Chapter 955
A Gentle Smile
There were acrobats—a dark-skinned, thin man was performing fire-eating and balancing jars in the open space in the middle of the street, surrounded by a crowd of onlookers who occasionally burst into cheers and applause.
There was also an old man sculpting clay figures, sitting on a small stool with a pile of colorful clay in front of him. His fingers were thick and short, but he was incredibly skillful at his work. He would twirl a lump of clay in his hands, knead it a couple of times, and then use a bamboo skewer to flick and draw, and a lifelike little figure would appear—door gods, the Kitchen God, Guan Yu, the God of Wealth, Guanyin Bodhisattva, he could sculpt anything.
Pigsy squatted in front of the clay figurine stall for a long time, then pointed to a chubby clay Maitreya Buddha figurine and said, "This looks like me."
Sun Wukong glanced at him and said, "You're fatter than Maitreya Buddha."
"I'm not that fat—"
Chu Yang took out a few coins and bought three clay figures—a monkey king, a pig general, and a scholar.
"Keep this as a souvenir."
Pigsy took the clay figure of General Pig and examined it over and over again, then suddenly chuckled.
"It looks a lot like how I looked back in Heaven."
He carefully tucked the clay figure into his bosom, his movements as gentle as if he were tucking an egg into his pocket.
Keep going.
At the end of the night market is a stone arch bridge, beneath which flows a narrow river, its water shimmering silver in the moonlight. Several stalls are set up on the bridge, selling late-night snacks—roasted melon seeds, candied chestnuts, and sweet osmanthus rice balls in fermented rice wine.
Chu Yang bought three bowls of sweet fermented rice balls from a stall at the bridgehead.
The glutinous rice balls were freshly cooked, small and plump, floating in the sweet fermented rice soup. The soup was slightly fermented, carrying a faint aroma of wine, and tasted sweet but not cloying, warm but not scalding.
The three of them leaned against the bridge railing, eating and watching the moon reflected in the river.
The moon, round and full, is reflected on the water's surface, its reflection broken and then gathered again by the gentle ripples, like a restless silver disc.
The gentle murmur of the water beneath the bridge mingled with the distant clamor of the night market, creating a perfect balance—neither too quiet nor too noisy.
A night breeze blew by, carrying the astringent scent of willows by the river and the aroma of braised meat wafting from a restaurant in the distance.
Chu Yang took a deep breath.
At that moment, he suddenly felt that the days on the journey to the West were not so difficult after all.
Sun Wukong finished the last sip of the glutinous rice ball soup, placed the bowl on the bridge railing, and looked up at the moon.
"When I, Old Sun, was on Flower Fruit Mountain five hundred years ago, I also loved to sit under this moon."
His voice suddenly sounded somewhat distant.
"Back then, I, Old Sun, didn't have to travel, fight monsters, or serve my master. I could eat peaches whenever I wanted, drink wine whenever I wanted, and fool around with my monkey minions until dawn."
Pigsy listened from the side, unusually remaining silent.
Sun Wukong was silent for a moment, then suddenly chuckled.
"But back then, nobody went to the night market with me, Old Sun. The monkeys didn't like those things; they only loved peaches and waterfalls."
He turned his head and glanced at Chu Yang.
"You little brat, you tricked your master into staying here, and then dragged me, Old Sun, and that idiot out to stroll through the night market. What are you after?"
Chu Yang thought for a moment.
"I'm not after anything in return. I just feel everyone is too tired and needs to relax."
That's it?
That's it.
Sun Wukong stared at him for two breaths, seemingly trying to determine whether what he said was true.
Then he laughed. Not his usual carefree, joking laugh, but a softer, more relaxed laugh.
"You're a man of many more cunning than I am, Old Sun. But you have one good point—your cunning isn't for yourself, it's always for others."
Chu Yang smiled but didn't say anything.
Pigsy finished slurping up the last glutinous rice ball and patted his belly contentedly.
"Brother Chu Yang, in my life, I admire two kinds of people the most. One kind is those who are good at fighting, like Brother Monkey. The other kind is those who can feed me, like you."
"What about Master?" Sun Wukong asked.
Pigsy thought for a moment: "Master is the third type—someone who can make this old pig willingly go hungry."
All three of them laughed.
Laughter drifted away on the night breeze, mingling with the hustle and bustle of the night market and the babbling of the stream.
The moon under the bridge swayed, as if it were laughing.
They strolled around the night market for about half an hour.
Pigsy stood in front of a roasted sweet potato stall for a long time, and finally bought five of the biggest ones. He held them in his arms and took a bite every few steps, his mouth covered in caramel color.
