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“The Emperor died long ago. Long in human terms, I mean. We are now ruled by”—I knitted my brow, as I do not fully comprehend the meaning of this myself—“the government.”
“Ah.” Seeing my confusion, South Mountain Spirit said, “Another notion of men?”
“Precisely.”
Essentially uninterested in men, he did not request further illumination, but waited for me to continue my tale.
“The Emperor,” I said, “had, it seems, given permission for the expedition from the Trent Museum, in New York City, America, to remove from our caves whatever items they cared to carry off. This exalted art, the Emperor explained, would be better looked after—and would more strongly redound to the glory of China—in a museum in America than on the walls of a cave in the desert.”
South Mountain Spirit considered that. “What is a museum?”
“As far as I understand, though my appreciation of these concepts is poor, it is a building in which people place beautiful things.”
“For what reason?”
“To look at, I believe.”
“As in the case of monks’ caves and temples, as aids to meditation?”
“I do not believe so, though I can offer no other explanation.”
“Personally,” he said, as gusts of wind came up and tossed the branches on his slopes, “I have never understood the need for any of it.” A family of deer, startled by the sudden breeze, bounded across a brook. “Are not my forests and rivers beauty enough? The layers of red rock on North Mountain, the pale sands of the desert?” The winds eased. “I apologize. You are here to tell a story. Pray go on. The Emperor, you were saying, permitted the removal of many objects, including this head with which you are now concerned.”
I shrugged, which had little effect on the wildlife. “Possibly Explorer Trent and his expedition left behind some indication of their gratitude in the Emperor’s coffers; who am I to know? In any case, our monastery, which seven hundred years ago had housed a thousand monks—”
“I remember those days! You do not, I believe?”
“No.” It is unlikely I was there in that incarnation. In any case, as with all ghosts, the only incarnation I remember, of the hundreds (or, in the case of one as hapless as I, no doubt thousands) I have lived through, is the most recent.
“Such chanting,” South Mountain Spirit said joyously, the sun glittering off his watercourses. “Drumming, and bells, and dancing, bright prayer flags snapping in the wind! Some monks made the journey as far as myself, to perform rites and hang prayer flags from tree to tree across my valleys. You used to do that, when Tuo Mo lived. By then you were the only one.”
“Yes.” I smiled, remembering the three days’ walk from my hermit cave to South Mountain, sandals slapping the desert trail, prayer flags rolled in my monk’s bundle. “It seemed the proper thing to do, though it was a difficult journey. It is easier to visit with you now that I am incorporeal.”
South Mountain Spirit, who has always been incorporeal but who ca
“I’m gratified to hear it,” I told him. “As I say, the monastery had once been large and bustling; but by the time I came to live there, it was greatly reduced in size, and when the expedition arrived, we were eight small monks. We chanted and prayed while they chopped and pried. Attachment to the things of this world, our abbot daily reminded us, is one of the chief impediments on the spiritual path. We watched them remove our statues and altar cloths, and tried to think of it as a blessing, an opportunity to practice detachment.”
“Were you successful?”
“Those who were spiritually mature did succeed, to varying degrees. In fact I hear our abbot went on to become a bodhisattva. But I, sadly, was not far enough along the path to be able to use this lesson. I was unable to rid myself of a strong attachment to these objects, and a powerful desire to see them remain. This attachment created in me a great sense of loss when the objects were taken away. None more so than the Buddha head.”
“That is unfortunate.”
“More than you know.” I sighed again. “Now: at the time the expedition arrived, I was ill.”
“Tuo Mo, your incarnation, was ill, you mean.”
“Yes, exactly.” I attempted to keep my patience with this literal-mindedness, which was, after all, merely his nature. “And a few days before the Trent expedition left, Tuo Mo died.”
“Freeing you, as a spirit, to continue your journey along the path.” He peered at me and dark clouds began to gather again on his brow.
“Yes,” I said, “I think you begin to understand.”
“You,” he said portentously, thunder rumbling, “are still here.” Mournfully, I said, “I am.”
He paused in reflection. “The spirits of humans,” he spoke slowly, “remain in this spirit realm for forty days before assuming a new incarnation. As I mentioned, I am not very precise about the smaller divisions of time, but are we not well beyond your forty days?”
“We are one hundred and three years beyond my forty days. Time, as you say, has a different meaning to you. But even a Spirit of Place can no doubt see that, though I have departed the worldly realm, I ca
“Well,” he demanded, “why have you not left, then?”
“I ca
“And if they failed?”
“Demons would flood the cave. The spirits would flee, leaving behind the images, which, uninhabited, would start immediately to deteriorate. The demons, of course, would gleefully hasten that process, cracking statues and peeling paint from walls. The labor of centuries of monks to create and maintain a place whose purpose was to assist men along the spiritual path would come to an end.”
“An unfortunate outcome,” South Mountain Spirit rumbled, “as men do appear to need assistance.”
“Oh, yes, most certainly. Now, I knew nothing of this, of course, at the time of my departure from the realm of men. I left the body of Tuo Mo and presented myself to the Lord of the Underworld. His scribes showed him the accounting of my virtues and imperfections. He pored over their scrolls, finally turning his terrifying visage to me. ‘You have come at an opportune time!’ he thundered. I must tell you, I have met the Lord of the Underworld a thousand times now, and he frightens me anew each time.”
“I believe that is his function, is it not?”
“It is, and he performs his duties with enthusiasm. While I anxiously awaited instructions as to my next incarnation, he glowered silently, taking much longer than usual. Finally he roared, ‘Ghost of Tuo Mo, you will be given a task to fulfill!’