After this case, Xuanzang could no longer stay at the Guo residence — after all, one party was entangled in a fatality case and the other was a county magistrate, and appearances had to be maintained. So Xuanzang took his leave of Guo Zai and set out for Xingtang Temple on the eastern edge of the city to take lodging.

A monk and a wandering Tianzhu man set out in the early morning under a freshly risen sun, leaving the county seat of Huoyi, walking step by step eastward toward Mount Huo. Xuanzang still had that enormous book chest on his back; Boluoye carried the change-of-clothes and daily necessities for both of them. The two followed a small road east of the city toward Mount Huo.

In the Sui and Tang periods, Mount Huo was quite famous. Among the historically celebrated mountains that were considered equal in status to the Five Sacred Peaks, the Five Garrison Mountains included Mount Huo, known as the “Central Garrison” — a status equivalent to the later Central Peak, Mount Song. The Tang people even wrote biographies of Mount Huo’s mountain deity, saying that he “governs all the famous mountains within the seas” — testimony to Mount Huo’s importance. In the 14th year of the Kaihuang reign of Sui, Emperor Wen of the Sui issued an imperial edict to construct the Central Garrison Temple, which was of magnificent scale. Then in the 4th year of Wude, Pei Ji submitted a memorial arguing that when the Emperor had first raised his troops, he had been blocked by Song Laosheng at Huoyi, and it was by the guidance of Mount Huo’s mountain deity that he had overcome Song Laosheng and established the Great Tang — and so he requested that the Emperor build a temple at the site of that crucial battle, to honor the Buddha with reverence.

Li Yuan was delighted, and immediately issued an imperial edict to build it, granting it the name “Xingtang Temple.” In truth, he understood perfectly well that when he had been blocked at Huoyi back then, he had originally wanted to retreat to Taiyuan — it was Li Shimin who had adopted Cui Jue’s stratagem and insisted on going out to fight, which had broken Song Laosheng and won that all-important battle. This, however, could not be admitted. How could it be said that he had wanted to retreat? It was fortunate that his old friend Pei Ji knew exactly what was in his mind, and said it had been the guidance of the mountain deity — that was exactly right. He had received divine guidance, and divine beings were protecting the Great Tang!

But after the edict was issued, the Minister of Works, Wu Shihuo, submitted a memorial saying the Ministry of Revenue would not provide funds. The Minister of Revenue, Xiao Yu, cried poverty, saying he himself was called a Buddha-devotee, that he had even given away his own residence to be converted into a Buddhist temple — if the Ministry of Revenue had the money, would he dare withhold it? The simple truth was there was no money.

Li Yuan had no choice, and the matter faded into anticlimax.

This story had circulated widely among monks of the time. Even four years later, when Xuanzang arrived in Chang’an, he had still heard people mention it. Apparently, Xingtang Temple had eventually been built somehow — though how it had been done, Xuanzang had paid little attention. He supposed that as the Great Tang’s national power gradually grew stronger, the Li family’s Son of Heaven would eventually make good on his debt to the mountain deity.

Ten li out of the city, they entered the mountains. The mountain path wound and curved, but was not narrow — wide enough for two large carts to travel side by side. Along the way, ravines and streams crisscrossed, rivers ran swift and strong, and on all sides, mountain peaks stood sheer and steep, magnificent and precipitous. There were many travelers on the road, most of them worshippers headed to Xingtang Temple, with others going to the Judge’s Temple. When the two had walked until they were tired, they spotted a tea stall not far away along the mountain path, where a group of worshippers were drinking tea, and went over to sit down.

In the vicinity of Buddhist temples, monks were held in very high esteem. This was partly because those nearby were mostly worshippers — and more significantly, because Buddhist temples owned large amounts of land. In the Tang dynasty, not only were lands granted to temples by imperial edict, but every monk was also allocated land in the equal-field system. Xuanzang himself, while in Yizhou, had owned thirty mu of land. Beyond this, nobles, officials, and even commoners donated large tracts to monasteries. Take Xingtang Temple as an example: having been founded only six years ago, it already occupied more than ten thousand mu of land, and the vast majority of farming households within several dozen li were cultivating temple land.

The tea stall was kept by an elderly couple. Before Xuanzang had even reached the stall, the old tea-man came out to greet him warmly: “Venerable master — you’ve had a tiring journey. Please come in and sit down. We have good tea for you.” Then he called into the back: “Old woman — bring the good tea—!”

The tea stall was quite simple — a tarp stretched between a cliff face and a willow tree, with a dozen or so stools set out, and seven or eight smooth stones brought over to serve as low tables. The old woman made the tea in the back while the old man worked as the server.

The more than ten worshippers already drinking tea all rose to give a salute when they saw a monk come in, along with a man of the Western Regions in a white headwrap. Xuanzang pressed his palms together in thanks, set down his large book chest, and sat down with Boluoye on the stools. The old tea-man brought over a pot of tea, glanced at Xuanzang’s book chest, and smiled: “Has the venerable master come from afar?”

“This poor monk has come from Chang’an,” Xuanzang said, “to study at Xingtang Temple.”

“Oh my, a learned monk from Chang’an!” The more than ten worshippers were immediately animated.

