Chapter Nine: The Tree Hollow of the Esoteric Monastery

Guan Wen had no desire to involve himself in Old Dao’s affairs. He watched the insect intently, tracking its path as it crawled along. He soon realized the insect was using its body to write something, but it kept wandering across the wooden plaque, always moving, making it impossible for him to piece things together.

This must be the insect raised by Master Shu. The insect must be able to tell you something! Basang Jiangcuo urged him nearby.

Gradually, Guan Wen understood: it was writing two characters—Suppress Demon.

Basang Jiangcuo looked down for a while and understood as well: yes, those were the words. Surely Master Shu had infused the insect with some kind of magical power, sent it specially to notify you of something.

Guan Wen did not lift his head. Notify me? Why?

Basang Jiangcuo forced a bitter smile. Guan Wen, listen to me. As far as I know, every year the monastery selects the most promising and insightful monk to listen to the teachings of the centenarian masters. After weeks of secluded instruction, the young monk emerges, abandoning scriptures and practice books, and instead participates directly in the “debate”—the capable rise, the dull fall. If one succeeds in debate, they are recognized as outstanding among the next generation and enter the monastery’s talent reserve. You are an artist, and after spending over a year at Tashilhunpo Monastery, you have blended into its life…

Guan Wen shook his head. Basang, you’re overthinking it.

Basang Jiangcuo sighed and replied, I think what you’ve done has moved the heavens. The heavens have sent down an edict, giving you an opportunity to enter the halls and chambers, to reach the highest realm of Tibetan Buddhism in the latter half of your life. His words were full of admiration for Guan Wen.

Guan Wen shook his head again. Thank you for your blessing, but my ideal is to be an artist who delves into the secret depths of the human soul—I have no ambition to become a Buddhist inheritor.

Suddenly, the insect ceased its wandering, curled up, and returned to its original grain-of-rice shape, nestling into a natural crevice in the wooden plaque.

It truly was a miraculous transformation—Guan Wen gazed at the wood’s rings. But there was only one insect; the other grooves and crevices were empty, nothing attached.

Come with me to see Master Shu, Basang Jiangcuo urged.

Guan Wen nodded. Very well.

He too was full of curiosity about the legendary, reclusive Master Shu. Today’s chance to pay respects was indeed a rare opportunity.

Leaving the room, Guan Wen saw Chizang still sitting at Baoling’s door, Old Dao had vanished once more.

Who are these people, really? Basang Jiangcuo couldn’t help but ask.

Guan Wen replied, They’re all friends of Miss Baoling’s friends. They’re here to protect her, fearing she might come to harm.

He disliked Old Dao, and naturally harbored resentment toward Gao Xiang, whom Baoling had mentioned several times. Birds of a feather—anyone who befriends someone like Old Dao is unlikely to be virtuous.

I saw you had paper spread out on your table. Are you going to draw for them? Basang Jiangcuo asked with concern.

Guan Wen replied, Not necessarily. Miss Baoling’s account is so fragmented that I haven’t grasped the thread yet. Let’s discuss it when we return.

In truth, he was confident he could paint what Baoling wanted.

The two went out, walking side by side toward the main gate of Tashilhunpo Monastery.

On the street, pilgrims from all over gradually gathered, but each one gazed devoutly toward the monastery, focused solely on walking or prostrating, paying no attention to others. True pilgrims come from afar, with only pilgrimage in their hearts; all worldly concerns are abandoned, even eating and sleeping become secondary needs.

Guan Wen understood the pilgrims’ feelings—for when he first arrived at Tashilhunpo from Jinan in Shandong, he too bore the spirit of pilgrimage.

Guan Wen, how did you learn to paint? Basang Jiangcuo asked offhandedly.

Guan Wen answered without hesitation, I’ve loved drawing since childhood. I attended art classes all along, eventually enrolling in the Shandong Academy of Fine Arts. I first studied traditional Chinese painting, then Western techniques. After graduation, I set up my own studio and made a living selling paintings.

