Cangmang Asks the Way 1: Guardian of the Lamp

It was another early morning. The family sat around the table eating breakfast. Su Yumei brought out freshly baked pancakes, their steam rising gently in the morning light. Tianci ate half a pancake and put down his chopsticks.

"Dad, Mom, I want to go see Eagle Cliff."

Su Yumei put down her chopsticks and said, "I'll go with you."

Tianci smiled and said, "Mom, please don't treat me like a patient. I remember you came there with me. I'm sorry to have worried you." His voice lowered: "This time I want to go alone. I want to see the thatched cottage. I miss my master." He lowered his head and took a bite of the pancake in his hand, hiding the soreness in his eyes.

Cang Zhenye put down his bowl of porridge and said, "Go. Although Mr. Chen is no longer here, his thatched cottage still stands. Your going there is also a way of paying your respects to him."

Tianci nodded.

Lin Wanqing kept her head down, eating her porridge. Then she put down her bowl, stood up with her cane, walked to the cupboard, and took out an enamel mug—the one Su Yumei usually used to pack lunch for Cang Zhenye. She opened the lid, scooped in a few spoonfuls of porridge, added some pickled vegetables on top, closed the lid, found a plastic bag, carefully wrapped and tied it tightly, and put it into a cloth bag. She placed the cloth bag on the table and whispered, "Tianci, I heard it's very far, over mountains and valleys. You definitely won't make it back for lunch, so take this with you."

After saying that, she sat back down, picked up the bowl, and continued drinking her porridge.

Cang Zhenye and Su Yumei exchanged a glance and smiled knowingly.

Tianci looked at the cloth bag and felt a surge of warmth in his heart. He stood up, put the bag into his satchel, and said, "Wanqing, thank you."

Lin Wanqing didn't look up, but simply gave a soft "hmm".

Two hours later, Tianci stood on Eagle Cliff.

The morning light shone from the east, illuminating the thatched hut. It was still the same thatched hut, its earthen walls weathered, its thatched roof ruffled by the wind. There was no light in the windows, and the door was ajar.

He pushed open the door. The thatched hut was just as it had been. The low table was still there, the rough earthenware cup on it covered with a thin layer of dust. The meditation cushion where his master usually sat was empty, sunlight streaming in through the window and falling on it, like a quiet person sitting there. The hardboard bed in the corner was still there, the bedding had been taken away, leaving only the bare bed board.

He sat down on the bed. The pocket watch ticked on his chest, tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock. He looked around, examining everything—the low table, the ceramic cup, the cushion, the window opening, the hay hanging from the rafters. He looked slowly, as if trying to etch these images back into his bones.

He lay down. The bed was hard, pressing against his back, just like before. He closed his eyes. His master's voice and smile appeared before him—his master's fingers pressing on his wrist, guiding the energy through the Chonglou acupoint; his master holding his hand, moving it point by point on the acupoint chart; his master sitting on the futon, eyes closed in meditation, the mountain breeze blowing in through the window, ruffling the white hair at his temples. "If only Master were here," he thought, "he could definitely help me out of this predicament."

He fell asleep.

In my dream, my master sat on a futon, a rough earthenware cup in front of him emitting wisps of steam. A mountain breeze blew in through the window, ruffling my master's robes and stirring the steam in the cup. The steam dispersed and gathered in the wind, dispersed and gathered again, as if it had a life of its own.

The master's eyes were open, his gaze fixed on his face. That gaze was neither hurried nor slow, neither heavy nor light, like snow on a cliff, like moonlight over a thatched hut, like steam rising from a cup. It simply remained there.

"Master." Tianci knelt down. He wanted to speak—to say he was injured, that he had lost his memory, that he only had a single spider silk left in his dantian, that he couldn't remember anything from his textbooks. These words were stuck in his throat, completely blocked. He didn't speak. He just knelt there, head bowed, tears falling to the ground, drop by drop.

The master did not speak. The person on the futon watched him silently, as if watching a cloud drift across the cliff top.

After a long time, the master spoke.

"Foolish child. Do you know why you suffer?"

Tianci raised his head. His master's gaze remained unhurried. He opened his mouth, but couldn't answer.

"You are not suffering because of your body, nor because of your memories," the master's voice was very soft, like a mountain breeze passing through the cracks in a thatched hut. "You are suffering because of your attachments."

"Hold on?"