“Elder, which way to Xingtang Temple?” Xuanzang looked around — there were two forking paths here, one following the ridge north, another going south.

“Oh, venerable master — keep heading north, another ten li or so and you’ll reach it,” said the old tea-man, pointing. “The path south leads to the Judge’s Temple.”

“The Judge’s Temple?” Xuanzang was somewhat surprised — so the Judge’s Temple was also in this area.

Everyone assumed Xuanzang had not heard of it, and one of the worshippers immediately began to speak: “Venerable master, that Judge’s Temple is extraordinarily efficacious! It enshrines the previous county magistrate of our Huoyi, His Lordship Cui Jue.”

“Magistrate Cui was a true father and mother official to the people!” Another worshipper said. “They say he was born with eyes that could see both the living and the dead — judging the affairs of the dark world by night, pronouncing verdicts in the daylight by day. He governed Huoyi so that nothing lost on the road was stolen, no doors were bolted at night, and no evildoer dared to transgress the law. After his death, he became a judge in the Ni Li Prison, and any plea from the people — any grievance or hardship — has an answer!”

“And more than that!” An elderly worshipper added his voice: “Even Xingtang Temple was funded by Magistrate Cui himself. This old man has a nephew who worked as an account-keeper on the construction site, and it is said he spent thirty thousand guan worth of grain and money! Venerable master — you have seen monasteries the length and breadth of the land — this Xingtang Temple must rank among the very finest in all the realm.”

This news astonished Xuanzang: “Xingtang Temple was funded by Magistrate Cui himself? When this poor monk was in Chang’an, I had heard it was built by imperial edict.”

The old worshipper said: “The court wanted to build it — but had no money. The Hedong Circuit was asked to fund it — but at that time the Turks and Liang Shidu were ceaselessly harassing the borders, and the Hedong Circuit had no money either. So Magistrate Cui funded it himself, conscripting a hundred thousand laborers from Jinzhou, and it was completed after three years of work. Alas — the temple had barely been finished when Magistrate Cui passed away.”

Boluoye had been listening with exceptional attention, and leaned close to Xuanzang’s ear, saying quietly: “Venerable master — thirty thousand guan — of grain and money — is equivalent to — the entire annual revenue — of eight counties combined — all of Jinzhou prefecture. Cui Jue — this county magistrate — with a monthly salary of two guan and one hundred cash — where did he get — such an enormous fortune — to build a temple?”

Boluoye’s skepticism was not unreasonable. In the early Tang, the dynasty had just been founded and national resources were scarce — apart from plenty of unoccupied wasteland, everything was in short supply, copper cash most of all. When you consider that Cui Jue’s monthly salary was only two guan and one hundred cash, the figure of thirty thousand guan was staggering.

Xuanzang’s eyes flickered, and a smile appeared on his face: “What do you think?”

“I…” Boluoye scratched his head. “This business — is suspicious.”

Xuanzang smiled but said nothing, and turned to ask the old tea-man: “Elder, who is the abbot of Xingtang Temple today?”

“Oh, that would be Dharma Master Kong Cheng,” said the old tea-man, with a look of reverence. “A truly great monk! Do you know who his master was?”

Xuanzang thought for a moment — this name left no particularly strong impression, and he had to shake his head.

“Why, it was the Holy Monk Fa Ya!” The old tea-man’s face shone with radiance. “This holy monk — he was truly a heavenly immortal descended from above, able to scatter beans and produce soldiers, to subdue demons and tame monsters, knowing a thousand years past and five hundred years ahead! Many years ago he prophesied the fall of the former Sui, went out of seclusion to assist the Tang King, and established the foundations of this Great Tang!”

The worshippers around them clearly all knew of Fa Ya, and immediately burst into excited conversation.

Xuanzang could not help but give a quiet smile. He did not know Kong Cheng, but he was fairly well acquainted with Fa Ya. Fa Lin, Fa Ya, Dao Yue, Seng Bian, and Xuan Hui were the five great monks of Chang’an, and among them Fa Lin’s reputation and standing were actually higher than Fa Ya’s. Xuanzang had spent five years in Chang’an, and had frequent dealings with all five great monks.

In the former Sui, Fa Ya had been a monk in the Hedong Circuit — “tall and fine-featured, quick-witted and gifted beyond others.” A man of keen intelligence, he had wide-ranging learning: Buddhism, Daoism, and Confucianism, he had mastered all of them; the three teachings and nine schools of thought, there was nothing he didn’t know. Poetry, music, chess, and painting; classical prose and poetry; medicine, divination, and astrology — there was nothing he couldn’t do. What had left a deep impression on Xuanzang was precisely this. Xuanzang had spent ten years debating monks in every tradition, almost never losing — but when it came to Fa Ya, he found himself somewhat hamstrung. Not because Fa Ya’s grasp of Buddhist principles was deeper than his, but because this man could cite endlessly from all quarters, with a tongue that seemed to flower lotus blossoms. If your thinking was clear, he would muddy it; if your thinking was unclear, he would confound it completely.

What was even more remarkable about this man was his mastery of military tactics.

