For Lianjie, the day began at dawn. Dawn had become his favorite and most faithful companion ever since he heard his master's lesson on the symbolism of light and darkness during one of his sleepless nights—a torment that frequently drained his strength once he turned fourteen. It was then that he discovered the world within him at odds with everything outside, and nights became a nightmare. His overthinking chased sleep from his eyelids; the night stretched on endlessly like a punishment, and he found no answers to the questions he pondered with eyes wide open in the dark. He would slip out onto the monastery courtyard and gaze at the stars. That was when time itself began to terrify him. As the perpetual darkness gave way to deep indigo, and over Songshan the fiery disk of the sun—sharp as a blazing torch—rose into the sky, he felt a sorrow for all the time slipping through our fingers when we do not know where we are headed. This natural turning point from night to day, from darkness to light, was like a rainbow forming after a storm. It offered hope for happiness and good fortune. It suggested that a bad thought or a dark curse could be reversed. From that moment on, he never missed the sun's climb above the curtain of night. It was his sole consolation in restless thought. After darkness came light; that could not be a bad omen. In the rising sun he saw the only reason to venture out into the world. If nature could be so consistent and exact, then so could he. One dawn, his master sat beside him and asked what Lianjie feared so deeply. The boy did not yet know. But he learned the answer when his master told them of the life force of a single flame.
Although he couldn't see Songshan from the steps above the arena, the fiery torch in the sky rose here just as it did above Shaolin. Night was beginning to turn indigo, and from among the fruit trees of the palace orchard there crept the mist left over from the storm of the previous evening and the bitterly cold night. It drifted slowly, its droplets wetting every blade of grass around the arena. Though trees and buildings wrapped in its haze looked uncanny in the half-darkness, for some reason they did not inspire fear. There was in them a kind of beauty that one must learn to see… eventually… someday…
A light breeze stirred the leaves and the silk banners fastened to the slender pagodas surrounding the arena. Lianjie listened to the whisper of the wind. He believed it could carry the voice of the past. They say that without knowledge of the past, we cannot understand the present. Lianjie increasingly felt that without understanding the reality we are forced to inhabit, we cannot learn much of what came before. Thus, each day as he watched the rising sun, he wondered whether this promise of a new beginning might erase old wrongs and rouse people from their slumber.
As soon as the first golden rays began to pierce the clouds and the thick bands of mist—now like gray water flooding the arena—he stood and started down the steps. On the final tread, he paused and closed his eyes, feeling the emerging light beneath his lids. When a dark crimson seeped in, he opened them. Above the palace orchard shone a fiery star, pushing aside clouds and the last vestiges of night. The golden light spilled over the ground and drove back the misty vapors that curled at his calves.
He usually began his day with meditation, however brief. But today, since his mind was so calm and clear that he could think of everything with perfect clarity and impartiality, he devoted all his energy to precision. It was precision and self-control that made him fearless in combat. Instead of meditating in the temple, he went straight to the arena to practice the art of Taijiquan with intense focus.
The vigilance and serenity with which he always approached his two great loves—self-cultivation and combat—could without doubt be called an art. He was like an artist painting on the canvas of pure air, his message carried into the world without words or colors. The wind listened to him every day, never complaining, and none of his movements carried malice. Lightness, grace, and humility marked him even in Shaolin. Here, too, during practice, he was often watched with covetous eyes. Observers tracked each of his movements, hoping to acquire for themselves the same charisma and elegance that came so naturally to him. No one knew the secret of the effortless fluidity in everything he did. Some attributed it to the extremity of his meditation. Others said it was simply down to practice—after all, the boy had spent his entire life training, dedicating his early childhood to discipline and hard work, and was now reaping the well-deserved harvest. Yet others claimed that mastery was reserved for the chosen few—that those without innate talent could never attain perfection.