His experience was quite simple—graduation meant unemployment, living as an independent professional.

But I’ve seen many artists, and none can sketch out a person’s inner world as you do. Remember? When you first arrived at the monastery, you drew a portrait for Lama Duoji. That drawing still hangs in Duoji’s quarters; its name is “Meditation in the Ice Cave,” isn’t it? Basang Jiangcuo asked again.

Guan Wen thought for a moment and nodded. Yes.

He remembered that pencil sketch, completed last summer, which was the hottest time of the year at Tashilhunpo.

Basang Jiangcuo suddenly sighed deeply. Can you really paint Lama Duoji’s inner world? When you have time, can you paint one for me as well?

Guan Wen couldn’t help but smile wryly. Honestly, those paintings are only for people burdened with worries. Psychologists say worries are written on the face—I merely observe carefully, gain inspiration from the face, then delve into their inner world. But you’re still so young, with a bright future ahead—how could you have any worries?

Unknowingly, the two had reached the monastery gate.

Suddenly, rapid peals of bells sounded deep within the monastery, sharp and brief—ding-ding-ding-ding, rather than the usual morning and evening drum and bell tones.

Basang Jiangcuo stopped, covered his ears, listened intently, and his expression changed instantly. Fifteen strikes—this is a warning signal. Something major may have happened in the monastery. Hurry, I’ll take you to Master Shu, then return to take orders.

He grabbed Guan Wen’s sleeve and hurried toward the esoteric institute.

Along the way, elderly monks, faces wrinkled and steps faltering, rushed out from various meditation halls and quarters. Strangely, their direction matched Basang Jiangcuo and Guan Wen’s.

We’d better take a shortcut! Basang Jiangcuo pulled Guan Wen northward, not taking the detour, but vaulting over three low walls to reach the east side of the esoteric institute. Normally, the monastery forbids crossing walls, but in extraordinary times, rules are set aside.

Ahead was Master Shu’s residence. The courtyard walls and roof were decaying, many tiles missing and broken. A thick old tree jutted abruptly from inside the wall, its branches large and bare, pointing starkly at the sky.

At the gate, an old monk with a face full of wrinkles and exhaustion stood alone, leaning against the door, gazing upward at the azure sky. From afar, in Guan Wen’s eyes, the old monk seemed like another ancient tree—between the colossal tree that nearly burst the courtyard and himself, one short, one tall; one thin, one thick; one small, one large—echoing each other, perfectly fitting the artistic principle of contrast and balance.

That’s Master Caidan Dajie, Master Shu’s only direct disciple. The wooden box was given to me by him, Basang Jiangcuo whispered.

They approached the door, and Caidan Dajie finally lowered his gaze to Guan Wen’s face.

Master, this is Mr. Guan, the artist, Basang Jiangcuo reported respectfully.

Caidan Dajie looked blankly at Guan Wen, paused, and his thin, dried eyebrows quivered.

Basang Jiangcuo caught the hint. I’ll take my leave, master.

He retraced his steps, leaving Guan Wen outside the courtyard.

What is painting? Why do humans paint? When we look at a painting, do we behold the artist’s heart, or the heart of the subject? Is a landscape painting truly the mind of the mountain and water? Is a painting of flora and fauna the soul of the flowers, birds, fish, and insects? When you paint me, is it truly me you capture? Is it the me in your eyes, or my inner world… Caidan Dajie’s voice was like muttering to himself, yet also as if testing Guan Wen.

His face was so gaunt that there was no excess flesh on his cheekbones, only a layer of yellowish skin stretched over the protruding bones. His eyes hardly turned; to shift his gaze, he had to twist his neck, using nods and tilts in place of normal eye movement. Usually such behavior is seen only in giant turtles lurking underwater.

Answer me. After a while, he spoke again.

Guan Wen replied with three words: I don’t know.

Caidan Dajie’s eyebrows twitched again. You don’t know? Aren’t you an artist?

