Now, Abbot Ci had buried the little one in the vegetable garden. But when he returned for a look he was shocked to see the tiny infant parting the lumps of sod and, amazingly, tunneling up to the surface, its head protruding like a large peach. The frightened Abbot picked up his hoe to smash the little monster but he lost his balance and tripped, and the handle separated from the would-be weapon's head. When he picked himself up and looked the child was already sitting upright in a nest, beaming broadly and amiably. Abbot Ci, whose surname meant 'mercy', couldn't believe his eyes.

"Little fellow," he said, "it's such a pity that you've got a human form. Why, if you'd been born to some childless gentry family you'd light up their lonely nights with joy and love. Why did you have to find your way into that egg? Well, you started out on the wrong track but it's no concern of mine. Now, listen to old Father Ci. Forgo this life and return to the spirit world, and stop frightening me!"

Then putting aside the broken hoe he seized the nest and turned it upside down, thrusting that ghostly infant down into the earth. Scooping up some muddy soil he built a mound, higher and higher, and piled rocks on top of it. He didn't stop until he was sure the job had been done right.

"What if a dog should get in here and dig it up?" he asked himself; "That wouldn't be any good. I'd better lock the gates for awhile. That way he'll die of hunger if nothing else..." So he attached a metal hasp to the gate and went into the house to get a shiny new brass lock. "I'll be right back," he told his disciples, "start your devotions without me." And because the Abbot was known for being a bit stubborn and cantankerous, the baffled novices didn't care to ask any questions.

By and by, ten days had passed when Abbot Ci finally put his worries to rest. "I've seen with my own eyes that the kid hasn't budged," he thought. "Still, I'd better keep an eye on things just to be sure. But if this gate stays locked too long the garden will fall into neglect, and we won't have any greens to eat."

He then took out a key and unlocked and opened the garden gate. But when he went over to that corner of the west wall for a look, he saw the stones scattered all over and the overturned nest lying on its side, with no sign inside of the little tyke. Now, Abbot Ci was sorely afraid. Then when he dropped on all fours to search he suddenly saw the little fellow, healthy and red-cheeked as could be, sitting uninjured beneath a willow tree. And what was more, he'd already become two feet tall, with delicate, recognizable features, although he couldn't yet talk. Seeing Abbot Ci approach he reached out and laughingly clutched at the corner of the old monk's jacket. This was more than the Abbot could take. Snatching the little hand away he turned and ran without daring to look back. Even safely outside the garden his heart continued pounding.

"I've tried everything to bury him," he darkly thought, "but again and again some sort of supernatural being or force rescued him. Otherwise, how could that wee-tiny fellow muster up enough strength to struggle out of the grave? And even if he could bore up through the sod, how could he have parted the rocks? What's more, he's grown more than a foot in the past ten days; twenty or thirty years of this and he'll break the sky! Of all the confounded things that have happened since ancient times there's never been anything quite like this!" Then an idea came to him. "Well, the spirit of the statue of Guanyin in the Temple is always so accurate at divination; I'd better go and ask her about this. Perhaps he ought to be raised to maturity...maybe he's really a future sage or bonze. In any case it's not for us to annihilate him on our own. But on the other hand, if he really shouldn't stay in this world there's no time to be wasted in thinking up a new plan to get rid of him."

Now, this Zen Temple had always had an incense altar carved in the shape of the Goddess Guanyin. And in front of this holy likeness was a container for bamboo fortune slips; folks could pick them and determine whether or not a particular undertaking was auspicious at a particular time or place. Now, as Abbot Ci was indeed at his wits' end the only thing left to do was to draw a slip from the container and kowtow in front of the statue.

"Your disciple," he loudly declared, "has always been a man of the cloth and kept the commandments. But one day I must have had a lapse of faith, for while drawing water from the pond I came upon an egg and took it over to my neighbor's house to be hatched by his old hen. Who'd have thought that egg would hatch forth a little human rascal that would survive burial and starvation and would then double in height suddenly, growing taller and taller by leaps and bounds! How strange are his origins and how bizarre his traces; if he isn't a devil he's certainly the embodiment of some unrepaid evil. if he was sent by Heaven to be a bonze and if he should live without harm, I beg thee to indicate 'auspicious' on the augury slip, and to thus remove my doubts. Again, I kowtow and pray for thy guidance!"

