can put me down now,” he said.
“Don’t be stupid, we’re almost there.”
“Put me down.”
“Shut up,” Huo laughed, “or I’ll drop you here and leave you on the floor.”
“Come on, put me down, please …”
Huo gave in and put him down and Kuang walked despite the pain. Huo wondered why his friend was so determined to walk. Perhaps he didn’t want Commander Tang to glance out of the window and see him being carried like a baby. When Huo noticed movement on the terrace outside the commander’s residence, he guessed the real reason for Kuang’s reaction. Weilin was outside.
Weilin was Commander Tang’s daughter and often came out in the evening to tend her flowerpots or read a few pages from her book. Like all the soldiers in the fort, Huo watched her hungrily, from a distance. She was young and pretty. She was also the only young, pretty woman in the fort. But when it came to his chances with Weilin, he knew she may as well have been on the moon. Not only was she the commander’s daughter, she was also betrothed to Captain Fu Sheng, a cavalry officer who was stationed on the northern frontier. The captain visited the fort only rarely, but his reputation was enough to deter any young man who might have been foolish enough to make advances to his fiancée.
Tonight, Weilin was reading by lamplight. The flame flickered in the sharp mountain wind, catching the soft curve of her cheek, the ripe lips. Her eyes were buried in her book. As they passed by, Huo was surprised to see her look up. Normally she ignored the soldiers coming and going around the fort but this time he saw her gaze follow Kuang as he passed. In a sudden flare of the torchlight, he was even more surprised to see a look of concern cross her face at the sight of Kuang’s bruised and swollen face.
Kuang turned to hide his face from Weilin and hobbled toward the barracks as quickly as his aching legs would carry him. Huo hurried after him. “Hey, Kuang!” he whispered urgently, “don’t even think about it!”
Kuang ignored him and continued in silence.
“Seriously, Kuang … I mean it. I really mean it.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Kuang said tersely as he mounted the barrack steps on stiff legs.
“Yes you do. You know exactly what I mean,” Huo persisted.
Kuang ignored him and went inside. Huo looked back toward the commander’s house. The flicker of the lamplight could still be seen in the distance. He waited a moment, watching the light play against the dark setting of the surrounding mountains, and then followed Kuang out of the cold night air and into the warm, stuffy embrace of the barracks.
A Pilgrim in Magadha
Bodhidharma crossed many rivers on his journey to the northern Kingdom of Magadha, but none stirred him like the Ganges. In the clear morning light, the vast expanse of sparkling brown water filled his vision. The river was the birthplace of a civilization and the artery that pumped life through the Buddhist heartland of Magadha. The Buddha himself had lived and preached all his life in this fertile plain. As Bodhidharma sat by the waters edge, he pictured The Buddha bathing in the sacred waters, speaking softly with his disciples, the river clean and uncrowded.
Things were very different now. Hundreds of people were gathered at the water’s edge and standing in the shallows, washing their hair, their teeth, their clothes, cupping their hands to drink the sacred waters of the Ganges hoping it would endow them with eternal good health. The swollen corpse of a goat float by, followed by the body of an old woman. Bodhidharma filled his goatskin from the murky waters, but did not drink. He would use it later for tea. He knew the difference between truth and myth.
He had crossed the Ganges once already on his way to Kapilavastu, the birthplace of The Buddha, and from here he had visited the other sacred sites where The Buddha had lived and died. Now he prepared to re-cross the river for the final destination of his pilgrimage. He waited on the riverbank until a boatman noticed him and steered toward him. The boat was already filled with passengers, but there was always room for one more, especially if that person was a holy man who would bring good karma.
Bodhidharma stepped into the boat and sat beside a young boy, who cowed away from him and nestled closer to his father.
“You are going to Bodh Gaya, Master?” the boy’s father asked.
“Yes, I am.”
“To see the Bodhi Tree?”
“Yes,” Bodhidharma smiled, “I have read about it for many years but never seen it.”
“It is a very special place,” the man assured him.
“Why do you want to go and see a tree?” the boy asked, forgetting his fear of the fierce-looking stranger.
“The Buddha was sitting beneath that very tree when he became enlightened,” Bodhidharma answered.
“What happened to him?”
“He saw the true nature of things.”
“And what was it?”
“That is a good question,” Bodhidharma laughed.
“Have you seen it too?”
“Perhaps.”
“What did you see?”
Bodhidharma leaned closer so only the boy could hear him. “What I saw was not important. It was the light that I saw it in.”
“What sort of light?”
“A very clear light.”
“If I become a pilgrim, will I see it too?”
“Maybe one day,” Bodhidharma smiled, “I certainly hope you do.”
The dusty road to Bodh Gaya was crowded with pilgrims. Some were tall and slender with light skin from the north of India. Others were dark, with round eyes and tight black curls from the south, like him. Still others had come from beyond the Himalayas. There were white-skinned men with brown hair and green-eyed women in colorful costumes who, he imagined, had traveled from Persia or another unknown land far to the West. He passed a group of traders with smooth skin and almond eyes. Their features brought to mind descriptions he had read of Chinese people but when he asked their origin, he discovered they were from Burma.
A busy market had sprung up on the road to the Tree of Enlightenment. Stallholders sold paintings, tapestries, statues, and carvings of The Buddha seated beneath the Bodhi tree. A throng of wagons and carts had become hopelessly jammed. The drivers shouted angrily at one another while their mules and oxen twitched their tails against the swarming flies. Bodhidharma passed single-humped camels from the deserts of Arabia, and two-humped camels from Bakhtar beyond the Hindukush. On the edge of the market, a group of mahouts stood in a tight circle and joked among themselves while their elephants munched on mountains of leaves and looked down on the chaos before them with laughing eyes.
The market gave way to a park with a low limestone wall around it and cultivated gardens on either side. In the center was