"Cling to your body." The master raised his hand, pointing to his dantian. "The qi in the dantian, when it gathers, exists; when it disperses, it disappears. Its existence and non-existence are both natural. You insist on having it. When it disappears, you suffer."

The master moved his hand up and pointed to his heart.

"Clinging to fame. Gold medals gather dust on the wall, certificates yellow in the corner. How long have you held onto those things? Did they ever truly hold you?"

The master pointed to his head.

"Clinging to memories. Memories are like clouds, gathering and scattering unpredictably. You insist on them gathering. When they scatter, you suffer."

The master lowered his hand and placed it back on his knee.

"You're clinging to emotions. If your master leaves, you suffer. But if your master stays, will you stop suffering?"

Tianci stood there, stunned. Every word his master spoke was like a needle, piercing the softest spot in his heart. It wasn't just pain, it was a penetrating piercing. Like a hole being chiseled in a frozen river, water gushing up from beneath.

"You've been rushing since you were little." The master's voice was slow, as if telling a story from long ago. "Rushing to learn to speak, rushing to practice skills, rushing to prove that you're not a stutterer, not a bad student, not a good-for-nothing. All that rushing made you run very fast. But as you ran, you lost your heart."

The master stopped. The mountain wind blew in through the window, making his clothes flutter.

"The paths you've followed are all paths drawn for you by others." The master's gaze fell on his face, a gaze without reproach, only understanding. "Your mother taught you to speak, and you rushed to learn. Your brother taught you to practice boxing, and you rushed to learn. The coach said your physique wasn't right, and you rushed even harder. You were afraid of letting them down. You carried everyone's expectations on your shoulders, and even when you couldn't carry it anymore, you kept carrying it."

The master sighed softly. The sigh was so light, as light as snow falling on snow.

Have you ever asked yourself—where are you going?

Tianci knelt there, tears streaming down his face.

"Your body is a tool. Your memory is a tool. Your fists, your mind, your honor—they are all tools." The master's voice, like the tolling of a bell from the depths of a mountain cliff, fell into his ears, word by word. "The real you is the heart. The heart is formless and without appearance, neither born nor dying, unmoving and unshaken, neither defiled nor pure, capable of generating all things. Those ropes, you tied them yourself. Those whips, you wielded them yourself."

Tianci looked down and saw that he was bound by ropes. The ropes cut into his chest, his wrists, and his ankles, densely packed, binding him like a cocoon. The other ends of the ropes extended outwards, holding gold medals, certificates of merit, open textbooks, a boy standing on a ring, hands writing under the lamp, and a pocket watch hanging around his neck.

He saw himself carrying these ropes for a long time. From Xiqiao Village to Ji County, from Ji County to Nancheng, from Nancheng to the arena. With each step, the ropes tightened. He couldn't breathe. He kept panting, but he didn't stop.

"These ropes—" Master's voice came from above, "you tied them yourself."

Tianci raised his head, his voice hoarse: "Master, what... what should I do?"

"Loosen your grip!" The master's voice sharpened as he shouted, "I'm not telling you to cut it off, I'm telling you to loosen it!"

"Loosen up..." he murmured to himself.

In a flash, he understood.

Loosening isn't cutting off. Cutting off is hatred, it's escaping, it's digging those things out of your heart. Loosening is letting go, it's no longer gripping tightly, it's no longer using these ropes to bind yourself. His mother taught him to speak, not to rush him on his journey, but to teach him to call her "Mother." His elder brother taught him martial arts, not to rush him on his journey, but to teach him to protect. His master taught him the Hidden Dragon Technique, not to rush him on his journey, but to calm the fire in his heart. Lin Wanqing walked into Xiqiao Village with her cane, not to rush him on his journey, but to let him know—someone was willing to walk with him.

These are not ropes. He twisted them into ropes himself.

He knelt there, watching the ropes loosen one by one. Not broken, but loosened. The ropes were still there, but they no longer dug into his flesh. The gold medal was still there, the certificates were still there, the textbooks were still there, the pocket watch was still there. But he no longer carried them on his back. He carried them with him.

The master stood up from the futon. A mountain breeze blew in, ruffling his robes and stirring the last wisp of steam in his cup.

"Foolish child. You fell off a cliff at seven months old, and heaven and earth saved you. You couldn't speak at three years old, and your mother taught you. You fell in the ring, and your family waited for you. You thought you were on your own journey. In fact, you have always been nurtured by heaven and earth and protected by your loved ones. You have never been alone. You have never needed to be alone."

