Song Mountain and the Ink Society (2)
“You rascal, Mu-won! Skipping your martial arts training again to loaf around here?”
The thunderous scolding crashed down like lightning. A young monk, lounging on a broad rock under the warm sunlight and enjoying a nap, suddenly had a staff come down on his head.
Thwack!
“Ow!”
Clutching his head, the young monk scrambled to his feet. There stood an elderly monk with eyebrows and beard as white as snow, his age impossible to guess. Those eyebrows hung so long they nearly reached his shoulders—man or monster?
“You brat.”
As if sensing the irreverent thought, the old monk's staff thumped Mu-won's head again.
Gripping his scalp against the stinging pain, Mu-won grumbled, “That hurts, Master. It hurts.”
“Amitabha.”
The old monk's sigh was profound. Mu-won pouted up at him.
“What's the point of learning something I can't even use?”
“You insolent pup!”
Mu-won flinched at the old monk's bellow, which seemed to shake the mountains. His master was a scholarly monk who hadn't learned a single martial form, yet his roars carried the force of an army. Mu-won figured the rumors were true—that he'd once served in the military before entering the Buddhist path.
“Making twisted thoughts again, eh? I can hear your eyes rolling.”
“No, I'm not.”
“Trying to fool this old monk, are you?”
Thwack.
The old monk lifted his staff and cracked Mu-won on the head. He was uncanny like that—always spotting whenever Mu-won harbored other ideas.
Tsk-tsking, Elder Baekmi gazed at Mu-won.
“How long do you intend to waste that talent of yours?”
“Those Guardian monks treat you like dirt, Master. You expect me to bow my head and crawl under them to learn?”
“Then what will you do? I'm a scholar-monk, not a warrior-monk.”
Baekmi eyed him steadily. Beneath those deeply sunken white brows, his gaze gleamed deep as the night sky.
“Rivalries between scholars and Guardians are nothing new. Especially since you're my successor, heir to the Lion Zen Hall. How long will the future master of that place cower away?”
Lion Zen Hall. Where Shaolin nurtured its rising stars—and the Guardians' stronghold. Shaolin's two pillars: the Guardians, warrior-monks, and the Precepts, scholar-monks. Baekmi was a scholar, yet also master of Lion Zen Hall.
“They ignore you, Master. 'We can't heed a mere scholar,' they say. Even those thick-headed Guardians wouldn't dare defy the Abbot's decree like this...”
“Since when have you cared about such things?”
Baekmi's words pierced Mu-won's heart. He'd despised scholar-monks since his novice days, before his head had even been shaved.
It wasn't wrong.
“Master!”
“I know, you fool.”
The old monk chuckled heartily and settled onto the broad rock.
“Even as a scholar-monk, I'm still a Shaolin monk. It's only natural for hot-blooded youths practicing the Buddha's path to get swept up in worldly desires, craving fame in the jianghu. That's the mortal realm for you.”
“You're talking nonsense again, Master.”
“Locked in these mountains at that vigorous age, grinding away at martial arts, keeping precepts, living in stifling routine—it's no wonder. Take you, for instance.”
Mu-won fell silent. Baekmi smiled.
“'No learning without action, no action without learning.' Straight from that Wudang Sword Hero you all love so much. Martial arts are learning, and learning is application. How long will a pillar of Shaolin shun training and hole up like this?”
“I...”
“It's been over ten years since those from headquarters formed the Bright Kings Society. If you truly seek freedom, go find them.”
“Abandon Shaolin?”
“What's to stop you?”
Baekmi's booming laughter echoed.
“If Shaolin lives in your heart, that's enough. Even if you join the Bright Kings or somewhere else, as long as your mind is Shaolin's, you're one of us. That's all.”
“Master.”
“We have a guest today. The one you all adore.”
“A... person? Teacher Su-gyeong?!”
The old monk nodded.
“He's probably meeting the Abbot right now.”
Mount Song, the Central Peak. Hailed as one of the Five Great Mountains alongside West Peak Huashan, South Peak Hengshan, East Peak Taishan, and North Peak Hengshan—the birthplace of swordsmanship. But even more renowned as the cradle of Shaolin.
Ascending the mountain path, travelers behold the majestic stone pagodas piercing the distant clouds. Dozens, hundreds of them, towers honoring countless eminent monks, gazing down upon all who enter. That grove was called the Pagoda Forest.
“The Abbot awaits.”
Crossing the gate into Shaolin—the world's foremost sect, symbol of its pride—a monk greeted Baek Su-gyeong's group and led them to the Abbot's quarters.
Baek Su-gyeong walked with a weary face.
“Did the Abbot already know we'd come?”
“Elder Law-sang gave advance word, making it possible.”