Whispered rumors, however, were less gracious than the polite compliments spoken aloud, for no one wished to appear jealous or inferior, nor offend the emperor by speaking ill of Lianjie. Public praise was merely a veneer hiding the reptilian tongues beneath. In the corridors, they increasingly mocked his vows of silence, insisting it was a smokescreen—that the boy must be mute or crippled, or perhaps a fugitive criminal whose tongue was cut out upon arrival for insulting the emperor. This last rumor spread most vehemently in the palace gossip, where hundreds of fanciful tales circulated about how disgracefully Lianjie had slighted the ruler. They belittled him for his aloofness, for his pride, and for looking down on everyone at court. Outrage churned in the hearts of those who ridiculed him, for from their wild imaginations sprang nothing but phantasms they could never verify at the source. For a time, bets were even placed on who could provoke Lianjie into speaking or daring to raise his hand against anyone at court.
Though there were as many would-be provocateurs as there were wagers, true opportunities to push him to the limit were almost nonexistent. Soldiers during drills sometimes dared to test him, but a single, dagger-sharp glance from his cool eyes would drain the garrison of all its merriment. They felt as though he had placed a curse upon them: once every smile vanished, the exercises became unbearable. Carelessness, wounds, bruises, and all manner of injuries followed in far greater measure.
Courtiers' cooks, laundresses, and serving girls also tried their luck—sometimes egged on by bets, sometimes driven by curiosity. Many hearts at court beat faster for him, for alongside his captivating air of mystery he possessed a rare beauty. His physique was symmetrical and athletically sculpted; he stood nearly a head taller than the emperor himself. The life of the palace spared him the drudgery that wore down the rest of the servants, so he always appeared with a well-rested face and smooth, unblemished skin. His high cheekbones and full lips were delicate enough that the emperor's chief general joked one day that, with the right gown, he could be disguised as one of the emperor's sisters in a strategic marriage, and no one would suspect a thing. The emperor laughed it off, saying only a wig would be needed—for no girl shaves her head like a Shaolin monk.
Lianjie's eyes remained unforgettable to anyone who met him. At first glance, they could send a shiver down one's spine; but if you dared to look deeper, you would see the keen intelligence of youth—a soul desperate to break free into the world but somehow unable to do so. And it was this very reserve that shielded him from overly familiar flirtations, silly smiles, or accidental brushes of the hand. Everywhere he went, an unintentional chill clung to him like frost to the earth, commanding respect. He was never the target of a clumsy jest, a brash soldier's aggression, or a foolish coquette's advances. In this way, he inspired both the envy of men and the admiration of women.
Many ladies, caught up in their fascination, made it their honor—much like the emperor himself—to become the marvel for whom the youth would abandon his vow of silence and lay himself prostrate at their feet as the perfect husband. For a time, they lived with the sense of a sacred mission, convinced they possessed the power and charm to change him—until his stony expression made plain that not one of them had even an ounce of grace capable of enchanting him.
But there was one who vowed never to give up and bent on making him her husband—even if he had to be dragged to the altar by oxen. She was the emperor's youngest, still unmarried sister—Taimi. For at least a year, ever since she was granted a bit more freedom (her nurse sent away from her bedchamber), she had been slipping out whenever she pleased. Knowing of Lianjie's routines, she would run to the Pavilion of Whispering Trees at dawn to watch his meditations, and then follow him to the arena for his drills and exercises with the soldiers. The spell of first love seemed to possess her entirely. She began neglecting all her courtly duties—paying no heed to her lessons or responsibilities. Because of her dawn escapades under the temple, she slept through most of the day and collapsed, exhausted, after every meal. The emperor, worried by her constant fatigue, often sent for physicians. They all interpreted her condition through the stars and celestial omens, never suspecting the truth: the girl was simply sleep-deprived, chasing an elusive wind as if mad.
So, that morning she arrived at the temple at dawn but found it empty. Stealthily, she crept as close as she could to the steps and crouched behind a stone balustrade where she remained unseen. For the first time, she could watch him on the arena alone—unshielded by the buzzing ranks of warriors that usually hid him from view. That dawn granted her a true gift of fate, and her heart ached to fling aside reason, rush to him, and pour out all her passion, admiration, and devotion.
But fear was stronger than youthful ardor. Every girl who had tried to win his heart had painfully scratched herself against that iceberg of a boy. Yet Taimi deluded herself that, as the emperor's sister, she had a great advantage here—no subject would dare offend her, and whether he wanted to or not, he was her servant and should not refuse her affection. At least, he ought not.