The master turned around and walked towards the door. The mountain wind blurred his silhouette, making him look like a cloud.

"Do not be attached, do not be greedy, and do not let idle sorrows arise in your heart." The master chanted softly as he walked out of the thatched hut.

The sound didn't enter through the ears; it surged from the depths of the heart, like well water seeping from the ground, like morning light spreading across a mountain ridge, like the ticking of a pocket watch piercing through the air.

Tianci knelt on the spot, watching his master's back disappear into the mountain breeze, into the morning light, and into every floating speck of dust in the thatched hut.

"Master!"

He yelled and sat up.

The thatched hut was empty. Sunlight still shone on the futon, and the rough earthenware cup on the low table was covered in dust, with a small ring of water remaining at the bottom, reflecting the faint light filtering in from the window. The pocket watch ticked on his chest. Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock.

He sat on the edge of the bed, panting heavily. The voice from his dream still echoed in his ears, a voice neither hurried nor slow, neither loud nor soft. He felt that the voice didn't come from outside, but flowed from his heart. It had always been there, only previously covered by those ropes.

The master's physical body is gone. But the master remains. The master is in the ticking of the pocket watch, in the dust of the thatched hut, in the mantra of "continuous existence," in the admonition of "holding the needle is holding the heart." He holds the pocket watch in his hand, against his heart. The fine scratches on the watch case are rough on his palm.

Master said, "Relax."

He opened his hand. The pocket watch lay in his palm, its ticking sound filtering through his fingers. It wasn't in a hurry to go, and neither was he. He suddenly remembered what his master had said earlier—"The paths you've followed are all paths drawn for you by others. Have you ever asked yourself, where are you going?"

He lowered his head, looking at his hands. They were still there, cool, but with a slight warmth in his palms. He clenched his fists, his knuckles making a very soft crack. He would walk his own path. Not one drawn by others, but his own. His dantian was empty; no rush, he could nurture it again. His memories were fading; no rush, he could learn again. He remembered his master's words: "This body is not the real you; it is merely a tool you use to experience this world. The real you is your heart." He had previously been fixated on the body—its strength, its speed, its memories, its health. Now he understood: the body is a tool, the heart is the master. A broken tool can be repaired, faded memories can be learned again. As long as the light of the heart remains lit, everything can be rebuilt from the ruins of the body.

He suddenly remembered a line from the *Tao Te Ching*: "My greatest affliction is that I have a body. If I had no body, what affliction would I have?" He hadn't understood before, thinking "no body" meant abandoning the body. Now he understood—"no body" means non-attachment. It means not taking the body as "me," no longer driving it with a whip. The body gets tired, gets hurt, and forgets things. It's not the enemy, it's a partner. When it's tired, he waits for it; when it forgets, he accompanies it to learn again. There's no rush.

He rose from the edge of the bed, walked to the meditation cushion where his master usually sat, and knelt down. He respectfully placed his hands on the cushion and pressed his forehead against it. A thin layer of dust settled on the cushion, clinging to his forehead. He kowtowed. Then he straightened up and looked at the cushion. The cushion was empty, sunlight falling upon it. He knew that the person who used to sit on that cushion was no longer there. But he also knew that the person was still there.

He stood up and pushed open the door of the thatched hut. A mountain breeze rushed towards him. The cliff face of Eagle Cliff gleamed with a bluish-gray light in the morning sun. In the distance were layers upon layers of mountains, with white clouds drifting along their ridgelines. He slung his satchel over his shoulder and strode towards the path leading down the mountain.

It was already afternoon when she got home. Lin Wanqing sat at her desk, her math textbook open in front of her. Hearing the gate open, she looked up and saw him walk in. His steps were lighter than when he left in the morning.

"You're back," she said.

"Hmm." He walked over to her, sat down at the desk, opened the math textbook, and flipped to the geometry problem he'd gotten stuck on that morning. He stared at the figure for a few seconds. Auxiliary lines. Midline. Similar triangles. He picked up a pen and drew an auxiliary line on the scratch paper.

"The guideline is wrong," Lin Wanqing said. He erased it and drew another one. She looked at the new guideline and nodded: "This one is right."

Tianci stared at the line on the draft paper; the handwriting trembled slightly, but the direction was correct. Sunlight streamed in through the window, falling on the desk and the backs of their hands. A pocket watch ticked on his chest. Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock.

He picked up his pen and began calculating the next step.