Chapter Forty-Four: The Chamber of the Skull Thangka

He had no idea how much time had passed when he heard a gentle call from Caidan Dajie: “Guan Wen, are you awake? Master Shu wants to see you.”

Guan Wen slowly opened his eyes. All around was dim, with only Caidan Dajie’s eyes shining tirelessly in the darkness.

“Master Shu wants to see you, come with me.” Caidan Dajie silently walked out.

Guan Wen got out of bed, his head heavy, his steps light and unsteady as he followed Caidan Dajie, passing through one doorway after another. In the darkness, the gold and silver powders and natural phosphorescent pigments on the thangkas shimmered with a mysterious glow, tracing fragments of lines from certain images, bright and shadowy, forming all sorts of incomplete labyrinths that ceaselessly drew Guan Wen’s gaze.

Seven years of exhausting labor, and only half a face completed; each stroke required five days of contemplation, ten days of consideration, fifteen days of weighing, twenty days of reflection. Only then, with unwavering concentration, could the brush touch the canvas. For the next stroke, ten days of brewing, twenty days of thought, thirty days of scrutiny, endless pondering of space, color, thickness, light and shade… I paint this thangka with my very life, every part of my body blending into this half a face. When it is finished, my existence will leave my flesh and lodge within the thangka. This is the highest realm of the Skull Thangka—a distillation and sublimation of life itself… During the process, I could no longer distinguish between reality and illusion, the world within the painting and the true self… But that doesn’t matter. So long as I can paint, I attain the greatest joy under heaven…

In the right-hand corner, someone murmured in a low monotone, yet there was clearly no one present, only a half-finished, indistinct thangka.

Crunch, crunch, crunch… On the left, someone seemed to be grinding and pounding something, a pungent scent of blood thickening the air.

Three ladles of blood, semi-congealed, one ladle of red earth, half a ladle of blue phosphorus, half a ladle of ink, stirred for three days and nights—thus the finest “cloud of gloom” pigment is made. I unearthed this ancient recipe after poring over old texts; only such a cloud is perfect enough to paint the demonic backdrop of my imagination. Three months from now, I’ll grind bone to reconstruct the demon’s body. To truly capture the likeness of a demon, one must become a demon oneself—without such immersion, how could one succeed? Half a lifetime of practice is meaningless; only by rendering this demon to perfection does my life find meaning. At this point, whether one becomes Buddha, immortal, god, demon, monster, or spirit—there is no difference. All are the summit of cultivation. And at the summit comes the moment of abandoning all, of final dissolution… Someone muttered along with the strange crunching, the voice rising and falling, sometimes snickering, sometimes growling, sometimes sinister, sometimes gentle—mad, haunted, as though ghost or fiend.

More voices drifted out from the darkness, each recounting the process of unwittingly descending into obsession and madness in the pursuit of thangka mastery.

In a daze, Guan Wen felt that to fall into madness in pursuit of the highest realm of thangka was a kind of sacrifice worthy of the highest praise. Instinctively, he reflected on his own artistic journey—perhaps it was precisely his inability to immerse himself wholly that had denied him ultimate success.

This was a world of thangka; every room was a treasure trove of technique that would drive any ordinary painter wild with delight. Yet, like this derelict courtyard, they were hidden deep in the corners of Tashilhunpo Monastery, fated to be buried by time, vanishing forever from human memory.

“Keep moving forward—don’t look to either side. If you keep looking, your heart will scatter.” Caidan Dajie reminded him, not once turning his head.

“I only think it’s a pity—national treasures gathering dust,” Guan Wen replied.

“The human heart is but a small bamboo basket. If the greedy wish to scoop up all the treasures of the Yarlung Tsangpo with it, in the end, they’ll have nothing but empty dreams. Empty your heart, hold only what matters most—this is your sole purpose in this world. Too many attachments, and nothing will ever be accomplished.” Caidan Dajie paused at the threshold, then turned slowly. He first gazed intently at Guan Wen, then swept his eyes over the flickering shadows of the thangka rooms. “It took me half a lifetime to understand this: the greedy are doomed to fail. Only those who know how to let go can reach the realm of success.”

Guan Wen, of course, understood the principle that sincerity can split stone and faith move mountains, grasped the deeper truth that undivided focus is invincible. Yet, as a painter, he could not help but be drawn to these masterpieces—how could he pretend not to see them?

His steps grew unbearably heavy; he struggled forward, until at last he stopped, spreading his arms wide as if to embrace the murmuring souls in the darkness. His fingertips seemed to touch something—maybe the hands of others, maybe the trailing hems of their robes.

“I want to stay here, to be with them, to chase the summit of memory in the Skull Thangka,” he said.

In the darkness, countless voices rose in praise, and countless hands reached out, crowding to pull him in.

“Om Mani Padme Hum, Om Mani Padme Hum, Om Mani Padme Hum—” Caidan Dajie began to chant the Six-Syllable Mantra in a deep voice.

The hands in the darkness ceased their motions, but after only a few seconds, more hands reached out, nearly pulling Guan Wen into the corner.

With a sudden sound, Caidan Dajie raised his only remaining left arm, and with a flick of thumb and middle finger, a flame of orange-yellow leapt up at his fingertips.