Yet from what reached her ears via trusted ladies-in-waiting—who always overheard something in the corridors—it was clear that Lianjie held little regard for noble birth and cared for the emperor no more than any common man. Likewise, imperial favor meant very little to him. Lianjie never spent time in the emperor's presence except in the arena, when the sovereign came to review his army. He took his meals in his temple or in the small pavilion annexed to it—his private lodging at court. From the first day of his arrival, he had made the limits of his tolerance unmistakably clear, and the emperor had at last acquiesced.
Thus, for the first year, Taimi saw him only once a month at military ceremonies—when the emperor appointed a new general or inspected the troops and their arms. But that single encounter two years ago had fanned the spark she first felt into a flame that now blazed like a globe of fire. She sat behind the balustrade, watching his every movement.
Suddenly, a figure approached from the palace side. It was Minister Daoming, bearing a sealed scroll from the emperor. As soon as Lianjie broke the seal and began to read, the minister withdrew.
Lianjie rolled the parchment closed and, like a whirlwind, darted up the steps to his pavilion by the temple. There he yanked a jute travel sack and a water gourd from beneath his bed. He shed his training robes and washed off the sweat of exercise. Pulling on a rough linen tunic—despite the fact that he owned many fine garments sent by the emperor, all folded and untouched in a chest since his arrival—he sat at the window-side table and began to write in haste.
It appeared that he meant to dispatch a letter. No sooner had he finished and turned to the brazier where water simmered for tea than Taimi's hand—quiet as a fox—slipped through the window and snatched both scrolls: the one he had just written, and the one delivered by the emperor's minister. Lost in packing his travel bag with clothes, personal effects, and the neatly organized sheets of correspondence, he did not hear the soft click of Taimi's slippered foot crossing the threshold of his pavilion.
"So this is your gratitude to the Empire?" Taimi spat, standing in the doorway as she crushed the scrolls in her hand. "They've let you leave…" she hissed with hatred, squeezing the letters even tighter.
Lianjie met her with a motionless, icy stare. He took a slow step forward and held out his hand, silently demanding the scrolls back. She recoiled, pulling her arm behind her.
"I command you to answer me this instant! What does it mean?!"
He answered only with renewed silence, extending his hand again, and his eyes flared with genuine anger.
"Don't look at me like that! Mark my words!" she snapped, her tone imperious. "Why has my brother allowed you to return to Shaolin? Is this forever?"
Again, there was no reply. She abandoned her princessly restraint and screamed:"Speak when I ask! You won't? Fine then!" With that, she tore his letters to pieces in seconds.
Lianjie's brow tightened, his eyes narrowing. She had stormed into his home and destroyed his property—nothing he hated more than trampling his private space. He passed her and opened a large, red-lacquered chest on the dresser to the right of the door. From within he withdrew his Shaolin prayer beads, packed it into his sack, and went to the brazier to pour himself a cup of his favorite tea.
Taimi began to sob. Lianjie behaved as if he were alone—focused on his own affairs, indifferent and unmoved by everything else. The princess could hardly believe that not even an imperial command could coerce him into breaking the vow he had sworn to himself. It was admirable only as long as one could observe it at a distance; but now that it was to vanish forever, all her awe evaporated like steam from a whistle. The mystery remained unsolved, and it had to depart in freedom. She could neither comprehend nor accept that.
"Don't go! Please! Don't leave! You can't!" she cried, grabbing his tunic sleeve just before he crossed the threshold.
Lianjie swiftly freed his arm and drew his brows together threateningly as he looked down at her.
"Can't you see? Can't you see what you mean to me? You do not speak it, but you see it, you hear it. You have known for a long time that I come here every day. Every dawn I wake only to look at you. You could have everything here. You could stand above the ministers, above everyone at court—yes, even above my brother, if… if you would marry me," she said more softly now than at the start of her tirade, "I love you, Lianjie. I love you like a torch loves a flame, like a parched field loves water. I sleep through days and suffer through every night, because you will not even deign to look at me!" she forced the words out with difficulty, then burst into loud sobs.
