Chapter Seven: The Nightmare That Haunted Baoling for Twenty Years

This narrative took on a strange, chilling tone, and Bao Ling’s face gradually changed color, her body instinctively shrinking away. Guan Wen asked, “Are you saying you’ve been having these dreams since early childhood? But we all know that a three-year-old hasn’t begun to absorb knowledge from the outside world. Their ability to process text or even distinguish images is still quite lacking. If something like this occurs, there’s only one explanation: you were born with memories from a previous life, and what you just described all happened before.”

The phenomenon of people being born with memories of a past life is well-documented across cultures and ages, with both personal and physical evidence backing it up. Many people are firm believers, since certain bizarre events can only be explained by such a theory; otherwise, there’s no answer at all.

Bao Ling nodded. “That’s right. I don’t know if you’re familiar with Hong Kong’s Yin-Yang masters. After I told my teachers at the orphanage about this, the director invited Master Shao Wuhua, the head of the most renowned Yin-Yang family in Hong Kong at the time, to conduct a special ceremony for me. When the ritual ended, he spoke privately with the director. I eavesdropped from behind the door. He said that a deep and unfathomable shadow spirit was hidden in me. To remove it, they’d have to find my biological parents, collect their blood from all four seasons, mix it together, and then choose the most auspicious, masculine, and righteous day of the year to perform a ritual. Only then might I be saved. The director was at a loss, since I was an abandoned orphan and not even a scrap of paper was left in my swaddling clothes—no way to find my parents. So the matter was dropped.”

Guan Wen smiled. “So, you’re saying that the legendary shadow spirit is still inside you?”

He’d heard tales of Hong Kong Yin-Yang masters before, but such things were shrouded in mystery—too esoteric for an outsider to judge their authenticity.

Bao Ling nodded again. “That’s right. Master Shao once said that shadow spirits endure as long as heaven, earth, the sun, and the moon. If it’s not removed, it will remain in me forever.”

Guan Wen pressed his pen point into the paper, slowly pricking so many holes that the sheet looked pockmarked. This was his habitual gesture when deep in thought: the more dots, the clearer the lines of reasoning in his mind.

“There’s something odd, too,” Bao Ling said, pointing outside the door. “The ancient monastery I saw in my dreams resembles Tashilhunpo Monastery, but it’s only a feeling. The present-day Tashilhunpo is grand and magnificent, its halls rivaling the great temples of Lhasa, perhaps even surpassing them. Yet in my dreams, there were only barren mountains, meager streams, and a few old, dim halls. There weren’t pilgrims streaming in day and night as there are now.”

“Are you certain?” Guan Wen frowned.

Bao Ling nodded emphatically. “Yes. I’ve come to Tashilhunpo Monastery several times. Each time, on the night before I arrive and before I leave, I have the same dream. The scenes are so vivid, and when I wake, I’m desperate to rush into the monastery and find that old courtyard, to see what’s in my dreams. But I know it’s impossible. The monastery has been rebuilt and renovated so many times, with even the pathways between the halls repaved. Each visit brings new changes. How could I possibly find that place?”

Guan Wen was startled again. He suddenly recalled the scene when he first saw Bao Ling, bowing deeply in the Hall of the Maitreya Buddha. In Tibet, every pilgrim has their own journey, experience, and thoughts, but Bao Ling's concerns were clearly unlike the others. They prayed for blessings; she was seeking her origins.

“You mean—” Guan Wen hesitated.

Bao Ling continued, “I mean, everything I encounter in my nightmares happened in a certain era of Tashilhunpo Monastery. Perhaps these are the only memories that remain from my past life. To unravel the nightmares, I’ve already visited all the former directors, supervisors, caretakers—even veteran janitors, gardeners, and gatekeepers—at the orphanage where I grew up. I collected a great deal of written material, but none of it offered any leads. All I can do is come here and follow the guidance of my dreams, searching in vain.”

Since orphanages mainly take in abandoned infants, parents rarely leave any information behind. To trace one’s roots is harder than reaching the sky.

The fact that she now sought out Guan Wen meant she must have exhausted all hope elsewhere and was placing her last bet on him.

“You must have seen many psychologists, right?” Guan Wen probed.

Bao Ling understood immediately. “I have. I’ve had EEG scans and psychological counseling, but nothing worked. I’ve tried almost every method, and none of it helped. That’s why I came back here.”

“Thank you for trusting me. But that was just the first dream, wasn’t it? Please go on.” Guan Wen gently prompted.

“All right.” Bao Ling smiled shyly. “I’m being long-winded, sorry.”

Guan Wen stood to pour her some water. “I completely understand. The shock and injury a nightmare can bring are things outsiders can never truly grasp.”

Bao Ling asked, “Mr. Guan, have you ever had nightmares?”

Guan Wen was taken aback, then shook his head. “No, I seldom have nightmares. Your story just reminded me of my late mentor who taught me to draw—he had frequent nightmares. But now, he no longer dreams, for he’s passed away and sleeps beneath the earth.”

