Cangmang Asks the Way 1: Guardian of the Lamp

Su Yumei couldn't stop her tears, clinging tightly to Tianci's hand. Cang Zhenye released his embrace and stood aside, watching the mother and son, his lips trembling.

After a long while, Su Yumei finally let go of his hand, glanced at Tianci again, and said, "Tianci, you just woke up, you must be very tired. Go to bed early tonight, okay?"

Tianci wanted to say he wasn't tired, but he couldn't bear to go against his mother's good intentions, so he nodded obediently.

Su Yumei then turned to Lin Wanqing and said gratefully, "Wanqing, thank you! You must be tired after a long day, you should get some sleep too."

"Auntie, don't be so polite. This is all I should do. Tianci has helped me a lot before." Lin Wanqing stood up and replied softly.

"Zhenye, give the flashlight to Wanqing and tell her to go and rest early," Su Yumei instructed Cang Zhenye.

Cang Zhenye handed the flashlight to Lin Wanqing. Lin Wanqing, holding the flashlight, slowly walked into Cang Xiaohua's room, leaning on her cane.

Cang Zhenye and Su Yumei watched the two children go into their respective rooms, and then they returned to their own rooms.

Tianci took an oil lamp and went to his bedroom. He placed the lamp on the cabinet, then sat on the edge of the bed, lost in thought. He was still agitated, his thoughts churning. He couldn't sleep.

Tick-tock...tick-tock...the sound of the pocket watch on his chest reached his ears. He raised his hand and took the pocket watch off his chest, holding it in his palm. The fine scratches on the watch case pressed against his palm. The ticking sound came from his palm, very soft, like water seeping from a very far place.

He turned the pocket watch over. On the back of the watch was engraved a very small word—"Wait".

That was carved by his master. Before, he didn't know what it meant. To be more precise, before he only knew the surface meaning. Now he truly understands the meaning of the word, and he truly understands the good intentions behind his master's carving it.

He remembered Eagle Cliff. His master sat in the thatched hut, the rough earthenware cup in front of him reflecting the snow outside the window. At that time, he didn't understand why his master was never in a hurry. His legs trembled with pain, and beads of sweat rolled down his forehead, but his master remained unhurried, pressing his fingers on his acupoints with just the right amount of pressure, like spring rain seeping into the soil.

The master said, "If it is continuous and everlasting, it will not be used infrequently."

He didn't understand back then. He just wanted to be faster, even faster. To master the Hidden Dragon Technique faster, to learn the Finger Profound Hand faster, to stand up faster, to become stronger faster, to shut up those who looked down on him. He was always rushing. From Xiqiao Village to Ji County, from Ji County to Nancheng, from the junior class to the arena. He rushed for too long, rushed too hard, turning himself into a dried-up well.

He pressed the pocket watch to his ear. Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock.

The sound was unhurried. It was never in a hurry. It moved along, step by step, from the master's wrist to his chest. It never rushed, but it never stopped.

He suddenly remembered springtime in Xiqiao Village. He was still a child then, squatting by the courtyard wall watching ants move their nest. The ants carried things several times their own size, inching along. He would squat beside them, watching, for an entire afternoon. The ants were never in a hurry, but they always managed to get it. He didn't remember if the ant colony ever finished moving; he only remembered the feeling of squatting in the sun, his shadow slowly shifting from east to west. Back then, he didn't know what "waiting" meant; he was simply watching.

Later, he grew up and started rushing. Rushing through homework, training, competitions, rushing to become stronger, rushing to prove himself. He no longer squatted down to watch the ants. He had no time. He spent all his time rushing, forgetting to ask himself—where are you going?

"Wait," he murmured.

The master waited for him. The master sat in the thatched hut on Eagle Cliff, waiting for a young man to kneel before him. He waited for twenty years. When the young man finally arrived, the master passed on all his knowledge to him, and then said, "Your worldly ties are severed. In two months, you will pass away peacefully." The master waited his whole life, not for his own enlightenment, but to pass on the torch.

His mother waited for him. He couldn't speak, and his mother waited. She taught him again and again, for three years, until he finally uttered that one word, "Mother." He could speak, but he stuttered terribly, and his mother waited. She firmly believed that one day his tongue would be as straight as anyone else's. This time, he was injured and lost his memory, and his mother waited for over sixty days. He believed that even if he never remembered, his mother would wait forever.

Lin Wanqing waited too. Leaning on her crutch, she took the bus from the county town to Xiqiao Village, stood outside the courtyard threshold, and laboriously lifted her foot. She didn't know if he would recognize her, but she had come. She stayed, leading him every day across the pond, across the threshing ground, to the old locust tree. She squatted by the pond, splashing water on him; she puffed out her cheeks, blowing away dandelions; she leaned back, mimicking a horse stance. She wasn't in a hurry. She simply led him along each day, again and again.

They are all waiting. Not waiting for an outcome, but waiting for a flower to bloom. A flower needs time to bloom; it needs sunshine, it needs rain, it needs a whole winter of dormancy. You can't pry it open, you can't rush it. You can only wait. Wait for spring to come, wait for the ice and snow to melt, wait for it to sprout from the soil on its own.

He suddenly understood.