His prayerful petition finished, he bowed toward the fortune-slip container, plucked one out and looked. It was number fifteen, and sure enough it bore the words "Highly Auspicious". And the following magic charm had been written:

Abbot Ci carefully examined the writing on the slip. "The 'drifting cradle' here clearly refers to an orphan," he said. "Even though my disciples are already like my own offspring, this fortune clearly tells me to spare the child and foretells no difficulty," He then called for the Daoist Rector of the Temple, Liu Gou'r.

"Some village family," he told the old man, "with too many mouths to feed has just abandoned one of their children in our garden. I've just seen him sitting under the willow, cutest little fellow you can imagine! What a pity. We bonzes have enough trouble making ends meet, so why don't you take the child and rear it? If he reaches adulthood maybe he'll take vows himself, and you'll have someone to rely on in your old age."

Now, our Liu Gou'r had once barely earned a living as a local farmer; he was childless due to late marriage, in old age, and his wife was now dead. So having cursed his worldly fate he gave up his life savings of a few ounces of silver and entered the Temple to become its incense tender. Because he had no kids of his own he often minded other people's children; this was the joy of his life. Hearing what Abbot Ci had to say, he hopped right over to the base of the willow and sure enough saw a cute, delicate-featured child. He quickly held the little bundle of happiness up to his chest, wrapped it up in his jacket and turned toward the gate, where he saw the Abbot walking toward him. Now, Abbot Ci was happy to the bottom of his heart to see the old Daoist hugging the child.

"Go to your quarters," he told Liu, "I'll be right along." He then opened the gate and removed the lock for good, taking it to his room. Then he pulled an old jacket and tattered shirt from the dresser next to his bed, brought them to the priest's room and together they bundled up the child.

"We've got quite a few clothes old clothes in here too," said Liu. "And I've also manage to save a few feet of blue cloth, just perfect to make a little coat for him to wear." But alas, without any milk I'm afraid he'll starve."

"Oh, milk's no problem," said the Abbot. "All we need to do is boil up some soybean milk morning and night and feed it to him. If he's become your son, it must be that he's fated to live. Anyway, if he doesn't survive, sure, it'll be hard to take, but even that would be better than simply having left him to starve." Then he continued on a solemn note of encouragement: "One's thoughts and deeds are known by Heaven and Earth, so if you, old man, are willing to take in and raise this child it'll surely be recognized as a good deed, and God will help you in all his glory. Why, I've just asked about our Fate in this matter at the idol of Guanyin and was told that it was all highly auspicious. When he gets a bit older let's name him "Ji'r" for "Lucky Boy".

"I really love this little fellow's happy face," said the old Daoist incense tender; "he only knows to smile and he never cries. Why, from the first time I held him and brought him in from the garden he hasn't uttered a sound."

"It's the quiet child that's easy to raise" answered Abbot Ci. As they went on talking and doting over the baby, in came a young novice. Having seen the little fellow he ran to inform his colleagues, and three or four young Bonzes then rushed into the old Daoist's quarters, taking up half the room.

"Where did this kid come from?" asked the group as one.

"We don't really know quite whose child it is," answered the abbot. "He was abandoned in the garden. I thought he looked like a nice little fellow and I took pity on his fate, so I asked Old Liu here to take him and raise him as his own son."

Now in the Temple there were those who loved good and those who were evil at heart.

"Amitofo!" the kind ones cried out. "The opportunity to raise an orphan and save its life is indeed a blessing for our Temple."

The evil ones, predictably enough, saw the darker side of things. "What sort of family would abandon their own flesh and blood," they harped; "no doubt it was some unmarried woman who got involved in a messy affair and got herself in trouble with child. Afraid that folks would find out about the little bastard, she threw him away. What business is it of ours that we should take him in? Why get involved?"

"There's no need for that kind of talk" said the good ones; "we know what kind of homes these children come from. Most likely it was a couple fated to die without children, so his parents didn't feel the natural burning desire to raise him and continue their line. Or perhaps he was born of a housemaid or concubine and was abandoned on account of the main wife's jealousy. There's no surname on his forehead, so what dispute is there to get involved in?"