This was truly astonishing. A monk who had never fought in a battle, never held an official post — yet he had a penetrating grasp of military formations, troop movements, and the conduct of campaigns, and nobody knew where he had learned it all.

In the 11th year of the Daye reign of the Sui, when Li Yuan was still the grand pacification commissioner of Shanxi and Hedong, he happened to encounter Fa Ya in a marketplace. Fa Ya immediately declared that Li Yuan was destined for greatness. Li Yuan was deeply impressed by this man’s broad and profound learning, and invited him back to his residence, having Li Jiancheng, Li Shimin, Li Yuanji, and his other sons come to pay their respects. From that point, Fa Ya worked quietly behind the scenes, helping to plan Li Yuan’s uprising against the Sui. After Li Yuan raised his troops, he had Fa Ya involved in important strategic matters, heeding his counsel. After Li Yuan established the Tang, he wished to have Fa Ya return to lay life and receive a post, but Fa Ya declined — so Li Yuan appointed him as the abbot of Guihua Monastery.

But this abbotship was unlike that of an ordinary monk — he held great special privileges, including the ability to enter and leave the imperial palace at any time. After the Xuanwu Gate coup, Li Yuan abdicated, Li Shimin ascended the throne, and Fa Ya’s privilege of unrestricted palace access was revoked. In recent years, this monk had also lost interest in political affairs and was content to attend to Buddhist matters. He and Xuanzang had a great rapport in their discussions of Chan.

As for the scattering of beans to produce soldiers, subduing demons and taming monsters — Xuanzang had never seen any of that, and Fa Ya himself had never spoken of it. Presumably, these were all tales that had grown in the telling among the simple country folk.

That the abbot of Xingtang Temple was Fa Ya’s disciple was, for Xuanzang, something of good news — at least they would have someone in common to speak of.

After chatting a while more with the worshippers and drinking several bowls of tea, and eating the flatbread Boluoye had brought, Xuanzang rose to take his leave. He gestured for Boluoye to take a single copper coin from the bundle and hand it to the old tea-man. The old tea-man looked at it — and immediately gave a startled jump: “Oh my — an Kaiyuan Tongbao coin… A few bowls of tea aren’t worth anything at all — I’d be ashamed to take this as an offering, let alone… this is a Kaiyuan Tongbao! I absolutely cannot accept it.”

“It is Kaiyuan Tongbao,” Xuanzang said with a smile. For seven hundred years after the Western Han and before the Tang, the currency in circulation had been the wuzhu cash. When Li Yuan established the Tang, he had new coins cast with the inscription “Kaiyuan Tongbao.” But the Ministry of Revenue that cast the coins had overlooked one small problem: the previous wuzhu coins or the various zhu coins had only two characters on them, either left-right or up-down — no matter which direction you read them, there was no issue. But with “Kaiyuan Tongbao,” the two characters for “kaiyuan” had to be read top to bottom, and the two characters for “tongbao” had to be read right to left… and for ordinary folk, this was rather complex. They would simply spin the coin and read in a circle — which turned it into “Kaitong Yuanbao.” Everyone called this new coin “yuanbao,” and eventually even the court gave up and started inscribing new coins with simply “yuanbao.”

“Elder, please take it,” Xuanzang pressed the coin firmly into his hand. The worshippers around them changed expressions — this monk was far too generous. No wonder the old tea-man didn’t dare accept it — a dou of rice only cost three or four cash…

Leaving the tea stall and continuing north, in less than an hour they turned around a mountain peak and the scene opened wide before them. In the distance, layer upon layer of temple buildings spread across the mid-slope of the mountain, gleaming gold and brilliant jade in the sunlight, as if the entire ridge had been tiled with blue brick and red roof-tiles. The two stood and stared for a long while. The scale of these temple buildings was immense — built against Mount Huo in overlapping layers, so many halls that they could not count them, so many courtyards that they could not number them.

“Those — thirty thousand guan — were not wasted,” Boluoye murmured.

Xuanzang said nothing. In his heart, a vague thought had suddenly stirred — one he did not dare voice aloud. He forcibly pushed it down and, without a word, walked toward Xingtang Temple.

At dusk, they at last arrived at the mountain gate of Xingtang Temple. The sky was growing late, most of the worshippers had already gone, and the mountain gate was very quiet. Two novice monks were sweeping unhurriedly. Seeing Xuanzang and Boluoye approach, one of them came forward, pressed his palms together: “Venerable master, where have you come from? Will you be taking lodging here?”

Xuanzang set down the book chest and took out his ordination certificate, handing it over: “This poor monk is Xuanzang, come from Chang’an — I have heard of this temple’s great reputation and have come to seek guidance and wisdom.”

The novice quickly set down his broom and said: “Venerable master, please follow me — I will first take you to the Cloud-Water Hall to meet the duty supervisor monk.”

The novice led Xuanzang through the mountain gate — not through the Hall of the Heavenly Kings, but through a side door on the left, passing through one courtyard, to the outside of a meditation hall covering about two acres. Outside the meditation hall was a greeter monk. The novice handed Xuanzang over to him and left. Xuanzang had been lodging at various temples for more than ten years and naturally knew the customs — he stood at once in position to the right of the door. The greeter monk, seeing a monk had come for lodging, called into the meditation room: “A guest has come to look—!” The guestmaster monk inside would thereby know a monk had come to lodge.