Guan Wen sighed. Yes, precisely because I am an artist, I cannot answer these profound philosophical questions. In the eyes of an artist, mountains are just mountains, water is just water—nothing more.

Caidan Dajie’s brows lifted. If so, how do you paint someone’s inner world?

Guan Wen shook his head. I never claimed to paint a person’s inner world. I paint only what I see—the things that are right there.

Where? Caidan Dajie pressed further.

In your eyes, Guan Wen smiled.

Suddenly, life returned to Caidan Dajie’s eyes, and the wrinkles on his face slowly relaxed, forming a difficult smile.

There were still two high walls between here and the esoteric institute. The urgent bell sounded again, accompanied by faint chanting. Judging by the sounds, over a hundred people had gathered in the courtyard.

You finally came after all. Caidan Dajie exhaled deeply, and at the corner of his eye, a murky tear rolled down.

He raised his left hand to wipe the tear, his body swaying twice.

Guan Wen was startled to realize the man had only a left arm—his right arm disappeared at the shoulder.

Come in, don’t mind what’s happening over there. Caidan Dajie turned and walked inside.

Guan Wen followed, and the first thing he saw was the huge tree rooted at the center of the courtyard. The roots split naturally into two, like human legs, and at a height of two men, the trunk joined again, growing skyward. Thus, a natural tree hollow was left in the middle, about two meters wide, three meters deep, and just over three meters tall.

Looking through the tree hollow, one saw the ancient house where Master Shu lived. None of its wooden door or windows was intact, all broken and scattered, like a small ruin.

Come here, Caidan Dajie paused inside the tree hollow.

Guan Wen smelled the strong scent of rotten wood, as well as a mix of smells drifting through the air: incense, butter, bird droppings, dead leaves… If not for Basang Jiangcuo and Caidan Dajie’s guidance, even if he passed the entrance, he might never have thought to turn inside.

Entering the tree hollow, the light abruptly dimmed and he felt a slight discomfort.

I’ve actually been waiting for you…waiting for many years. I thought I wouldn’t meet you in this cycle… But by chance, you finally appeared—it’s truly… the most worthy cause for celebration! Don’t you think so? Isn’t it? Caidan Dajie’s tone changed, already old and low, now weaker and more engrossed, like a sick man speaking, needing to pause every few words for breath.

Master, forgive my candor, but I do not know why you summoned me here. If you have something to say, please speak directly, Guan Wen said.

Caidan Dajie stood motionless, the contrast between the tree hollow and the outside so stark that Guan Wen could only see his silhouette, not his face.

This is your final home, have you forgotten? Caidan Dajie said.

Guan Wen shook his head, indicating he neither understood nor agreed.

Caidan Dajie suddenly recited a passage in Tibetan, some twenty lines.

Guan Wen’s Tibetan was mediocre; he closed his eyes and listened closely, barely patching together the meaning—it was the story of King Sivi sacrificing himself to save the dove.

I recited these sutras—do you recall anything? Caidan Dajie asked.

Guan Wen shook his head, replying frankly. Master, I don’t know what you’re speaking about. Master Shu summoned me with the wooden plaque—where is he?

He had assumed that Master Shu was in the house beyond the tree hollow, and that Caidan Dajie was testing him in the hollow.

I am right here, Caidan Dajie replied.

Guan Wen froze, his mind spinning several times before he realized: You… you are Master Shu?

At this moment, he understood Master Shu was merely the title outsiders gave to the owner of the courtyard. Since the owner was a Tibetan Buddhist monk, he must have a real name. So Caidan Dajie was Master Shu—the two names referred to one person.

Of course I am. But you’re mistaken about another matter—I am me, he is he, we are entirely different persons. There should have been twelve people here; now… only ten remain, one position is his… the other is yours, Caidan Dajie continued.

Guan Wen was confused. You are you? He is he? Then who are you? Where are you?

I am here, hahaha, I have always been here. Caidan Dajie laughed.