"Okay then, take him and raise him if you will," said the evil at heart, "but outsiders will hear his crying from inside the Temple; that won't be good for our image!"

"All right, all right, enough!" said Old Liu. "This fellow does have one good point; he doesn't cry at all!"

The monks were silent. "I'm leaving now," said Abbot Ci, "and I want all of you to go to your prayermats and sit quietly. There'll be no more jostling here in this room." And having had his say he left, and the bonzes, sensing his displeasure, dispersed to their quarters. And sure enough here's a poem for proof:

So it happened that the old priest took in the infant and raised him as his own son. Day and night he prepared soybean milk to feed him, but as the boy grew tired of this he tried giving the tot a bit of gruel. Now, the little fellow took this without illness or complaint, so from that point on the old priest fed him from his own rice porridge. With the passage of three or four months outsiders had all come to know that an infant had been found in the vegetable garden of the Yinghui Temple by the Abbot and that it had been given to Liu Gou'r to raise, and the story began to spread.

In time the tale reached Zhu Dabo, whom we read about in the previous chapter. "What kind of kid could they have found in the vegetable garden?" he asked himself. "It must be that freak that was hatched from the goose egg. Why, Abbot Ci didn't take care of killing it after all, and they're raising it in there. And he still hasn't repaid me for the chicken, eggs and nest I lost in that weird incident! Why don't I just go over and say I'm a bit short of grain and would like to be repaid with some? If I don't remind him I'm liable to to never get it back. At the same time I can see what the child looks like and whether or not it's indeed that little monster."

Zhu Dabo then walked over to the Temple holding a large sack. He found Abbot Ci sitting on the doorstep, needle in hand, sewing up that tattered jacket of his.

"Master," said Zhu, "I haven't seen you for awhile." Now, upon seeing his neighbor the Abbot remembered one of his old promises, tossed aside the garment and got up.

"I still haven't given you the wheat I owe you," he confessed.

"What's this about debts?" said Zhu Dabo, "I told you that was all right! It's just that a relative has come to live with us for a few days and I'm a bit short of grain. I wonder if you can lend me a little, that's all. Then out of the next harvest I'll thresh some wheat especially for you, Master!"

"I owe you grain," said the Abbot, "and you're entitled to it, period. Now you go home and wait, and I'll have someone bring it right over."

"No need to trouble anyone," said Zhu, "why, I've brought this double sack with me. Fill it up and I'll carry it back myself." He then presented the empty sack to the Abbot.

"Suit yourself," said the old monk, "wait here for a moment while I come back with it."

But Zhu Dabo had something else to request. "While I'm here, I want to check out the rumor about Liu Gou'r," he said. Now, the Abbot was afraid that old man Zhu would get in and see the child, that an argument would result and word of the affair would get out.

"Old Doggie's in the garden, hoeing," he said, referring to the meaning of the Daoist's personal name; "wait a moment, I'll call him over."

Abbot Ci, holding the sack in his left hand and that half repaired jacket in his right then tossed the garment over his left shoulder and walked back into the Temple gate. But Zhu Dabo was off and running right behind him! The Abbot rushed in and tried to slam the gate but it was no use; the old man had already thrust one foot inside.

"This is the monks' residence of a Zen Temple," the chief warned, anxiously; "you're no monk, what business do you have within these walls? You want only a few bushels of buckwheat, which I'm certainly not denying you. But I told you to wait outside the Temple entrance and you won't listen!"

Zhu Dabo opened his mouth wide, reared back and had a good laugh. "I've heard," he snickered between a few hearty guffaws, "that Liu Gou'r has custody of a little kid. I just want to see if it was born or hatched!"

Now, when Abbot Ci heard those words his face turned red with rage. "Go ahead and laugh, you bastard!" he retorted angrily. "Take your 'born or hatched' and blow it out your ass! Why, when that little fellow was found by the road he was two feet tall. Don't you think an egg like that would have taken a pretty big goose to lay? I wonder why you're so interested...why, hah hah, maybe you'd recognize him as your own grandson!" Throwing the sack down he continued: "Since you only want to see your grandson, I haven't got any more energy to carry your grain."