A guestmaster monk with a smiling face came out to welcome him: “Oh my, Amitabha Buddha — venerable traveling brother, you’ve had a tiring journey — please come in.”

After Xuanzang had burned incense and paid respects to the Buddha, the two sat down on meditation cushions; the guestmaster had a young novice bring tea and refreshments, and began inquiring about his origins. These were the standard formalities for taking lodging — Xuanzang followed them scrupulously, presenting his ordination certificate and describing his background in detail.

“Amitabha Buddha — oh my—” The guestmaster looked at the certificate and listened to Xuanzang’s account, and immediately exclaimed. These two exclamations of his — “Amitabha Buddha” and “oh my” — came in no fixed order; they came out of his mouth regardless. “From Yizhou to Chang’an, from Chang’an to Huoyi — venerable brother, you’ve traveled quite a long distance! How long did the journey take?”

Xuanzang was taken aback — how to answer this? He thought for a moment, and said truthfully: “This poor monk has been traveling for ten years.”

“Oh my!” The guestmaster was stunned. After a long silence, he remembered the next line: “Amitabha Buddha…”

Though it was said as an exclamation, the guestmaster inwardly decided this monk must have something wrong with him, and grew somewhat cooler, saying little more. He took out a register slip, wrote down Xuanzang’s name, native place, and other information, and had a novice take it to the abbot. A wandering monk wishing to take lodging had to pay his respects to the temple’s abbot first, and before doing so, the guestmaster had to notify the abbot through proper channels. Generally, the abbot would wait until a number of wandering monks had gathered before seeing them all together — otherwise, if a popular temple had many travelers, seeing each one individually would leave the abbot no time for anything else.

The guestmaster, out of consideration for Xuanzang’s having come from Chang’an, made somewhat desultory small talk with him — yet his manner was quite cool. Just then, the novice came running in urgently: “Senior brother! Senior brother! The abbot has come!”

The guestmaster was startled: “Oh my, Amita—”

Before the “Buddha” could come out, a rapid thumping of feet sounded in the courtyard, and a monk wearing a monk’s robe, about fifty years of age, came striding quickly in. Two middle-aged monks followed alongside him. He had barely reached the meditation courtyard before he called out in a loud voice: “Huijue, Huijue — where is Master Xuanzang from Chang’an?”

Guestmaster Huijue looked at Xuanzang with a peculiar expression, then sprang up and went to meet him: “Master, the venerable master is in the meditation hall.”

“Please — ah, I’ll go myself.” The old monk lifted his robe and came running into the meditation hall. Seeing Xuanzang, he broke immediately into a great laugh: “Amitabha Buddha — Master Xuanzang!”

Xuanzang quickly rose, pressed his palms together, and bowed: “Amitabha Buddha — this poor monk is Xuanzang. Are you the abbot?”

“This poor monk is Kong Cheng.” Kong Cheng laughed heartily and exchanged greetings with Xuanzang. “Last month, I received a letter from my master, Dharma Master Fa Ya, saying that Master Xuanzang had left Chang’an last year to travel the Hedong area, and asking me to keep a look out. This poor monk was hoping the venerable master might come to our humble temple — and we could discuss the Dharma together and examine points of difficulty. Who could have imagined that the Buddha would arrange things so — and that this poor monk would actually get to meet you.”

“Oh my — Ami…” Xuanzang had not yet spoken, but Huijue was already struck dumb, a cold sweat breaking out on his gleaming tonsured head. He had had no idea that this monk was such an important personage — important enough for the abbot to come rushing out in person, and with such deference at that. Thinking back on his own rather cool reception, he grew nervous, and could not even get his verbal habit out in proper order.

Xuanzang could not help but smile, and exchanged a few pleasantries with Kong Cheng. Kong Cheng immediately told Huijue to personally see to completing the lodging formalities for Xuanzang. Huijue eagerly agreed and was just about to go when Kong Cheng called him back: “Huijue — never mind putting the venerable master in the Cloud-Water Hall. You…” He considered for a moment. “Go and tidy up the Bodhi Courtyard where I used to live, and let Master Xuanzang rest there.”

The flesh on Huijue’s face gave a twitch. The Bodhi Courtyard was the abbot’s former residence — almost the most secluded and elegant courtyard in the entire temple. Later, when Right Minister Pei Ji had come to inspect the Hedong Circuit and visited Xingtang Temple, the abbot had given up the courtyard to host Pei Ji and had not moved back since.

“What kind of person is this monk? For the abbot to value him this much?” Huijue was puzzled, and ran off at a trot.

Kong Cheng also instructed two novices to carry Xuanzang’s book chest and bundle to the Bodhi Courtyard, then led Xuanzang to his own meditation room.

The sheer scale of Xingtang Temple filled Xuanzang with awe. Apart from the central axis — the Hall of the Heavenly Kings, the Great Treasure Hall, the Dharma Hall, and the Sutra Repository, which every temple had but here were each more than twice the usual size — on either side stretched an unbroken series of meditation courtyards. The Cloud-Water Hall alone, where wandering monks lodged, had more than a hundred rooms.

