The eighth year of the Wude reign of the Great Tang.
The twenty-six-year-old Xuanzang was traveling from Zhaozhou in Hebei to Chang’an, passing through the region between Xing and Luo. It had not been long since the Great Tang had pacified the realm, and broken blades, halberds, and exposed corpses could be seen everywhere along the desolate ancient roads. Wild dogs often roamed the roadsides gnawing on human bones, their blood-red eyes carrying vicious grins as they trailed behind travelers, their teeth clicking and clacking. Wherever the eye fell, villages lay in ruin, overgrown with wormwood and mugwort, the remnants of crumbled walls smeared with wind-dried bloodstains.
On this particular day, Xuanzang spent the night in a desolate woodland temple. Inside the temple there was only one monk, whose dharma name was Yuanguan. In days past he had fled into the mountains to escape the chaos, cultivating three acres of melons and fruit and five acres of grain, keeping ten volumes of scriptures and one ancient zither, calling himself the “Wealthy Monk,” wandering at leisure through the mountains, unaware of how many years had passed in the world of men.
Yuanguan played the zither for Xuanzang. A bonfire was lit in the incense burner, melon and fruit were arranged on the offering table, the cups held spring water and mountain tea, and in their hands were the fragrant pages of scripture. The ancient temple was crumbling, the roof of the hall broken and leaking, sifting down the starlight of the Great Tang’s night. The zither’s melody was deep and hushed, and it seemed as though the dead in the mountains had awakened — they used human skin as drums and human bones as mallets, beating out a distant and mysterious rhythm; and there were the phosphorescent glimmers of bones, transformed into the faint light of fireflies, dancing in the starlight and moonlight.
Xuanzang sighed: “I have wandered for ten years. My chan-mind has remained unmoved. Only after I perceived through the cycle of reincarnation did I dare listen to this one melody of yours.”
Yuanguan laughed loudly: “If that is so, elder brother, tell me — I, who fled into the mountains to escape the turmoil, am I now living, or am I dead? Between life and death, how can one determine?”
Xuanzang said: “Life and death, for me, are like a door. When one grows stifled inside the house, I push open the door and walk out, and that is another life.”
Yuanguan asked: “What if I am not stifled, and have no wish to walk out?”
Xuanzang said: “I received the precepts at ten years old and began my wanderings from that very day. I have walked through the battlefields where Wang Shichong and the Wagang Stronghold waged years of slaughter upon each other. I have walked through the Chang’an of the dynasty’s final days. I have walked through the Three Gorges, through Jing and Chu. At Kaihuang Monastery I heard the true teachings of this world. At Danyang I saw the bodies strewn everywhere after the Great Tang crushed Fu Gongshi’s rebellion. I have walked this sky, this earth, this world of men through all its years and seasons. Yet I remain confined within this shell of flesh and skin, unable to see the scenery beyond it. Sometimes, when I explain the Dharma to living beings, it is like telling a summer insect about winter. Yet if one day Maitreya himself were to come and expound the true Dharma to me, I would fear that I myself might be just such a summer insect. And so, elder brother — if I am inside the house, I will push open the door to see what the courtyard looks like. If I am in the courtyard, I will push open the gate to see the streets and the multitudes of the city. And if the courtyard and the city are both within another’s begging bowl, I will smash that bowl, tear open this shell of flesh, and steal one glimpse of the world beyond the heavens — one glimpse of past lives and present life.”
Yuanguan snapped the ancient zither in two and wept bitterly.
The following day, learning that Xuanzang intended to travel west to Chang’an to study the Dharma under the monk Boluoye, a master who had come from Tianzhu, Yuanguan insisted on accompanying Xuanzang on the westward journey. Along the road they discussed antiquity and the Way, as though they had found a kindred spirit in each other. Half a month later, the two of them arrived atop Bailu Plain, east of the Baling Bridge. Yuanguan bid farewell to Xuanzang, wishing to circle around Chang’an and go to the Zhongnan Mountains alone to seek the Way. Xuanzang did not understand: “Chang’an is right before our eyes — why take a roundabout path?”
Yuanguan sighed: “Elder brother, you do not know this — my fate is in conflict with Chang’an, and in this life I cannot enter that city.”
Xuanzang smiled: “What is called fate is nothing more than the cycle of cause and effect. If you have planted this cause, then the result will follow you like a shadow. Even if you do not enter Chang’an, Chang’an will come to you.”
Yuanguan thought for a long while: “Elder brother is right. Whichever road I take — since it is destined — why should I trouble myself to go the long way around?”
The two of them crossed the Baling Bridge and traveled west, entering Chang’an through the Yanxing Gate and lodging at Dajue Monastery. Dajue Monastery stood at the northwest corner of the crossroads in Chongxian Ward, close to the Western Market, where many foreigners had gathered and settled. On this day, the two of them went out, and as they were passing by the Qingming Canal, they saw several foreign women carrying clay jars to fetch water. Among them was a woman dressed in brocade who appeared to be with child, adorned with an abundance of ornaments. Yuanguan stared at this woman, and without realizing it, tears began to flow down his face.
Yuanguan said: “Elder brother, the reason I did not wish to come to Chang’an was precisely because I feared I would encounter this woman.”
Xuanzang was astonished: “All along the road we have walked, we have seen countless foreign women — why do you fear this particular one?”
Yuanguan said: “This woman is a Sogdian of the Zhaowu Nine Surnames, with the family name Kang. In the Heluo mountains I already knew that my life was not long for this world, and she is the place into which I shall be reborn. She has been with child for three years and has yet to give birth — that is because I had not yet come. Now that I have encountered her, this turn of the wheel of reincarnation can no longer be avoided. This is what we Buddhists call the six-path transmigration. Elder brother, I will surely die at midnight tonight. After I die, please bury me on Bailu Plain. Perhaps decades from now, you too will be buried there, and at that time I will come to receive you with melon, fruit, and the sound of the zither.”
Xuanzang was overcome with grief. He and Yuanguan returned to Dajue Monastery. Yuanguan bathed himself, changed into new clothes, lit incense, and waited for midnight to arrive. Xuanzang kept quiet vigil beside him. As the water-clock of the hai hour ran dry, Yuanguan told Xuanzang: “Elder brother, three days from now the foreigner’s family will hold the newborn’s bathing ceremony — I hope you will go and see me. If I smile at you, it will mean that I still remember the friendship we shared in this life. Sixteen years from now, we shall meet again in an age when the Dharma is in its final decline.”
When midnight arrived, Yuanguan sat still with his eyes downcast, and his breathing ceased. And from the foreigner’s household came the wailing cry of a newborn entering the world.
Xuanzang was overcome with profound grief. He buried Yuanguan on Bailu Plain, where the grave mound stood tall and one could look out upon Chang’an.
On the third day, Xuanzang sought out the foreigner’s home, and found that a newborn’s bathing ceremony was indeed being held. He took the infant boy into the light and examined him carefully. The infant was of foreign blood, with large brown eyes that bore no resemblance to Yuanguan. But as if catching sight of Xuanzang, the infant broke into a smile — and in that instant, Xuanzang’s robes were wet with tears.