Chapter Eight: The Invitation from Master Shu of the Esoteric Monastery

Before Bao Ling had even walked far, Basang Jiangcuo placed the cloth bag on the table, untied the knotted cord, and took out a black wooden box about one foot long, half a foot wide, and an inch high.

Then Basang Jiangcuo closed the door behind him and pointed at the wooden box. “Guan Wen, this was sent by Master Tree of the Esoteric Institute. He instructed me not to say anything—just open the box, and you’ll understand.”

“Master Tree?” Guan Wen was startled.

Only now did Basang Jiangcuo have a moment to wipe the sweat from his brow. He nodded gravely. “Yes, Master Tree—the very one who has lived in seclusion since childhood, never setting foot outside. People have forgotten his true name and call him only by the great tree in his courtyard. I don’t know why he wants to see you—in fact, I thought he’d never left the gates of that secluded courtyard, locking himself away there for life, like a prisoner.”

Guan Wen had heard of Master Tree when he first arrived at Tashilhunpo Monastery—a strange man, willingly confining himself to a small courtyard beside the Esoteric Institute. In that courtyard grew an ancient tree of unknown kind, its trunk three meters in diameter, its roots hugging the ground and curling around the base, nearly covering the entire yard.

In the Chinese language, the character for “imprisonment” is formed from “mouth” and “tree.” Master Tree’s dwelling was indeed the very embodiment of this character.

Neither tourists, pilgrims, nor the monks of Tashilhunpo Monastery cared to approach Master Tree, afraid of catching some unknown ill fortune. In time, everyone had forgotten there was such a strange figure living beside the Esoteric Institute.

On the lid of the box was the branding mark of a tree, burned in with fire tongs. With the passage of years, the burn had faded from charred black to a pale gray.

Guan Wen unfastened the white brass clasp on the lid and slowly lifted it open. A musty, decayed smell wafted out, causing him to wrinkle his brow involuntarily.

Basang Jiangcuo, impatient, leaned in to peer inside.

The box was lined with red silk, which time had faded from bright red to a reddish-brown. Lying flat inside was an irregular oval wooden plaque, about two inches at its widest, an inch and a half at its narrowest.

“What is this?” Guan Wen gave a wry smile.

“Yes, what is this? Is Master Tree playing riddles?” Basang Jiangcuo was equally baffled.

Guan Wen took out the wooden plaque and placed it on the table. It must have been cut from a section of tree trunk; the growth rings were clearly visible—fifteen in all, marking it as taken from a tree fifteen years old.

He turned it over and over in his hands, but could find nothing unusual about it. Perplexed, he looked at Basang Jiangcuo. “Did Master Tree really say I would understand everything just by opening the box?”

Basang Jiangcuo nodded firmly. “He told me so himself, and he said that once you’d seen the box, you’d come with me.”

Guan Wen was even more puzzled. “Come with you? Where?”

“To the Esoteric Institute, to see him,” Basang Jiangcuo replied.

They looked at each other in confusion, unable to understand where things had gone wrong—why Master Tree’s words had not come true. Guan Wen, especially, was mystified. He examined the plaque another dozen times, but still discovered no secret. He had never met Master Tree, and certainly wouldn’t rush off to the monastery just because of a wooden plaque, especially since Bao Ling was still waiting for his help.

“I think there must be some mistake.” Guan Wen shook his head, put the plaque back, and closed the box.

Basang Jiangcuo seemed somewhat deflated as well. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the sweat from his face.

“Why don’t you go back and ask Master Tree who the box is actually meant for? I can’t take someone else’s things and let you take the blame,” Guan Wen joked.

Basang Jiangcuo hesitated for a few minutes, then suddenly asked, “Guan Wen, I have a suspicion… Maybe Master Tree asked me to bring you the box because he believes you’re a Terma Master.”

Guan Wen shook his head at once. “How could that be?”

Only those with deep spiritual ties to Tibetan temples, living Buddhas, Zen, Esoteric Buddhism, or Buddhist icons could possibly become Terma Masters. He was from Jinan, Shandong, with not a drop of Tibetan blood; how could he possibly have any connection to termas? Whatever Master Tree’s intention, he didn’t want to mislead Basang Jiangcuo or waste his time.

Basang Jiangcuo sighed. “It was just a guess—don’t mind me if I’m wrong.”

Stories and records of termas and Terma Masters had never ceased in Tibet. In recent times, several great Terma Masters had unearthed hundreds of lost scriptures for Tibetan Buddhism—there was both eyewitness and physical evidence. To be a true Terma Master would be an extraordinary honor.

“Why would you think so?” Guan Wen asked.

Just as he was about to put the box back into the bag, he suddenly felt a faint vibration in his palm, as if some strange force inside the box was swelling outward. In an instant, his mind went hot, a dizzy sensation like drunkenness overtook him.

“Basang… I feel…” His body went limp, and the box slipped from his hands, landing on the table with a sharp crack.

Lost in thought, Basang Jiangcuo was startled. He quickly pressed down on the box and snapped, “Guan Wen, you’re being far too careless. Master Tree went to great lengths to have me deliver this box to you, gave me endless instructions to hand it to you in person, yet you treat it so lightly. That’s too much.”

Guan Wen stepped back, the numbness in his hands gradually fading.