Following Kong Cheng, turning left and right until he was almost dizzy, Xuanzang walked for half an hour before arriving at the meditation courtyard where Kong Cheng lived. It was set at the edge of a cliff, the courtyard facing directly out over the precipice. Dozens of century-old ancient pines twisted and gnarled below, breathing out a deep atmosphere of Chan. Beneath the pines was a large white boulder whose surface had been ground smooth, bearing a tea set; around it were four stone drums. At the edge of the cliff, the platform was formed of solid rock, bounded by a railing of blue stone. The mountain wind was sweeping and strong; in the dusk below the cliff, wisps and threads of mist rose like immortal realms.

“A winding path leads to a secluded spot; the meditation chamber opens into another world,” Xuanzang said admiringly. “The abbot’s courtyard is truly no less than the realm of Mount Sumeru.”

“Not at all, not at all,” Kong Cheng said with a smile. “This old monk came from Chang’an to Mount Huo in earlier years, and was so caught up in building this temple that his practice fell behind. Now I’ve only found this secluded spot to make up the lost ground — nothing like the venerable master traveling the realm, entering debates everywhere, going straight to the great path.”

Boluoye suddenly noticed that at the edge of the cliff there was a small, exquisite little “structure.” Calling it a structure was generous — it was only five feet tall, so that a grown person inside could not stand straight but had to sit with head bowed. The interior space was small too, probably able to hold no more than two or three people.

“Abbot, venerable master — that — tiny little structure — what is it for?” Boluoye asked curiously.

Xuanzang also saw it. Kong Cheng gave a warm laugh: “This old monk calls it a ‘sitting cage.’ These years of being so caught up in worldly affairs have caused my practice to fall behind, and so this old monk built this ‘sitting cage’ to discipline myself. Every day I spend at least two hours sitting in meditation inside it.”

Xuanzang could not help but feel a surge of admiration for this old monk — to discipline himself through such austerity. He had been too quick to underestimate him.

The third month was drawing to a close; the mountains still had some chill. Kong Cheng invited him into the meditation room, had his attendant novice bring tea and cakes, and the two talked for a while. Kong Cheng said: “Venerable master — how long will you be able to stay at Xingtang Temple this time?”

“Hard to say,” Xuanzang shook his head. “Perhaps ten days or eight days, perhaps two or three months.”

Kong Cheng nodded, and without asking about Xuanzang’s purpose in coming, said: “Master Xuanzang’s presence at our humble temple is a great blessing. If there is any leisure time, I wonder — would you be willing to give a lecture on some sutras and treatises? I heard that you lectured on the Miscellaneous Heart Treatise in Chang’an, and monks, laypeople, and high officials alike were all completely captivated. Such an opportunity now that you’ve come — our temple cannot afford to miss it.”

“As the abbot arranges,” Xuanzang replied. The whole point of a study-pilgrimage was to learn and to share — he would naturally not refuse such an opportunity. “What does the abbot wish this poor monk to lecture on?”

“Then let it be the Vimalakirti Sutra!” Kong Cheng smiled. “I’ll send letters to the Buddhist temples throughout Jinzhou, inviting the wise ones to come to Xingtang Temple together for debates and discussions on the Dharma.”

So it was to be another debate — just like Dharma Master Zhiyan of the East Temple in Suzhou. Xuanzang smiled wryly inwardly, but had no choice but to agree.

Seeing Xuanzang agree, Kong Cheng was very pleased. At this moment Huijue came to report that the Bodhi Courtyard had been tidied up, and Kong Cheng, appreciating that Xuanzang had traveled a long distance, had Huijue lead him there to wash up and rest, with the vegetarian meal delivered to the Bodhi Courtyard.

After another winding detour — half an hour of east turns and west turns — they reached the lodging at the Bodhi Courtyard. The place was indeed excellent — there was a hot spring within the courtyard. Living water from below gurgled up through a white jade lotus pedestal, welling out from the heart of the lotus, and then gathered in the surrounding area into a pond of about one mu. Steam rose continuously from the hot spring, soothing to the heart and spirit. The meditation courtyard was utterly silent, set at a distance from the dense monk’s quarters, the Cloud-Water Hall, and the incense kitchen. Ancient pines swayed their shadows; spring water chimed. The slanting afternoon light shimmered on the spring, rippling in golden waves, rolling out golden pearls — truly, an earthly Buddhist paradise.

“This place — is better than a palace!” Boluoye concluded.

“You’ve been to a palace?” Xuanzang smiled.

Boluoye stiffened, then grinned sheepishly: “I have — Tianzhu — King Harsha’s — palace.”

Xuanzang laughed heartily.

The two had traveled all day and were both tired; that night they turned in early. The Bodhi Courtyard was quite large — three main rooms and four side rooms on the left and right — and with only the two of them staying there, it felt vast and empty.

The night grew increasingly quiet. The mountain pines whispered like fine waves passing through the ear, punctuated by the chiming and trilling sound of the spring in the courtyard — even in sleep, one could feel the breathing of all things in the world.

