One Thousand Years Ago I Was a Serpent
Synopsis:
A millennia ago, I was born a serpent, small and hidden among bamboo groves, yet destined to witness the fragile balance between life and death. Over countless lifetimes, I have drifted through human and divine realms, learning, growing, and seeking the elusive path of enlightenment. My existence stretches across centuries of meditation, desire, and the relentless turning of karma.
Long ago, a monk struck me down—yet even death could not sever the bond forged in that instant. Across reincarnations, he returns: as an old man, a young noble, a devoted practitioner. With each encounter, our connection deepens, evolving from vengeance to love, from love to inescapable entanglement, until the final moment when fate separates us forever—he attaining ultimate enlightenment, and I left to wander the world as a restless spirit.
A story of immortality, reincarnation, and a bond that defies lifetimes. Love, vengeance, and the aching impossibility of reunion—One Thousand Years Ago I Was a Serpent asks: can the soul ever escape its fate?
Chapter 1
One Thousand Years ago I was a serpent.
At first I was only a small thing, hidden in a bamboo grove, waiting to swallow any careless bird. Perhaps the moon was too clear — I woke at night, watching bamboo shadows flicker in my obsidian eyes. Cold moonlight pooled between my scales and filled me with feelings I could not name. I was still young then and did not know why; only my scarlet tongue moved in and out, breathing. Joy and sorrow braided together; longing and fear sat side by side.
Time passed — I cannot reckon how long, though I remember this precisely: beneath that moon I shed my skin three hundred times.
I grew. I ate every creature in the woods until the grove could no longer hold my bulk; bamboo stalks crunched beneath me like weeds. Then I met a man.
He stood before me with a cleaver raised. It was my first sight of a human. His warm blood and taut muscles stirred my appetite. With a ring of metal, the blade struck my brow and flung a spark — a sting that spread. Angered, I threw off the cleaver, coiled around him, and before long his strength left him. I ate him.
Was that a crime? I did not think so. A snake eats; that is the law of being. Besides, he had nicked my smooth, beautiful scales. I felt no guilt in taking food; hunger makes one restless.
After that I ate many men like him. I do not recall how many — such counts seem insignificant. The only constant was the moon, laying its pale light on the earth with a quiet voice, as if it were always speaking to me. I grew larger still. One stormy day, thunder shaking the mountains, I left my shed skin on a ridge — my greatest mistake.
They called me monstrous: ninety-nine eaten, a scourge on the people, an offense that roused both gods and men. While I was most vulnerable, just after shedding, they seized me.
In the downpour I twisted and broke the necks of nine more. But they were many; a monk hurled a string of prayer beads that bound me, and I had no more strength as they cinched iron collars tight.
I knew then I would die; fear flashed in my eyes. Yet I did not hate them. The strong eat the weak; the wind snaps fragile branches; tigers devour deer — such is nature. I was bound because I was outmatched. But I could not accept the monk's words.
He proclaimed: "This serpent poisons the land. Heaven is wrathful; by decree the gods command its destruction."
There were other speeches, but fire had already licked beneath me and my courage split; I remember little. His meaning was plain: I was monstrous; his killing me was justice done in Heaven's name.
The burning blinded me. Flesh tore; my spirit unbound itself and rose as a vast serpent from the crack. In an instant all pain fell away and sight returned.
I looked down at the earth, at those once food to me — frail, helpless people. The flames consumed my body and danced across their faces; the smell of blood and sweat grew fiercer in their outrage, making them seem smaller. They fancied themselves righteous. Ridiculous. Kill me if you must — there was no need to drench it in sanctimony.
Then I saw my enemy: the monk with a jade-blood blade. His face was complex; For an instant, I thought he had glimpsed enlightenment. Instead he ordered the iron restraints tightened. I strained to shed my mortal coil and flee, but they had bound the very seat of my heart, leaving me powerless to do more than watch. He cut his palm; crimson fell on the jade blade. The blade struck my spirit. With a keening hiss a mist rose; I shuddered as the air warped and the ants below clapped their hands to their ears. That was not enough for him — That was not enough for him — he sought to extinguish my spiritual awareness, the deep storehouse of karmic seeds, so that I might never be reborn. Did he hate me? We had no quarrel; we had never met. Why this fate?
My serpent eyes froze on him as his blade rose and fell, cleaving my body to a thousand fragments that scattered on the wind. The fire burned for three days and nights; deep within my memory the reek of charred bone remains. After that I know nothing, save that a final thread of awareness lingered in the world.
That slender strand of spirit had no thought, no sensation — vague, muddled, like a breath of wind, like a shaft of light: intangible, barely there. Rain soaked through it; lake water set it drifting. A fawn's sprint could lift it; a flower's fall could carry it down.
That wisp of awareness was the most inconsequential thing in the world. A moment's inattention and it would have dissipated.
Chapter 2
Yet fate had not quite abandoned me. A whisper of luck — itself part of nature's way — remained. One day that slender strand of spirit drifted into an ancient temple and settled, by chance, on the fingertip of the Buddha's hand , who held a lotus between his fingers..
When the wooden clapper sounded, all music rose together. The chanting rolled deep and vast, like surf striking the shore, like a thousand pines intoning — each syllable a kalpa. Incense burned in the brazier; blue smoke rose and blurred the Buddha's majestic visage into something of pity. My faint strand of spirit trembled each day amid the devout recitations, winding itself with the frail ribbons of incense. Those offerings, unwittingly, sustained me; they gave me back the moon.
Moonlight waked me like a newborn. I received its touch as if for the first time, remembering nothing but the monks' daytime litany: Gate gate, pāragate, pārasamgate, bodhi svāhā. Thus consciousness and feeling returned to me. I drifted among banners and canopies, hovered under the compassionate gaze of the Buddhas, moving with freedom. By day I followed the monks' chants; by night I practiced in the moon's shadow.
