travel

In April of the seventh year of the Tianqi reign, Xuanji, at the age of seventeen, left the capital to travel.

There was no noisy farewell, only a blue-curtained carriage, two quiet and reliable servants, a box of books, and a bag of silver. Zhang Cheng and Zhao An were both carefully selected by Li Yi. Zhang Cheng was steady and capable, having traveled to the Western Regions and knowing the dangers of the journey; Zhao An was quick-witted and clever, extremely good at handling trivial matters, thorough and meticulous.

This journey away from the capital was made possible entirely by Li Yi's meticulous arrangements. He had carefully prepared a completely new identity for Xuanji—a traveling scholar named Yang Che, with his place of origin, family background, and official documents all perfectly presented and flawless. He also provided travel permits for the journey, ensuring unimpeded passage.

Xuanji was dressed in indigo men's clothing, with his long hair tied up in a headscarf, looking every bit the handsome young man.

She gently stroked the rough cover of the book "The Great Tang Records on the Western Regions" in her arms, "From the moment I set out on the western frontier, I encountered numerous dangers along the way, but my will and strength remained unwavering, and I was fearless in the face of death."

These opening words seem to perfectly encapsulate her current state of mind.

“When the Master traveled west from Chang’an, his first stop must have been Qinzhou,” she said softly, her fingertips tracing the passage in the book: “From Chang’an, he traveled northwest for more than three hundred li to Qizhou, then west through Longzhou, crossing the Longshan Mountains to Qinzhou.” The carriage rumbled along this ancient road.

The two servants noticed that this "young master" remained silent the entire way, spending his time either eating and lodging or engrossed in his books. Although they were curious, they dared not ask any questions.

Although the inns along the way were simple, they had a rustic charm. When setting off in the morning, Zhao An would prepare hot sesame cakes, sprinkled with sesame seeds, crispy on the outside and soft on the inside; they had a unique flavor.

After traveling for more than ten days, they arrived at Fengxiang Prefecture. A tributary of the Wei River meanders around the city, and the climate is much drier than in Chang'an. Xuanji ordered them to rest briefly and replenish their food and water. Having heard that there was an ancient temple called Ruiying Temple in the north of the city, which was very popular and contained murals from the previous dynasty, she recalled that Xuanzang in the "Records of the Western Regions" always visited temples to inquire about scriptures wherever he went. Feeling a longing to visit, she decided to stay for two days.

Ruiying Temple is nestled at the foot of the mountain north of the city, surrounded by ancient cypress trees, and its bells ring out in the distance. Following the directions, she arrived at the rear hall where murals are kept.

The murals, painted on the four walls and ceiling, have faded with age. However, the brushstrokes remain, the lines fluid and dynamic, depicting mostly Jataka tales. Xuanji gazed up intently, and just as he was absorbed in the sight, an elderly monk with white hair and beard, a gaunt face, and rosary beads approached slowly, his eyes clear and bright. "Are you interested in this old mural, benefactor?"

Xuanji quickly curtsied and said, "I am a student traveling here and saw that the murals are of high artistic merit. I was filled with respect and stopped to admire them. I apologize for disturbing your meditation, Master."

The old monk smiled slightly: "It's alright. There aren't many people in the world who can calmly appreciate paintings."

Xuanji's heart stirred slightly. Seeing the old monk's extraordinary demeanor, she felt a desire to learn from him. So, she bowed again, her attitude extremely sincere: "I dare not conceal from you, Master, but I do have something on my mind. Recently, I have been reading the Diamond Sutra, and although I can understand the literal meaning of the phrase 'one should abide nowhere and yet give rise to the mind,' I still feel a sense of disconnect and have not been able to truly grasp its meaning. I wonder if you, Master, could enlighten me?"

A hint of surprise flashed in the old monk Huiming's eyes, which quickly turned into admiration: "Oh? You are so young, yet you have read the Diamond Sutra? Excellent, excellent. This sentence is indeed the essence of Prajna. This is not a place for sermons. If you would like to hear my humble opinion, you may come with me to the meditation room for a discussion."

Xuanji readily agreed. He followed the old monk to a secluded meditation room, simply furnished with only a bed, a small table, a stove, and a few scrolls of scriptures. A cup of clear tea sat there, its smoke curling upwards.