Zhu Dabo was surprised at how angry he had made Abbot Ci. "If you don't want me to see the kid that's OK," he answered, "there's no need for hurt feelings. Anyway, I figure that if you gave me the grain there wouldn't be enough left for you're disciples, that's all." Then he picked up his sack, beat the dust out of it, wheeled around and left.

"You didn't even want your grain!" Abbot Ci shouted after him, "A lot of guts you had, asking me to carry it for you, too!" Then, an icy smile on his lips, he shut the gate.

"In all my years," mumbled Zhu Dabo as he left the Temple, "I've never come across such a 'holy man'. What a fiery temper and stubborn character! Why, I was only joking when I said 'born or hatched' but he had to get excited and say all those things. He's really wounded me deeply!"

Now all of the neighbors saw him returning, angrily cursing under his breath. "What did they refuse you that you are coming back so angrily?" they asked.

"It's a long story," he said, "but here goes. Late last last winter that Abbot Ci brought over a goose egg. He told me my hen could hatch it for me to keep, so I gave it to the bird to sit on for awhile. Who'd have ever thought that a six or seven inch child would hatch from that egg?"

"Did such a thing really happen?" asked the incredulous neighbors.

"I still can't quite believe it myself," said Zhu. And it wasn't enough that the infant was born; my hen died too, and a nestful of eggs were all ruined. So I went and brought over the Abbot and what did he say? He told me to keep quiet lest I involve him in big trouble, and that next year when the wheat would ripen he'd give me some. Then he snatched up the little monster in the ruined nest and took them away. I thought he'd drowned the little beast or at least buried it somewhere. But later I heard that Liu Gou'r is raising a little kid, and I suspected it may have been the same child. So today I took a sack over to the Temple to collect my grain and have a peek at the little fellow while I was at it. Well, not only did I get no grain, but I got cursed out in the bargain! He told me something unspeakably vile, and to come in and see my own grandson! Now, the leaves of the tallest trees must fall to their roots, and that's often been said about people, too. I sure hope that child never grows up for if it does it's sure to come back home. And then God only help me if it thinks I'm its maternal grandfather!"

"You'd really better shut up, old man," said one of the neighbors, "that's really strange stuff and we'll hear no more of it! Why, that old bonze has great vision and wisdom, so have some patience and understanding. What kind of gripe do you have that's made you tell such a story? Wait a few days and we'll persuade the Abbot to give you the wheat, so calm down for Heaven's sake!" Then everybody chimed in with a few words and they managed to persuade Zhu Dabo to return home. And here's a poem about it:

Now let's get back to Abbot Ci. Having had his outburst at Zhu Dabo, he instructed Old Liu to never again carry the little fellow outside. And at the age of one he was take to have his head shaved before the statue of Buddha; from that time on he had the name of Ji'r and was a junior bonze in the Temple. Now, because Zhu Dabo had told all the neighbors about the hatching of the goose egg, rumors had flown all around. All the monks had heard them and the Abbot could do nothing about it. So they all also called him "Bonze Dan", meaning "Bonze Egg".

When he had learned to talk and acquired a bit of sense his appetite for learning suddenly grew by leaps and bounds , and he never shrank from study and prayer. The days flew by like arrows and before they knew it this Bonze Dan had grown to fifteen years of age. As for his manner and appearance, here's a Xijiangyue poem:

Moreover, this young man was nothing if not brilliant. Even though he wasn't willing to devote all his time to memorizing the classics, you need only to have read a selection to him once and he could recite it fluently. And some people set themselves up for a fall by taking him for a fool; indeed, he won many a night's free entertainment by meeting wagers about his knowledge. It goes without saying that the Abbot came to love him dearly. In fact the old bonze couldn't resist doting over him with all his heart. Now, dear reader, what do you make of this? Well, for one the boy was clever, and for another reason he pitied the lad for having no blood relations outside of the monastery. But there was also a third reason.

