Chapter Six: The Great Beauty Baoling

At the entrance of the courtyard, Le Baiwangjie peered around furtively. Guan Wen walked out to meet him.

"The well water is back to normal," Le Baiwangjie said. "I came to see if that woman has been driven away."

Guan Wen shook his head. "She hasn't left. I told you before, the well water has nothing to do with her."

Le Baiwangjie sighed deeply. "At first, I was doubtful too. But since everyone else was saying it, I could only repeat it. Now, with all the wells and springs outside the monastery back to normal, the rumors have fallen apart on their own."

Guan Wen raised his hand and tapped Le Baiwangjie lightly on the left side of his chest, smiling. "The rumors are gone, but what about the demon in your heart? Has it left you?"

Le Baiwangjie thought for a moment, then shook his head solemnly.

"If you don't banish the demons within, they'll surely return," Guan Wen advised. "I suggest you read more of the Buddhist scriptures the monastery lends out for free, and listen to the teachings of the venerable monks. Soon, you'll be at peace. Look at you—so focused on making money from your paintings, you've forgotten that we're just outside the Tashilhunpo Monastery. How much money can buy back peace of mind?"

Le Baiwangjie laughed. "It's not just me thinking about money. Who can be like you—painting and thinking of nothing else, becoming the very shadow of the Tashilhunpo Monastery, lingering there from dawn till dusk."

"Good morning, Mr. Guan." Baoling appeared at the gate, greeting Guan Wen.

She had changed into a white leather coat, her long black hair flowing freely over her shoulders, giving her a graceful, untamed air—like a dandelion in spring.

"So beautiful—truly beautiful!" Le Baiwangjie couldn't help but murmur in awe. "Like a fairy. If I could marry her, I wouldn't trade her for the entire treasury of the Tashilhunpo Monastery."

His face was filled with infatuation, his eyes fixed on Baoling, completely forgetting Guan Wen's presence.

"Mr. Guan, when can we start painting?" Baoling asked again.

Before Guan Wen could reply, Le Baiwangjie had already stepped past him, approaching Baoling. "I'm a painter too, miss. Whatever you want to paint, I can help. My studio is next door, please come over—"

Suddenly, Chizan sprang from the steps, leaping three meters with a swift, fluid motion, and kicked Le Baiwangjie squarely in the chest with both feet.

Le Baiwangjie groaned, staggered back seven or eight steps, and landed hard on the ground.

Chizan landed, then strode forward, planting his foot firmly on Le Baiwangjie's head.

"Hey, take it easy!" Guan Wen was the first to react, shouting.

Baoling ran down the steps, pushing at Chizan with both hands. "Don't hit him, let him go!" she cried.

Chizan stood immobile, his face expressionless, like a lifeless statue. His moves were swift and ruthless, betraying the experience of a seasoned fighter.

"Chizan, that's enough." Lao Dao strolled in from outside the courtyard, hands clasped behind his back, surveying the chaotic scene.

He didn't look at Chizan or at the fallen Le Baiwangjie, but fixed his gaze on Guan Wen. "Mr. Guan, what can we do? To help a friend, you have to be utterly loyal, never letting your guard down—not even for a second. This fellow was disrespectful to Miss Baoling; he needed a little lesson, or else everyone would think she’s easy to bully."

"Let him go! Make him take his foot off!" Baoling pleaded, her voice trembling.

Lao Dao remained unhurried, continuing to explain to Guan Wen. "Chizan is from deep in the Himalayas. Orphaned young, he grew up with the snow wolves. So, only a small part of him is human; the rest is all wolf. If I hadn't called out, he probably would've—" He nudged Le Baiwangjie's backside with his toe. "He would've torn him to pieces. Do you believe it?"

Guan Wen understood; this was a show, a warning to others. Le Baiwangjie was the sacrificial chicken, and he himself the monkey being warned.

He nodded. "I believe you. But please let go of my friend. He meant no harm to Miss Baoling."

Lao Dao whistled, smiling, and Chizan slowly withdrew his foot.

"Sorry, it was just a misunderstanding," Lao Dao said, bending down to pull Le Baiwangjie up by the arm.

Baoling hurriedly took out a tissue, wiping the dust from Le Baiwangjie's face and hair, apologizing over and over.

Guan Wen said nothing more. He returned to his room, found a stack of sketch paper, took one sheet, and clipped it onto the tripod easel. He loathed the violence of Lao Dao and Chizan, but there was nothing he could do. Ordinary fights like this would never interest the police. As long as no one was left crippled or dead, reporting it would be pointless.

He took out his little knife to sharpen his pencil, slowly calming himself and entering his usual state for painting. Since Baoling had requested it, he would give it his all and not let her down.

Soon, Baoling knocked at the door. "Mr. Guan, may I come in?"

Guan Wen opened the door. Baoling stood outside, her face full of apology. She bowed as soon as she saw him. "I'm truly sorry. Gao Xiang's friends were too rude and heavy-handed. I've already sent the painter back to rest and left him some money for the doctor."

She had done all she could to resolve the aftermath, leaving Guan Wen nothing to add.