“Om Mani Padme Hum. The Six-Syllable Mantra is the mantra of Avalokiteshvara, embodying the compassion and blessing of all bodhisattvas. Its meaning is profound, inexhaustible, supreme, containing the great power, wisdom, and compassion of the universe. This is the subtle true heart of Avalokiteshvara; eons ago, the bodhisattva attained Buddhahood through this very mantra, becoming the Tathagata of True Dharma. ‘Om Mani Padme Hum’ is possessed of subtle, inconceivable merit and countless samadhi teachings; all the protectors, devas, and dragons delight in upholding it. If this mantra touches the body, the hand, the home, or is written upon a door, all misfortune turns to blessing, all difficulty to good fortune, and any wish may be fulfilled…” In the firelight, Caidan Dajie stood tall and straight, his gaze resolute, his expression calm, like a guardian Vajra defending the entrance from the thangka rooms to the courtyard.

As the light flared, the darkness receded, and all the hallucinations and visions conjured by the thangkas vanished from Guan Wen’s mind—the only thing left was that warm, flickering flame.

“Come to me,” Caidan Dajie said gently.

Guan Wen drew a long breath, strode forward, breaking free from the clutches of the darkness, and stood shoulder to shoulder with Caidan Dajie at the threshold.

The courtyard, shrouded in darkness, was decayed and chaotic. Looking up, the canopy of ancient trees spread out like a weary giant lying at rest.

“What are they?” Standing on the steps, Guan Wen looked back in lingering dread.

“They are all souls who lost their way. In truth, everyone loses their way at some point—some find their path again, returning to the right course, while others are forever lost to the sea of desire. They were, each of them, the most brilliant minds Tibet had produced in centuries, entrusted with the highest hopes. By some twist of fate, they missed the gate of light, and fell into darkness, never to return. Do you remember what I told you about the Skull Thangka? The meaning of painting such a thangka is not to pursue technical perfection, but to…” Caidan Dajie sighed deeply, extinguished the flame on his fingertip, and led Guan Wen across the courtyard.

All around was silent; the entire Tashilhunpo Monastery lay submissive beneath the black curtain of night.

“Guan Wen, let me give you an example. Why does each of us eat? Naturally, to nourish the body, to sustain life, to live better. But if someone devotes his entire life to the art and variety of eating, travels far and wide in pursuit of rare delicacies, risking life and limb, and then insists to all the world that ‘food must be refined, dishes must be delicate’—would such a person not be distorting the meaning of eating itself? In the same way, everyone who has entered this courtyard was endowed with extraordinary artistic talent, and given time, each could have become a great master. When they discovered the miraculous art of painting with one’s own bone and blood, they were beside themselves with joy, believing they had broken through the bottleneck of technique. Not one of them paused to ask: why were they summoned here? Why were they shown the mystical realm of the Skull Thangka?”

By now, they had entered the tree hollow.

Within, it was just as dark, not a glimmer of light to be seen.

“Why were they summoned here? Was I summoned for the same reason?” Guan Wen quickly grasped the core of Caidan Dajie’s words.

“Yes,” Caidan Dajie admitted frankly.

“Why?” Guan Wen pressed.

A distant voice drifted out: “That answer lies in your own heart. If you ask others, it’s like a newborn kitten chasing its own tail—forever circling, never finding the end.”

Guan Wen had heard that voice his first time in the tree hollow, so he was not surprised. Instead, he bowed deeply toward the source: “Your junior is ignorant. I beg your instruction, Elder.”

“You go ahead. We have much to discuss,” the voice replied.

Caidan Dajie answered respectfully, “Yes.”

The voice continued: “This may be the last time I ever speak. Each retreat lasts longer than the last—one day, after I enter seclusion, I may never awaken. If that day comes, you must pass on the essence of the Skull Thangka in my stead. No matter what, so long as we can live with clear minds, as long as we have one more day, we must pass on that faint spark of hope.”

A luminous blue firefly fluttered down from above, pausing between Guan Wen and Caidan Dajie. With a soft “pop,” it split in two, dancing before them.

Caidan Dajie extended his hand, and the firefly landed in his palm.

Guan Wen imitated him, raising his hand to receive the firefly, gazing at the faint gleam at its tail.

“Guan Wen, a world in a grain of sand, a Buddha realm in a single flower. That speck of light is the world you are bound for.” Caidan Dajie spoke each word clearly, urging him: “This is a chance that will not come again—the past is gone, the future can be seized. Each person has only one opportunity; cherish this karmic moment of cultivation.”

Guan Wen nodded, and Caidan Dajie withdrew, fading into the darkness.

“You must be wondering why you hear my voice but never see me. In fact, long ago, wise men of Tibet mastered the secret of spirit existing independently of the body. The human shell is complex, and in eighty to a hundred years, it inevitably passes from vigor to decay. As organs age, they can go on no longer. But if, before the shell is destroyed, the soul is separated and attached to another living being, it can be preserved indefinitely. Metal, wood, water, fire, and earth—these are the five fundamental elements of the world. Each person’s physical form tends toward one of these; in fortune-telling, these are called the metal life, wood life, water life, fire life, or earth life. This system, seemingly superstitious but in fact scientific, belongs only to primates. My soul is attached to this ancient tree, drawing the sustenance I need from within it. For many years, I have lived this way, calling out with my mind to those fated to come, for I must rely on others to accomplish a most difficult task…”

The firefly rose and began to dance a figure eight before Guan Wen.