“I just felt something change inside the box. Let’s open it again and look at the plaque,” he said.

Basang Jiangcuo’s face darkened. He ignored Guan Wen, instead putting the box back in the bag. “It’s said that Master Tree has been waiting for a Terma Master to arrive. His life is already like a candle in the wind, ready to go out at any moment, to become dust. I’ve heard he survives only by the power of that ancient tree. The temple’s monks say, ‘If the tree dies, he dies; if he dies, the tree dies.’ Their lives are one. Since you’re not the Terma Master he spoke of, that’s that—I’ll return the box to him. Too many things have happened in the monastery. All the senior monks are running themselves ragged, and no one cares about the Terma Master anymore.”

Guan Wen didn’t press the matter, but asked instinctively, “What’s happened in the monastery? If it’s inconvenient, I can skip my sketching trip there tomorrow.”

Basang Jiangcuo sighed. “There’s been another strange incident. The body of Master Duji has disappeared.”

Now it was Guan Wen’s turn to be shocked. He couldn’t help but exclaim, “Disappeared? What happened?”

Basang Jiangcuo tied the bag closed and explained slowly, “Master Duji’s body had been kept in his quarters, awaiting the arrival of the senior monks and local officials for a memorial service. As you know, Master Duji used his remarkable medical skills to help the local villagers. Many people were coming to the monastery to pay their respects one last time. So, after consulting with the monastery’s administrative committee, they left the body in his room, with two monks stationed at the door throughout the night, keeping vigil to ensure his soul did not disperse on the wind. But this morning, the monks found only a brown river stone under the blanket on the bed. The body was gone.”

Guan Wen immediately thought, “Did the Master achieve Rainbow Body?”

Among the ten great mysteries of Tibet, the Rainbow Body phenomenon was particularly baffling. In brief, it refers to a realized monk whose death is not a mere end of life, but a transformation: his spirit and body become a multicolored rainbow, leaving behind a few relics. Their method of departing this world cannot be explained by physics, biology, or modern science. If Master Duji had indeed attained Rainbow Body, the lower-ranking monks would certainly know nothing about it.

“I don’t know. No one does. The monks searched the entire monastery, but found no trace. But think about it—once the Master had passed, where could a body possibly go?” Basang Jiangcuo gave a wry smile, picked up the bag, and prepared to leave.

Suddenly the door was pushed open, and Lao Dao and Chizan appeared side by side in the doorway.

“Give it to me.” Chizan reached out bluntly, pointing at the bag in Basang Jiangcuo’s hand.

“What?” Basang Jiangcuo didn’t understand. As a monk of Tashilhunpo Monastery, he had never seen a villager behave so rudely toward clergy. Normally, pilgrims and locals treated monks with the utmost respect, seeing them as the attendants and closest servants of the Buddha.

Lao Dao smiled and explained, “We’d like to see what’s in the bag. Would that be all right?”

Basang Jiangcuo sneered, pressing the bag onto the table. “You want to see it? You can forget about it.”

Chizan strode forward, and as he came within three paces of Basang Jiangcuo, the two of them suddenly exchanged a flurry of blows—five moves each in about five seconds. Clearly, Chizan did not come out ahead; as he staggered back, blood slowly trickled from his nostrils. But Lao Dao, ever cunning, darted in from the side, one hand inside his coat as if gripping a gun, the muzzle aimed at Basang Jiangcuo’s chest.

“Don’t move, or my gun might go off,” Lao Dao said with a sly grin.

“We’re just a few hundred meters from Tashilhunpo Monastery. Do you dare cause trouble here?” Basang Jiangcuo was annoyed but kept his words to talk, not fight.

“Of course I know. I’m not a fool,” Lao Dao chuckled, and with a swift move, snatched the bag from Basang Jiangcuo and tossed it to Chizan. “Open it, let’s see what’s inside.”

Chizan opened the bag, then the wooden box, holding it out for Lao Dao to see.

“What? Just a wooden plaque?” Lao Dao was puzzled.

Guan Wen saw that something was slowly wriggling along one of the growth rings on the plaque. Focusing his gaze, he realized it was a brown aphid.

“A bug?” Guan Wen was surprised.

“A bug!” Lao Dao also noticed, and picked up the plaque with one hand.

At first, the insect was the size of a grain of millet, but as it stretched out, Guan Wen saw it was about half an inch long, with countless pairs of legs under its body, resembling a desiccated red-headed centipede. Soon, it extended fully and began to crawl slowly across the plaque.

The insect was strange, but it was still just a bug. Lao Dao couldn’t see anything remarkable and, disappointed, put the plaque back in the box, stepped back, and signaled Chizan to return the box to Basang Jiangcuo.

“Sorry, must have been a misunderstanding. No hard feelings—I didn’t actually have a gun, just used my fingers.” Lao Dao grinned shamelessly, lifting his shirt to show Basang Jiangcuo and Guan Wen.

Chizan placed the box on the table and also turned to leave.

“Don’t cause trouble here. You’re lucky you ran into me—if you came across any of the security monks, you’d be in real trouble,” Basang Jiangcuo warned.

Lao Dao, utterly shameless, nodded without missing a beat. “Thank you, brother, for the advice. It won’t happen again.”

He was a true old hand, slick as an eel—addressing the monastery’s monks as brothers without the slightest awkwardness.