"He should be fine," Guan Wen said. "The local Tibetans are strong and healthy, like the yaks pulling carts on the highway. I've already promised to take full responsibility for his medical and nutrition costs. And I've told Lao Dao and Chizan—if they're rude again, they'll have to leave."

"So long as they don't cause more trouble, that's enough. Le Baiwangjie is a good man; he won't take advantage of you," Guan Wen replied.

"May I come in?" Baoling asked.

Guan Wen stepped aside, inviting her in.

Baoling thanked him before entering slowly. Guan Wen glanced outside—Lao Dao was pacing the courtyard, arms crossed, while Chizan sat again on the steps outside Baoling's door.

"With them here, you really don't need to worry about being bullied. That's a good thing," Guan Wen said sincerely, closing the door behind them.

Baoling gave a wry smile. "I've already complained to Gao Xiang on the phone. When traveling in Tibet, the most important thing is to keep a low profile and avoid trouble. Besides, your painter friend didn't do anything—he just wanted to help me paint. When Gao Xiang arrives, I'll bring him to apologize to your friend."

Guan Wen shook his head gently. "Let's leave it behind us and get to work."

He opened his sketchbook, gripped his pencil, and listened quietly as Baoling began her story.

Clearing her throat, Baoling turned her head away from Guan Wen, gazing out the window. "My dream is long, and has followed me since childhood—growing ever clearer, ever more vivid. I often wonder, is this something that happened in a dream, or is it a real event in my life that I've chosen to forget? I often get lost between this dream and reality, my thoughts split and irreconcilable, as if torn into two strands. The dream feels more real; reality, more dreamlike..."

Someone else might have grown impatient at such an opening, but not Guan Wen. In Tashilhunpo Monastery, he had met many visitors, pilgrims, and monks—each of whom, when recounting their inner thoughts, used precisely this indistinct, dreamlike tone Baoling now employed. He had seen too many such cases and had long since mastered the clarity of the observer amid the confusion of the involved.

"Miss Baoling," he began, "the state of 'Zhuang Zhou dreaming of a butterfly' is a marvelous one—man is not man, butterfly not butterfly, yet man is butterfly and butterfly is man. It's mysterious and can't be explained by ordinary logic. Zhuangzi's 'On the Equality of Things' and Li Shangyin's 'The Brocade Zither' both only touch the surface, not the essence. Everyone who enters this state knows that it is, but not why it is, and falls into deep confusion. But don't worry. Just speak along the timeline of your dream, from your earliest memory to the present moment."

Baoling smiled wryly again. "The strange thing is the origin of the dream. I remember from the age of three, when I was living at the St. Christopher's Children's Home in Hong Kong. Every morning, I woke earlier than the other girls, lying alone in bed, recalling my dreams. The home was founded in 1935 by the late Bishop Ho Ming Wah of the Anglican Church, and stands on Tai Po Road in the New Territories. The grounds were surrounded by great trees, with countless bird nests among the branches. Even now, when I close my eyes, I can recall the birds' songs in spring, summer, autumn, and winter. In fact, every dream ended with the sound of birds waking me—Mr. Guan, am I being too long-winded?"

Guan Wen shook his head, gesturing for her to continue.

As a painter, he had to hear her whole story to understand what had happened in her dreams.

"At first," Baoling said, "I dreamed of an ancient, dilapidated temple built against a mountain—its halls scattered and in ruins, as if it hadn't been repaired for ages. I lived in the temple, fetching water, chopping wood, sweeping, chanting scriptures, doing the same chores as a dozen other young monks. One day, while sweeping absentmindedly, I strayed into a strange courtyard. The ground there wasn't paved with ordinary stone, but with heavy slabs, each carved with scripture. As I swept, the dust—half a foot thick—revealed line after line of script. Seeing those scriptures filled me with joy, and I swept all the harder, until I heard someone call my name—"

Baoling turned to look at Guan Wen. "But my name wasn't Baoling. It was a strange, long name with at least a dozen syllables."

Guan Wen nodded quietly.

"I looked up," Baoling continued, biting her lip, "and saw, beneath the eaves at the far end of the courtyard, a small, emaciated old monk beckoning to me. I walked toward him, and somehow it was already night—a full moon hung overhead. With each step, my shadow leaped across the stone slabs. When I reached him, he said, 'You have finally come. After so many cycles, you have finally returned.' He reached out his hand—so thin, just skin and bone, pale as if sculpted from jade. I asked who he was. He stared at me with vacant eyes, his face suddenly filled with grief, and asked if I truly no longer recognized him. Of course, I didn't, and shook my head softly. In that instant... I'll never forget what happened. His hair and flesh crumbled into black ash, scattering on the wind, leaving only a skeleton standing under the eaves, arms still outstretched to me. I screamed and staggered back, flailing my broom blindly. I don't know if I struck him or if it was the wind, but the skeleton collapsed with a crash into fragments. Screaming, I ran from the courtyard, back to where I'd been sweeping before. Looking back, that strange courtyard was dissolving like burnt paper money in a grave—drifting in the mountain wind, fading away into the transparent air..."