Notes on Longevity

Chapter 103 Not a word from relatives and friends, only an old and sick man in a lonely boat.

"So that's it."

Ping An nodded upon hearing this, and the boatman remained silent afterward, only occasionally reciting a couple of lines of poetry:
"Fine grass and gentle breeze on the bank, a lone boat with its mast towering in the night."

"Not a word from relatives and friends, only an old and sick man in a lonely boat."

"."

"Master, we've arrived. Please be careful." The small boat slowly approached the shore amidst the boatman's chanting of poetry, and Ping An would also carry his basket ashore.

He looked at the familiar yet unfamiliar trees, a mix of excitement and sorrow welling up inside him. Several years ago, he and his master had parted ways in this very forest. Now, returning here, knowing he would soon see his master again, filled him with a complex array of emotions.

Carrying a not-too-heavy chest, he took his first step toward Penglai amidst the yellow leaves of the autumn equinox.

The small, dilapidated temple in the woods remains largely unchanged, just as it always has. If anything has changed, it's time.

Time has etched even deeper marks of age on it. The tree in the temple has stopped growing; so many years have passed, and not a single leaf has fallen to the ground. Even the offering table in the main hall and the platform holding the clay statues are spotless, as is the floor, which looks as if it has been swept clean.

A short while later, a wheelbarrow stopped outside the dilapidated temple. A figure stood with his back to the half-open temple door and put his hand inside the wheelbarrow as if he were taking something out.

From behind, he was quite tall and rather sturdy, dressed in coarse linen clothes. He struggled to lift a wooden bucket full of water from the cart.

He turned around and saw a somewhat rugged-looking young man with a stubble-covered face, though a hint of naiveté could still be seen in his clear eyes. He carried a bucket of water in one hand and a yellowed rag in the other as he entered the temple, then wiped the table and the clay statue platform again.

After he finished everything, he breathed a sigh of relief and looked towards the door, but he didn't seem to see what he was looking for. So he lowered his head and fiddled with the rag in his hand, feeling a little disappointed.

"Wasn't he supposed to be here today?" he murmured, though his voice was quite different from his appearance. He was sturdy and somewhat robust, but his voice sounded like that of a fifteen or sixteen-year-old boy.

The man's name is Yang Zifu. He is over forty years old, but his mind is like that of a child. Perhaps it is because of his mental disability that he looks like a young man.

"Brother Fu, let's go." A clear voice rang out from outside the door, sounding like a man in his thirties.

Upon hearing the voice, Yang Zifu replied, "Wait a minute, there's still someone who hasn't arrived."

"Who goes there?" The man's voice was full of doubt. He peeked out from the door, his eyes looking at him with confusion, and hesitated, "Weren't there only three of us when we went out? Where is anyone else?"

"No." Yang Zifu was getting anxious. He stamped his feet, his voice trembling with tears, and stammered, "He...he's coming."

"Him?" The man was even more confused. "What 'him'? Brother Fu, you're not thinking something again, are you?"

“No, no, no,” Yang Zifu would stutter when he was nervous or anxious, but the man thought he was being a bit silly, so he went inside and pulled him to leave.

Although Yang Zifu was mentally challenged, he was surprisingly strong. He shoved the man aside and stammered, "Yesterday...yesterday a...immortal told me...he...he's coming!"

As Yang Zifu finished speaking, his voice lowered, and he stared blankly at the temple gate, motionless.

The man nearly lost his balance after being pushed away by Yang Zifu. When he heard the word "immortal," he rolled his eyes, thinking, "He's just overthinking things again." He went back to Yang Zifu, trying to pull him outside, but he sensed something was wrong with Yang Zifu. He'd been so forceful, almost knocking him over, and making such a fuss, why was he suddenly so quiet? And his eyes were fixed on the doorway.

He followed Yang Zifu's gaze and saw nothing but the broken door that was opening and closing. Puzzled, he looked at Yang Zifu again and found him smiling.

The man shivered, looking at Yang Zifu with a hint of fear in his eyes. "Could it be a ghost?" he wondered. "And isn't it said that people with pure hearts are most likely to see evil spirits? Could it really be a ghost?" But then he thought again, "Where would a ghost come from in broad daylight?"
So, refusing to believe it, he walked to the other side of Yang Zifu and looked out the door again.

-

Ping An had been knocked unconscious by a fall a few years ago, so when he entered the woods, he relied entirely on his senses to find the dilapidated temple he had visited before.

After circling around several times, he finally spotted someone in the distance. He wanted to shout, but he couldn't bring himself to do it, as the person was too far away to hear him. So he quickened his pace and followed.

After walking for a short while, a dilapidated temple appeared in the distance. The man was standing with his back to him, tidying something up in front of a wheelbarrow, and soon he went into the temple.

As Ping An looked at the dilapidated temple, the scene from that snowy night in his memory reappeared in his mind.

"Master," he called softly, quickening his pace as he walked toward the dilapidated temple.

As he approached, he heard people talking inside, but he didn't rush in. Instead, he stopped in front of the wheelbarrow and stared blankly at the line of words on the wheelbarrow that were already quite blurry.

Although it was blurry, he could still see it clearly because he had carved those words.

Ping An looked confused on his young face, tilting his head. "Master, what words should I carve?"

The master lay on the wheelbarrow covered with hay, smiling as he looked at Ping An, "Look at you."

He said "Oh," and then took a knife and carved a line of small characters: Master, be safe, be safe, be safe, everything is safe.

As Ping An looked at the words he had once carved with his own hands, tears welled up in his eyes.

"Master, what's wrong?"

After seeing Ping An, the man and Yang Zifu came out together. Yang Zifu wanted to speak, but the man spoke first.

Ping An raised her head, her eyes brimming with tears as she looked at the two people in front of her. Her already melancholy face now looked even more melancholy, as if her heart had been broken.

"It's him," Yang Zifu said softly to the man after recognizing Ping An's raised face. He dared not speak loudly, afraid that his voice would frighten Ping An, who was already crying.

"What do you mean, it's him?" The man grumbled impatiently at Yang Zifu, then went to Ping An's side, carefully took out a thick handkerchief from his pocket, gently wiped Ping An's tears, and asked softly, "Daoist Master, why are you crying?"

Ping An remained silent, for the sorrow in his heart weighed on his throat, preventing him from speaking. Finally, he uttered a hoarse cry: "Master."

(End of this chapter)