The next morning, Xuanzang rose early to do his morning devotions. The monks of the incense kitchen brought a vegetarian breakfast: wrapped flatbread with green vegetable filling, oil flatbread, several kinds of pastry, and a large pot of millet porridge. Xuanzang ate little; Boluoye had a good appetite and ate his fill, then packed up several large pieces of flatbread to take with him. Xuanzang watched him with compassion and personally ladled out porridge for him. This Tianzhu Shudra and elephant trainer had never in his life enjoyed such a well-fed, respected existence. In Tianzhu he had been the bottom of the four great castes — let alone such a life. After coming to the Great Tang he had mostly been wandering, putting on acrobatic performances, and scraping by, until he followed Xuanzang and settled into relative stability. Though they were always on the move, at least food and clothing were no longer a worry.

Boluoye smiled and said: “Venerable master — I’m not — being greedy. Following you — I’ve worked out — the pattern. On the road — meals always get missed — often going hungry.”

Xuanzang said with a smile: “We are in the temple now — how would we go hungry?”

“Can’t say — for certain.” Boluoye pursed his lips. “You never — have a moment of peace.”

Xuanzang chuckled.

After breakfast, Xuanzang brought Boluoye with him to pay his respects at the various shrines of the temple — the Hall of the Heavenly Kings, the Great Treasure Hall, the Avalokiteshvara Hall, the Sangharama Hall… not one was missed. He burned incense and paid his respects with proper reverence at each. The sheer scale of Xingtang Temple once again filled Xuanzang with awe. Starting from the Hall of the Heavenly Kings at the foot of the mountain and working their way upward, by the time they reached the Sutra Repository at the farthest end, they had climbed to the very summit of Mount Huo. They had started in the early morning, at the chen hour — and it was not until the wei hour that they finished — a full four hours.

The view from the summit of Mount Huo was magnificent. Before them, the layered rooflines of Xingtang Temple looked like frozen waves surging down the mountain; all around, ridge after ridge of peaks stood clustered together, great swells of green and blue rearing up before them, lifting the heart and clearing the mind. What was strange, however, was that atop this peak stood dozens of enormous windmills. Each windmill spread eight sail-like canvas panels, connected in one unit by eight radial poles around a central axle — spinning like a revolving lantern.

Forty or fifty windmills turned in the sweeping mountain wind, a magnificent sight.

Xuanzang found this puzzling — what were so many windmills doing on this mountain? Not far off he spotted the duty monk of the Sutra Repository, and went over to ask. The monk, seeing Xuanzang’s distinguished bearing and his foreign attendant, did not dare be impolite, and replied with a bow: “Venerable master, these windmills are for drawing water from the mountain streams for the temple. There is a shortage of water on the mountain. Inside the windmills there are drive chains cast in refined iron running all the way down to the mountain stream, where a water-wheel has been built — the chain engages the teeth of the water-wheel’s gears, turning it to draw water up from the stream.”

“Truly a divine achievement!” Xuanzang said in admiration. Boluoye beside him was even more completely dumbstruck — drawing water up from a deep mountain stream using wind power from the summit? How was this possible?

The duty monk smiled: “Actually, the water-wheel in the stream usually draws water on its own using water power. But for a few months of the year, when the stream runs low, water power alone is insufficient — and it just so happens that during the dry season the mountain winds are strong, and are not limited by the seasons. In ordinary times, the power these windmills generate is mainly used to grind grain for the incense kitchen.”

“Such ingenious thinking — greatly saving on human labor,” Xuanzang said admiringly. “Who came up with this idea?”

The monk smiled: “The rest is not particularly complicated — wind mills and water mills existed in earlier dynasties. The only difficult part was the drive chain. Though the eunuch Bi Lan of the Later Han did create one, it was lost for a long time. Magistrate Cui Jue found a fragmentary manuscript and studied it for several years before restoring it — actually surpassing the original.”

Xuanzang was instantly startled: “Cui Jue? The previous county magistrate of Huoyi? He was the one who made this?”

“Yes indeed!” The duty monk mentioned Cui Jue with a look of great respect, and bowed with pressed palms. “Benefactor Cui was a once-in-a-century great talent. It was he who oversaw the construction of Xingtang Temple — and it was built to absolute perfection, with attention to every detail, no matter how small. As for these drive chains stretching more than a thousand zhang — so as not to impede traffic on the surface — they are all encased in ceramic pipes and buried deep underground. It is a great pity that shortly after the temple was completed, he passed away.”

Xuanzang could not help but show a look of puzzlement. How was it that whether in Huoyi or Xingtang Temple, almost everything seemed to trace back to this Cui Jue?

“I have heard that Magistrate Cui’s shrine is also on this Mount Huo?” Xuanzang asked.

“Yes indeed!” The duty monk pointed in a direction. “Just at the mid-slope of that peak over there — not far from here. Venerable master — if you look toward that mountain opposite, you can see a temple building — that is Magistrate Cui’s Judge’s Temple.”

At these words, Xuanzang’s curiosity about this great talent who had so benefited the Buddhist establishment grew still stronger. He had long been thinking of visiting the Judge’s Temple, and hearing it was not far away, he asked for the route in detail, and set off with Boluoye along the ridge toward the Judge’s Temple.

