Chapter Three: Crimson Water of the Blood Well

Guan Wen did not belong to Tashilhunpo Monastery; he was merely a painter who had come from Jinan, Shandong, to observe and paint in the monastery, driven solely by his love for temple art. His lodgings were at a family-run guesthouse on Jilangka Road outside the monastery, on the south side of the street, right next to the Gangjian Thangka Art Center.

The streetlights on Jilangka Road were already aglow, and the restaurants to the south blazed with welcoming light, beckoning travelers from all over the world. In front of these establishments, weather-beaten off-road vehicles belonging to self-driving tourists were parked in rows.

Guan Wen had walked this stretch of road thousands of times, but never before with such a heavy heart. Suddenly, he felt the urge to drink, or perhaps to find someone to talk to, to pour out all the stifling gloom within him. Yet, at Tashilhunpo Monastery, he was utterly alone; apart from the monks, there was scarcely anyone with whom he could sit and chat.

“Hey, you… wait a moment…” Someone called to him from the roadside.

Guan Wen turned and saw Baoling, carrying a shoulder bag and dragging a suitcase.

“It’s you? Has your injury healed?” Guan Wen was a little surprised and delighted.

The night wind was fierce, and Baoling’s long hair fluttered, covering half her face. Her appearance reminded Guan Wen of the flying apsaras in the Dunhuang murals.

“I’m managing, I can hold on. The hotels around here are all full. Could you tell me if there’s a cleaner, quieter place to stay nearby?” Baoling looked somewhat flustered.

After a moment’s thought, Guan Wen pointed towards the guesthouse. “I’m staying at a Tibetan family’s guesthouse. It’s quite nice—would you like to have a look?”

Baoling nodded. “Thank you. If it’s not too much trouble, could you lend a hand? My luggage is really heavy.”

Guan Wen walked over and took both her shoulder bag and suitcase. The two of them walked east, side by side.

The guesthouse was run by an elderly Tibetan couple: the husband, Qusongjian, and the wife, Gexang. Their home had two rooms facing north, three to the east, and a small yard enclosed by a stone wall.

Guan Wen rented one of the east rooms; the other two were unoccupied, each with a table and bed, all kept very tidy.

Baoling chose the room next to Guan Wen’s. After setting down her luggage, she thanked him with a wry smile. “I didn’t expect such a bizarre thing to happen today—my heart’s still pounding. If you’re free, could we talk for a bit?”

Guan Wen nodded. “They serve dinner here. We can eat next door and chat.”

The third east room served as the dining area; it was simple, just a round table and a few wooden stools.

Gexang had prepared dinner: a pot of mutton stewed with potatoes, a plate of black fungus with cucumber, and a large bowl of tomato and egg soup.

“Is there any alcohol?” Baoling asked.

Gexang brought a bottle of barley wine and two glasses, then left and closed the door behind her.

They each drank three glasses, toasting the serendipity of their meeting, and soon the conversation turned to the murder of the thief in front of the Maitreya Hall.

“If I’d known someone was after that key, I wouldn’t have gone out of town alone. I should have waited for my companion, Gao Xiang, and acted together. He’s a seasoned self-driving traveler on the Sichuan-Tibet route—agile, experienced, well able to handle a few petty thieves. You have no idea how important that key is to me—more important than life itself. Without it, I wouldn’t have come to Tashilhunpo Monastery; but now that it’s lost, there’s no point in my being here…” At the mention of the key, Baoling’s mood grew both agitated and dejected.

Guan Wen tried to comfort her: “It’s no use regretting now. The local committee will keep investigating—maybe there’ll be news soon.”

Baoling shook her head. “Relying on them to find the key is almost hopeless. They’re not police; apart from maintaining order, they can’t do much. I’ve already called Gao Xiang to ask for help. If all goes well, he’ll be here before sunset tomorrow.”

It was clear from her tone that Gao Xiang meant a great deal to Baoling.

Guan Wen lowered his head, sipping his drink, a faint sense of melancholy in his chest. He had met many young women with fluttering hair in the monastery before—some asked him to take photos, some to draw their portraits, some to serve as a free guide. For all these requests, he had smiled and gladly obliged. He believed that no matter how brightly those women smiled, they would forget him the moment they left the monastery gates. To them, he was just another part of Tashilhunpo Monastery, like the countless murals, prayer flags, butter lamps, or even the shale paving the ground—nothing worth remembering individually.

Perhaps, at Tashilhunpo Monastery, Guan Wen was nothing at all—merely a speck of insignificant dust.

“That key must be very precious, isn’t it?” he asked.

Baoling sighed three times, hesitated, and said, “It’s a long story. Another time, perhaps. Gao Xiang says as long as the key is still in Shigatse, he’ll find a way to retrieve it.”

At the mention of Gao Xiang’s name, a smile appeared in Baoling’s eyes, which only deepened the gloom in Guan Wen’s heart.

“Tell me about yourself,” Baoling inquired.

Guan Wen seemed distracted. “Me? There’s not much to say. I’m just an artist from Jinan, Shandong. I’ve been here for over a year, practicing painting Buddhas in the monastery every day…”

His life was indeed unremarkable—no thrilling adventures, no earth-shattering romances.