Instead of immediately explaining the scripture, the old monk Huiming asked, "Please tell me, what were your thoughts when you read this sentence?"

Xuanji pondered for a moment, organizing her thoughts: "I think that 'no abiding' seems to mean that the mind is not attached to appearances, nor dwelling on thoughts. But if one is not attached, how can one 'generate thoughts'? When thoughts arise, they are already in motion; when they do not arise, they are like withered trees and cold rocks... Isn't there a contradiction between 'no abiding' and 'generate thoughts'?" Her voice gradually lowered, gathering her myriad emotions into this rational question.

The old monk did not answer directly, but gently pushed the teacup forward: "It is already rare for a benefactor to ask such a question. Look at this tea smoke—it takes shape when it rises, and dissipates without a trace of attachment. Does it ever struggle with 'how it should rise, how it should dissipate'?"

Xuanji was startled and couldn't help but look at the wisp of green smoke.

The old monk nodded, his eyes filled with wisdom: "Let me give you another analogy: Imagine the bright moon reflected in thousands of rivers and streams. The waters are varied in shape, sometimes moving, sometimes still, and the moon's reflection appears as it comes, clear and perfect. But has the moon's reflection ever clung to any one spot on the water's surface? Has it ever become stained with dust because it reflects all things?"

Xuanji listened intently, and seemed to understand something.

The old monk continued, “The bright moon shines on all rivers without any intention; this is the meaning of ‘dwelling nowhere’. A thousand rivers reflect a thousand moons; this is the meaning of ‘arising of the mind’. Our original mind is also like this. It is not lifeless, but full of all things, able to manifest all wonderful functions in response to conditions—whether reading, walking, experiencing joy, or suffering—it is like a mirror reflecting objects; when objects come, it appears; when objects go, it is empty.”

He looked at Xuanji: "All things arise from causes and conditions; let the mind be unattached, face them calmly, and leave no trace afterward. Joy, anger, sorrow, and happiness are all fleeting clouds; know that they are like illusions, do not dwell on them in your heart, and that is true freedom."

Xuanji listened intently, a thin mist seemingly dissipating from her heart. The old monk's words, though discussing Buddhist teachings, seemed to strike at her very core. Weren't those unfulfilled desires and inability to let go precisely like mistaking the moon's reflection in water?

She remained silent for a long time, then bowed deeply: "Listening to your words, Master, is like drinking ambrosia. I understand now. 'One should abide nowhere and yet give rise to thoughts' does not mean suppressing thoughts, but rather seeing clearly the arising and ceasing of thoughts, like clouds rolling and unfolding, neither rejecting nor welcoming them, so that the mind naturally becomes clear. Thank you for your guidance, Master!"

The old monk Huiming nodded with a smile: "Excellent. Your understanding is excellent. The Buddha's teachings are in the world, and enlightenment is not separate from the world. The mortal world is also a place of practice, and everything can be used to refine the mind. I hope that you will take good care of this mind on your journey to the West."

As she left Ruiying Temple, the setting sun cast long shadows of the ancient temple. The old monk's parables and teachings planted a seed of wisdom in Xuanji's heart, which slowly took root and sprouted. It lessened her uncertainty about the future and gave her more clarity and courage.

After crossing the Longshan Mountains, we arrived at Qinzhou (today's Tianshui). The carriages made a brief stop at the Qinzhou post station to replenish their supplies of durable flatbread, dried meat, and water.

When she spent the night at inns, the conditions became increasingly rudimentary. Sometimes she only had a large communal bed, the oil lamp dim, and the food coarse, yet Xuanji found it all quite pleasant. In her spare time, she would spread out paper and pen under the lamp to record what she had seen and heard that day, or write a few lines of poetry. The ink spread across the rough paper, and between the lines, there was no longer the sorrow of parting, but rather the vastness and openness imbued with the wind and sand.

"Zhang Cheng," Xuanji suddenly asked as the carriage traveled across an endless Gobi Desert, "I've heard that Dunhuang in Shazhou is a sacred Buddhist site, where music and dance are also flourishing?"