Sun Wukong stopped for a while at the juggling stall to watch the skinny, dark-skinned man swallow fire. After watching, he curled his lip and commented, "That fire-swallowing is no good. Back in my day, I spent forty-nine days in Laozi's alchemy furnace; that's what you call fire-swallowing."
Chu Yang bought a paper fan with a traditional Chinese ink painting of orchids on its surface. It wasn't by a famous artist, but the brushstrokes were delicate and elegant, pleasing to the eye. He planned to give it to Tang Sanzang tomorrow—Tang Sanzang always felt hot while traveling, so a fan would be helpful.
As midnight approached, the night market began to gradually close.
The vendors packed up their stalls, and one by one the lanterns went out. The figures on the bluestone path became increasingly sparse, until only a few stray dogs remained, sniffing around at the base of the wall, rummaging for scraps of food that had fallen during the day.
The three of them slowly walked up the mountain along the path they had come from.
There was only moonlight and the chirping of insects on the mountain path.
The pine forest became a dark silhouette in the night, the outlines of the tree crowns edged with silver by the moonlight. An owl perched on a branch of a pine tree, its two round eyes glowing with a faint yellow light in the darkness, like two amber beads.
The stone steps beneath my feet were damp with dew, making them slightly slippery. The air was filled with the rich, fresh scent of grass and trees, and the earthy, earthy aroma—the unique smell of a mountain night, completely different from the bustling atmosphere of a town.
Pigsy, clutching the last roasted sweet potato, nibbled on it as he climbed uphill, his steps light and quick, a stark contrast to his descent.
"I, Old Pig, feel energetic all over now."
Sun Wukong hopped around on the steps in front of him, having reverted to his original monkey form—since there were no outsiders on the mountain path anyway—his tail held high.
"Of course you'll have energy when you're full. Your 300-pound body is half meat and half rice."
Pigsy, unusually, didn't argue. He chuckled twice, stuffed the last bite of sweet potato into his mouth, chewed it vigorously, and swallowed it.
Chu Yang walked at the very back, waving his newly bought paper fan in his hand—although it wasn't hot at night, walking while waving the fan gave him a leisurely feeling.
As he approached the temple gate, he suddenly stopped.
Beside the temple gate ahead, in the moonlight, a figure stood quietly.
He was wearing a white monk's robe, but no kasaya (Buddhist monastic robe), his hair was loose, and he wore a pair of cloth shoes.
It's Tang Sanzang.
Chu Yang's heart skipped a beat.
Oh no, I'm awake.
Sun Wukong and Zhu Bajie also saw it. They both froze, exchanging a glance.
Pigsy's face turned pale—though his grayish pig face didn't show any color change—but his panic was genuine. He instinctively hid the sweet potato peel behind his back, then realized it was gone, pulled his hand back, and pretended he hadn't taken anything.
The three of them steeled themselves and walked to the temple gate.
Tang Sanzang looked at them.
His face was calm under the moonlight, making it impossible to tell whether he was angry or not.
"Master...Master..." Pigsy was the first to break down, kneeling down with a thud. "I...I just went out for a walk...I didn't do anything..."
Sun Wukong was much calmer than him, and chuckled twice with his hand on the back of his head.
“Master, I couldn’t sleep at night, so I went for a walk…” Tang Sanzang did not speak.
His gaze passed over Sun Wukong and Zhu Bajie and landed on Chu Yang.
Chu Yang met his gaze calmly.
"Master, I was the one who led them out."
Tang Sanzang remained silent for two breaths.
"Where did you go?"
"At the night market down the mountain, I ate a bowl of wontons, drank a bowl of sweet fermented rice soup with glutinous rice balls, and browsed the stalls. There was no drinking or disturbance, and I didn't bother the locals."
Tang Sanzang remained silent for a few more moments.
Then he said something that none of the three of them expected.
"Is it tasty?"
Chu Yang was stunned.
Pigsy was stunned.
Even Sun Wukong was stunned.
Tang Sanzang's lips curved upwards slightly.
"This humble monk asks you, is it delicious?"
Pigsy opened his mouth twice, and the sound squeezed out from his throat, as thin as a mosquito's hum.
"It's...delicious."
Tang Sanzang nodded.
"That's good."
He turned around and walked towards the guest rooms.
He took two steps, then stopped and said something without turning his head.
"There's no rush to travel tomorrow. This humble monk still has a few scrolls of scriptures to read."
Then he continued walking.
The hem of the monk's robe swayed gently in the moonlight, and his steps were steady and composed.
The three people stood at the temple gate, looking at each other.
Pigsy was the first to react. He got up from the ground, dusted off his knees, and looked relieved to have survived the ordeal.
"Master...Master didn't scold us?"
Sun Wukong stuffed the golden cudgel back into his ear and shook his head.