This Bonze Dan hadn't respected the dietary laws since his childhood; what he loved was using the lance and cudgel. Although he didn't spend much time at prayer, he usually drilled at his martial arts using the giant crossbar of the main gates. And when the Abbot told him to do the hoeing he could do more than twice the work of his peers. The only problem with him was that his temper was awful; anybody going against him could expect a bawling out or even a punch in the nose. But, fortunately, he obeyed his elders and would come running if the old Rector or Abbot should call his name.

Through all of this he managed to win the heart of Abbot Ci, who redoubled his efforts at caring and providing for him. This caused the other disciples, young and old alike, to become upset, and when they met they often discussed throwing him out. It was just that there hadn't yet been any pretext. Every time the young bonze became unruly his father the Daoist Rector or the Abbot himself would take his side. And Abbot Ci had asked the novices for forbearance toward Bonze Dan, who, he confided in them, was a supernatural being in soul and body. So the young monks simply had to grin and bear it.

Now, when Bonze Dan heard folks saying that he'd come out of an egg and with even his own family agreeing he was a supernatural being, certainly no ordinary mortal, he then wanted to find some truly great work to do while on earth. The other young monks called him a beast behind his back as well as "the wild monk- "hatched by a hen and raised by a dog". It was truly an ugly experience and he often thought of leaving the Yinghui Temple to roam the world. But because of old Liu's kindness he couldn't just yet cast himself adrift.

Suddenly one day his father, the old Daoist Liu, took gravely ill and became bedridden. Bonze Dan took care of him with all his heart and soul but despite his soups, medicines and attention the old incense tender's condition failed to improve. Finally, amidst cries of grief he died. Bonze Dan cried his heart out and, of course, provided his stepfather with a coffin and a proper laying-in. Then he and Abbot Ci selected an unused spot by the edge of the garden plot for a grave. The Abbot had given his permission but the monks had their objections.

"Teacher is being sentimental," they whispered, "giving an entire burial plot to a lowly incense tender, a Daoist at that. If one of us monks were to die you'd have to build him a burial mound by that precedent and after two or three generations there wouldn't be half a parcel of land left of our garden. In the end all the Temple's land would be given to graves."

Abbot Ci closed his ears to their comments and said nothing. It was a while before an auspicious day came up for the funeral. Among the monks were those pretending to have colds and bellyaches; they clearly didn't care to help mourn. Only one old bonze played a dirge on the cymbals. And in the evening, when it was all over, Abbot Ci took Bonze Dan to his own room to rest.

Three days later Bonze Dan was about to cook some rice and broth to be given as a sacrifice to the departed old Daoist. He'd especially procured a piece of bean curd that he put in a small bowl in the kitchen. Then he went out on a short errand to buy some sacrificial money. When he returned to finish the preparations he found to his horror that the bean curd had been moved to a stool and eaten by the dogs. He clearly realized that this had been done by the other bonzes and was brokenhearted. Facing the stove he cried and cried, and was still pouring out his grief when the monks came in to present their objections.

"This kitchen," began one of them, "is not a sacrificial altar or ancestral temple for Old Liu, so what's there to cry over? Your sacrifice has been eaten by the dogs and no doubt there were some Doggie Zhang's and Li's among them, and who knows, maybe even a Doggy Liu?" The monks then took it in turn to scold Bonze Dan but despite their insults he kept silent. Then, casting aside the paper money he walked out in front of the hall and sat himself down angrily on a laundry stone by the pond.

"Those baldheaded mules," he thought. "They're bullying me openly now that my father's dead and I'm all alone in the world. The old Abbot's been fine all these years, just like a candle burning in the strongest wind, but he too could go at any time. There's really no way out of this. I'd really love to wait till midnight and set a fire. I'd sure feel great seeing those jackass monks burnt to death." Then he reconsidered: "Of course there's the Abbot; he's got to live. How could I ever warn him to leave the Temple in time?" After long reflection he realized that he could never bring himself to commit the murderous act of arson no matter what, and he raised his fist in frustration, striking the laundry stone and pulverizing its edge.