The chuckling monk had snow-white brows too. Not ancient, but middle-aged. His dharma name was O-neung.
“Can't even grow old properly, stuck running errands. Like an old pig just eating slop. To avoid the hassle, I do the chores. Amitabha, Amitabha.”
O-neung—Awakened Ability. Pointing to Zhu Bajie.
Namgung Som-in sent a transmission with a startled look.
—One of the Three Pilgrims, Teacher. Excluding Tripitaka, his three disciples.
Curiosity stirred, but he suppressed it and followed O-neung. The path to the Abbot's quarters wound through swaying green bamboo groves rustling in the breeze.
O-neung's amused voice drifted back.
“The air's so fresh, isn't it? The Clear Void Grove's bamboo helps the young ones in many ways. Shoots to harvest, air to purify. A gift from the One Bamboo Hermit.”
Baek Su-gyeong was at a loss for words. Shaolin—he'd only heard tales, never set foot in the real jianghu Shaolin.
“The One Bamboo Hermit... you mean Grand Hero Hong Jun, the Heaven-Ford Beggar?”
Namgung Som-in asked in his stead.
“That's right. All of us growing old together. Amitabha.”
“Then this is the Beggars' Sect's Dragon Bamboo...”
O-neung just smiled, saying nothing more. That was answer enough.
Dragon Bamboo, Beggars' Sect—clearly, Baek Su-gyeong knew little of the current jianghu. He clicked his tongue inwardly.
At this rate, I'll need to tour the Central Plains for every book I write.
He felt anew how different this world was from his memories.
Hong Jun, though. A descendant of Hong Qi-gong, Beggars' Sect leader who created Storm Clouds of a Thousand Peaks?
Climbing the stairs, a modest hermitage welcomed them. Baek Su-gyeong didn't know it, but this was Dragon Bamboo Hermitage, the Abbot's residence.
“Abbot Martial Uncle. I've brought the guests.”
The door swung open before any shadow appeared.
A voice came from within: “Let them enter.”
“This way.”
Following O-neung into Dragon Bamboo Hermitage. Surrounded by the green bamboo Namgung Som-in called Dragon Bamboo. A zen room barely a zhang—three meters—square. That's why Shaolin's abbots were called Fangzhang, "One Zhang."
Dragon Bamboo was renovated for guests, but held a one-zhang inner sanctum. There sat Shaolin's current Abbot.
Small and unassuming. An old monk who looked utterly unmartial raised his head to Baek Su-gyeong.
“Amitabha. I've heard from Law-sang. Welcome to Shaolin, Teacher Su-gyeong. Sit. You too, young lady of Namgung. O-neung, stand guard outside. No one comes up. We discuss shameful matters.”
“Yes, Abbot Martial Uncle.”
As O-neung left and Baek Su-gyeong with Namgung Som-in sat, the old monk spoke.
“I am Musang. This worthless old thing leads Shaolin today.”
“Abbot Musang.”
“Heh, a doddering fool not yet dead.”
Musang smiled faintly.
“Wish I could offer fine tea, but I don't indulge. Wild leaf tea suit you?”
“Fine by us.”
Musang raised a hand. Teacups and pot floated from empty air as if serving guests. Pre-boiled before their arrival, steam rose warmly as two cups settled before them. All without human touch.
Seeing what he'd only written about, Baek Su-gyeong lost his words momentarily.
“Object Seizure from Afar...”
“Heh, useless trick. No help serving Buddha. The young ones don't grasp that.”
Musang continued.
“You know Shaolin clashes with the Bright Kings Society. Outwardly solid as rock, but inside split, brawling factions. Makes me think Buddha sent you, Teacher Su-gyeong.”
“Hardly.”
“Ruling the Central Plains with words is no easy feat. Especially when warriors revere it.”
He chuckled softly, gazing into his cup.
“Warrior-scholar strife isn't new, but since Wudang Sword Hero, the warriors have grown bolder. Guardians and Precepts at odds as ever.”
“Heavy talk.”
“And the talented one we took in won't train at all. Burns my gut.”
“Pillar material?”
To Baek Su-gyeong's question—talent to uphold Shaolin—Musang laughed.
“A great roc in the making.”
“That high hopes. Then Law-sang asking you to visit...”
“Hoped you'd meet that blockhead. Heh. Amitabha.”
“I know nothing of martial arts.”
“A few golden words might sway him?”
Baek Su-gyeong felt the weight of Musang's expectant gaze. Wudang Sword Hero succeeded, true. But he wasn't a master, nor tied to martial arts' first letter. Basic self-defense, maybe.
“You think too highly of me. I'm not that person.”
Baek Su-gyeong said it straight. No escaping now he'd come this far.
“But if such a person's words are needed, I'll meet him.”