He used to be always "doing." Practicing martial arts was for it, fighting in the ring was for it, studying hard to get first place was also for it. He was doing it, always doing it, desperately doing it. But he didn't know what he was doing it for. He was doing it to prove himself, to not disappoint his family and teachers, to shut up those who called him a "stutterer." All his "doings" were for others.

What is the master's "purpose"? The master sat in the thatched hut, teaching him to feel bones and find the path, teaching him the Dragon-Hibernating Technique, teaching him that holding a needle is holding one's heart. The master's "purpose" is to pass on knowledge. The mother held his hand, teaching him to write the character "人" (person) stroke by stroke. The mother's "purpose" is to protect. Lin Wanqing walked into Xiqiao Village with her cane. Her "purpose" is to safeguard.

Their "actions" are not about desperate struggle, but about adapting. Like a stream flowing down a mountainside, like a locust tree growing towards the sun, like ants carrying their loads and inching forward. They don't rush, but they never stop.

He remembered the Tao Te Ching that his master had made him memorize. He knew those sentences by heart, but he had never truly understood them.

"By acting without acting, nothing will be left undone."

He used to think that "wuwei" (non-action) meant doing nothing. Now he knew it wasn't. "Wuwei" meant not forcing things, not acting recklessly, and not going against the laws of nature. His mother's "wuwei" was holding her son's hand every day, without asking when he would wake up. That was yielding. His master's "wuwei" was sitting in the thatched hut, waiting for a young man to kneel before him. That was yielding. Lin Wanqing's "wuwei" was leading him across the pond every day, without asking if he remembered. That was yielding.

Their actions follow the light in their hearts. They are not in a hurry, nor rushing, but they never stop. Like the ticking of a pocket watch, one tick at a time, they never ask how much longer it will take.

He hung the pocket watch back around his neck. Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock. The sound pierced the night, settling steadily in his ears. He listened to it like someone who had walked for a long time in the snow, suddenly hearing a fire being started in the distance. The fire was far away, not yet reaching him. But he knew it was there. He was no longer in a hurry.

He crossed his legs, placed his hands on his knees, pressed his tongue against the roof of his mouth, and closed his eyes. The Hidden Dragon Technique. The Turtle Breath Contains True Essence.

He wasn't in a hurry to find his breath. He simply sat there, listening to his own breathing. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. He listened to the sound like a traveler standing on a dry riverbed, bending down and pressing his ear to the cracked earth, trying to hear if there was water deep underground.

A long time. So long that even the chirping of insects outside the window had faded.

He heard it. Not breath, but a faint, almost imperceptible warmth. Not in the dantian, but deeper—below the navel, at the mingmen point, in the crevices of the bones. Like a trickle of water seeping from the very bottom of a frozen riverbed. The familiar soreness and swelling in his old right knee injury had vanished, replaced by a warm, relaxed sensation, like frozen earth slowly thawing under the spring sun.

He didn't try to ignite it, nor did he try to push it with his mind. He simply guarded it. Like guarding a dying ember in the snow, he dared not even breathe too heavily.

That warmth didn't fade. Nor did it grow stronger. It simply remained there, faint and elusive, like a spider's thread swaying in the wind.

He used to be impatient. He would use his mind to urge it on, to guide it to his dantian, to those blocked meridians, trying to use this spider silk to pry open the entire frozen river. Now he's not impatient. He knows that spider silk isn't for prying. Spider silk is for waiting. Waiting for it to thicken on its own, waiting for it to extend on its own, waiting for it to find another spider silk and connect them together. There's nothing he can do. He can only guard it, not letting the wind break it.

He readjusted his breathing. Inhaling, gently, he guided the air to the depths where the spider silk resided. Exhaling, softly, he let the air linger there for a moment, then slowly disperse. Not exhaling, but dispersing. Dispersing into the cracks in his bones, dispersing into those parched riverbeds. Not irrigating, but soaking.

He sat there all night.

He opened his eyes as the first sliver of gray light pierced through the window. The spiderweb was still there. It hadn't thickened, but it hadn't broken either. He looked down at his hands. His hands were still cold, but his palms had a tiny warmth. Very faint, like a sliver of sunlight falling on snow, about to be scattered by the wind. But it had fallen.

He held the pocket watch to his ear. Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock. The sound pierced through the morning light and settled steadily in his ears.

He stood up and pushed open the door.

Lin Wanqing was already in the kitchen. The firelight illuminated her face, making it appear red. She heard the door open, looked up, and glanced at him. He didn't speak, but squatted down to add firewood with her.

The firelight flickered, casting the shadows of the two people on the wall, one bright and one dark, overlapping each other.

"Wanqing," he called out.

Her hand paused for a moment.

"Thank you."

She didn't look up, but simply stuffed another piece of firewood into the stove. The fire flickered.

"No need to thank me," she replied softly.

The two squatted in front of the stove, neither of them speaking. The fire in the stove was still burning, crackling and popping.

Outside the window, the morning light is peeking through the clouds, falling on the courtyard wall, the branches of the old locust tree, and the windowsill of the kitchen. The ray of light on the horizon is slowly brightening.

The pocket watch ticked on Tianci's chest. Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock.

The voice wasn't in a hurry. It was never in a hurry.