Mountains and Rivers Bear Witness, Memories of Smoke and Fire Chapter Eighteen: That Mountain, That Scenery, That Person (Part Three)

On the second day, the group rose early and joined the merchants and travelers heading toward Mount Pingzhong.

“Did you know? Years ago, an important figure visited Mount Pingzhong,”

Nearby, a merchant began discussing the mountain with those around him, and Chen Zhiming and his companions listened in silence.

“What important figure?” another merchant asked.

“They say the lord of Three Cities and the second lord of Flower City once dueled here with their swords.”

“Everyone knows the lord of Three Cities admired the second lord of Flower City. They were a match made in heaven, but alas...” The man’s face grew wistful as he spoke.

“What was the pity?” someone asked.

“Few know the details; I only learned of it by chance recently. Let me tell you, but if anyone asks, don’t say it was from me.”

“Go on,” urged another, seeing everyone waiting for him to speak. Satisfied that he had piqued their interest, he continued:

“Ling Jie Feng, the lord of Sword Rain City, valued the sword above all else and was renowned for his aloof nature. Years ago, someone fought their way from the city gates to the lord’s residence, injuring many citizens and hundreds of guards, even wounding several of the lord’s disciples. At that time, the lord was in seclusion. That person reached the lord’s retreat but was struck down and left crippled by the lord in a single blow. After emerging from seclusion, the lord traveled far and wide, eventually meeting a woman of exceptional swordsmanship and beauty. The two were instantly drawn to each other, often competing with their swords. During this time, the woman confided that her brother had been crippled. The second lord wanted to help, claiming to know several skilled physicians and offered to examine her brother. Upon arriving in Flower City, he realized the woman was actually the second lord herself. When he met her brother, he immediately recognized him as the man he had crippled not long before, and her brother also recognized him at once. Learning that the person she loved was the one who had ruined her brother, the woman’s heart broke. Her brother, overwhelmed by anger, died within days, but before passing, he made his sister promise never to associate with the lord of Sword Rain City again. Though she agreed, her heart never forgot him. Thus, she came to Pingzhong Mountain’s Bodhi Temple to pray for him. By fate, Ling Jie Feng was there as well. The two didn’t speak; one danced with his sword at the mountain’s foot, the other on its peak, using the mountain’s leaves as their final farewell.”

“How tragic,” Gu Wen sighed, though young, she understood the story’s sorrow.

Chen Zhiming said nothing.

Soon, they arrived at the foot of Mount Pingzhong, the whole mountain ablaze with apricot gold.

“Wow, it’s beautiful,” Gu Wen and the little girl were speechless at the breathtaking scenery, and even Chen Zhiming couldn’t help but praise it.

At the foot of the mountain was a lake, its surface covered with apricot leaves, and a couple of white cranes stood on the shore. Merchants and travelers passing by would toss a bronze coin into the lake. Watching this, Gu Wen asked in confusion, “Why are they doing that?”

A nearby merchant noticed her question and replied, “Little one, this must be your first time here?”

“Yes, it is,” Gu Wen answered honestly.

The merchant nodded, “That explains it. Throwing coins into the lake is a gesture for blessings. The apricot trees covering the mountain are like gold—symbols of wealth. The lake here is the entrance, and the coin is like a key, representing the opening of the wealth gate. Together, for merchants, it means ‘prosperity year after year.’ For travelers, though, it has a different meaning.”

Gu Wen, curious, asked, “What’s the difference?”

The merchant explained, “For travelers, safety is most important. Throwing a coin into the lake is to wish for a smooth journey.”

“I see, thank you for explaining,” Gu Wen thanked the merchant and went to the lake’s edge. Copying the others, she tossed a bronze coin, pressed her palms together, and whispered, “Please, I hope Mother can forgive Father. I hope she can be happy. I hope Father is safe. I hope the three of us can be together again someday.”

Chen Zhiming brought the little girl to the lake as well. Watching Gu Wen pray sincerely, he found himself saying, “It will come true, it surely will.”

After a while, Gu Wen stood and smiled at the two behind her. “Let’s go.”

Following the mountain path upward, they found the scenery lovely, but the crowd immense, with all sorts of people.

After some time, they arrived at the gate of Zhongshan Temple. There stood a bald monk, sweeping fallen leaves at the entrance. No matter who passed—merchant, traveler, dignitary—they pressed their palms together respectfully.