For a while, it was bliss.
I suppose I gained some root of wisdom. Time passed in rounds I could not count; the recited sutras grew ripe in me, and I had read through much of the Sanskrit canon housed in the library.
Yet such days bred a certain weariness — even a creeping anger. Since memory began I had dwelt beneath the lamp and the ancient Buddha; I told myself the Buddha must have shown me mercy by letting me cultivate here. But though I studied daily, the teaching remained like flowers seen through fog — no inch of true progress came.
Why is it said, "All conditioned things are impermanent, they arise and pass away. When arising and passing cease, stillness is bliss"?
Why does one say, "From ignorance springs attachment, and through attachment comes suffering"?
Why call all phenomena "like dreams, illusions, bubbles, shadows — like dewdrops, like lightning"?
And what, in truth, was I? I had no form, no essence I could name — only a misty, elusive presence drifting through the dharma realm.
One morning, bored as ever, I watched worshippers file past. An old man moved with the crowd, bent and leaning on his staff, each step a gasp; his body seemed a dried tree. He reached the incense table with difficulty, planted his cane, and with trembling hands lifted three joss sticks to light them.
After offering them, he knelt on the mat; his wild white hair shook like a tuft of dry grass with each bow. I could not help but laugh — if I had a shape, I would have laughed aloud.
I had no lifespan and knew not the pains of aging, yet the old man struck me as absurd. I presumed, as others did, that he sought the Buddha's blessing for health and longevity. But so feeble and far gone as he was, why climb this high a mountain? Was he worshipping the Buddha, or merely a wind-blown wick, burning himself out faster?
When his prostrations ended, the attendant struck the temple bell. Its clear note, like broken jade, filled the hall. The sound passed through my thread of being, but I heard no prayer. As the old man rose with slow effort, his dim eyes passed through the curling smoke — and I felt my core tremble. He saw me.
In that instant my heart — such as it was — fluttered: a nameless emotion that might have set me aflame. The drifting incense seemed suddenly hot, branding me; the pain was sharp and intimate.
—If I had a face, I would have wept. Who was he to make me laugh and make me ache? Surely he and I had some old knot between us. Had he thwarted my cultivation? Was this the reason I could not awaken? The feeling was neither hatred nor release.
For the first time in countless years I fell into confusion. I watched him leave the hall, step by tremulous step, and vanish into the daylight.
That night clouds hid the moon. My thread of awareness could not settle; it hid in the lamp's shadow, restless. The cold wind could not quench my burning.
Then the curtain stirred and a small figure slipped in.
A novice newly arrived — a little postulant — crept in on tiptoe to the Buddha's feet. He first folded his palms and bowed thrice with decorum, then swallowed and let his gaze stray from the gilded image to a stack of pastries on the offering table. His stomach gave a small audible protest.
Shocking irreverence. He reached out with a grubby hand, snatched a cake and began to chew, then hid another in his robe.
Fortune smiled upon me. No one had taught me how to act, yet I knew. My long-agitated, homeless strand of spirit condensed into a comet and slipped between his brows. I felt faint resistance, then nothing; long after, I regained myself.
A gust blew out the candle. Silence fell. Clouds broke and clear moonlight flowed into the hall like water. I looked about at the familiar furnishings with new eyes; everything felt strange and delicious. A sudden sweet satisfaction burst in my mouth — a joy I had never known.
I ate the two pastries in the boy's stead and sampled the other offerings until my small belly could hold no more. Savoring the aftermath, I wiped my lips and lifted his tiny hands to inspect them in the moonlight. I kicked his little feet and hopped and ran across the hall.
Outside the courtyard, the moon was even brighter, though the wind bit red my cheeks. I stroked the temple wall's weathered plaster and the rot on the window frame, inhaled the earth's damp scent, and tumbled once across the flagstones — playing until, at last, I remembered what I ought to be doing.
I slipped into the abbot's inner cell. A faint candle threw a modest halo; the abbot sat in meditative stillness, prayer beads turning between his fingers. I dared not disturb him and settled carefully on the mat opposite.
"Juexin," the abbot asked abruptly, his eyes still closed. The question startled me as if he could see through me.
"...Master, your disciple would like to ask you something."
"Ask."
"...Master, the Buddha says sentient beings are equal — but is that true? The Buddha says all beings possess Tathāgata wisdom and virtue — why do I not feel it?"
"...Master, 'the mind is unhindered' — I think I am free of hindrance, yet why is my mind in tatters? 'One should abide nowhere' — I am already without clinging, so why have I not transcended?"
"...Master, if one wounds me to the bone, should I remember or should I forget? If I meet someone who brings joy and middle-soul pain both — is that a fate to embrace or a calamity to avoid?"
Before I finished, the abbot shot open his eyes. His staff at his side leapt with a resounding ring.
"Demon! How dare you disturb this sacred place — depart at once!"
In a flash a streak of golden light struck me like thunder, forcing me out of that small borrowed body. I flew headlong from the cell, the golden light chasing and pressing close behind. Fortunately the full moon rode the sky and its vast radiance was my refuge. I heard the golden wind weaken and at last dissolve into the moonlight.
For days after I dared not stir, hiding in the Buddha's flower-holding palm — the same roost where I first alighted. Incense and candlelight no longer intoxicated me; bell and clapper sounded out of tune.
"Demon!" he called; his whole heart went to the Buddha while mine did too, yet he branded me "demon." By seniority I had been here a century longer than he.
And still I could not say, in the end, what I was.
Chapter 3
Many years passed, and the abbot of old finally passed into Nirvana. His remains became relics, a sign he had attained the True Fruit, leaving the world in enlightenment.
Seven hundred multicolored relics, smooth and lustrous as precious pearls, were enshrined in crystal boxes and placed within the pagoda. Yet, under the flickering light, they no longer spoke to me. To me, they were no different from the accumulated dust in the corners of the hall—merely a frozen form of time.