Thinking carefully, he realized he rarely had nightmares himself—perhaps because he spent his days painting in monasteries, undistracted. Tibetan temples always evoke a sense of security; the closer you are, the calmer your heart becomes, until it’s as still as water, as light as tea. Each night he slept soundly, undisturbed by dreams.

Bao Ling’s second dream went like this: “I witnessed a great war, set sometime during the Qing dynasty because the attackers all wore Qing military uniforms, while the defenders wore traditional Tibetan clothing. The forces were unmatched; the Qing army quickly broke through the Tibetan lines, who retreated in disorder and were relentlessly slaughtered. I watched it all from a distant mountain. I wasn’t alone—there was a man beside me on a white horse. I couldn’t see his face, but I knew he was a true prince: handsome, gallant, extraordinarily wise. We’d crossed mountains and rivers to reach a monastery, hoping to obtain the Buddha’s true teachings and bring them back to our country, so our people could have real faith. But the road ahead had become a battlefield. We didn’t know where to go, so we just stood there. The dream was short, but the scenes of brutal slaughter left a deep impression on me...”

At the end of her words, Guan Wen noticed Bao Ling’s eyes blinking rapidly, her expression turning unnatural. As a special kind of artist able to paint the inner worlds of others, he immediately realized she was making a conscious effort to conceal something. In other words, her account of the second dream contained a lie.

“And then? Was there more? In the face of such a war, could you truly remain untouched? We all know that war is a vast furnace—anyone who draws near will be swept in and consumed, turned to cannon fodder.” Guan Wen pressed.

Bao Ling flushed, nodding lightly. “It was just a dream, not reality.”

“That’s all? It ended there?” Guan Wen asked softly. He knew she was lying, but chose not to expose her, wanting to leave her some dignity.

Bao Ling nodded. “Yes.”

Guan Wen sighed. “This dream is too brief and scattered. It’s of no help for the painting we’re to create.” He delayed picking up his pen, feeling that neither of these dreams had truly moved him.

If the artist himself isn’t touched, how could he paint something that would move another’s heart?

He twirled his pencil between his fingers, pondering. “Miss Bao Ling, in all your dreams, is there any part where you felt particularly excited or terrified? Start with those—perhaps they’ll move me.”

“Excited? Terrified?” Bao Ling gave a bitter smile. “Since they’re nightmares, how could I not be excited or terrified?”

Guan Wen shook his head. “There are different levels of fear: slight fright, great startle, panic, terror, and ultimate horror. The kind that’s truly unbearable is silent—before such immense dread, human hearing, sight, smell, all senses fail; you can’t hear, see, or smell anything at all...”

He was sure that Bao Ling had deliberately concealed something vital from the second dream. What she didn’t want to share was precisely what made her uncomfortable or afraid.

War brings slaughter and death. In battle, human life is worth no more than autumn grass.

“I don’t know. Maybe the nightmares have come so many times that I’ve grown tired and numb, so I can’t say which part frightens me most,” Bao Ling replied.

Guan Wen tapped the paper, speaking almost unintentionally: “I’ve read much history. The Qing army inherited the ferocity and ruthlessness of nomadic steppe tribes. Once they went to war, they became a pack of wolves and tigers, never stopping until they’d won completely. Under their horses’ hooves and blades, few were left alive. I suppose you saw something similar in your dream, didn’t you? Do those scenes match the ones we see in movies? I mean, did you really witness the war in your subconscious, or did you unconsciously merge in movie scenes you’ve seen?”

Bao Ling thought for a moment and shook her head. “I said the dream was short. I didn’t notice how cruel the war was.”

Just then, someone knocked lightly at the door.

Guan Wen got up to open it, and standing there was Basang Jiangcuo in his dark red monk’s robes.

“Master Basang, is there something you need?” Guan Wen asked.

Basang Jiangcuo was carrying a black cloth bag, bulging at the corners—likely containing a box.

“Guan Wen, may I come in?” Basang Jiangcuo asked.

“What is it?” Guan Wen stepped back, inviting him in.

Basang Jiangcuo saw Bao Ling and wasn’t surprised; he nodded hastily. “We meet again, but I have urgent business with Guan Wen. Would you mind stepping out?” His face was extremely grave, all trace of his usual cheerfulness gone, and he was curt with Bao Ling. Clearly, he’d come in a hurry—his face was covered in beads of sweat, his nostrils flaring, his breathing disordered.

Bao Ling smiled kindly and rose to leave.

In truth, what she’d just shared wasn’t enough for Guan Wen to start working. To paint the world of another’s dreams is a subtle and exhausting task; one must find the right entry point. If any painter could do it, Bao Ling wouldn’t have come to Guan Wen.

“Miss Bao Ling, I’ll let you know when I’m free again,” Guan Wen said.

Bao Ling nodded and quickly stepped out.