In the realm of divine doctrines, Buddhism and Taoism have long been locked in a fervent, thousand-year quarrel, akin to a vast mire into which generations of cultivators from both paths have inevitably sunk. Some have debated furiously in royal courts, others have penned scathing treatises, each compelled to wrestle through the mud, with only a rare few emerging untainted in the eyes of posterity. In recent centuries, a white-robed monk, Baiyi, emerged from the Buddhist ranks after a pilgrimage westward to retrieve sacred scriptures. His journey eased the embarrassment of the current dynasty’s ranking of the three teachings—placing Confucianism first, Taoism second, and Buddhism last. Yet the emergence of the doctrine of sudden enlightenment dealt a heavy blow to Baiyi and the Two Chan Monastery.
This towering monk once quipped that the quarrel between Buddhism and Taoism resembled two old farmers squabbling over irrigation water. Though the source was shared, the supply was limited. Whoever could sneak, seize, or trick more water for their own fields would reap a better harvest. Naturally, disputes arose—first with words, then fists, and if all else failed, one might curry favor with the village magistrate to bring in armed officials to settle the matter.
This jest, of course, was Baiyi’s subtle mockery of the Taoist Dragon-Tiger Mountains’ closeness to the imperial court and their favor with the emperor. Historically, six major anti-Buddhist campaigns had been launched, from palace halls to the common streets. Baiyi had twice stood alone atop the Taoist sacred summit, defeating over a dozen Taoist sages through costly, thousand-kill-eight-hundred tactics. Oddly, while previous decade-long debates between the two faiths often ended with one side victorious yet still facing heavy criticism, Baiyi—though never speaking to the point of finality—won in a stumbling manner, earning only bitter smiles from the arrogant old immortals of Dragon-Tiger Mountain, with little resentment. In recent years, many Taoist masters outside Dragon-Tiger have cited Buddhist doctrines in their writings, challenging Buddhism and carrying their books to Two Chan Monastery to debate Baiyi. Yet without exception, upon descending the mountain, they remained silent, refusing to speak of the encounter no matter how much outsiders inquired.
Outside a humble cottage on the back mountain of Two Chan Monastery, two bald monks—one large, one small—soaked in the sun. This place, too close to the forbidden stele forest, seldom saw visitors, and thus lacked the heavy incense that even pinching one’s nose couldn’t block. Behind the cottage lay a vegetable patch and chicken coop; before it stood two young peach trees. One, a crimson peach, was planted when the middle-aged monk’s daughter was born. Later, when he somehow lured a little fool named Wu Nanybei, he planted another drooping green peach. The mountain’s shady backside slowed their growth; their branches were sparse, their leaves green, and their buds far from plump.
Each year on the children’s birthdays, the clumsy Nanybei’s wife would grab a cleaver, drag the two children—born on the same day—and carve marks beneath the peach trees according to their height. At first, Li Dongxi, being a girl, grew quickly and joyfully chirped like a finch, constantly ruffling Nanybei’s bald head, teasing him for being short. But fortune turns like the wind. As she matured into a young woman and he into a youth, Dongxi grew reluctant. Now Nanybei stood taller than her, leaving the young Li girl melancholic—what if he grew as tall as his father? She’d have to tiptoe just to reach his head!
Today, the young monk had no need to lecture on sutras, and tomorrow he would replace his master atop Dragon-Tiger Mountain’s golden summit. Though still young, he was already a respected lecturer at Two Chan, capable of persuading even the most seasoned monks. He showed no signs of nervousness, only puzzlement as he asked, “Master, tomorrow I go to Dragon-Tiger Mountain to argue with those Taoists, so why are there already Taoists coming up the mountain to chatter at you?”
The white-robed monk lay on a rattan chair, stroking his bald head. Seeing his wife step out of the cottage to do laundry, he replied firmly, “Everyone knows your master’s wife is a fine cook. They’ve come to mooch a meal.”
The little monk, ever the simpleton, said, “Huh? Then why did you tell her yesterday that the spring onions in the dumplings were too salty, and asked me for water? I thought the taste was just fine. But these Taoists are too bold. Though guests should be welcomed, Master and Mistress have already prepared a full table of food. They eat, then argue. When they can’t win, they throw tantrums. Master, tired of the noise, took them behind the house and invited them to settle things with fists. They cursed and beat you, yet Mistress still smiled and apologized for us. Sigh, what a world.”
The bald monk’s shoulder was pinched fiercely by his wife—what good was an unbreakable King Kong body now? He winced, his face a picture of pitifulness. As his wife, holding a basin, walked off with a cold snort, he gently tapped his dull disciple’s head, sending a puff of smoke skyward, though he said nothing reprimanding.