I continued to drift through the ancient temple. Indeed, I was something distinct from "humans." That night's defeat had left me with a hollow loneliness. Yet even the monks, reciting sutras daily, were struggling against their own inner turmoil. They lived in the dim light of ancient lamps, practicing austerity to subdue the illusions in their hearts. Pilgrims' prayers could not escape the Eight Sufferings of life. By nature, I should have been closer to the Buddha's path than ordinary mortals.
Still, I had no desire to read sutras. I regretted not seeking the abbot again; even if he struck me with his staff, I would not flee. But it was too late—words were useless.
I waited for that old man, the one who had once come to the temple countless lives ago, but he never returned. Perhaps it was natural; he had already been at the twilight of his life when he first arrived. Yet I could not forget the instant our gazes had met, trying in vain to grasp the source of that fluttering sensation— Was this not what the Buddha called clinging of the mind? Clearly, the further I drifted from the Dharma, the more entangled I became.
This solitude deepened. Bathed in the moon's silvery light, I gradually condensed into a faint, indistinct form. Once I had leaned over the pond to observe it—hands and feet, shaped like a human—and felt a fleeting satisfaction. Yet novelty soon faded; it was meaningless. Most of the time, I concealed my form, winding through the rising incense smoke along the beams, lazily counting the endless passing hours.
Later, Buddhism flourished. Pilgrims came in endless streams. In the great cauldron before the hall, incense sticks crowded one another so thickly that the air grew stifling. Candles blazed on the altar, their light harsh even to the eyes. Statues gilded in gold shone with sacred brilliance; high monks' robes were threaded with real gold, adorned with jade rings. Temples were expanded and renovated, erasing traces of antiquity and replacing them with vermilion rooftops, turquoise tiles, carved beams, all so opulent it became almost unbearable to me.
Yet from the eaves above, watching craftsmen restore the temple was a novel delight. The monks remained serene and ascetic; pilgrims, solemn and composed, seemed less lively. The laborers who carried timber and stone, ragged yet vigorous, lively with jokes, were like a rich feast. Those who hammered and assembled the structures worked silently, precisely, their artistry subtle yet refined. Most captivating of all were the artisans gilding and carving, crafting lotus pedestals of white jade or painting flowers and birds on pale walls. They held valleys and hills within their hearts, and their work emanated a deep, enduring richness that stirred my spirit.
Why did I dwell on their flavors? Since being cast out of the little monk's body, I had eaten nothing. Surely it was the memory of those exquisite pastries that had imprinted itself upon my restless spirit.
I also observed, more often than not, young masters and ladies burning incense and bowing. Their eyes lingered on each other, sometimes dropping scented handkerchiefs as tokens of feeling. Though I did not understand human affection, I recognized its traces. One Buddhist text, the Mahāprajñāpāramitāśāstra, states: "Among all afflictions, attachment is the foremost, binding sentient beings to the ocean of birth and death." Seeing this, I could only find human folly laughable. Born in a temple, raised among incense and candles, untouched by passion, I had judged others by their flavors, naturally placing myself above ordinary mortals.
But what flavor would I taste when encountering him again?
I remained lethargic and indecisive, unable to fathom it.
One morning, as I perched on a beam watching craftsmen trace flowers, a commotion arose at the mountain gate.
The abbot had lately gained renown and was often absent, traveling to estates to lecture or officiate rituals. The day before, the daughter-in-law of the Zhang family had died suddenly, and the estate sent for him. Before dawn, he departed, leaving only the steward, Yin Zhen, in charge.
Yin Zhen, gentle and even-tempered, arrived to lead the temple. The monks' routines slackened slightly in his calm presence. Two young novices, spirited and mischievous, ran about unchecked, testing my patience. I thought, I could stir a gust to blind them, trip them, make them weep— but I only imagined it, too lazy to act.
Yet moments later, the two young novices were chasing each other outside the mountain gate, and in their commotion, they overturned a street vendor's carrying pole, shattering several clay figurines. Quick-eyed, the vendor seized one of the boys, shouting at the top of his lungs.
Yin Zhen, upon hearing the commotion, walked out of the temple with his usual serene grace. He was not angered; glancing at the broken figurines, he smiled gently, palms together, and said: "Patron, calm your anger. All things arise, abide, and dissolve according to conditions. If they break, it is destined; if they do not, they will break eventually."
At first, the vendor still frowned, but he did not expect Yin Zhen to ramble on about Buddhist teachings, expounding on cause and effect, and the cycles of rebirth. His face flushed red, his fists clenched tighter, yet he dared not act rashly before the Buddha. When his fist was almost before his eyes, Yin Zhen sheepishly stopped speaking and, with great reluctance, withdrew a few copper coins from his robe, slowly offering them.
The vendor snatched the coins, and the surrounding crowd erupted in laughter before dispersing.
Once the crowd had vanished, I remained, watching the two broken clay figures on the ground, murmuring to myself: "All things are conditioned and interconnected."
Then, as if by chance, I turned my gaze and saw a figure standing at the mountain gate, clad in a pale moonlit robe, lingering without entering.
Ah! What flavor did this bring? Bitterness? Pain? Resentment? Confusion?
All of it, yet none entirely. A scorching pain surged within me, almost suffocating, yet there was also the joy of awaiting a response.
So, reincarnation truly exists. That old man, whose gaze had met mine so briefly many years ago, after countless lifetimes and kalpas, now stood there once more. His silent back—over my long centuries, it was the only reunion I could call such.
This time, I would never let him slip away again.
A thousand questions arose within me, yet I did not know how to ask. I restrained the overflowing rapture and choking emotion, and asked only: "Why do you not enter?"