"Not only did he not scold her, he seemed quite happy about it."
Chu Yang looked down at the paper fan in his hand and suddenly chuckled softly.
Tang Sanzang wasn't ignorant.
He knows everything.
He was simply not good at saying things like "I'm tired," "I want to rest," or "Let's take a break." In his mind, as a pilgrim, saying these things was a sign of weakness and disrespect for his mission.
But when someone else made the decision for him—when Chu Yang led him to the temple with a well-intentioned "lie," when he spent a quiet and fulfilling night in the scripture pavilion, when he discovered that his three companions had also spent a pleasant evening down the mountain—he suddenly realized that stopping to rest wasn't so bad.
The world didn't collapse just because they took a night's rest.
The Western Paradise didn't become an inch farther away just because they went to the night market.
On the contrary, everyone seemed more energetic than they had been the previous nine days.
This may be why Tang Sanzang said, "There's no rush to travel tomorrow."
Chu Yang closed the paper fan and held it in his hand.
When Chu Yang woke up the next day, he lay in bed in a daze for a long time.
The light from outside the window was a pale golden color, carrying a lazy warmth. It shone through the white paper covering the window and spread a warm, cozy carpet on the floor.
He heard birds chirping—not just one or two, but a whole flock, chattering noisily under the eaves, like a group of children chasing each other in the corridor after school.
I also heard the sound of bells in the distance.
It is the morning bell of Baolin Temple. The sound is deep and resonant, spreading out in waves from the mountainside, hitting the opposite mountain wall and bouncing back, then spreading out again, then bouncing back again, finally turning into a long humming sound that blends into the morning air.
Chu Yang stretched, feeling his bones cracking all over.
Comfortable.
The soreness and stiffness accumulated from nine consecutive days of travel have finally subsided considerably after a full night's deep sleep last night. The old injury in my right shoulder has also improved a lot; raising my arm no longer causes that tearing, dull pain, leaving only a slight, lingering ache.
He got up, dressed, and opened the door.
A faint sandalwood scent filled the corridor, the incense burned during the temple's morning prayers. Sunlight streamed obliquely through the pillars, casting distinct stripes of light and shadow on the red-painted floor.
The door to Tang Sanzang's room next door was open, the bed was neatly made, but he wasn't there.
They must have gone to the library.
Chu Yang smiled, took out the paper fan he bought last night from his storage bag, walked to the entrance of the Sutra Pavilion and peeked in—sure enough, Tang Seng was already sitting cross-legged on the futon, with the Sanskrit scripture he hadn't finished reading last night spread out in front of him, his expression focused as if he were in deep meditation.
He tiptoed in and placed the paper fan on the low table next to Tang Sanzang.
Tang Sanzang raised his head.
"Hmm? This is..."
"I bought it at the night market last night. It's hot when Master is traveling, so it'll be good for him to fan himself."
Tang Sanzang picked up the paper fan, unfolded it, and looked at the ink-wash orchid on the fan surface.
His gaze lingered on those few light strokes of ink for a moment, and a gentle smile appeared on his lips.
"Well done. It has a touch of Zheng Banqiao's style."
"Master, you flatter me. A three-cent bundle from a street stall can't compare to something made by a master."
Tang Sanzang closed the paper fan, held it in his hand, and gently tapped it twice on his palm.
"The sentiment is more important than the skill of the painter. Thank you, Chu Yang."
Chu Yang noticed that he called him "Chu Yang" again instead of "Benefactor Chu".
"Master, take your time reading the scriptures, there's no rush. I'm going to find Wukong and Bajie."
Tang Sanzang hummed in agreement, then lowered his head again, immersing himself once more in the world of the Sanskrit scriptures.
Chu Yang left the Sutra Repository and walked along the path behind the temple toward the back mountain.
The hill behind Baolin Temple is a gentle slope covered with knee-high wild grass and scattered shrubs. Dewdrops still cling to the blades of grass, shimmering in the morning sun like tiny diamonds scattered across the ground.
At the top of the slope was a flat clearing, about two or three acres in size, covered with a short layer of turf that felt soft underfoot. Several tall ginkgo trees surrounded the clearing, their leaves already turning yellow and rustling in the morning breeze. Occasionally, a few fan-shaped golden leaves would drift down, swirling as they landed on the grass.
Sun Wukong was squatting under a ginkgo tree at the edge of the open space, drawing something on the ground with a twig.
Pigsy lay on his back in the middle of the grass, his limbs outstretched like a giant "大" (big) character. He was chewing on a blade of grass, his eyes rolled back as he looked up at the sky, as if his soul had left his body.
"Brother Monkey." Chu Yang walked over. (End of Chapter)