Mount Huo was extraordinarily steep, cut everywhere by ravines and cliffs. Though the duty monk had said it was not far, the path wound badly. After walking for two hours, the two were lost — wandering east and west about in the mountain, going around in circles until dusk. Both were somewhat at a loss. Fortunately, Boluoye had brought flatbread and a skin of water, so they would not starve. Xuanzang, by this point, had developed something of a new appreciation for the fellow: “You really predicted it — how did you know this poor monk would be leaving the temple?”

Boluoye smiled ruefully: “Premonition. Following you — so many times going hungry — I came prepared.”

Xuanzang was speechless.

“Ah.” Boluoye, for his part, was not pleased with himself — he heaved a sigh. “Should’ve just — gone down the mountain — and taken that path — from the tea stall.”

Xuanzang agreed entirely. But as the duty monk had said — if you knew the way, it was not far. If you didn’t know the way, it was not a question of far or near — the question was whether you’d ever get there at all. Fortunately, while they were wandering in circles, they encountered an old farmer gathering medicinal herbs. When they asked the way, the old farmer stared: “Venerable master — you want to go to the Judge’s Temple?”

Xuanzang nodded, and the old farmer gave a rueful smile: “The Judge’s Temple is right below your feet! You’ve been going around and around on this mountain top — you could walk until tomorrow and still not get there!”

Xuanzang and Boluoye were instantly dumbfounded.

After thanking him profusely, the two were just about to leave when the old farmer called after them: “There are many tigers and wolves in the mountains — it’s already getting late. Once you’ve had your look, be sure to come down early. You probably won’t make it back to Xingtang Temple — this old man’s surname is Liu, and my home is in Shangjing Village, not far below the mountain, six li to the east. If lodging at the Judge’s Temple is not convenient, you’re welcome at my home.”

Xuanzang thanked him warmly again. The old man also patiently described the road in detail before taking his leave.

“The people of this Great Tang — are truly warm-hearted,” Boluoye said with feeling. “Venerable master — in Tianzhu — a self-sufficient farmer like this would still be considered a Vaishya — the third caste. Meeting someone like me — a Shudra — they would never — say a single word — in fact — would go far out of their way to avoid. In the Great Tang — though the gap between rich and poor is wide — there is none of that — knife-sharp — oh, that sharp — contempt. The aristocratic families — in their hearts — look down on commoners — but on the surface — they manage well enough. “

“All sentient beings are equal. Life’s worth does not diminish with lesser wealth, nor improve with higher status,” Xuanzang said. “The distinction of high and low, rather than existing for the sake of order, exists for the sake of human desire. The Pure Land lies first in my heart, and only then in other places.”

Boluoye sighed: “For me — the Great Tang — is the Pure Land.”

The old farmer had spoken truthfully — after walking for the time it takes an incense stick to burn, the two rounded a rocky outcropping and saw the Judge’s Temple before them. The temple was not large — two courtyards, a main hall in front and five or six rooms for worshippers to rest in behind. Seen from the mountain above, the temple looked somewhat low and plain, but when they arrived before it, they felt the magnificence of the main hall — the doorway soared more than two zhang high, with upswept eaves and ornate tiles, backed against a cliff face, giving a sense of majesty and solemnity.

In the mountains, the sun set early; when it tilted, the great shadow of the mountains pressed across everything like a wave of night. Candles had long been lit inside the hall, their light dancing behind the wafting curtains, shadowy and dim.

“The Judge’s Temple — with such — abundant incense — it seems there are — quite a few people here,” Boluoye said with a sigh of relief. “No need to walk — a night road — down the mountain. And we can — get a meal.”

“There should be a temple keeper,” Xuanzang nodded, and stepped up onto the stone steps.

The hall doors were shut. The two called out several times but received no response. Boluoye was puzzled: “A moment ago — coming down — I saw people — moving about!”

Xuanzang smiled wryly: “They may have gone to the rear courtyard. Since the keeper isn’t here, we can hardly just barge in…”

“Let me — knock!” Boluoye volunteered, came forward to knock, and to everyone’s surprise, with that knock the door creaked and swung open.

The two were thoroughly taken aback. They peered inside the hall — and instantly their scalps prickled, the hairs on their arms stood on end, and they nearly stumbled backward onto the ground. Inside the main hall — there were people everywhere! At a glance, there were at least more than ten of them.

So many people — and yet just now, when the two of them had been shouting and calling, not a single one had made a sound!

Looking more carefully, they found that these people were all kneeling in perfectly neat rows on meditation cushions within the hall, their backs arched high, pressing their foreheads to the floor.

Boluoye finally let out a breath — so that was it. Of course no one would respond if they were in the middle of worship. But they waited and waited, and still these people didn’t move, didn’t rise, and made no sound — just kept their heads on the ground, as if frozen solid.

“Let us — go in — and look.” Boluoye lifted his foot to step inside.