Nanybei scratched his head—just as Dongxi always said, slippery like a wooden fish. Sighing, he muttered, “Master, am I really up to this? If I lose the debate, what if the abbot won’t even give us travel money? Mistress will blame me.”
The laziest middle-aged monk replied carelessly, “The abbot says you can do it. So can’t you?”
The little monk hesitated, “Well… I’m not so sure. The abbot says yes to everyone. Half a year ago, a foreign monk from Tianzhu came saying he wanted to build a temple and preach, and the abbot agreed without hesitation, angering Abbot Huixian, who had long coveted that land. A month ago, Master Falin said he wanted to return to secular life, become a butcher who drinks and eats meat, and the abbot just laughed and said yes. Two days ago, little Yongfa, only eight, ran into the abbot’s room and said he’d urinate there if not given candy. The abbot still said yes.”
Baiyi, indifferent, merely hummed, then asked, “What about Dongxi? She says you can do it. So can you?”
Nanybei’s eyes lit up, and he grinned foolishly, “I think so too.”
Baiyi scoffed, “Then why are you whining? Go check if Dongxi’s packed your things. My daughter never treated me like this. I get annoyed just seeing you. Go, go, go.”
The little monk grumbled, “You’re not the one going far away.”
Seeing his master glare, Nanybei quickly jumped off his little stool and ran toward the humble cottage. As he ran, his robe—washed clean by his mistress—fluttered gently, spotless and untouched by dust.
Baiyi closed his eyes lazily, muttering, “This master walked thousands of miles, finishing all the steps of his life.”
The cottage had three rooms. Nanybei’s room was next to Dongxi’s. Inside, aside from a bed, a table, a stool, and a single oil lamp, along with a few Buddhist sutras, there was little else. This starkness sharply contrasted with his master’s cluttered room and Dongxi’s treasure-filled boudoir. Dongxi sat on Nanybei’s neatly made narrow bed, tossing and turning a simple hemp travel bag. It contained only a few changes of clothes, but she had tucked in some copper coins and silver pieces begged from her mother—half for Nanybei to buy sutras, the rest for cosmetics, romance novels, and carved jewelry boxes. She worried the money wouldn’t be enough, her little brows furrowed—just like her father’s. Nanybei watched silently, secretly amused.
“Here, stupid Nanybei. This sandalwood mala beads were given to me by Xu Fengnian. Take them. He said when you travel the jianghu, you must have style, or people will look down on you. But remember—it’s a loan, not a gift.”
“Master will be upset. You never even let him touch them. He’s already recorded hundreds of strikes against the prince in the ledger.”
“Stupid Nanybei, do you want it or not?!”
“I do!”
“Don’t waste money on the road. The silver in the bag—well, if you run short of book money, buy fewer cosmetics. You’re bad at haggling and will get cheated. The cosmetics at the foot of the mountain are good enough.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t ‘okay’ me! The money is split evenly—don’t spend it all on cosmetics. Remember!”
“Okay.”
“Okay, my foot! Also, I had Dad roast some tea for you. When you reach Dragon-Tiger Mountain, give gifts and smile often. The monks from our family must be as magnanimous as Dad. But if someone hits you, don’t be stubborn—run home. I’ll tell Dad, and he’ll take care of it!”
“Got it. I know what’s important.”
“One last thing—don’t forget to tell Xu Fengnian to come visit us if you see him!”
“Definitely.”
“And when Xu Fengnian comes, who will you side with—Dad or him?”
“You, of course.”
“Say it again!”
“Xu Fengnian.”
“That’s better.”
Baiyi lay on his rattan chair, listening to the commotion inside. He recalled a winter long ago in the capital’s alleys, sipping a warm bowl of millet noodle tea. Made from finely ground millet, the noodles were steaming hot, gently swaying in a small porcelain bowl. There was a certain etiquette to eating it—pressing one’s lips to the rim and sipping slowly while rotating the bowl so the noodles entered the mouth hot but not scalding, keeping the bowl warm until the last sip. Every organ in the body warmed. Icicles hung from eaves across the city, but a bowl of this tea warmed both body and heart. But what truly warmed him in that cold was the woman beside him—perhaps not beautiful, a little sharp-tongued, but in this vast world, amidst countless people, in a capital teeming with hundreds of thousands, he saw only her. Having devoted himself more than most to Buddhism, he felt no shame in his shaved head. Yet when others gazed at him with reverence, seeing him as a deity, he felt unworthy. Sitting with her, sipping tea, watching her pay—it made him blush.
