors stay cloistered on Mount Emei. Shaolin's not like that. They hold sway over every town in these parts. That's why they're called the spiritual pillar of the orthodox path, the torchbearers of righteousness."
"I see…"
They finished their meal with satisfaction and set out to climb Shaoshi Peak.
The path teemed with travelers still, but the atmosphere shifted.
The most striking difference was this: not a single woman in sight.
"We must've passed fifty people by now. Not one woman among them."
"That's Shaolin's rule."
"Rule?"
"No woman may pass through Shaolin's gates. And since the only thing atop Shaoshi Peak is Shaolin, no woman has any reason to climb it."
"Hmm."
"There are other rules too. Anyone once expelled is never taken back. And if you dare steal Shaolin's martial arts without proper tutelage, they'll hunt you down and break you. Things like that. Nothing to do with us."
Perhaps because of that knowledge, the once-refreshing scent of grass on the mountain path now seemed… off.
Was that the staleness of bachelors? Or something more pungent, like the smell of chestnut blossoms drifting faintly through the air?
As they neared Shaolin's precincts, Tang Mujin's eyes caught on someone unusual.
A woman—or perhaps a girl. In any case, the first female he had seen since stepping onto Shaoshi Peak. She looked about his age, perhaps younger.
Her appearance was plain, unadorned. Her long hair tied back carelessly, clothes loose and practical for work.
Her arms were toned from labor, her skin sun-browned. Brimming with vitality, yet stubbornness lingered in her expression.
Her actions were even more striking than her looks.
Dressed for work, she swung a pickaxe with gusto, digging furrows in the earth.
Within the trench she carved, something long and thick was half-buried. A great wooden beam, slowly turning.
How is she moving something that size?
Tang Mujin followed its length with his eyes. At its end lay a stream—large enough for Shaoshi Peak—and in it, a great waterwheel turned.
He was no stranger to such devices. Along the Min River near Chengdu's Dujiangyan, countless waterwheels turned day and night.
As he studied the wheel and the beam, the girl noticed him watching and strode over. Tang Mujin felt a sudden pang of tension.
What's this? Did I catch her fancy?
But as the thought crossed his mind, she screwed up her face into the fiercest scowl and barked—
"You bastard—get the hell out of here!"
Her first words were a curse.
If it had been some neighborhood girl from his childhood, Tang Mujin might have retorted, 'What's with you all of a sudden?' But this was a stranger he had met for the first time today.
Hard to match her harshness with any of his own. He scratched his head awkwardly.
"Uh… what's with the sudden hostility?"
"You weren't the one who came poking around last time, broke the waterwheel?"
"Of course not. This is my first time on Shaoshi Peak. I only arrived in Henan a few days ago."
"You sure? You've got the same build as him."
The girl looked Tang Mujin up and down with a distrustful frown, then waved him off with the hand not holding her pickaxe.
"Anyway, off with you. Shoo."
"I was only watching because it seemed like something curious."
"Plenty have said the same, fiddled here and there, and ended up breaking the wheel. I'm busy—move along. I can't work with you hovering."
Perhaps she realized her sharp tongue was too much for a first meeting. At least she stopped cursing, though her tone remained prickly.
Tang Mujin still wanted to study the waterwheel a little longer. But not at the cost of being scolded to his face by its owner. He turned back awkwardly, only for Hong Geolgae to start needling him.
"Didn't even get a word in before she cursed you out? Guess you're not too popular with the ladies."
The jab hit home. Tang Mujin was, in truth, not very popular with the girls of his village.
It was hardly possible for him to be. Day after day, he sat in the backyard, fanning the medicine cauldron for hours. What maiden would find charm in that?
Still, it was not something he needed to hear from Hong Geolgae.
"I'd wager I'm more popular than you, at least."
"What're you on about? I was plenty popular! The most sought-after fellow in Jueul Village."
"Oh, of course you were…"
A beggar beloved by women—such a creature could not exist. Tang Mujin let the matter slide without serious reply.
When he glanced aside, he caught Goiyi watching them with a knowing smirk—the expression of a man who truly had been popular with women.
Though older, Goiyi was well-built and undeniably handsome. His youthful looks and popularity were easy enough to imagine.
With a faint pang of defeat, Tang Mujin and Hong Geolgae both fell silent. The three resumed their climb toward Shaolin.
Before long, the temple's mountain gate (shanmen) came into view.
Two monks stood watch before it. At the sight of the approaching party, they raised their right hands in greeting—a gesture somewhere between folded palms and clasped fists. Tang Mujin and his companions answered with a light fist-and-palm salute.
As he lowered his hands, Tang Mujin leaned toward Goiyi.
"Why do they greet like that? It's not quite joined palms, nor the martial salute."
"It's Shaolin's tradition. Long ago, Huike waited in the snow to be accepted as Bodhidharma's disciple. When Bodhidharma said he would only accept him once the white snow turned red, Huike cut off his left arm and dyed it with his blood. That gesture comes from Huike, who had but one arm."
"…Shaolin is fiercer than I thought."
"Such were the ancients. Even the monks' robes reflect it—you see how one side drapes to cover the left arm? That too is said to come from Huike's figure."
When the group reached the gate, both monks immediately recognized Goiyi.
"So it is you, Benefactor. What brings you here?"
"Only to visit a friend. Is the Hall of Arhats' master within?"
"Please wait a moment."
One monk scurried off and soon returned, leading another.
Tang Mujin's first thought upon seeing the man was: Can a human being truly be shaped so square?
Broad shoulders, a blocky jaw, arms like tree trunks—every inch of him exuded raw strength.
At the sight of Goiyi, the man raised his right hand in casual greeting, all ceremony cast aside.
"Ichung. Been a long while. What scrape have you gotten into this time? If you don't enter the Buddha's gate soon, you'll never cleanse your sins."
"Cleanse sins, my ass. Too late for that."
At those words, the Arhat Hall Master's eyes widened.
"Don't tell me…"
"Not what you're thinking. Not yet, at least."
"Then it's well enough. Come, let's go inside."
The Hall Master exchanged a few cryptic words with Goiyi, then turned toward the gate. Tang Mujin and Hong Geolgae followed close behind.
At last, the Hall Master cast his gaze upon them.
"And these two benefactors? Who are they, and why do they accompany you?"
"Monk, isn't it proper to introduce yourself before prying into others' names?"
"Ah, you're right. Forgive me. Gentlemen, I am the Arhat Hall Master, Qingwook."
Tang Mujin started in surprise. Even he, unversed in the nicknames of the martial world, knew this one.
"The Monk of Full Strength—Qingwook!"
"Some call me that, yes."
Though a master at the very peak, Qingwook was set apart from the others. Whenever talk turned to which masters might one day breach the wall into the realm of the Seven Lords, his name was always among them.
Should he succeed, Shaolin would boast not only its Divine Monk, but a second transcendent master.
Hong Geolgae and Tang Mujin grew tense and quickly offered introductions.
"I am Hong Geolgae, a Beggar's Disciple from Jueul Village."
"Well met. The Beggar Clan folk are always hearty companions. And this gentleman?"
"I am Tang Mujin, a physician from Chengdu, Sichuan."
"A physician…?"
Qingwook's eyes flicked toward Goiyi. To him, Tang Mujin was clearly no ordinary healer, but a martial man as well.
And the only physician-warrior he knew of was Goiyi himself.
Goiyi waved his hand dismissively.
"Not my disciple. Just a traveling companion."
"I see. Then why does he come with you?"
"Does the Wooden Men Alley still stand?"
"It does. Buried under dust, but still there."
"Still there?"
"Yes. The Hall Master of the Arhat Hall wants it torn down soon."
Goiyi's brows arched.
"Torn down? The Wooden Men Alley?"
"It hasn't stirred in over three hundred years. They say it's better to raze it and build a new training ground."
"That can't be allowed."
"Why not?"
Qingwook pressed, and Goiyi pointed squarely at Tang Mujin.
"If in all these three hundred years anyone was born who could repair the Wooden Men Alley… it would be this boy."