Baoling smiled. “I meant what the monks said about painting.”

Guan Wen replied with a wry smile, “Oh? It’s just painting. I’m an artist—it’s my profession.”

Under the lamplight, Baoling’s cheeks were tinged with a faint flush from the barley wine, and her softly waved chestnut hair had been smoothed, falling obediently behind her shoulders.

“They say you can paint what others imagine—whatever people describe, you can bring it to life. Is that true?”

Guan Wen shook his head. “How could that be?”

Baoling laughed. “Too modest. I just saw your room full of works—each one is about Tashilhunpo Monastery, all vivid and expressive. Clearly, your skills are extraordinary.”

Guan Wen responded self-deprecatingly, “Those are just immature sketches. To truly capture the spirit of the monastery’s Buddhas takes more than a day or two—I often worry about it.”

They both drank in silence, suddenly feeling at odds, words failing to connect. Guan Wen realized Baoling kept steering the conversation toward painting—surely with some intention.

Half the bottle was gone, and Guan Wen felt himself growing tipsy.

Suddenly, someone knocked at the door—it was Qusongjian’s voice. “Mr. Guan, could you come out for a moment? I need a word.”

Guan Wen opened the door, slightly drunk. Qusongjian and Gexang stood side by side under the eaves, bundled in thick sheepskin coats, their bodies stooped, their faces troubled.

Qusongjian took Guan Wen’s hand and led him outside, while Gexang closed the door behind them.

“What is it? Why so mysterious?” Guan Wen asked, amused.

Not until they reached the gate did Qusongjian let go, lowering his voice. “Mr. Guan, there’s something wrong with your guest.”

The night wind was biting. Guan Wen, without a coat, shivered in the draft. He vaguely heard unusual sounds from the backyard of the Thangka Art Center next door.

“What do you mean?” Guan Wen was puzzled.

“There’s word from the monastery—she brings ill fortune. Two people have died because of her. I dare not let her stay; who knows what disaster she might bring? Mr. Guan, there must still be inns open outside. As soon as possible, take her away, lest she bring ruin on us,” Gexang chimed in from behind.

Guan Wen was both angry and amused. “What happens at the monastery has nothing to do with her—she’s just an ordinary pilgrim.”

Qusongjian’s face darkened. “Mr. Guan, if you’re too embarrassed, I’ll have Gexang speak to her.”

Gexang’s voice quivered, “No, no, I don’t dare.”

From the darkness outside the courtyard, someone could hold back no longer and coughed loudly. Guan Wen jumped; the figure stepped out of the shadows and stood by Qusongjian—it was Lebai Wangjie, owner of the art center next door. Usually, the two of them often discussed painting techniques together.

“Sorry, Guan Wen, I’ve been waiting here a while. I had no choice but to ask Qusongjian to fetch you,” Lebai Wangjie said, rubbing his hands.

Guan Wen was even more bewildered. “If there’s a problem, just say so.”

Lebai Wangjie glanced anxiously toward the east rooms of Qusongjian’s house, his face drawn. “Since that woman arrived, my well’s had a serious problem.”

“What kind of problem? What does it have to do with Miss Baoling?” Guan Wen asked.

Without further explanation, Lebai Wangjie pulled Guan Wen into the art center’s backyard.

There, an old deep well had always supplied excellent water—crystal clear and sweet, said to be connected to the ancient glacier springs deep within the snow mountains. Although the area around Tashilhunpo Monastery now used municipal water piped from the Shigatse Waterworks, the well water’s quality was in a league of its own.

The well was about two meters wide, lined with shale, surrounded at the top by an old stone balustrade.

Now, three young men—employees of the art center—stood clustered around the well.

“I heard you bring that woman into Qusongjian’s. I was about to draw a second bucket—just as I lowered it, this is what came up—” Lebai Wangjie pointed at the second of four buckets by the well. It was not water, but blood.

Startled, Guan Wen went to the edge. Sure enough, the iron bucket was filled with turbid, crimson liquid, faintly reeking of blood. Except for the first bucket, the other two were also filled with blood-red water.

“How could this be? And what does it have to do with Baoling?” Guan Wen, though shocked, was not as superstitious as Lebai Wangjie, Qusongjian, or Gexang.

“The monks say she brought misfortune. A blood well signals a great calamity,” Lebai Wangjie muttered.

Guan Wen was momentarily stunned. He dumped out a bucket, tied it to the rope, and dropped it down the well himself. He didn’t believe Lebai Wangjie and had to see for himself.

The well was deep. After a long descent, the bucket hit the water with a distant thud. The rope was wet and cold, making Guan Wen uneasy.

“Mr. Guan, it’s no use. I tied a flashlight to the rope and lowered it down just now—the water below is all red,” one of the young men warned.

“It’s like that time I saw half a slaughtered antelope escape from a restaurant and fall into the well—turned the whole well red…” another added.

Guan Wen shivered again, then pulled up the rope.

As the bucket surfaced, one of the young men switched on his flashlight and shone it into the bucket. Sure enough, the well water was as red as blood—a sight to chill the heart.