Firewood, rice, oil, and salt, simple meals—how wonderful.
His wife forbade him from returning to that capital, saying it was full of shameless women. He obeyed.
Baiyi smiled, gazing at the sun, muttering, “We’re old now.”
The woman hanging clothes turned sharply, “Which little fox spirit dares flirt with you now?”
The towering monk hurried to help, grinning, “Wife, let me help.”
Dongxi, having finished packing, stood at the door watching her loving parents. Thinking of her mother’s thunderous snoring and her father’s indifference to her messy sleep, she felt a pang of sorrow. Would Xu Fengnian like a girl like her?
Her eyes welled up, lips trembling with youthful melancholy, “Stupid Nanybei, I know you won’t meet Xu Fengnian.”
The little monk panicked, “Then after Dragon-Tiger Mountain, I’ll go to Beiliang and find the prince first, okay?”
Dongxi laughed through her tears, rolling her eyes, “Forget it. I’m a female hero—I don’t care!”
The little monk grinned foolishly.
Baiyi sighed, shaking his head—what an unworthy disciple he had.
His wife smiled knowingly, “Nanybei is better than you.”
That night, the little monk slept soundly as always. But Dongxi, unrelated to the matter, tossed and turned, unable to sleep until late.
At dawn, a venerable old monk, over a hundred years old, personally came to the back mountain cottage to escort the young lecturer to the Grand Buddha Hall. Led by the snow-haired abbot, many reclusive elders emerged from their retreats. The square gathered at least three to four hundred bald monks, not to mention countless curious little novices. If Dongxi saw this, she’d roll her eyes until they ached—she used to enjoy counting bald heads while listening to chants, but the novelty wore off quickly. Fortunately, the girl slept late and hadn’t risen. Neither Baiyi nor Wu Nanybei dared wake her—her morning temper, fueled by her dream of becoming a female hero, was fearsome. Even her mother hesitated to provoke it, let alone the lowly master and disciple in the family. Besides, Nanybei feared he’d grow sentimental, making Dongxi laugh or get angry.
The crowd parted automatically.
The clear-eyed little monk and the lazy Baiyi walked side by side.
The ever-kind abbot descended the steps, delighted to see the young monk.
As the abbot opened his mouth, the crowd parted again. Looking up, he saw the biggest girl in Two Chan Monastery running toward them, crying as she ran.
The little monk’s wife stopped at the square’s edge, helpless.
The girl reached her father and childhood friend, her eyes swollen from tears. She must have fallen while running, her clothes covered in dirt. Clutching the monk’s robe, she sobbed, “Stupid Nanybei, I had a nightmare!”
Though the crowd was filled with revered sages, they all chuckled kindly.
Baiyi and the abbot exchanged glances, sighing together.
Dongxi gripped the robe tightly, fearing that if she let go, she’d never see Nanybei again—the boy she’d always believed would stay by her side forever. Sobbing, she cried, “I dreamed you died and became a Buddha! You said you’d go west and never come back!”
“I called you Wu Nanybei, said I’d stop calling you stupid, even told you to call me Lizi and Dongxi, but you ignored me and left!”
“I saw you standing beneath Beiliang’s walls while I stood atop the city. Before you were endless terrifying cavalry, countless thousands. But you said, ‘The world is vast, yet a humble monk needs only this inch of land before Beiliang to raise a monument of compassion for Lizi.’ Then the villains shot arrows—not charging, just wave after wave of arrows falling on you! You bled, staining your robe red. Then you sat, chanting, and your blood turned golden! Then you became a Buddha. Father said that’s what it means when a Bodhisattva lowers his brows and a Vajra raises his eyes. You became a Buddha, and you refused to see me again!”
“Stupid Nanybei, I don’t want cosmetics anymore. Please don’t die!”
Her words came in broken sobs, tears like falling plum blossoms.
The little monk, who once made The Stubborn Stone nod and Celestial Maiden scatter flowers with his lectures, began to cry too, moved by Dongxi’s sorrow.
The entire square fell silent in awe.
The abbot lowered his eyelids, glancing at Baiyi, who smiled and said, “No problem. My disciple won’t go to Dragon-Tiger Mountain. I will. Master, is that okay?”
The abbot smiled faintly. Unexpectedly, he nodded, “Okay.”
The little monk straightened his robe, pressed his palms together, and bowed to the abbot standing before the Grand Buddha Hall, softly murmuring, “If I truly could become a Buddha, from today on, I no longer wish to.”
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