Shortly before this time, neighbor Zhu Dabo had also passed away leaving a son named Zhu Chouhan. About Ci, remembering that argument of long before and fearing for his own afterlife, took the five bushels of buckwheat he'd once intended to repay over to help the Zhu's in their mourning. And he also ordered Bonze Dan to kowtow before the bier of Zhu Dabo. He and Zhu Chouhan came to get acquainted and had frequent dealings from that point on.

One day Chouhan was bent over the water's edge washing vegetables when he heard the sound of a crumbling rock. When he turned and looked he recognized Bonze Dan.

"Why is Teacher Dan testing his strength here?" he asked.

Bonze Dan sat silently.

"Who've you been haggling with?" continued Chouhan. "You know that wine, sex and riches are forbidden to church folks. Now, for you drink has been no problem for you and there have been women of all ages coming around for you to dally with, and cash has been thrown your way, too; you've been able to handle these temptations. But anger is the one thing that you've got to learn to control before it destroys you."

"That's for sure, brother," answered Bonze Dan; "that's my most important weakness. This time it's just that I've been picked on by that gang of baldheaded monks, that's all."

"When my father was alive," said Chouhan, "he always said you were a good man, destined for salvation. How'd you ever get mixed up with that sort? Monks are notorious for bullying and backbiting, sometimes even over one day's seniority! You're still single and you've got your whole life ahead of you. You've got to get out of there, that's for sure, cause if you don't and old Abbot Ci passes away you'll be at their mercy! So think it over and don't just keep on taking it so patiently!" Having finished giving this advice, he picked up his vegetables and walked away.

Upon hearing Chouhan's advice Bonze Dan once and for all cast aside his dark thoughts of burning down the Temple and decided instead to leave it for a wandering existence. Of course he took Abbot Ci's kindness into account and thought of explaining the reason to him, but reconsidered. "If I tell him," he realized, "he won't release me! I'd rather be tough and leave once and for all." Now, the sacrificial money was still on the kitchen counter so he burned it in the stove. Then he went into the Abbot's room, quietly took up some suitable clothes and bundled them into a neat little package, just right for the carrying pole. After waiting for nightfall he slipped out of the Temple gate. Then taking advantage of the moonlight he made off at his best stride and was gone. And here's a poem:

Now let's turn our attention to Abbot Ci. Come nightfall he noticed Bonze Dan's failure to return to his quarters, and when he asked the monks about it they of course claimed to know nothing. Next morning he noticed that his clothes and carrying pole were gone and became suspicious.

"One of you," he told the monks, "must have argued with our junior bonze, for he's taken my clothes and carrying pole and left without a sound. He must have been furious."

The assembled bonzes wouldn't take responsibility. "We had no dispute with him," one said, "he made up his mind some time ago to wander off. Yesterday he burned spirit money in honor of Doggie Liu and that signaled his intentions, it seems."

The Abbot didn't believe it and them in parting to get out and search for him, on all fours if they had to, and bring him back. Now, the bonzes nodded agreement and each ostensibly went out to look, but actually they just loitered and drifted back and forth outside the Temple walls, killing time. After an hour they returned.

"There's no use; he's nowhere to be found," they reported; "he's probably far off by now." After breakfast Abbot Ci again pleaded with the monks to find him, and then himself took a bamboo cane and walked around town for a look. Upon his fruitless return to the Temple he saw the coterie of bonzes sitting, banded together by the water's edge, and let fly with a stone.

"Shame on you youngsters," he shouted angrily, "leaving an old man to walk around like this while you loaf here for hours! You're all coldhearted, that's for sure; why, you haven't budged to look for him!"

Now, the bonzes all knew that the jig was up so they tried yet another trick.

"There's no use searching," said one, "he loves and honors you, Teacher, so he'll be back to see you in a few days." And another chimed in: "Teacher, you sure honored him but did he reciprocate? We'll see soon enough...by his return. If he doesn't come back I guess he didn't revere you as much as you thought. Anyway, if he really were a good person he wouldn't have left without a word." Then another: "Why, Bonze Dan is a future Abbot while we're all useless. Oh excuse me, how dare I be so disrespectful to Teacher?" Finally one more had his say. "He didn't have any kin and he just drifted in on us. Teacher, you'd do well to search out his roots instead of his present whereabouts! And it isn't that we just quit looking and came back, either; who knows what district or county he could be in by now? It's like finding a needle in a haystack! You've got to first have some clue where he might be, then write out a public notice begging him to return for us to carry and post there."