It seemed, however, that her drama achieved nothing, because Lianjie listened to her confessions just as indifferently as he had indifferently torn his sleeve from her sudden grip. Neither tears nor impassioned words made the slightest impression. There was no force strong enough to bind him to the court when he had a choice and he chose return to his roots. He did not utter a single word, did not blink an eye, his lips remaining utterly motionless. He turned and descended the steps.
Taimi made one last desperate lunge for his tunic but tripped on the threshold and fell onto the stone floor around the temple. She lay helpless at the top of the steps, watching Lianjie fade from her life as he vanished down the garden path toward the palace's main courtyard. Only her loud sobbing echoed among the stone pagodas surrounding the arena, lingering long across its empty, dawn-lit plaza. The girl had never imagined such humiliation. She had quietly hoped that, deep down, Lianjie could be gentle and tender. But he proved himself a total fossil, devoid of respect for anyone.
Clenching her fists, she rose from the cold stone and, until he disappeared from view down the garden avenue, stood hurling glares of pure hatred after him, the light breeze drying her tears.
— You will regret this! I swear you will regret it! — she hissed to herself before storming back into his pavilion.
She gathered all the torn fragments of his letters from the floor and ran to her own chambers. Immediately, she set to reassembling them, curious to discover to whom Lianjie had been writing.
In the throne hall the monks were already assembled. The eldest was still bowing to the emperor, giving thanks for their equipment on the journey to Henan. Imperial attendants had provided the monks with four pack horses laden with water, food, and a small sum of money in case the caprices of the Yellow River forced a change of route and required hiring local guides. With a somewhat wistful expression, the emperor approached Lianjie and said:
— I return to you what was taken away. And though I remain indebted to you, I dare to request one final task of the utmost importance to me. Until it is completed, remember that I reserve the right to summon you back to court should public affairs demand it.
Lianjie bowed his head low, indicating his understanding of the emperor's promise and its conditions. The emperor nodded to his minister, who approached on a golden tray bearing a single scroll. The emperor took it and handed it to Lianjie.
— Fulfill this last request, and you will be free, — he said, gripping Lianjie's forearm as though bidding farewell to a dear friend.
The monks set out long before breakfast, as the sky glowed unusually golden and a gentle breeze whispered through the cypress groves guiding their journey. It was a four-day journey from Changan to Dengfeng.
That very evening, after crossing out of Shaanxi and reaching the first village without an imperial checkpoint or standing militia garrison, they saw that the empire lay in chaos, the arm of the law was short, and the people suffered with no one to defend them. In early Tang times, the nomads from the north had stood with their rulers and the Khitan tribes often aided the Tang in campaign, but in recent months more and more of their warbands had been raiding neighboring provinces.
The village where the monks made their first stop was no stranger to bandits and roving cutthroats; many nearby settlements shared its fate. The most wretched were those without fortifications, administrative centers, or any troops. It was safer to rest and sleep by day and travel by night to avoid ambushes. As soon as the monks paused, they were surrounded by desperate villagers, hands outstretched, begging for anything—just enough to feed their children a scrap. The monks watched with both sorrow and anger. Their hearts burned at the thought of such suffering. There were still many such places, and they were but a drop in an ocean of despair... just powerless.
They looked upon the people staggering through the narrow alleyways—dirty, weary, and searching for food or a place to sleep. If time had not pressed them, they would have stayed for a few days to help with fishing, hunting, gathering forest fruits, and restoring the supplies recently looted by roaming bandits. And if need be, they would have given those brigands a proper beating with their staves. But the High Master of the Shaolin Temple, now fading away, did not have days to spare. So they gave away more than half of what the emperor had provided for their journey, and at dawn, they set out once more.
On the third day, they crossed the border into Henan Province. It wasn't until they set foot on their own land that they finally felt more at ease. By evening, they reached Luoyang. Stripped of the supplies they had taken from Chang'an, they immediately headed to a tavern in the city center to make use of the emperor's readies and buy a meal. There weren't many patrons inside, which made entering all the more relieving. About half the tables were occupied, so there was no need to desperately search for a place to sit as if for a needle in a haystack.