The question did not come from a throat—I may not yet have possessed one—but from a mysterious resonance I myself did not fully understand. His body shivered slightly, and a look of alarm passed over his face. I remembered the old abbot's exclamation, "Demon," and felt a pang of regret for my audacity—after all, he was still a mere mortal.
A human. Fragile, helpless, forever entangled in suffering, enduring hidden pain in the world. They expend all their resilience on contending with themselves—how could I prevent him from fleeing? I could follow him like a hawk tracking prey, clutching him, but how could I avoid wounding him?
I emitted a second voice, nearly a plea, vibrating gently within his skull, as if from another consciousness split from his own: "Do not fear… I am a being confined within this mountain temple, seven hundred years of cultivation without enlightenment. Do you remember that we once met?"
This time, his expression steadied slightly, and he shook his head toward the empty gate.
"Then, you were already a venerable old man…"
I abruptly fell silent, realizing he had endured the six realms of samsara, bound by karma, all past memories erased. How then could I discern the bond between us? A fire leapt in my chest, urging me with an unbearable ache to hold him close, even crush him. The oppressive weight, the burning fervor, forced out a sound akin to a moan:
"Please… have mercy…"
He suddenly grew still and slowly nodded.
This silent assent was, to me, no less than a decree of pardon. I suppressed the ecstasy in my heart, about to speak again, when a young attendant dashed out from the shadows, leading a horse. His eyebrows arched like the character "八," mouth twisted as if on the verge of tears: "Sir, you've been watching for quite a while. Let's hurry back!"
I had been so engrossed in my dialogue that I had not noticed the attendant. Looking closer at the man after so many centuries, I saw a black hair tied with a simple jade pin, robe of moon-white patterned silk, a bright, pristine jade token at his waist. Graceful, dignified, drawing admiring glances from passersby—a young master. In times past, such a figure paying respects would have made the temple bells ring all the more resonant.
He, hearing the attendant, mounted his horse without a word of farewell, seemingly forgetting entirely that I existed. True, I left no trace of form—how could I expect him to bid me goodbye?
My heart burned. Our words remained unspoken, our karmic bond unresolved!
Should I whip up a gust to knock him off his horse, or lift him away with the wind? Before I could decide, his horse's hooves lightly and swiftly carried him far away. I had no choice but to chase with a rush of wind.
The farther from the temple, the more restless my heart became. In all my existence, I had never left the mountain temple.
Chapter 4 — I Shall Not Be a Monk
The clatter of hooves echoed through the streets until they slowed, halting before a narrow lane paved with bluish flagstones, flanked by whitewashed walls and dark eaves, neat and austere.
A man was already waiting there. At the sight of the rider, he hastened forward, seized the reins, and led the way.
Before long they stood at the great three-bay gate, lacquered black, guarded by well-dressed attendants bowed in deference. Above the lintel hung a gilt plaque against a dark ground, reading The Nan Mansion—majestic and imposing. Yet the main doors were shut; only a side gate stood ajar.
A servant stepped forward to help the man dismount, whispering at his ear:
"Master, the lord has returned. He has just asked after you. He is with the lady now."
The man frowned but said nothing, stepping across the threshold.
Within lay a courtyard paved with blue bricks. He passed the screen wall, crossed the outer hall, and entered beneath a flower-carved archway inscribed with Cautious Thought. Rare blossoms and fragrant herbs lined the cloisters on both sides, attesting to the refined taste of the lord.
In the passage stood a rosewood screen inlaid with marble veined like mountain-and-river landscapes, lending an air of elegance. Without pausing, the man circled past, and beyond the three-bay inner hall opened a spacious court shaded by verdant phoenix trees. The five-room main hall rose with tiled roof and painted beams, solemn yet serene. With no incense-seeking visitors here, the place seemed even quieter than the temple where I had dwelt.
At the eastern side chamber, maidservants hurried to raise the curtain for him.
A coolness drifted out. Beneath the east window, a bamboo couch bore a carved table, upon which a small Ru-ware censer smoldered with mint and borneol. The bitter chill of its smoke veiled the figure of a lady, faint and wavering, while a maid stood fanning gently at her side, scattering the tendrils of haze into tremulous whorls.
At the sound of the curtain, the lady sat upright, pressing a plastered temple. Through the smoke she cast a glance at the man, then signaled toward the depth of the chamber.
I followed her gaze. There stood a broad zitan table inlaid with lapis lazuli, adorned with a great bouquet of lotus, pure and solemn. Beside it, on a huanghuali cabinet, rested rows of books, a crimson-glazed vase, a pair of polychrome jars, and a set of cloisonné teaware. A figure stood by the table, eyes lowered to his book. Only at the word "Father" did he snap it shut with a crack.
"Hmph!" The elder's face clouded.
"You still remember I am your father? When have you ever heeded my words? You are now a father yourself, yet squander your days in those empty delusions! I ask no glory for our house—but in days your son reaches his full month. Do not disgrace me then!"
The man bowed with dutiful posture, yet his voice did not yield: "Father! I merely walked abroad. Can I not even claim this shred of freedom?"
"Impudence! Do not feign ignorance—I know well where you have gone! Speak not of it again, or—"
"Father, you promised me—once I had begotten a son, my life would be mine to govern!" His voice rose, his eyes fixed on the lotus blossoms upon the table, dark fire flickering within them.
The elder's stance wavered. He sighed, as though drained of strength.
"I thought that, once wed, you would settle your heart. Who knew it would harden so, unwilling even to gaze upon your own flesh and blood…" His voice grew heavy with grief. He turned away, his back quivering.
At once the fire in the younger's eyes guttered. His head bowed again, though defiance still lingered upon his face.
The chamber sank into silence, broken only by the rustle of phoenix leaves beyond the carved lattice, each sigh of wind echoing the tension none dared voice.