Xuanzang’s expression became grave, and he stretched out a hand to stop him. Something was not right — who would worship like this for so long? Even the most devoted Buddhist would not be able to bear it. He frowned and waited a little longer, then carefully stepped into the main hall. Still not the slightest reaction from these people. Xuanzang’s face slowly changed. He gently reached out and touched the shoulder of an old man kneeling in the back row — and the old man simply toppled over, his body curling up like a shrimp, and lay there on his side.

“Amitabha Buddha!” Xuanzang felt a cold sweat running from his forehead.

Boluoye was also stricken with alarm. The two exchanged a terrified glance. Xuanzang braced himself and nudged several others, and without exception, they too fell to the floor — each one maintaining perfectly, uniformly the posture of prostration. It was as if their bodies had frozen solid at the very moment of worship.

Xuanzang recited the Diamond Sutra incantation in his heart, crouched down, and checked these people’s breathing — still there, with pulses — but every single one had their eyes tightly shut, and on their faces were expressions of cheerful joy — extraordinarily uncanny.

A wild mountain. An ancient temple. The dark of night. Candlelight. Rigid human bodies. Eerie smiles.

“Venerable master,” Boluoye was also chilled to the bone, murmuring: “This temple — is not clean.”

Xuanzang’s mind was now composed again. He raised his eyes and looked at the divine image enshrined in the center of the main hall — it was a fair-faced scholar-looking man, dressed in a great red cape, and wearing a strange kind of crown on his head. Apparently this was a likeness of Cui Jue — which was reasonable enough, given he was a great literary talent, naturally he would not be ugly. But the problem was his seat — which was formed by two night-yaksha demons, their bodies dark blue and black and terrifyingly fierce, kneeling face to face, arms crossed to form a chair — and Cui Jue sat on this. To his left and right stood two more yaksha demons: one holding a chain, and one with the left hand cradling a case file, the right hand holding a writing brush. The file was angled slightly downward, and by the candlelight of the main hall one could just faintly make out a line of large characters: Six Paths of Life and Death.

And on the brush’s handle was also a line of characters: Three Realms of Reincarnation.

“The Book of Life and Death of the Six Paths — the Brush of Reincarnation through the Three Realms?” Xuanzang furrowed his brows.

“Ah, venerable master—” Boluoye said urgently, “Stop — studying this — let’s hurry — get out of here!”

Xuanzang shook his head: “You look and see if there’s any way to wake them up. This poor monk will go check the rear courtyard.”

“Uh…” Boluoye was speechless. He looked at the people on the ground — chilled to the core — and seeing Xuanzang head toward the back, he ran after him in a hurry.

The second courtyard was not large. The two searched through the rooms one by one — no one, and nothing unusual. On the stove top, a meal was being cooked; but the kindling in the stove had long burned out, though the embers were still scorching hot. The food was nearly done. Evidently, while cooking dinner, these people had all somehow gathered in the main hall to worship — and then became statues.

Xuanzang returned to the main hall and stood there, baffled, looking at the hall full of people with concern. Men and women, most of them elderly and frail — lying on the ground like this through the night, even if they could be revived, their bodies would suffer for it.

Looking at the Cui Jue image before him, Xuanzang could not help but murmur to himself: “Magistrate Cui — since you serve as a judge of the Ni Li Prison, how can you permit evil forces to run rampant…”

“Heh heh heh heh—” Suddenly a deep, strange laugh rang through the main hall. “Master Xuanzang — I trust you are well!”

Xuanzang and Boluoye both shuddered, their expressions simultaneously changing. Boluoye called out loudly: “Who is it? Come — out!”

“Is this Lord not right before you? Why do you see me yet not recognize me?” The laughing voice deepened into an icy, eerie tone.

The two instinctively looked up — and saw the image of Judge Cui before them. This fair-faced, refined, and cultured Judge Cui seemed suddenly to have acquired a trace of ferocity. The pupils of his eyes had also gone cold and hollow, a thread of red seeping through them. Could it actually be Cui Jue speaking?

“That voice — really does seem to — be coming from — the image,” Boluoye murmured.

Xuanzang closed his eyes in thought for a moment, then bowed with pressed palms: “Amitabha Buddha — so it is the Magistrate Cui making himself known. This poor monk would ask — these people are all your worshippers — why do you treat them in this way?”

A strange smile seemed to cross the face of the Judge Cui image: “Knowing the venerable master would come, this Lord very much wished to have a meeting with you. These people — they get in the way, chattering and babbling, making it impossible to have any peace. So this Lord has temporarily taken their souls and let them be quiet for a while. As a judge of the Ni Li Prison, this Lord would not dare violate the heavenly order and capriciously determine human life and death. On this point, the venerable master may rest easy.”

“In that case, this poor monk is reassured. I wonder what the Magistrate wished to speak with me about?” Xuanzang bowed in respect, yet his hand behind Boluoye’s back wrote a single character: Look.

Boluoye understood, and quietly moved away.

“Your life and death!” Judge Cui burst into loud laughter. “Though you are a monk who wishes to transcend the six desires and the realm of form, to liberate your mortal body, beyond birth and beyond death — in this present life you are still cycling through the human realm, and your name is naturally written in this Book of Life and Death of the Six Paths. Xuanzang — do you know when your soul will enter the Ni Li Prison?”