However, the sight of Buddhist monks didn't inspire sympathy everywhere. Although Emperor Wuzong's persecution of Buddhism had come to an end, the arrival of monks was still often associated with trouble. Many who had taken part in the persecutions had kept their hatred alive, considering Buddhism—as Du Yu once called it—"a foreign invention incompatible with the Chinese spirit." Besides the soldiers sent by Wuzong to destroy monasteries, there had been no shortage of self-proclaimed warlords who raided such places purely for loot or to stir up trouble. That attitude had not faded. Worse still, following the rhetoric of some of Wuzong's loyalists, monks were often accused of being sectarians, conspirators against the empire, and engaging in all manner of subversive activities.
A particular group gathered around two tables by the windows at the far end of the tavern scowled fiercely at the sight of the monks. But it was Lianjie who drew their attention most. Though his head was shaved, he didn't look much like a monk. His white tunic was faded to gray and torn in several places. They quickly pegged him as some unruly agitator and decided to teach him a lesson. They began hurling offensive remarks about Buddhism, then escalated to mockery and outright insults toward the monks themselves.
The monks, however, refused to be provoked. They waited patiently for someone from the staff to approach.
"Hey, you bald jugs! Get out of here!" shouted the burliest of the group by the window, his long braid dangling down to his waist.
In response, the rest of his gang pulled off their caps, revealing half-shaved heads that mirrored his exactly. It became clear he was the leader of the bunch. The monks immediately suspected that this was one of the nomadic bands that had roamed the countryside since Emperor Wuzong's death in 846. It was easy to imagine them responsible for the many villages attacked in Henan. As for the thugs, seeing Lianjie among the monks made them misjudge the group; they didn't connect them with Shaolin, instead mistaking them for traveling strangers from another province.
They couldn't have known either that, during Wuzong's purges, Shaolin had been honored by a visit from one of his ministers and generals, who bowed before a stone stele dating back to the year 728. Upon that stele was carved an inscription commemorating the role of the Thirteen from Henan in one of the early military campaigns of the Tang dynasty, beside which lay, proudly displayed, a letter of gratitude from Li Shimin himself. While all the surrounding temples were being looted, burned, even demolished, and monks were being forcibly returned to secular life, Shaolin remained the only temple untouched by the terror unleashed against Buddhism.
The protective umbrella cast by the fame of the Battle of Hulao and the imperial grant of the estate in the Cypress Valley had endured for over two hundred years. The legend of the Thirteen from Henan wrapped Shaolin like armor, shielding the temple through all the storms, upheavals, thunderclaps, and the tempests of rebel self-proclaimed warlords and civil wars.
When the innkeeper stepped out from the back, he immediately glanced anxiously toward the monks. Then toward the ruffians by the windows, who were already making it clear with their glares that he'd better not dare approach the Buddhists. Pinned to the counter by their heavy stares, he didn't so much as flinch. It looked like no one would serve the monks, and they'd be forced to leave hungry.
But someone there still had both courage and compassion. Bursting from the back like a dove, the innkeeper's ten-year-old daughter flew over with two jugs of water and set them down on the monks' table. She then turned quickly to the counter and picked up seven cups.
"Leave those cups alone, Ting!" barked the nomads' leader.
"Shut up, An, and stop bothering me while I work!" she called out fiercely, placing the cups on the table. "What would you like to eat?" she asked, smiling sweetly.
The monks looked at her with fatherly pride and gentle indulgence. They were just about to reply when the leader shoved his chair back with a crash and rose. He stormed toward them in a fury, grabbed Ting by the braid, and flung her backwards so hard she didn't stop until she hit the counter behind her.
Her father rushed toward the thug at once and pleaded:
"Please, not here! If you want to tear each other apart, go outside and fight there!" the innkeeper begged.
But all he received in return was a punch to the face that knocked him to the floor instantly. Ting rushed to her father, who lay writhing on the ground, his lip split and bleeding profusely. In response, the nomad swept the jugs of water off the table with a single swipe of his arm.
The monks looked at one another, but not one of them reacted to the aggression. Enraged by the lack of response to his "heroics," the thug began shouting threats again:
"I told you, you bald-headed crocks, to get out of here! Don't you understand?! I can see from your eyes that you do. But this one here, what is he—your idiot, is that it?" he said with a stupid laugh, standing over Lianjie with arms crossed as his companions chuckled with delight at the scene.
"What are you, cripple? Servant?" he jeered, examining Lianjie as if he were livestock at a market.
With his eyes fixed on the table, hands folded before him, and robes worn from a long journey, Lianjie did indeed look more like a servant than a companion.
"Leave, and don't chase after what does not seek you," said the Elder Monk, meeting his eyes with unwavering calm.
"You're the ones chasing what wants nothing to do with you. Instead of staying in your snake dens, you roam the cities. And in those robes, and leafless chumps like fools. You could've at least changed. Like this one here, the shoeshiner," he sneered, giving Lianjie a shove in the shoulder. His gang burst out laughing.
"You halfwit, do you even understand what I'm saying?" he asked, leaning in to peer at Lianjie's face.
"Where are you taking the corpse? Your servant looks dead. Guess he got so scared of us he just dropped dead right here at the table," he mocked, as his gang howled with laughter again.
Lianjie truly did look dead. His eyes were open, staring at a point between his clasped hands, but his chest did not rise or fall—he seemed frozen, as if he had simply stopped breathing. The brute even hesitated for a moment, doubting what he was seeing. Could it be possible for a man to separate himself from his body and just... drift away?
But the wonder quickly gave way to fury. The thug decided it must be some monastery trick, and that this mute was making a fool of him. Straightening up, he reached to grab Lianjie by the scruff of the neck—only for Lianjie to suddenly snap out of his trance. In the blink of an eye, he was behind his attacker, twisting his arm with such force that the crack of bone echoed throughout the tavern.
A scream of pain tore through the air, followed by howling.
The thug's companions immediately sprang to their feet. All four rushed toward the bar and threw themselves at Lianjie. The first tried to catch him off guard with a flurry of weak, clumsy punches, but Lianjie read his movements easily and sent him crashing to the floor. The remaining three engaged in hand-to-hand combat with varying degrees of success before resorting to improvised weapons.
Lianjie found himself fending off attacks with a chair, a water jug, a ladle from the stew pot, a thick candle, and a bottle of wine. His speed and power made it instantly clear that he was no servant nor casual companion of the Shaolin monks.
He ended the fight with the graceful form of the Small Luohan, maintaining perfect balance to the last motion. The display of skill and technique left the thugs with little choice but to flee. Barely conscious, they dragged their leader from the floor and stumbled out as fast as they could.
Ting rushed over to their table, excitement in her voice:
"That was amazing! A total rout! A kick! A punch! Bam! Down he went! That forward lunge and the crane form—whoosh! What a beautiful style! Not a single mistake! I've done some training, but I could never move like that!" she exclaimed, eyes wide with awe as she looked at Lianjie.
"Sifu, teach me that pure style!" she cried, falling to her knees with hands clasped. "Don't say no! Please! I'll do anything! I can go two nights without food or water under your pagoda until you take me in as your disciple—or even three nights if you throw me just a single pear!"
She spoke while kneeling, her head bowed low. The monks watched her with amused expressions, and Lianjie sighed heavily. Still, the girl had such a lively spark in her that it was impossible to refuse her.
"Who taught you, child?" asked the Eldest Monk.
"Our local master. Mister Qi. But you're not just passing through, are you? You're monks from Shaolin, aren't you?" she asked, her wide eyes fixed on the Eldest Monk.
"And what makes you think that?" he asked in return.
"Only you can perform the Five Animal Forms like true masters. You must be from Shaolin!"
"Then perhaps you can tell us what's good to eat around here, and we'll tell you how to get to the temple," said the Eldest Monk, smiling indulgently.
The girl quickly remembered everything they wanted and hurried to have it prepared as fast as she could. After the meal, the monks confirmed her suspicion and admitted they were indeed on their way home—to Dengfeng. The Eldest Monk promised to help her, provided her father agreed to send her to the temple.
No such promise was made, but Ting pestered her father so relentlessly that he finally threw her into the back room and ordered her to peel vegetables until nightfall. Despite the lack of a clear answer from her father, the girl remained full of hope that one day, she would make it to the hidden peaks of Songshan.
4o
Nieobdarzony naturalnym uzdolnieniem nie stworzy doskonałości. --- mysl autora na koniec