Abbot Ci was thus roundly scolded by the group and, too angry to speak, went back to his room and sobbed. He never again told the monks to search. Everyday he'd lock his room and go out to ask around; upon his return from these rounds the monks would make rude hand gestures and mocking faces behind his back. After more than a month there was still no news. Now, Abbot Ci knelt before the statue of Guanyin for guidance several times, and on each occasion the slip he received was inauspicious. He thought of the words written on that slip number fifteen he'd first pulled out, years ago: "...the drifting of the cradle will soon enough be through" and "Where the babe was launched and how he floats among the reeds," but they weren't to be found this time. He concluded that the real importance of that slip was its number, signifying the fifteen years allotted him by Heaven to have the child, as had indeed just passed before his disappearance. How unbearable a fate! He could only sigh in resignation and despair. For among all of the kinds of grief and bitterness in the world perhaps there is nothing worse than parting unto death, never to meet again. Alas, every party must come to an end sometime. And on those words we take leave of this sad affair.

Getting back to our Bonze Dan, we now find him on his own, determined to wander to every famous place and legendary mountain, to visit Daoist Immortals and learn of their mighty, earthshaking magic. And so he continued, begging for alms as he went, stopping at the Temple of Glorious Filial Piety at Xiangshan, Quanzhou District, where he worshipped the true body of the ageless Buddha. Then he wandered to Hengzhou where he witnessed sunrise from the Holy Peak of the South, Hengshan, and roamed all of its seventy-two peaks, ten caves, fifteen sheer cliffs, thirty-six springs and twenty-five brooks. He climbed the mountains and took joy in the streams and lakes as he found them, and upon meeting some wandering monk or wizard would keep their company as long as it suited him, again casting off on his own. And so it went on until suddenly one day, together with a group of monks, he passed by the foot of Mt Dream-of-the-Clouds in Mianyang. They'd come to a place where there wasn't a trace of civilization; the mountains were jagged and threatening, strewn with boulders and fallen trees. As they desired such a serene spot they continued carefully, but a sea of white fog descended upon them and made the path indiscernible. Naturally, they became afraid.

"Let's turn around and get out" cried the monk bringing up the rear, "we've taken the wrong road." Now, Bonze Dan was following the group out when he had a thought. "What sort of place could this be?" "I've heard," said one of the monks as they walked on, "that there's a White Cloud Cave here, and the White Ape God lives there. Because secret charms from Heaven's books are written there, this fog is produced to obscure them and prevent their theft by mankind. Every year at noon on the fifth day of the fifth lunar month, the day of the Dragon Boat Festival, the Ape God ascends to Heaven for an hour and the fog lifts temporarily. Then he returns and the fog with him. In the cave is a white jade incense burner; the smoke from it is proof that the monkey is on the job guarding the charms. Now, if some Daoist were to seize that hour and find the cave entrance, he'd find a threatening stone bridge over an abyss too threatening to cross. And once the fog returns who knows how many li it covers; if one made a mistake it would be curtains. Without any way out and with only fog to breath for hours, why, if you didn't die you'd be sickened for sure. For this Mt Dream-of-the-Clouds is nine hundred square li, and who knows how many caverns there are worthy of the name 'White Cloud Cave'?

Bonze Dan quietly took all this in. "So, there really have been some secrets of sorcery here," he thought. "Why, if I'm not fated to learn, who is?"

After a few days he cast aside his companions and returned alone along the old road to Mt Dream of the Clouds. At the edge of the fog he stopped. Breaking off some dry wood and gathering pine branches he built a small hut. During the day he went out to gather provisions while by night he rested in the shelter, only waiting for the fifth day of the fifth month, hoping to enter White Cloud Cave and steal the White Ape God's forbidden Daoist charms from the secret books of Heaven. And if he could get them once he'd surely succeed again.

Anyway, if he didn't give it a try and at least walk off with them once, he'd never know the profound mysteries of Heaven's books. It's like this: