General Changning — Chapter 12
Outside the valley, Fan Jing and his men waited. When Jiang Hanyuan emerged, they stepped forward. “The wedding envoy has arrived—Palace Attendant He Cong.”
That office was usually held by those serving within the palace: close attendants of the emperor, trusted advisors, often companions in travel. Such men were invariably confidants or members of the imperial clan.
“Do we leave now?” Jiang Hanyuan asked.
“From Yanmen, if we march with the main convoy, traveling by day and resting by night, it will take more than a month to reach the capital. And even the journey from here to Yanmen takes several days. He Shilang says the wedding date was chosen by the Grand Astrologer, a most auspicious day, so it would be best…” He trailed off.
Jiang Hangyuan nodded. “I understand.” She turned her gaze northwest.
Fan Jing followed her eyes. There stood a mountain, weathered by a thousand years of wind, its cliffs riddled with caves like a honeycomb, inscriptions carved upon its face. At dusk, the rock lay bathed in orange light, glowing in the slanting rays of the sun.
“You return to the city first. Tomorrow we’ll meet and depart together.”
Fan Jing glanced once more at the cliff glowing in the sunset, seemed to grasp something, but said nothing. He only cast a complex look at the lady general, then turned away with his men.
The last light slipped from the mountain peak. Darkness fell. Crows circled the barren rocks, cawing harshly. At the foot of the mountain, a rough stone path wound upward to a cave carved long ago by some forgotten ascetic.
Outside the cave, a father and son from the city bowed in gratitude to a man before them.
It was a young monk, clad in coarse hemp, with straw sandals on his feet. Thin and hollow-cheeked, his eyes shone all the brighter. Smiling, he pressed his palms together in return. The son, clutching herbs, supported his father down the path, hurrying to reach the city before nightfall. Seeing Jiang Hangyuan nearby, they recognized her and bowed quickly. She inclined her head, signaling no need for ceremony.
The monk watched them depart, then turned back toward the cave. Just as he was about to enter, he sensed something, hesitated, and looked back.
Jiang Hanyuan stood at the foot of the stone steps, dusk closing around her. She smiled faintly and began to climb. “Wusheng, I have come again,” she said.
The monk named Wusheng regarded her, smiled, and pressed his palms together. “This humble monk has awaited the general for some time.”
This solitary monk of the cliff cave carried a hidden past. He was born a prince of a fallen dynasty, the youngest son of its last emperor, gifted and precocious. At six, his kingdom was destroyed by the Great Wei. He survived by chance, entered the Buddhist order, and became the disciple of a great master from India. He severed worldly ties, took the name Wusheng—“Unborn, Undying.”
Years later, his master passed away. Though still young, Wusheng had inherited the full mantle of learning, was fluent in Sanskrit, and was renowned for his depth. Chang’an’s Huguo Temple sought him to preside over teachings, but he refused, choosing instead the path of ascetic wandering, braving wind and sand, journeying west.
Three years ago, returning east with scriptures, he was attacked by Di raiders. His companions were slain; spared as a monk, he was abused. At the brink of death, Jiang Hanyuan descended upon them with her soldiers, rescuing him. He remained here, in the cave carved by some forgotten hand, continuing his practice and translating scriptures. Skilled in medicine as well as texts, he tended the sick who came, never refusing. He even set aside a corner of the cave for herbs he gathered and prepared. Thus, three years passed.
Inside, the furnishings were unchanged: herbs, a desk, a lamp, brush and ink, a stone couch with a thin hemp quilt, and an old wicker chest. Outside, a simple fire pit with sacks of grain.
This was all—bare essentials for survival. Only the scriptures piled neatly, spotless, showed his devotion.
Jiang Hanyuan had once tried to send supplies, but Wusheng declined. He lived simply, fasting for days in meditation. He laughed, saying the food brought by grateful townsfolk was enough.
Now he sat cross-legged at his desk, translating by lamplight. Hangyuan leaned at the cave mouth, watching the last glow fade from the snowy peak. Darkness swallowed her.
“Wusheng, do you know? I am to be married,” she said suddenly.
His brush paused, a drop of ink falling. He looked up at her silhouette, then lowered his head, continuing his work. The ink blot vanished beneath his writing.
“Is that so?” he replied.
“Yes. I met him once, when I was thirteen. He was young then, and smiled often. Wusheng, have you seen the lake rippling under the wind from the snow mountain? That is what his smile was like.”
The monk paused again, thoughtful. “This humble monk has not seen such a sight,” he said quietly.
“You should go see it someday. The lake is truly beautiful. Of course, he must have long forgotten that he ever saw me. In truth, even I would have forgotten—if not for his proposal to my father this time. After all, how could anyone keep remembering such trivial matters from so long ago, don’t you think?”
“The General speaks rightly,” Wusheng replied. Behind her, he kept his head bent over the scriptures, the lamplight flickering faintly.
“Wusheng, do you know why he wishes to marry me?” Her voice drifted again.
“He must have his reasons,” the monk answered.
“Yes. He sees the world as a chessboard, with grand designs and vast ambitions. I am but one of his pieces. Yet I am willing to be his vanguard, to serve him wholeheartedly. Do you know why?”
The monk paused once more, thoughtful. “Whatever the reason, he is a fortunate man,” he said at last.
Her silhouette seemed to smile at those words.
“Wusheng, your heart is a lamp of wisdom, and you are usually right. But this time, you are wrong. He has paid dearly—losing the love of his life. How can that be called fortune?”
“To gain what one seeks is itself a blessing,” Wusheng replied.
She laughed softly again, moved by his words. “I had thought to confront him, for I could not accept what I did not desire. But when I saw him, I changed my mind. He is so ruthless, so unyielding. A man like him, to reach his goal, could sever desire, split mountains, cleave seas. And do you know? I was persuaded. His will became mine. So I changed my mind—”
She stopped, laughing once more, this time at herself. “Enough. I’ve spoken too much today. You wouldn’t understand. Your world is too far from the dust of men. You were born different—lofty, compassionate. Your mission is to spread the Dharma, to save all beings, to become a great one like the Buddha himself, worshiped by the world. I should not burden you with these things, disturbing your peace.”
“You may. Whatever you wish to say, you may say,” came his calm reply.
Jiang Hanyuan turned, seeing his shadow in the dim lamplight, head still bowed, writing as he spoke. She watched a moment, then glanced around the barren cave, shaking her head. “Sometimes I don’t understand why you stay here, in such desolation.”
He raised his head slowly, meeting her gaze across the gloom. “This is my practice,” he said. “Translating the scriptures is my life’s duty. With brush and ink, whether in paradise or wilderness, it is the same.”
He set down his pen. “General, I can recite for you. Would you like to hear?”
She had once said his chanting was beautiful. Though she did not understand the words, she loved the sound.
Jiang Hanyuan nodded. “I would.”
“Then I shall recite this scripture on the path of rebirth in heaven. The Buddha spoke of ten great treatises, to vanquish demons and false doctrines, to shatter all afflictions as diamond shatters stone, to cut through every obstacle.”
Amid the faint scent of herbs and Wusheng’s steady, tranquil chanting, Hangyuan leaned against the cave mouth, slowly closing her eyes.
He continued until she slept deeply. Then he rose, took the thin hemp quilt from the stone couch, and gently laid it over her shoulders. Returning, he sat cross-legged on a stone platform nearby, eyes closed in meditation.
The night passed. At dawn, when the first sunlight touched the cliff outside, he opened his eyes.
The cave mouth was empty. The figure who had listened to his chanting was gone. The quilt he had placed over her was folded neatly back upon the couch. She had slept peacefully, waking at the fifth watch before dawn, and left quietly. Wusheng, clear in mind, watched her departure without a word.
No farewell was needed. If one day she wished again to hear his voice, she would return. And if one day she found another voice to lull her into peace, she would not return. Then, he could also leave this place. His practice would be complete.