I was bewildered. What were they quarreling over, raging over, grieving over? So—this is the life of men? So full of pain, so tangled, so absurd.
It was the lady who broke the silence.
"Nánwú, a walk to ease the heart is no ill. Yet heed your father's counsel. You have long been devoted to the Dharma—have you not heard? 'If the world lacked Buddhas, serving one's parents well is itself serving the Buddha.'"
"Say no more of this!" the elder cut her off, harsh. "Would he heed a word of family duty? Speak more of scripture, and he will sink deeper into madness! Let me be plain: even in death—you shall not take the tonsure!"
In my sea of consciousness I laughed in scorn. Father and son, locked in strife over such paltry matters! To take refuge in the Three Jewels is to cut off affliction, to depart from suffering. Yet the father blocks his son's path—blind fool!
But if he has such a heart, he must bear a seed of Dharma. If he could take the tonsure, don robes, and dwell in the temple, chanting dawn and dusk with me—how wondrous that would be! I could finally probe the turmoil within my own heart, its rise and its end.
I nearly cried out to end this farce. Then the younger spoke: "Father, as a son of the Nan Mansion, rest assured—I will not take the tonsure…" His voice was distant and calm, his face pale, as though he were enduring a torment far harsher than the monks' fasting, self-denial, and austere meditation.
The words froze me. The laughter in my mind withered, leaving only unease. I mocked men, despised men—yet why could I not fathom this law of father and son, more obscure than any Dharma?
Nánwú bowed, and silently withdrew.
Ah! I saw him dim, wither, until only a fragile husk remained. In the fading echo of his words, I heard the unspoken half of his sentence— "I will not take the vows… but death—perhaps that I will embrace."
Chapter 5 – The Gilded Cage
The corridor stretched deep into shadow, and I hid among the branches leaning from the eaves, drifting wherever the shifting shade carried me. The wind followed too, shaking the fine twigs of the phoenix trees one after another.
I trailed him down the pebble-paved path that wound beneath the steps. At its end stood three elegant, tranquil chambers. On the plaque hung the words: Hall of Phoenix Shadows—a fitting name.
Inside, directly ahead, stood a broad wooden desk, its surface mellow and smooth, its grain flowing like drifting clouds and streaming water. Upon it were neatly arranged a purple bamboo brush rack, an inkstone, and a celadon water vessel—tools clearly meant for writing. On the wall behind the armchair hung a single painting—one could call it Withered Tree, Bamboo, and Stone. Apart from that scroll, the room bore no decoration. The walls were lined entirely with rosewood shelves, floor to ceiling, and even the partitions within were made of shelving.
Books—nothing but books! I sighed inwardly. Yet upon closer look, there were many empty spaces, volumes missing, books leaning askew. Clearly, many had already been taken away.
A young servant named Caiyong helped Nan Wu change into ordinary household clothes. Fochen, the boy who had led the horse that morning at the temple gate, had followed him since leaving the lady's quarters. He now entered with tea, still wearing his perpetually anxious face.
"Master," Caiyong said, aggrieved, "the lord gave orders today—you're to rest in the Young Madam's quarters. He also warned that if you venture outside again in the coming days, we will be punished for it." He paused, lowering his hands behind his back to rub a sore spot. "Because of this morning, after you both left, I was already given a heavy beating."
Fochen shoved him and spat, "I knew it! You must have tattled, otherwise how would the Old Master know?"
Caiyong panicked, swearing oaths: "May thunder strike me! I said nothing! This morning, when the Young Madam sent Qiwen to find you and she couldn't, that must have been what alarmed the lord." He turned pleadingly to Nan Wu, face twisted in misery. "Master, look at these shelves—the books you love most have already been confiscated by the lord. Staying here has no joy. Just sit a while with the Young Madam instead; we underlings would also be spared some lashings."
Fochen snorted, "What do you know? Stop filling the Master's ears with noise. I'd rather be beaten than see him unhappy. Only because he's gentle do you dare speak so freely!"
"As if I don't suffer for him!" Caiyong muttered, tears welling. "But more beatings and I'll be like the scripture says: alive today, gone tomorrow. This is already the second time in two days. The day before, it was for hiding the Śūraṅgama Sūtra for him…"
At last I understood—the gaps upon the shelves, the missing books. So this splendid house with its vermilion beams was nothing but a gilded cage. Could such a prisoner offer me any answer at all?
Nan Wu merely listened in silence, as though the one being discussed and restrained was someone else entirely. At length he set down his cup and said quietly, "Fochen, fetch that Western rhino-horn balm Sir xChen of Canton Customs gifted us the other day, and apply it to his wounds."
I studied Nan Wu's face intently. No trace of struggle or anguish remained; all earlier signs of torment had vanished. He was as calm as the withered trees in the painting. Yet the fire in my breast still burned, forcing me to whisper inwardly: Be patient. Wait.
Footsteps sounded in the courtyard. Through the gauze lattice I saw a maid in a white pleated silk skirt bowing beneath a phoenix tree: "Master, the Madam bids me ask—you might refresh yourself with some chilled almond custard and a few delicate pastries. Would you care to come?"
Nan Wu turned to the matron waiting outside. "Nanny Li, tell her I am not feeling well today, and wish to rest in quiet."
Caiyong opened his mouth again, but Fochen shot him a hard glance, and he swallowed his words.
Soon after, the steward came, prattling over the banquet list for the baby's full-month celebration, only to withdraw after quite some time. Then lunch was served: a bowl of jade-green polished rice porridge, stir-fried peas with lily bulbs, and a plate of braised mushrooms and fungus. Light and bland, scarcely touched before Nan Wu waved them away.
I grew restless, finding no chance to speak to him alone. And even if I did—what words could I say? My agitation mounted. Then came two soft coughs outside. "Young Master," a houseboy announced, "Steward Feng has arrived."
Caiyong hurried to lift the curtain for him. A man of about forty, in a dark plain robe, entered. Though called a steward, his bearing was refined.
"Shangzhi," Nan Wu rose to greet him, noding with a gentle smile.
Feng Shangzhi saluted. "Young Master, the lord heard you are unwell and bade me bring these two books for you to copy and ponder at leisure." Caiyong received them—The Four Books, Imperial Edition and Collected Annotations on the Four Books.
I let out a bitter laugh. Was the lord clairvoyant? This morning Nan Wu excused himself from the Young Madam with feigned illness, and by afternoon his new 'task' arrived neatly in its place.
"Such errands needn't trouble you," Nan Wu replied evenly, "you could have sent anyone." His face betrayed not a ripple.
"The lord commanded me to wait outside your study these days," Feng Shangzhi said smoothly. "If you need anything, tell me, and I'll handle it. That way the young servants won't clumsily disturb your peace." —A naked declaration of surveillance.
For two days I remained close by his side. Except for his morning and evening filial visits, he truly sat and copied characters stroke by stroke, without a flicker of resistance. I found no chance to begin the words burning inside me. When he wrote, I perched upon the beams, sometimes skimming a line or two—empty, tedious, lifeless. Once, when I could not see him, I had imagined that seeing him would dispel my doubts. But now that I had, there was no unraveling of fate.
The helplessness of being so near yet unable to act drove sparks through me, birthing countless reckless thoughts: to leave of my own accord, to persuade him to take the tonsure, to abduct him, even to blow his father away (pardon me for my sin!). I stood at a crossroads of wild impulses, knowing no path forward.
For two nights the clouds smothered the moon, tightening the suffocating air. On the night the rain at last poured down, the Nan Mansion lay wrapped in its dense roar. I coiled among the pillars, restless, hemmed in. The corridors were too low, the roofs pressing down like heavy breath. The ornate carvings were nothing but suffocation.
Guarding his side only worsened the burning torment. My formless body writhed, countless words and thoughts flashing by yet never forming a sentence. Unable to purge the turmoil, I could only chant the Buddha's name and slip into the rain, gliding through dirty pools and rushing gutters.
Is this what humans seek in their practice too—a confused, insatiable thirst? Yet their bodily toil seemed to only distract them briefly from anguish. Perhaps only extinction brings eternal release. But what can I do to resist this gnawing pain?
I did not regret it—for he alone had stirred a ripple in me. Yet now I hated him for it. A prisoner himself, he had shackled me with fetters tailored for my soul. He had surrendered to fate, but I was left to be toyed with by destiny.
Ah! I did not know I had already strayed into the thickets of delusion. If I had returned to the temple then, I might have escaped this searing torment. If I had sworn never again to tread his cycle of rebirths, I might have found release. These thoughts had flickered in me—but I was too devoted, too "clinging." In the end, it brought utter ruin.
I drew near his study, spirit surging, shaking every tree until their leaves hissed in waves. The craving to be redeemed, to be extinguished, consumed me. Darkness cast a vast shadow, and I could not restrain the urge to shatter him, force him, swallow him whole.
But when I slipped like a blur of shadow into the canopy of his bed, my world stilled.
Too sensitive, too attuned was I, a fragment of consciousness. I could hear what the rain tried to muffle—the beating of a human heart.
Like bees' wings, like breaking jade—I could discern the tremor in each pulse. His calm by day was only facade. He too, like me, struggled in the storm. Knowing this, my resentment melted.
"Nan Wu," I whispered.
"You?"
"Yes, it is I."
Chapter 6 Echoes of an Old Vow
I heard Nan Wu's heartbeat falter, as if it had skipped a beat. Could it be that he, too, had sensed that nameless tether between us? Yet when I stilled myself and listened again, I realized it was but my illusion—the natural response of a mortal startled by a sound without cause.
"I have followed you from the Juechan Temple," I said, pausing briefly to leave him a moment for thought. "I have long been waiting for a chance to speak with you."
When I spoke again, my voice trembled ever so slightly, against my will.
"I am no man of the Zen or Buddhism," he replied coolly.
My thoughts drifted back—how many lifetimes ago, I could not tell—to that frail old man who once climbed the mountain path toward the temple, his every step a battle against age and exhaustion. That same man—Nan Wu's former incarnation—had sought wisdom from the Buddha's gate and found none. A voiceless sigh rose within me: Indeed, you were never one of the Zen kind.
But what, after all, is the wisdom of the monastery? For centuries I had hovered among the beams and rafters of temples, lingering between the sound of bells and the tapping of wooden fish, listening to monks recite every scripture humanity had ever written—and yet the world within me remained a vast, bewildering emptiness.
Did those who attained enlightenment truly grasp ultimate wisdom? I myself did not belong among the ranks of the enlightened. I almost confessed this truth to him then, but the words would not form.
After a long silence, I gathered my thoughts to speak again, when his laugh, light and cutting, broke through the air. "I wonder what you hope to gain here," he said. "If after centuries of practice you have found nothing, what could you possibly find in this mundane place?"
To be mocked by a mere mortal! I moved closer, intent on seizing his breath and heartbeat within my palm. To me, he was but a mayfly beneath the heavens—fragile, fleeting, inconsequential.
"Do you, too, take me for a demon? Are you afraid of me?" No—he was not afraid. When I met his gaze, I felt once again seen—pierced through by a clarity so unflinching that it unsettled even me. I could not hold his eyes for long.
What kind of man was he, this Nan Wu? Caged and cornered as he was, how could he still carry such defiance? His faint sneer roused my irritation, yet I held back the rising flare of anger.
"You stir a fire in my heart," I confessed. Then I told him everything—how I had hidden in the temple halls, through morning bells and evening drums, amidst candlelight and scriptures; how I had once glimpsed his former life, a fleeting encounter that had bound my fate to his; how I had waited, alone, through centuries of silence, until this strange reunion.
"I must find the answer," I said softly.
The faint derision at his lips faded at last. After a long pause, he asked quietly,
"And once you find it—what then?"
I was struck dumb. I had never considered the question. His words, sharp as a blade, left me with nowhere to retreat.
"When I find it, I shall 'follow what is unchanging within what changes, and let change flow through the unchanging,'" I snapped back, half in vexation.
To my surprise, he said simply, "Very well."
We said no more. Both of us sank into our own uncertainty. Finally, I made my decision:
Since he was the riddle, I would seek the answer from within him.
"Allow me," I said, "to enter your consciousness."
He was silent for a long while, as if tasting the weight of my request—or wrestling with himself. Then I felt the invisible curtain of his mind stir, the faintest gap opening in its weave. Whether from exhaustion or resignation, he offered no resistance. I slipped easily through the space between his brows and entered his body.
When I opened my eyes, I was lying upon the bed, the gauze canopy before me quivering like a thin mist.
"So, is this enough?" he asked suddenly. The sound startled me.
"Can you still feel? Can you still move?" I asked through his throat.
"Yes," Nan Wu replied. At once, I felt an echo between us—the thought raise your hand reverberated, and the arm lifted sluggishly, as though tugged by two minds at once.
So, we shared one vessel. How curious.
With his hand, I lifted a corner of the curtain. The scent of rain and soil rushed in. The stone tiles gleamed beneath our bare feet, their chill a quicksilver thrill up through the body. I stepped out, flung open the lattice window; the rain roared nearer, and the drops fell upon us without restraint.
Ah, how different this rain felt—bright, playful, alive! Each droplet, cool and glistening, danced across our sleeves, our chest. I leaned half my body into the boundless dark, letting the wind and rain caress me.
Outside, someone stirred. It was Fochen, the servant, who called in alarm,
"Master? Would you like some tea?" He had already entered the room, and when he saw me standing before the window in such a state, he paled.
"Fochen, I only wish for some air," I said, feeling Nan Wu's soul pull me gently back inside. His tone was calm, almost indifferent.
Another servant, Caiyong, shuffled in, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
"Master, I know you are troubled," Fochen said, his voice quivering with concern, "but you must not let yourself fall ill." Caiyong lit the lamp and fetched dry robes, and together they helped Nan Wu change.
"Your household has far too many rules," I muttered inside Nan Wu's mind.
He inclined his head ever so slightly, as though to humor me.
I stood motionless while Fochen wiped the rain from our hair and shoulders. This body was tall, lean, almost ascetic. As my gaze traveled downward, I felt the faint warmth of skin rise and fall with each breath. A trace of sandalwood lingered in the folds of his robe, mingling with ink and paper—life's vivid scent.
I inhaled deeply. The air grew heavier, more intoxicating, the world sharpening into exquisite clarity. Almost without thinking, I reached out—wanting to feel this body with my own hands.
But before my fingers met the living heat of his skin, a vast and primal hollowness exploded from the depths of my being—a hunger that had lain dormant for centuries, the hunger of one who has dwelt too long among beams and shadows, craving the very act of feeling itself.
It rose like a tide, raw and boundless, threatening to devour all that I was.
Chapter Seven — Between the Bell and the Heartbeat
My spirit shuddered violently — and in the next instant I was expelled from Nan Wu's body, thrown upward to strike the crossbeam like a kite whose string had snapped.
The searing hunger that had just consumed me vanished into nothing.
Had he sensed something within me — and driven my soul away by force?
I steadied myself and looked down. Nan Wu was already dressed, his expression perfectly calm, as though nothing at all had occurred. I lingered in silence until the last lamp was extinguished, and only the restless whisper of rain filled the room.
Lowering myself to the side of his pillow, I asked, with some unease,
"Nan Wu, what are you afraid of?"
"Afraid? Of what?" His voice was soft, just loud enough to be swallowed by the rain — and yet, I could hear it clearly.
"Then why did you cast me out of your body? Did you sense my hunger, and so recoil in fear? Hunger, after all, is a common thing.
Even ascetic monks who discipline their minds must eat once a day.
And I — I have not eaten for hundreds of years. Now that I have tasted flesh again, is hunger not the way of Heaven? Besides, I never meant to eat—"
I stopped. The word I swallowed — was 'human.' Only then did I realize: I had harbored a craving for living flesh. An ominous thought. Could I truly have become some malevolent thing, a demon, a fiend of appetite? Impossible. Absolutely impossible.
"I did nothing," Nan Wu interrupted, breaking through my turmoil.
In the darkness, I fixed my gaze on his eyes — clear, steady, impossibly lucid.
Eyes that did not lie.
"Then why?" I murmured inwardly. "Why, if not for fear?"
I resolved to try again.
Slipping once more through the space between his brows, I entered him — and this time there was no resistance. He had not lied. The rain's purity, the silk's smooth touch, the scent of living flesh — I had returned to the world of the real. But the hunger rose again, curling within my gut, twining with the heat of the heart.
No, I must not give in. I fought to calm the turbulence within me. I tried to sit up — but Nan Wu's soul seized me, holding me still. "Enough," he said coldly. "Do not make trouble again."
I withdrew, letting my soul drift upward until I hovered above him like a faint shadow.
"Why do you speak so coldly?" I asked. "Are you not afraid of me?"
"You need something from me. Why should I fear you?"
I hissed silently — he was right. Unable to refute him, I could only grit my teeth and threaten:
"My power is vast, my life eternal. You have every reason to fear me. I could take you away this instant, hide you in a cave, bury you deep within a forest, make you vanish from the world! I could isolate you, command you, torment you — starve you if you disobey—"
I didn't even know why I was saying these things — perhaps because I feared his indifference more than his terror.
