Mingmei Yip - Song of the Silk Road

He picked up the ceramic teacup and noisily sipped his tea before he spoke again. “Fortunately, as monks, we don’t have to deal with families.”

After that, Floating Cloud asked Pure Wisdom to prepare two kerosene lamps. He cast his disciple a commanding look. “Now you stay here and meditate.” Then he turned to me. “Let’s go, Miss Chen.” He extended his hand in a gesture of invitation; I noticed that one of his wrists was wrapped with several strands of amber prayer beads. Each gem, sparkling and lustrous, seemed to beckon me to uncover its little secret.

Floating Cloud led me around corners, then down steep stairs where, after a seemingly endless descent, we finally arrived at a narrow corridor. While I strived to keep up with the monk’s brisk steps, my heartbeat accelerated. Where was he taking me? A secret torture chamber? But I’d already stepped onto a path—or stairs—of no return. What could I do now? Rush back up to the temple, then dash down the mountain just to hit my head on a boulder and have my brains splashed like vomit?

As these thoughts were running through my head, we arrived at a small antechamber with paintings on the stone walls. In the flickering lamplight, I could see the bulging eyes of a fierce guardian, his hair raised as if he was being electrocuted. On the other wall, even more intimidating, another angry god brandished a huge sword to ward off invisible, evil forces.

My temples pounded and cold sweat broke out under my arms and down my back. I felt as if I was about to have a panic attack. There was not a single book in sight! Had the monk lured me here for some evil purpose?

Just then Floating Cloud muttered something unintelligible, touched the third eye of the electrocuted god, and gave it a gentle push. To my astonishment, a door swung open to another room—or another dimension.

He motioned for me to go in.

I hesitated, but he walked inside, putting down one lamp on a table while still holding the other in his mala-bead-wrapped hand.

The other “dimension,” now lit up by the two kerosene lamps, revealed walls covered with wooden shelves. Filling the shelves were books, manuscripts, and embroidered boxes.

Mesmerized, my feet pulled me inside as a “Wah!” shot out between my lips. A slight bitter smell of old paper mixed with the fragrance of residual incense penetrated my nostrils.

As the monk walked around the room, his lamp cast shafts of light on the books and boxes, which seemed to stare back at us with suspicious eyes.

“How many books are stored here?” I asked, my fear subsiding slightly as I saw this was indeed a library.

Floating Cloud stared hard at me, his tone chiding. “It’s never the quantity but the quality that counts. I’m very proud to say that we own a few of the orphaned sutras here.”

“What do you mean…”

“These are the only copies in China, indeed, in the whole world.” Pulling out one manuscript he declared, “This one is worth hundreds of thousands.”

When I reached out to touch it, the monk caught my hand in midair, his grasp light but extremely powerful. A pained “Ouuuch!” escaped from my mouth.

Floating Cloud’s expression turned cold. “No outsider may touch anything here. Every single item is priceless. You’re lucky I even let you in here.”

“I’m so sorry, Master,” I said, while noticing that a red welt had already made its impression on my wrist. Floating Cloud must be a master of internal kung fu, like those legendary Shaolin monks.

He set the manuscript down on a table and unrolled it slowly so I could have a good look. As the writing revealed itself, I sensed something peculiar about the vibrations rolling out from the document. Instinctively, I leaned back a little as the monk gave me a disapproving look.

The worn, yellowed paper was covered with neat calligraphy written in the regular style. The title of the work was Diamond Sutra. I’d vaguely heard of this sutra before, but I had no idea if it had anything to do with diamonds—the kind that is forever and supposed to be a woman’s best friend.

I didn’t want to reveal my ignorance by asking how diamonds have anything to do with sutras, so I came up with the banal “It’s beautiful, and the calligraphy so elegant.”

“Can you tell what it was written in?” the monk asked, or challenged, me.

“Chinese ink,” I said. What else? It was such an obvious question.

“Look more carefully, Miss Chen.”

When I scrutinized very carefully, the writing appeared to be in a very dark shade of reddish brown. “Some kind of red Chinese ink?” I asked, feeling another wave of odd vibrations from the manuscript.

“No, not ink.” He paused for effect. “It’s blood.”

The mystery of the vibration was suddenly revealed. Blood . Slowly a chill crept up my spine. What was I doing in this secret chamber inside a creepy temple on a remote mountain in China with a monk who collected manuscripts written in blood?!

I looked up to stare at his face, now eerie under the flickering light. “Animal blood?”

The monk let out a hearty laugh. “You’re probably too young to have heard about this.”

A polite way to say that I was downright ignorant.

He caressed the yellowish paper. Was that made of skin, animal—or human? And whose blood? Was he or she murdered? Committed suicide? But I was too agitated to tell if the vibration was from a bitter ghost or an appeased one.

The monk spoke again, his words clear and heavy as if etched on stone. “Almost a thousand years ago, a high monk needled his finger and used his own blood to write the entire Diamond Sutra. Because the high monk sacrificed his own blood, this manuscript is a living spirit possessing magical power to bless, protect, heal. Or, if need be, sold on the art market for a huge sum of money.”

After the explanation, my frightened nerves calmed down a few notches. “Very impressive,” I said.

“Using one’s own blood shows complete sincerity and devotion. The longer the sutra, the more blood will be used, and thus the greater the proof of the monk’s faith. Sometimes they even compete to write the longest sutra.”

To compete for something spiritual? And to sell the manuscript in the art market for a high price? Did Floating Cloud realize how un-Buddhist this sounded?

With great care and attention, the monk put the scroll back into its box and returned it to the shelf. After that, he turned to me. “Miss Chen, you said you got lost and that’s why you ended up at our temple. But the Buddha taught us that everything that happens to us is the result of karma. Losing your way was just an excuse.”

My heart skipped a beat upon hearing this. But I quickly realized that it was not that he saw through to the real purpose of my visit but because Buddhists believe all things happen for a reason, even if we do not know what that reason is. That’s what he meant by “an excuse.”

“So it’s heaven’s will that I show you our treasures here,” Floating Cloud said, then took down another box, which was embroidered with abstract red and gold patterns. He opened it and peeled off layers of silk to reveal a small, gold Buddha statue.

Even though I am not an art connoisseur, I could tell this was an exquisite piece. The shape of the metal was very precise, yet fluid, as if the sculptor had been carving for many lifetimes. However, the metal was eggshell thin, so as to minimize the amount of gold needed.

As if able to read my mind, Floating Cloud said, “It’s not the gold that makes this Buddha valuable, but what’s inside.”

“What is it?”

With a gentle push of the monk’s finger on the lotus base, a tiny drawer slid open. Inside were small crystals in white, green, yellow, red, orange, purple. As I was dazzled by the crystals’ colorful glitter, I felt waves of compassionate energy radiating through me.