Zhang Cheng, driving the carriage, a hint of surprise flashing in his eyes, replied, "Young master, you have great insight! Dunhuang is indeed a treasure trove. Although it is not as prosperous as Chang'an, the murals in the Thousand Buddha Caves are like a sea, with donors and flying apsaras depicted so vividly. The melodies there combine elements of both Han and non-Han cultures, and the pipa music still carries the flavor of India, quite different from the refined music of the Central Plains."

Xuanji closed his eyes, and a scene involuntarily appeared in his mind: in the dim cave, candlelight flickered, and the flying apsaras on the murals seemed to come alive, their robes fluttering in the wind, as if about to dance. A strong, almost instinctive longing welled up from the bottom of his heart, a yearning for a broader, freer, and more vibrant art and life.

"Wonderful!" she exclaimed, her eyes brightening. "The Great Tang Records on the Western Regions also highly praised the Buddhist activities in Hexi. After hearing Brother Zhang's words today, I am even more eager to visit. Now that we have traveled west to this place, we must go to Dunhuang to see its splendor for ourselves! We must not only see the Thousand Buddha Cave, but also listen to the pipa music of Shazhou. If we could even capture a trace of its essence, that would be the greatest fortune!"

Upon hearing this, Zhang Cheng couldn't help but smile, a rare occurrence on his face. He noticed that while the young man was composed when discussing poetry and scholarship, he displayed a youthful enthusiasm when talking about the frontier scenery, quite unlike his usual somber demeanor. He nodded in agreement, "Since you have this intention, once we reach Guazhou and confirm that the journey is safe, I, Zhang, will certainly escort you to Dunhuang. That place is well worth a visit."

Xuanji nodded happily and sat back in the car. She even subconsciously tapped her knees lightly with her fingers, a long-lost, light smile playing on her lips, a smile she herself was unaware of.

Continuing westward, a cluster of low, earthen houses came into view, now serving as a resting place for passing merchants. The only inn there had a tattered signboard, yet it emitted warm lights and the sounds of people.

They booked the inn and two rooms. The rooms were small, with a heated kang bed taking up half of them, but they were fairly clean. Dinner was a steaming bowl of mutton soup noodles, served with spicy garlic, which Xuanji found even more palatable than the food in Chang'an.

After the meal, as usual, she laid out paper and brushes under the oil lamp. The ink was a pre-ground ink stick, and the water was clean water specially prepared by Zhao An.

As the pen touched the paper, she paused briefly, then wrote:

A Journey to the West: On the Longxi Road

Dust and sand obscure the sun, clouds turn yellow over the Longxi region, and a lone wheel crushes the ancient battlefield.

I occasionally hear camel bells to identify caravans, and sometimes I see vultures perched on rocky hills.

My heart soars to the boundless ocean, my body, like a tumbleweed, is free to roam.

Do not say that Dunhuang is a thousand miles away; where the wind and smoke end, there lies a fairyland.

After writing, she gently blew the ink dry and looked at the two lines, "My heart follows the boundless sea, my body is like a weed that can stand on its own," and a faint smile appeared on her lips.

The next morning, at the crack of dawn, the group was ready. The old woman at the inn prepared freshly baked naan bread for them, piping hot. Xuanji paid a little extra money and asked Zhao An to add some salt and dried fruit.

The carriage once again entered the boundless, desolate landscape. The road ahead was even longer.

More than half a year has passed since Xuanji left the Wen residence, yet Wen Tingyun still finds himself thinking of that day unexpectedly.

That day, Li Yi came to visit, dressed in a disheveled blue robe, speaking earnestly, and pushed the draft letter of release for Fang Liang in front of him. He kept saying that he was fighting for her "freedom," and even said that it was originally Xuanji's own idea.

What could he do? Stop her and tell her that this path was also a dead end? And then what? Was he just going to watch her best years wither away in the Wen family, forever living as an ambiguous "adopted daughter"? Li Yi's actions were certainly disrespectful, but in this turbid world, it was the narrowest path she could grasp that was closest to "survival."

The pen tip finally fell, and the instant it touched the paper, it felt as if my heart and soul had been crushed.

He closed his eyes, suppressing all the turmoil and sorrow deep within them, leaving only a withered silence. Outside the window, dusk deepened.