Chapter Twenty-six: The Strange Origins of the Wind Crane

Guan Wen was momentarily stunned, not daring to answer rashly. He set down his pencil, pondered for over ten seconds, and then cautiously replied, “You are Wind Crane, a name given to you by the Venerable Crimson Flame. Of course, you also have your proper given name, the one you’ve always used—Saranjesang. If you ask me, you are Saranjesang, a person born and raised in Tibet.”

From the Venerable Crimson Flame, Guan Wen had learned about Wind Crane’s family background, but her life story could be summed up in just a few sentences—Saranjesang, female, unmarried, forty years old, born in 1972 in Banjiulunbu Village, Qubuxiong Township, under the jurisdiction of Rikaze City, to a family of herders. She was an only child. Her father, Saran Baoduo, and her mother, Qubi Anda, had both passed away. Saranjesang had never attended school; the family made a living by herding sheep, and she had no relatives.

Qubuxiong Township was established in 1960, formed by merging three former townships from the original Jiacho district. The township government is based in Kangsa Village, southwest of Rikaze City, thirteen kilometers from the urban center. It covers 310 square kilometers with a population of five thousand and has road access. The township administers fifteen village committees, including Kangsa, Jiangzi, Banjiulunbu, Daji, Gangxi, Ding, Bianma, Luoqu, Zhanu, Jiadui, Rigang, Dingga, Zhanda, Jiaka, and Zha. Agriculture is focused on barley, wheat, and rapeseed, making it one of Rikaze’s major grain-producing townships.

Looking back over Saranjesang’s life, it seemed impossible for her to have had any connection with monasteries or Buddhism. Her parents were also illiterate and unschooled, living their whole lives by the rhythm of sunrise and sunset, laboring day after day. Until the Venerable Crimson Flame found her, she had never left Qubuxiong Township—her farthest journey from home had been just five kilometers to the local clinic. Yet it was precisely this unremarkable, ordinary woman from the countryside, with such plain features, whose mind held a vast store of hidden knowledge—so much so that even a sage like the Venerable Crimson Flame was profoundly shaken.

Perhaps this was the very mystery of terma—the hidden treasures. In the unfathomable workings of fate, an ancient sage in some forgotten year, month, and place might sever a fragment of their own consciousness and cast it far across time and space, to be fixed in the mind of a complete stranger. Without the Venerable Crimson Flame, these treasures of knowledge might never have been discovered, buried forever at the end of Saranjesang’s life.

To this day, as all these coincidences and twists of fate came together, all Guan Wen could do was marvel at the wonders of creation, the inscrutable designs of heaven, and the profundity of Tibetan Buddhism—what more could he say?

“I am Saranjesang, I am Wind Crane, but those are merely the names my parents and the Venerable gave me. Of course, they could have called me anything else—a cup, milk tea, a stool, a table—any of these could serve as my name, as a signifier of who I am. But what I am asking is: who am I? The person standing before you—who am I, really?” Wind Crane asked again.

Her features were as plain as could be. Year after year, the northern winds never ceased, giving her skin a roughness, and her cheekbones had become half-red, half-black from years of wind and sun. If she were placed among a group of village women anywhere in the west, she would instantly blend in, indistinguishable from the rest.

“It’s not an easy question to answer. If you insist on chasing it to the end, you’ll trap yourself in a dead end. I advise you to go back to your room, rest, and sleep. When you wake tomorrow, perhaps all your troubles will have passed.” Guan Wen spoke with great caution, knowing full well the turmoil raging in Wind Crane’s mind, and that a single misplaced word could tip her into madness.

Who am I? Is a white horse not a horse? The debate over the fishes on the Hao River—all these philosophical conundrums had already been fiercely debated by the logicians of pre-Qin times. Both sides resolutely held their own views, neither able to persuade the other.

“You are a clever person,” Wind Crane said, picking up a drawing and staring at it intently. After a while, she suddenly began to sob.

Guan Wen said nothing, but took a tissue from his pocket and handed it to her.

“If only you could have drawn out all those tangled memories from my head and turned them into pictures for everyone to see, maybe I wouldn’t have been accused of being a witch, a demon, or a fiend. These things have haunted me since I can remember. Every night, I dream of them. The worst was when I was out herding sheep on the hillside—I would suddenly think of them for no reason. When I was ten, my parents brought in an exorcist from the south, who stabbed at my scalp with an awl—” Wind Crane pointed to the top of her head. “It hurt terribly. I remember it vividly, even now. I hate these memories. Without them, maybe I would have married and had several children by now, and lived a happy life. My parents might not have died in anger, coughing blood after the villagers’ endless curses.”

Guan Wen didn’t know how to comfort her, so he handed her another tissue.

“They’re fading away,” Wind Crane suddenly said, breaking into a laugh through her tears.

“What?” Guan Wen was startled.

Wind Crane pointed at the silver-armored man in the drawing. “He troubled me the most. I’ve never seen him; I don’t know where he came from or where he went, and I don’t know his or that woman’s name.”

At the mention of the woman, Guan Wen could not help but sigh deeply. As an artist, he could not bear to see something so beautiful tossed and trampled in the mud.

