Soul Mountain (68 page)

“Can you write this up?” she asks, her head bowed.

“I’ll have to see!” I eventually say.

She wants to take me back or let me ride her bicycle back but I flatly refuse. On the way, gusts of cool wind blow from the sea and it looks like rain. When I get back to my lodgings in the middle of the night I have an attack of vomiting and diarrhoea. I imagine the seafood wasn’t fresh.

They say along the sea coast that strange music with bells and drums can always be heard at night coming from this mountain – it is the Daoist priests and nuns holding their secret ceremonies. He and she witnessed one of these by accident and reported it as soon as they got back. However, if people go up the mountain during the day to look for the Daoist temple they can’t find it. As they recall, it was on a cliff facing the sea. He says it was almost at the peak. She disagrees, it was up a small path on a cliff facing the sea but it would be halfway up the mountain.

Both say it was a beautiful Daoist temple built inside a crack in the cliff and the only access was this narrow mountain path, so in the daytime it couldn’t be seen by fishermen on the boats at sea or people climbing the mountain for medicinal herbs. It was while they were travelling at night and following the sound of the music that they stumbled onto a Daoist ceremony. They suddenly saw in a blaze of light the temple with its doors wide open and incense smoke curling up.

He saw a hundred or so men and women, all with painted faces, wearing Daoist robes and holding flying knives and flame torches as they sang and danced with their eyes half closed and wailed with tears streaming down their faces. The men and women intermingled freely as they went into trances of ecstasy and hysteria, throwing back their heads and stamping their feet.

She says the time she went there weren’t as many people but they were all dressed in bright colours. There were young girls and old women but no men present. They had rouged faces, lips painted blood red and eyebrows blackened with charcoal. Their hair was combed into buns which were tied with red cloth and decorated with garlands of jasmine. Some wore copper earrings but she can’t remember whether they had rings in their noses. They were singing, dancing, and waving their hands. It was a lively scene with some extraordinary chanting.

You ask her whether she could have dreamt it. She says a classmate was with her; they had gone up the mountain for the day, got lost, and couldn’t get back before dark. When they heard the music, they moved towards it in the dark and came upon the scene. The Daoists didn’t mind and the temple doors were wide open.

He says it was also like that with him, except that at the time he was on his own. He was used to travelling on mountain roads at night and wasn’t afraid. He was on guard against bad people but these Daoists were only carrying out their rituals and weren’t out to hurt anyone.

Both of them say they had seen it with their own eyes otherwise they wouldn’t have believed it. Both have tertiary education, are sound of mind, and don’t believe in ghosts and spirits. If they had been hallucinating they would have known.

Neither knew the other before and take turns telling you about it. In both cases they say it was on this mountain by the sea. Although it is the first time you meet with them, it is as if you are old friends and they talk quite candidly with you. There is no struggle for advantage so there is no need to be on guard, there is no blaming or boasting on either side, and they have no motive for getting you to fall into a trap. They have thought a lot about their experience and are puzzled by it, but they are obviously neither disgusted nor think it funny.

They say that as you have come all the way to this coast in search of the bizarre it is worth going there. They would like to accompany you but are afraid if they go there specifically for that purpose, they won’t necessarily find it. This sort of thing occurs when you’re not looking for it and when you set out expressly to seek it, your efforts will be futile. You can believe it or not but when they saw it with their own eyes in the blazing light of red candles, their weariness instantly vanished. They can swear to it under oath. If it would convince you they could immediately swear to it, but their swearing to it is still no substitute for you yourself going there. It is impossible for you to doubt their sincerity.

You end up going up the mountain and reach the peak before sunset. You sit there watching the fiery red sun withdrawing its rays and sinking into the vast horizon of the sea. It leaps up on striking the surface of the water then with a tremble plummets into the watery regions which have turned grey-blue. Golden lights writhe like water snakes and the lopped off semi-circular bright red crown floats on the black water like an oval hat, bobs up and down a couple of times, and is swallowed by the vast sea leaving only a red haze.

You begin to descend the mountain and very quickly are overtaken by dusk. You pick up a branch to use as a walking stick and a step at a time tap on the steep stone path. Before long you have plunged into a dark valley and can see neither the sea nor the road.

You stick close to the cliff face which is covered in small trees and bushes, terrified of losing your footing and falling into the abyss on the other side of the path. Your legs gradually turn to jelly and you rely on the stick in your hand to feel the way. You do not know whether or not the next step is safe, and it seems that this turbid darkness is growing from the bottom of your heart. You lose confidence in your stick and remember the lighter you have in your pocket. Even if it can’t help you get onto the level main path, it will be able to light a part of the way, but the sparks of the lighter can only produce a flame which shakes violently as if in fright and you have to use your hand to block the wind. A step away looms another black wall which makes you suspect it is certainly luring you to make that step into the abyss. The flame goes out in the chilly wind and like a blind person, with nothing to rely on but the branch in your hand, you tap a little at a time near your feet and tremble as you anxiously shuffle along the path.

