Black Stone Shattered, Wooden Plaque Warm
The morning fog, like gauze mixed with pine-soot ink, wrapped Black Stone Temple tightly. The bronze bell hung under the eaves of the Buddha hall, its red silk ribbon faded to pale pink, swaying gently in the mountain breeze, yet showing no hint of ringing.
Lin Wanxing curled up on the threshold of the monks' quarters, clutching a foxtail grass, staring blankly at her shifu’s back. The old monk sat cross-legged on a meditation cushion, a sheet of yellowed xuan paper before him. His wolf-hair brush, dipped in song ink grinding, hovered half an inch above the paper, hesitating to descend. Sunlight struggled through the fog’s seams, illuminating his silver-white eyebrows, stirring a layer of fine dust.
“Shifu,” she poked the foxtail grass into a stone c***k, her voice soft, “aren’t we ringing the bell today?”
The old monk finally moved, his wrist dipping slightly, the ink line falling onto the paper like a slithering snake.
“The fog’s too thick; the bell’s sound won’t carry through the mountain.” He didn’t turn, but his other hand reached into his sleeve, pulling out an oilcloth bundle. He unwrapped it layer by layer, revealing a palm-sized sandalwood plaque. “Come here.”
Lin Wanxing scampered over, leaning on his knee to look at the mu pai. It was etched with winding patterns and a few lines of small characters she recognized—her name, Lin Wanxing, taught by shifu, followed by more complex symbols. “This is your ba zi,” shifu said, rubbing the sandalwood plaque with his fingertip. “Wuxu year, Gengshen month, Renwu day, Jiachen hour. Remember, it’s more important than your shadow.”
She nodded, half-understanding, reaching for the mu pai. Her fingers barely touched its warm, smooth wood before shifu gently swatted her hand away. “When you turn five, I’ll give it to you.” He tucked the sandalwood plaque back into the oilcloth, then picked up a thread-bound book from the table, its cover reading Mei Hua Yi Shu. “Today, we’ll learn observing phenomena: Qian for heaven, Kun for earth…”
Lin Wanxing’s attention drifted out the window. Wild ju hua bloomed vibrantly at the wall’s base, a sea of yellow. A gray sparrow perched on a branch, pecking until petals fell like snow. She thought of the wild cao mei she’d found on the back mountain a few days ago, red and sweet, sticking to her tongue. If only shifu wasn’t teaching, she could go pick some.
“Daydreaming?” Shifu’s voice carried a hint of amusement as he tapped her forehead with the brush handle. “Come, add oil to the lamps before the Buddha.”
Pouting, she grabbed the small oil pot from the corner and headed to the zheng dian. The slate floor, polished by years, reflected her blurry shadow. The three oil lamps on the altar flickered softly. She stood on tiptoe to fill the middle one, the scent of ghee and tan xiang filling her nose. The Buddha statue facing the altar gazed down, its faint smile seeming to watch her clumsy efforts.
After refilling, she ran to the backyard to feed the chickens—five hens shifu had traded for from a farmer at the mountain’s base, laying three eggs daily. She scattered corn kernels, watching them peck, when a muffled thunder rumbled in the distance, like someone drumming beyond the mountain.
Looking up, she saw dark clouds rolling in from the northwest, heavy and black, pressing the pale gray sky lower. The breeze turned sharp, no longer the morning’s gentle warmth, carrying the earthy tang of mountain soil, rustling the sophora tree leaves. The dao fu carved on the tree trunk, meant to suppress the well’s malevolent qi, had faded white in the wind, trembling now.
“Wanxing!” Shifu’s voice came from the Buddha hall, unusually urgent.
She dropped the corn basket and ran back, barely crossing the threshold before shifu grabbed her wrist. His palm was scalding, hotter than sun-warmed stones. “Quick, to the root cellar.” He pulled her toward the monks' quarters, his steps unsteady, silver beard quivering. “Take the oilcloth bundle.”
The di jiao was in the monks' quarters' northwest corner. Lifting the heavy slate revealed a damp, earthy smell. The narrow, steep steps echoed with each footfall as shifu guided her down. The small di jiao held bundles of dry firewood, half a jar of rice, and a cracked clay pot of shifu’s medicinal wine in the corner.
“Stay here. Don’t make a sound, don’t wander.” Shifu pressed her beside the firewood pile, turning to climb back up, then paused, pulling the oilcloth bundle from his robe and thrusting it into her hands. “Keep this close.”
Lin Wanxing clutched the bundle, the sandalwood plaque’s edges digging into her palm. “Shifu, aren’t you staying?” Her voice trembled with a sob.
The old monk touched her head, his warm fingertips like sunlight on her hair. “I need to close the Buddha hall’s doors; the Buddha can’t get wet.” He smiled, wrinkles crowding his eyes. “Be good. When the fog clears, I’ll pick you some cao mei.”
The slate slammed shut with a clang, darkness swallowing her. Lin Wanxing curled up by the firewood, hugging the oilcloth bundle, the sandalwood plaque’s warmth seeping through, her only comfort in the dark.
Outside, the wind grew fiercer, howling over the roof, tiles rattling as if clawed by countless hands. Thunder cracked closer, shaking dust from the root cellar’s ceiling. She covered her ears, but the sounds persisted—trees snapping, boulders tumbling like a landslide, the entire root cellar trembling.
Something heavy crashed onto the slate, a dull thud followed by the roar of collapsing walls, dust seeping through the cracks, choking her. She wanted to call for shifu, but her throat felt blocked, managing only faint whimpers. The sandalwood plaque seemed warmer; she gripped it tightly, nails digging into her palm.
Time dragged on, the root cellar’s air growing stifling. She called out, “Shifu?”
No response.
“Shifu…” Her hoarse voice echoed faintly, then vanished.
