Chapter 175 — The Meditation Chamber

Thunder, lightning, fierce wind, torrential rain—it seemed they had been howling ceaselessly at his ear all along, and his mind was so muddled, so benumbed, that he could no longer tell who he even was. Only in the midst of searing pain did he feel gust after gust of wind and rain sweeping past him, bearing on toward some unknown place.

Someone seemed to be speaking beside him, a voice rather unfamiliar, carrying a note of anxiety; faintly he heard: "Something's wrong with him—look, quick!"

A cold hand moved over his body, probing, and after a moment a startled voice said: "How did he get hurt this badly?"

The other snapped angrily: "What do you think, he was under the Slaying Immortals sword—do you suppose..."

He did not catch what followed, for just then a wave of dizziness broke over his head and nearly knocked him senseless; through the haze he could only vaguely sense that the sky was still rumbling, peal after peal of thunder.

The one beside him seemed startled and hurried to examine him; the chill of that hand cleared his head a little, and he heard the man say urgently: "This is bad—his forehead's burning hot, I fear it's a high fever..."

So he had a fever too?

That was Ming Li's last thought; after it, he blacked out again and knew nothing more.

********

A burst of rumbling roused him from unconsciousness, and his first thought was that it was still the thunder pealing across the sky. Yet somehow, though his mind had cleared a little, all before him remained pitch-black; he fought to open his eyes and look about, only to discover with a shock that his lids were still shut fast—he could not open them.

Then a sharp pain came, not from the grievous wound in his chest but from his throat; instinctively he moved his mouth and rasped out, hoarse and faint:

"Water..."

There seemed to be no one around, only himself lying helpless and alone on the ground, the thirst in his throat growing worse and worse, like a fire burning. His lips moved slightly, and strength he did not know he had stirred his body a little; the awareness in his mind seemed to sharpen somewhat as well.

"Ah!" Suddenly a voice came from nearby—unlike the usual run of voices, yet one he seemed to have heard before, faintly familiar—and with a note of delight it cried: "He's awake, senior brother, come quick, he's awake..."

All at once the surroundings fell quiet; a moment later footsteps hurried near and came to a stop before Ming Li. Ming Li struggled to open his eyes once more, but somehow this time all the strength in his body had utterly gone; he could only dimly make out two figures crouched at his side, and behind them what seemed several more dark shapes. As for their faces, he could not make out a single one.

"Water..." he said again, low.

This time those around him understood:

"Quick, fetch water, hurry."

Feet pattered to and fro; in a moment someone came running, and a cool hand gently lifted his head while the rim of something like a bowl was pressed to his lips.

Cool water touched his cracked lips; the muscles of Ming Li's face twitched, and with an effort he opened his mouth and drank, mouthful by mouthful. The clear water went down his throat like sweet spring rain on parched earth, easing at once that burning agony.

Ming Li's heart eased, and at once a wave of weariness came over him—and he sank once more into a deep sleep.

Those beside him were startled; someone came at once to feel his pulse, and after a moment let out a breath: "Nothing to fear. His wounds are too severe, and with the fever besides, his strength is utterly spent—but there is no danger to his life now."

At these words the figures around him seemed to breathe easier; then someone, gazing at Ming Li, sighed softly.

********

How long he slept this time, he did not know; in the course of it he woke several times, but each time after a brief clarity he would at once fall back into slumber, and all he remembered was that someone had been keeping watch at his side the whole while.

In that drifting haze he saw many people—his parents when he was young, his innocent and beautiful senior sister, Bi Li, graven on his heart, Lu Xueling, near yet ever distant, and many, many others, flickering one by one before him. Once he even thought he saw Fa Cheng and Fa Jing, those brothers of Fan Yin Temple from ten years past, sitting beside him chanting sutras and invoking the Buddha's name.

He smiled bitterly then—though even he did not know whether that bitter smile showed on his face, or whether, in the end, it was all no more than a dream.

Like this topsy-turvy life of his—a dream, an illusion!

Why chant sutras for me?

What good are sutras, in any case?

In one of his brief wakings, Ming Li thought such things quietly to himself—and then he fainted away again.

********

"Dong... dong... dong... dong..."

Like a deep bell tolling at the far edge of heaven, it came drifting to him, waking him from the depths of nightmare; that heavy bell, from far to near, slowly, seemed to strike into the very bottom of his heart.

For the first time, he felt no urge to open his eyes. He simply lay there quietly, neither thinking nor caring where he was, or what world lay beyond him.

The vast universe—and yet at this moment all that remained was the low tolling of the bell.

"Dong... dong... dong... dong..."

The bell rang on, lingering, as though it would never stop, would go on striking forever. He listened, his breathing calm, his whole spirit merging into that placid tone, unwilling ever to leave it.

How long had it been since he last lay like this, with nothing at all weighing on his heart?

Who knows what agony it is, to live each day bearing countless burdens?

Only—this little heaven and earth of his could not last, after all; footsteps came from far to near, walking toward where he lay, scattering his thoughts.

The bell that had been striking at his heart suddenly seemed to draw away from him, all at once remote at the edge of the sky.

Silence, and a sigh...

Slowly, he opened his eyes.

Buddha!

That was the first thing he saw.

A single "Buddha" character, a full hand-span across, hung high upon the ceiling; around it coiled a ring of golden patterns, and beyond that, ring upon ring, five hundred arhats were carved in fine detail, forming a great circle. The arhats were all of a size, yet each differed in expression and posture, arranged in rows, perfectly upright. Beyond the great circle lay a coffered ceiling of blue ground and black border, two feet higher than the Buddha circle at the center, its painted scheme different again: square panels, each a foot across, edged in rolled gold, within which were painted qilin, phoenixes, golden dragons, goats, and other auspicious beasts of the Buddhist tradition—though each panel bore the same pattern. (Note 1)

Though he knew nothing of carving or architecture, one glance told Ming Li this was the work of a divine craftsman. From the ceiling, within that inner circle surrounding the Buddha character, two golden chains hung down, suspending a long-burning lamp; seen from below it was a bronze basin some three feet across, no doubt filled with lamp oil.

Ming Li frowned and turned to look about. The place resembled nothing so much as a meditation room in a temple; the chamber was quite spacious, its four corners set with great red-lacquered pillars, the floor paved with grey brick, the door made of paulownia wood, with a window to either side, likewise red-lacquered, all of it most solemn. On one wall hung a painting of Guanyin holding her vase of pure water and sweet dew; below it stood an incense table with four dishes of offerings—pears, apples, tangerines, and sweet oranges; before the offerings stood a bronze censer holding three slender sticks of sandalwood, from which wisps of pale smoke rose and drifted into the air.