Somehow you make your way into a hollow in the mountain which seems to be a cave and you see a dim light as if it is a crack in a door. When you get to it, this is what it is, you push but it is bolted. You press your eye against the crack in the door and see a solitary lamp in an empty hall honouring statues of the Three Supreme Purities – Lord Daode, Lord Yuanshi and Lord Lingbao.

“What are you up to?” a stern voice shouts from behind. You are startled but it is a human voice and you relax.

You say you are a tourist lost in the dark and need somewhere to stay for the night.

Without saying much he leads you up some wooden stairs into a room lit with an oil lamp. It is only then that you see he is wearing a Daoist robe and trousers with the legs tied at the calf. His deep-set eyes glow with energy, he is clearly an old master. You don’t dare say you’ve come to spy on the secrets of the Daoist temple and repeatedly apologize for disturbing him, beg to stay the night, and promise to leave at dawn.

He hesitates for a moment, but then gets a bunch of keys from the timber wall and picks up the lamp. You obediently follow him up another flight of stairs. He opens a room and without a word goes downstairs.

You flick your lighter and see there is a bare wooden bed and nothing else. So you lie down fully clothed, curl into a ball, and don’t dare think about trying to do anything else. Afterwards, you hear from the floor above the tinkling of a bell. Accompanying the tinkling there seems to be the faint sound of a woman chanting. You are surprised and start wondering if this is one of the strange ceremonies they had told you about. You think perhaps upstairs some secret ritual is taking place. You want to find out but in the end don’t move. It is a relaxing sound which induces sleep and in the darkness weariness unceasingly assails you. You seem to see the back of a young girl wearing her hair tied up in a bun. She is sitting sedately, legs crossed, and is striking a bell. The delicate sound spreads out in waves like light, you cannot stop yourself believing in destiny and fate, and pray that in the nether world your soul will have peace . . . 

It is light early in the morning and you get up and go up the stairs to the top floor. The door is wide open. It is an empty hall and there are no incense tables and curtains, nor any statues or tablets. Only a huge mirror hangs in the middle of the wall. The mirror faces the cave entrance which has a wooden railing across it. Walking up to the mirror you see a stretch of blue sky which brings you to a silent halt.

On the way down the mountain you hear sobbing and going around the bend see a naked child sitting in the middle of the road. He is relentlessly sobbing and has become hoarse, evidently he is tired and has been crying for some time.

You walk up to the child and bend down to ask, “Are you all on your own?”

Seeing someone has come, he starts crying even more loudly. You grab his small shoulders, pull him to his feet, and pat off the dirt from his bare bottom.

“Where are the grown-ups of your family?”

The more you question him the more he cries, and there are no villages in sight.

“Where are your parents?”

He just shakes his head and looks at you, his eyes brimming with tears.

“Where do you live?”

Still whimpering, his little mouth pouts.

“Keep crying and I won’t take any notice of you!” you threaten.

This works and he instantly stops crying.

“Where are you from?”

He doesn’t speak.

“Are you all on your own?”

He just looks dumbly at you.

“Can you talk?” You put on an angry look.

He immediately starts crying again.

“Don’t cry!” You stop him.

He opens his little mouth, wanting to cry but not daring to.

“If you cry again I’ll smack your bottom!”

He somehow stops himself from crying and you pick him up.

“Little fellow, where do you want to go? Speak up!”

He clings instinctively to your neck.

“Surely you can talk?”

He looks dumbly at you, his face streaked with mud from his grubby hands rubbing at his tears. You are at a loss. He probably belongs to a peasant family nearby, his parents should look after him better. This is absurd.

You carry him for some distance but still see no sign of any houses. Your arms are numb and in any case you can’t keep going down the mountain with this mute child. You talk it over with him.

“How about getting down and walking for a while?”

He shakes his head and looks miserable.

You force yourself to walk on but still see no sign of any houses nor smoke from chimneys down in the valley. You wonder if he has been abandoned on the mountain road. You must take him back to where you found him, if no-one takes him his parents will come back for him.

“Little one, get down and walk a bit, my arms are numb.”

You pat his bottom and he actually falls asleep. He must have been left on the mountain road for a long time, the people who left him must be quite callous. You start cursing the parents who gave birth to him. If they can’t manage raising him why did they have him?!

You look at his little tear-stained face, he is fast asleep. He is so trusting, probably he has never been shown this amount of affection. The sun pierces through the thick clouds and shines onto his face. His eyebrows twitch and he moves, his face snuggling against your chest.

A gush of warmth wells up from deep in your heart and you realize you have not experienced such tenderness for a very long time. You discover that you are still fond of children and that you should have had a son a long time ago. As you look at him, you start to think he looks like you. While seeking pleasure did you by chance give him life? And then not care for him and abandon him? Did not even ever think about him? It is yourself that you are cursing!

You are afraid, afraid he will wake up, afraid he can talk, afraid he will understand. Luckily he is mute, luckily he is asleep and is not aware of his misfortune. While he is still asleep you must put him back on the mountain road and make a getaway before anyone discovers.

You return him to the mountain road where you found him. He rolls, huddles his little legs up to himself and puts his arms over his face. He must feel the cold of the ground and will soon wake up. You run off, in broad daylight, like a fugitive criminal. You seem to hear sobbing behind you, but don’t dare look back.