At the end of the stone steps, the clouds began to draw back.

The three of them turned past a grove of ancient pines, and the world before them suddenly opened wide.

There stood a mountain gate of blue-gray stone, rising solemnly between two sheer cliffs that faced each other like a natural portal. The gate itself was not grand in size, yet it possessed a stillness made only deeper by a thousand years of wind and rain. Above the stone entrance were carved three ancient seal-script characters:

South Heavenly Gate.

Weathered by time, the strokes had grown faintly rounded. Fine green moss had crept into the cracks of the stone, like ink marks left behind by the passing years.

Zhao Youlan slowly stopped and lifted her head to look.

On either side of the lintel, a stone-carved couplet came into view:

If one listens only with the ear, one will never truly understand;
Only when the eye hears sound does knowing begin.

Ma Rende read it softly once, his brows drawing together.

“Mother, how can the eyes listen to sound?”

Zhao Youlan shook her head and smiled. “I do not understand it either. Every year when I come, I look at this couplet, and every time it seems different.”

Before her words had faded, a burst of light footsteps came from within the mountain gate.

Wrapping Up with Key Insights

 

A young novice monk of about eight or nine came running out.

He had a round face, clear brows, and handsome features. His gray monastic robe had been washed clean, and in his hand he still held a bamboo broom.

The moment he saw Zhao Youlan, his eyes curved like crescent moons.

“Benefactor Zhao! You have come!”

Zhao Youlan smiled as well.

“Little Huile, I have not seen you for a year, and you have grown quite a bit taller.”

Huile joined his palms and made a proper bow, though he could not quite hide the lively spirit of a child.

“The Master said early this morning that an old friend would come up the mountain today. I was wondering who it might be.”

Zhao Youlan was slightly startled.

“Master Jichan knew I was coming?”

Huile blinked and smiled without answering directly.

“The Master only said, ‘Today the mountain wind carries a guest.’”

At these words, all of them fell silent for a moment.

Ma Xinde, however, had already been drawn to the two stone lions before the gate. He ran round and round them, touching a stone paw one moment and patting the lion’s back the next.

Huile laughed and stepped forward.

“Little benefactor, be careful not to climb on it.”

“Why not?”

“It has guarded this mountain gate for more than three hundred years. It is older than all of us put together.”

Ma Xinde at once drew back his little hand and nodded solemnly.

“Then I should call it Grandfather.”

Everyone laughed.

Huile led the mother and her two sons through the mountain gate.

The instant they entered the monastery, the summer heat seemed to disappear.

The courtyards were built along the mountain slope, rising and falling with the terrain, yet without the slightest sense of disorder. Along the central axis stood the Mahavira Hall, solemn and dignified, with blue-tiled eaves sweeping upward and layers of bracketed beams beneath the roof. Before the hall stood an ancient bronze incense burner, as high as a grown person’s chest. Its surface bore the warm sheen polished by time. Several wisps of sandalwood smoke rose slowly from within, almost merging with the white clouds of the mountain.

The side halls to the left and right were hidden among ancient cypresses.

The eastern courtyard held a grove of bamboo, its green shadows swaying gracefully.

The western courtyard was filled with old plum trees, said to be several hundred years of age. Though it was not yet the season of blossoms, their gnarled branches twisted and coiled like sleeping gray dragons.

Most wondrous of all was what lay behind the temple.

A mountain spring descended from a sheer cliff. It did not fall with the thunder of a waterfall, but hung like a silver thread in the air, flowing slowly into a square lotus pond. In the pond, broad lotus leaves spread thickly across the water, and several golden carp drifted leisurely among them.

The spring water passed through a stone channel, circled once around the monastery, and only then flowed down into the valley.

Huile said softly, “Master often says that the temple was not built upon the mountain; rather, the mountain flows through the temple.”

Ma Rende’s heart gave a start.

He suddenly felt that this sentence held more meaning than the essays he had read in books.

They passed through a covered corridor and arrived at the rear hall.

There, only one great bodhi tree had been planted.

Its shade covered half the courtyard, and the ground was scattered with heart-shaped leaves. When the wind stirred them, there was no noise, only a fine rustling sound, as though someone were chanting scriptures in a low voice.

Beneath the tree, an old monk was quietly boiling tea.

His beard and brows were white. His face was thin and clear. The old monk’s robe upon him had been washed almost pale, and yet every patch had been sewn neatly and carefully. Sitting there, he was as steady as mountain stone, as if he and the bodhi tree had been born and grown old together.

Huile stepped forward and joined his palms.

“Master, Benefactor Zhao has arrived.”

The old monk slowly lifted his head.

His eyes were not sharp, yet they were so clear that they seemed to reflect the entire green mountain.

Zhao Youlan hurriedly joined her palms.

“Master Jichan, your disciple has come to fulfill her vow.”

Master Jichan nodded with a smile.

“This poor monk remembers.”

“Last year, Benefactor said that if your eldest son were admitted to the key high school, you would bring your children up the mountain to pay respects to the Buddha.”

Zhao Youlan presented her offering, her eyes faintly moist.

“By the compassion of the Buddha, the child did not disappoint us. At last, all that effort was not in vain.”

Jichan looked toward Ma Rende.

The young boy quickly stepped forward and bowed.

The old monk studied him for a moment. Yet he did not praise him for being intelligent, nor did he wish him a splendid future. He merely said in a calm voice:

“Study is for the sake of understanding principles or the answers to this world.”

“After one understands the principles, one must understand the mind.”

“After one understands the mind, one must still guard the mind.”

Ma Rende lowered his head and answered, “As your disciple, I will remember.”

Jichan then turned his gaze toward Ma Xinde, who was counting fallen leaves nearby.

The little fellow raised his head and gave him a bright, radiant smile.

The old monk smiled too.

“This child is rather like the wind in the mountains.”

Zhao Youlan smiled and asked, “Master, what do you mean by that?”

Jichan gently picked up a bodhi leaf that had just fallen and placed it in his palm.

“When the wind comes, everyone knows it.”

“But from where the wind comes, and to where it goes, no one can hold it.”

When he finished speaking, he loosened his palm softly.

The bodhi leaf did not drift away with the wind. Instead, it slowly fell beside the teacup at the center of the stone table, neither too far nor too near, exactly in place.

Jichan gazed at it for a moment, then suddenly gave a low sigh.

“All things in the mountain have their appointed hour of arrival.”

“Only…”

He did not go on. He merely raised his hand and invited them all to sit and drink tea.

In the courtyard, the wind remained light, the clouds pale. Bamboo shadows swayed, and the fragrance of tea gradually rose.

Only that bodhi leaf lying quietly beside the teacup somehow sent through Zhao Youlan’s heart a tremor she could not name, as though fate had long ago written a page of scripture no one could foresee, waiting only for time to turn it open.