When Chen Zhiming and his companions reached the temple, they mimicked the gesture. Suddenly, the monk said, “Amitabha, it’s your first visit, isn’t it?”

Gu Wen replied, “Wow, Master, you have sharp eyes. Yes, it’s our first time.”

The monk continued, “You should take your time, look around. The scenery here is beautiful. Though it’s like this every year, it never feels the same. Everyone’s heart is different. I see your hearts are pure now; this beauty is best appreciated at such a time.”

Chen Zhiming stepped forward and asked, “Master, such beauty is rare in the world, but the easiest things to attain are often least cherished. Zhongshan Temple opens only once a year—surely the abbot considered this. Since we’re here, we will take our time. But as you say, beauty isn’t always the same; everyone’s heart is different. If the heart is troubled or malicious, one’s view changes. You encourage us to see more because, as children, our hearts are unclouded. So the beauty is perfect now. If I may conjecture, forgive me if I offend.”

The monk looked at Chen Zhiming and nodded, “You are perceptive. But that’s only part of it. There’s another meaning. When you return someday, you will understand.” With that, he stepped aside.

Inside, a massive Bodhi tree met their eyes, likely centuries old, its trunk wrapped in red ribbons. Those faithful to love would tie a ribbon with their beloved’s name onto the trunk. Beyond the tree was a large incense burner, filled with incense sticks. Merchants and travelers would go to the main hall for three sticks. Past that was the main hall, where an enormous Buddha statue stood. Before it, some knelt—some drew lots, some prayed. Chen Zhiming found an empty spot and started drawing, while Gu Wen took the little girl wandering around.

Chen Zhiming dipped his brush, the sound of the wooden fish echoing softly, ink falling, and the world entering the painting. Those with attentive hearts noticed him and, intrigued, came closer. Once they saw, they could not look away.

His painting showed two girls—beautiful as flowers, pure as water; showed the devout worship before the Buddha; showed the powerful bowing for ambition, the influential for desire, the guilty seeking redemption, the innocent for blessings.

His painting captured the mountain’s apricot gold, the lake’s clear water, the monk at the gate.

Travelers paused to watch him, and in his painting, they became the travelers, each with their own story and their own seasons, bringing their tales here, worshipping their Buddha, finding peace for their hearts.

Some offered high prices for his artwork, but he refused, for he had brought little paper and didn’t know if he could finish the scenery; he couldn’t bear to sell.

The young man painted, amid the mist and rain of the world. Travelers shared stories of distant sights and experiences beside him. One began, then others followed, until a crowd gathered, eager to hear tales from every corner—mist and rain everywhere. No one expected a simple gesture to inspire Chen Zhiming would spark a gathering of stories from travelers across the land. Yet it allowed Chen Zhiming to learn more of the world: the grand Flower City festival, the Thousand Lanterns Festival, the misty river crossing in Gusu, the clear Lian River in Cloud Town, the ancient alleyways.

By evening, the crowds dispersed. Since they were young, Chen Zhiming and his companions stayed in the temple. He went to the main hall and saw again the monk who had stood at the gate.

The monk was very old, nearing a hundred. He still swept leaves, and Chen Zhiming asked how long he’d been a monk. The monk replied, “Decades.” Chen Zhiming asked why he took monastic vows, and the old monk said, “I have committed too many sins.”

The old monk had guarded the temple for decades. Chen Zhiming shared his thoughts, saying it was like drawing a prison around oneself, unable to escape the shackles one had forged. Better, he said, to go out into the world, walk a mile, do a mile’s good.

The old monk reflected on this.

The next day, Chen Zhiming did not see the old monk, but instead met the abbot, who thanked him, saying his words had awakened his junior, freeing him from the prison he had built for himself over the years.

Now, at last, his junior had stepped out of the temple where he’d lingered for decades, left the mountain behind.

Chen Zhiming asked the abbot where the old monk had gone.

The abbot replied, “The road is beneath our feet; no need to ask where, only to walk a mile and do a mile’s good.”

The abbot, seeing Chen Zhiming’s hands, guessed they belonged to a musician and gifted him a music score before his departure, saying it was a gift from a friend years ago, now passed on to Chen Zhiming so it would not be wasted. Chen Zhiming accepted, and while the abbot was distracted, donated incense money and left behind a painting—depicting the temple, mountain, water, tree, and an old monk sweeping leaves.