Nan Wu listened quietly, then said with a faint, mocking curve of his lips:
"A hundred years of meditation at Juechan Temple, and this is what you've learned? A mountain bandit in monk's robes. Unfortunately for you, I do not yield to anyone."
His words made my shadow tremble with fury. I blew a gust of wind that scattered his hair and sent the canopy fluttering to all four corners of the bed. But his gaze remained steady, unflinching.
"Then take me," he said. "Take me away. The empty valley and the deep forest are fitting places for cultivation — they suit me perfectly."
His calm disarmed me. I let the wind die.
"You forget," I said bitterly, "it was you who came seeking me!
I was at peace within the temple — my nature pure and unbound — until you disturbed my practice. This is the second time you've done so!Do you not understand the law of karmic causality? 'Unthinkable karma binds all beings; when its fruits ripen, escape is impossible.' You and I are entangled, Nan Wu. Refuse me now if you wish — one day, you will still come to me, to settle this debt."
"Tsk, tsk…" He chuckled before I had finished. "So you mean, I must obey you?"
"Exactly. Resist if you like — it will change nothing."
At last, I thought I had won.
"I'm tired," he said simply. "We'll speak tomorrow."
His tone again was that of one issuing commands. I was furious but helpless.
I drifted out beyond the curtains. The rain had softened. Fochen and Caiyong were asleep, their breathing steady and even.
For a moment, I imagined myself human — standing there, silent, with a faint ache of melancholy. I still had words unsaid, but no one left to hear them. I walked around the room, trying to feel alive.
Once, I had been content with this form — a whisper in the rafters, a flicker in the dark —but now the distance between myself and the world felt unbearable. Being in the flesh had been so real.
In the outer chamber stood rows of books. I pulled one at random — The Anthology of Flowers. Flipping through, I found short verses, almost like Buddhist gāthās, yet filled with longing and sorrow, partings and desire. A few were delicate, even lovely — but most held no depth. Human writing still lacked transcendence.
Yet, in the silence of the room, the phrase "the pain of separation from love" suddenly resonated with me. Perhaps I understood it, a little. I dipped the brush in the remaining ink, composed a verse of my own, and left it upon the desk before slipping back into the rain.
I hung upside down from the corridor beam, watching until the clouds thinned and the rain ceased. Droplets still clung to the eaves, shimmering in the pale morning light. The sky lightened from indigo to soft, tranquil blue. The courtyard, washed by night rain, shone with quiet clarity. The bright, fluid notes of birdsong tumbled joyfully from the dense parasol trees.
Here, there were no temple bells, no chants of monks — only the shuffle of servants sweeping the paths, the clink of a copper kettle, the quick passing of human figures through narrow halls. Their movements were like birds fluttering — and to me, just as alive.
Before long, the house stirred to order: basins, towels, and water were prepared; one servant carried a set to Steward Feng's room. Everything moved with quiet precision.
Human life was unlike temple life — not solemn, but graceful in its smallness, full of gentle, crooked charm. The rhythm of people and objects, of nature and human artifice, formed a balance — fragile, yet enticing.
I slipped soundlessly into the steward's room, watching with curiosity. When Feng Shangzhi finished his wash and approached the desk, his gaze fell upon the paper I'd left.
He paused — then rolled it up and tucked it into his sleeve.
I'd forgotten! The meddlesome old man had taken my crude verse! What could he possibly want with it? I was not vain, but I had no wish to be mocked for my naïveté in mortal poetry.
As I fumed, I heard Feng whisper to Caiyong:
"Did the young master sleep well last night? Did he get up?"
Caiyong hesitated, choosing his words carefully.
"Steward Feng, the young master… did rise once in the night…"
Feng nodded thoughtfully, listening toward the inner room. Then he began pacing deliberately, making small noises. When nothing stirred, he took the basin from a servant and entered himself.
From within came Nan Wu's voice:
"Fochen."
But it was Feng who entered first, followed by Fochen, Caiyong, and the attendants with towels and robes.
"The young master has studied hard these days," said Feng smoothly, his tone full of care but his eyes sharp as a blade. "The master will be gratified. Still, your late-night exertions trouble me — your health must not be risked."
Self-righteous old fraud! It was I who rose last night! I nearly upended the basin and drenched him, along with the 'evidence' hidden in his sleeve. But then I thought — if he believed the poem Nan Wu's, what did it matter to me?
Nan Wu nodded mildly.
"You're right, Steward Feng."
That same obedient tone again — so different from the defiance he'd shown me.
I spoke sharply in his mind:
"Nan Wu, do not forget what I told you last night. You must listen to me."
He only smiled faintly, unbothered.
I was furious — I flew into the courtyard, scattering the birds into the sky, vowing not to follow him again. I knew where he was going: to the main hall, to pay respects — a dull, stifling ritual.
But as he left the courtyard, I could not help but follow, like his servant, his shadow.
"Nan Wu," I whispered into his thoughts, "you should treat me better — at least as kindly as you treat that Feng Shangzhi."
"Shangzhi," Nan Wu suddenly said aloud, turning to his attendants, "Bring the calligraphy I copied yesterday."
The others looked puzzled — had the young master truly changed his temper, seeking praise? But I knew what he meant. His words, pointed as a blade, were meant for me:
'Feng Shangzhi is only a servant.'
How hateful. That I, too, should one day be scorned by a mortal man.
And yet, my anger didn't last. After his formal greeting to the master of the house, Nan Wu returned to the inner hall.
Today was unlike the days before. Within the silken curtains, the lady of the house sat in her accustomed place; beside her, a nurse held a child, and a young woman sat quietly with lowered head.
I saw her for the first time — she must be the young madam. I had never cared to distinguish beauty from plainness, yet something about her struck me as strange — fleetingly, faintly — and then was gone. Like all the mortals I had encountered through the centuries, she could not hold my attention for long.
(To be continued)