“She was beautiful, wasn’t she? I told many people about her, but they all laughed at me. I couldn’t describe her looks, and in the countryside, no woman was ever that beautiful. I’ve seen the images of great female figures in the Venerable’s Buddhist texts, but none of them compared to her,” Wind Crane said.

“Yes, she was beautiful. But unfortunately, no matter how beautiful, she was reduced to bones in that great war,” Guan Wen nodded.

All wars in the world are like raging sandstorms. When the winds subside and the dust settles, everything in sight is buried beneath yellow sand. When such truths are finally revealed under the sun again, countless hundreds, thousands, or tens of thousands of years may have passed.

“But why was I made to remember all this?” Wind Crane asked herself. “If these memories disappear, will I be able to return to who I was before?”

Suddenly, Guan Wen felt a wave of desolation.

He realized that if all of Wind Crane’s memories vanished, the past decades of her life would become a blank, and her mind would revert to how it was before she gained these memories—perhaps as a teenage girl, a child of seven or eight, or even an infant of one or two.

If that were truly to happen, it would be terrifying, he thought to himself.

“If I return to my former self, can the world also turn back and become what it once was?” Wind Crane asked in a low, mournful voice.

Just then, someone knocked on the door outside.

Guan Wen opened the door and, to his shock and delight, found Baoling standing there, covered in dust from travel.

“How can it be you? How—weren’t you at Tashilhunpo Monastery? How did you rush over here in the middle of the night?” He was so overjoyed that he could barely form words, and his eyes were fixed on Baoling, oblivious to the people standing beside and behind her.

After all the turmoil, Baoling had never left his thoughts. Her sudden arrival was an unexpected joy.

“Yes, it’s me. I heard that Mr. Guan was here, so I came to knock on the door first,” Baoling replied with a smile, stepping aside to make room.

“Mr. Guan?” The tall man beside Baoling spoke coldly but courteously.

Guan Wen turned his gaze to him. He was a young man of about thirty, with a square face, strong jaw, and sharply defined features. His broad shoulders and excellent physique were evident. He wore a finely made coffee-colored calfskin hunting jacket, and the way he extended his hand to Guan Wen revealed an air of agility and toughness.

“I am Gao Xiang, a friend of Baoling’s,” he said.

Guan Wen steadied himself, reached out to shake his hand, and immediately noticed the man’s thick fingers and powerful grip.

“I’m Guan Wen. Pleased to meet you,” Guan Wen replied.

He remembered that in the guesthouse, both Baoling and Old Dao had mentioned Gao Xiang’s name.

Looking past the gap between Gao Xiang and Baoling, he saw Old Dao and Chizan as well.

“Baoling had business at Tashilhunpo Monastery, and we are grateful for the care you showed her, Mr. Guan. We won’t forget this kindness,” Gao Xiang said as he put an arm around Baoling’s shoulders, smiling with ambiguous meaning. His manner was seemingly sincere and modest, but at heart, he radiated a cold reserve that kept others at a distance. This gesture clearly staked his claim to Baoling, a warning to Guan Wen not to pursue his girlfriend.

Guan Wen forced a wry smile. “You’re too kind, it was my duty.”

He understood Gao Xiang’s intention, but his gaze involuntarily drifted to Baoling’s face again.

“Mr. Guan, I still need your help with the painting. Once things are settled here, let’s meet again at Tashilhunpo Monastery,” Baoling said gently and humbly.

Her tone instantly drew a look of displeasure from Gao Xiang. He cupped his hands around his mouth, cleared his throat, and suppressed whatever polite words Guan Wen was about to say.

“Mr. Guan, I’ve long heard you’re an extraordinary artist. Unfortunately, we haven’t had a chance to meet before. Baoling is my friend, and she carries some confusion in her heart. I hope you’ll help her find answers. As for your honorarium, you needn’t worry—I’ll pay you at the highest standard for traveling painters in Tibet. You do your work, I’ll do mine, and I hope we’ll have a great collaboration. How about it?” Gao Xiang smiled softly, as if he already had Guan Wen in the palm of his hand.

Guan Wen nodded begrudgingly. “Alright, I’ll do my best. For now, I have other matters to attend to, so perhaps we can talk later?”

Since he could not speak to Baoling alone, he did not want to prolong the awkwardness and politely gave a gentle hint for them to leave.

“Of course,” Gao Xiang replied with a smile. “I came here with Master Tianjiu. Over the years, I’ve done some small business in the west, Nepal, India, and other countries, occasionally reading Buddhist texts and visiting monasteries. So I know a bit about the Skull Thangka. Master Tianjiu says that the key to piecing together that thangka shattered into a thousand fragments might just be me…”

There was an undercurrent of arrogance and conceit in him, though he carefully masked it with a courteous demeanor.

Guan Wen had always detested such people, but Baoling was close friends with him, which made Guan Wen feel as if something were stuck in his throat, choking him painfully.

“Naturally. I hope you’ll show us your skills, Mr. Gao,” Guan Wen replied, managing to be polite.