He carried me on his back for a long time.
I lost track of how long. My face pressed against his shoulder blade, feeling the bone shift beneath skin—once, once more—like a heartbeat. His steps were steady, neither fast nor slow, each exactly the same length. I counted: one to one hundred, then one hundred back to one. Seven times. He was still walking.
He paused once. Hoisted me higher, switched arms. His hand was thin, knuckles protruding, digging into my legs.
"Don't sleep," he said.
"I'm not."
"Your eyes are closed."
"They're open."
"What do you see?"
"Black."
He chuckled softly. The sound vibrated from his chest to my face, tingling.
"Black is right. Eyes closed, everything is black."
"What if they're open?"
"Still black. Dawn hasn't come."
"Then why walk?"
"The path isn't black."
I opened my eyes. Sky black, mountain black, trees black. The stone steps white, stretching ahead, level by level, beyond where he could see. His feet landed precisely, every step centered on the grooves, never off by a hair.
"You can see?"
"I've walked this road for eight hundred years."
"Eight hundred years on the same path?"
"Yes."
"Not tired of it?"
"No."
"Why?"
His pace didn't break, but the muscles along his back tensed for an instant.
"The road isn't finished."
---
He set me on a bamboo bed.
The bed was cool and hard, covered with a layer of faded coarse cloth, edges frayed. I lay spread out, limbs limp like sun-dried fruit. A hole in the roof showed sky—gray-blue, three or four faint stars.
He moved around the room. Lifted a clay jar lid, scooped water, poured into a pot. Match struck stone, flared. Flames licked the pot bottom, crackling.
"Give me your hand."
He sat at the bed's edge, holding a bowl of yellowish water with curled, wrinkled leaves floating.
I extended my hand. He glanced, said nothing. Turned my wrist, wiped with a damp cloth. The cloth was rough, rasping over wounds. No pain. My hand felt like wood—cracked, packed with mud and blood.
He wiped slowly. Wrist to fingertips, one finger at a time. At the broken nails, he paused. Looked at me once, then lowered his head, wrapped the finger. White cloth strip from tip to base, three turns, small tight knot pressed over the nail bed.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Sun Wukong."
"Asked before."
"Asking again."
"Why?"
No answer. He set that hand down, took the other.
"Your name is too big."
"Too big how?"
"'Wu' means awakening, understanding. 'Kong' means emptiness, the origin of all things. Wukong—to see through the true face of the world."
He finished the last finger, tucked the end into the knot. His hand never shook.
"Few in the three realms can bear that name."
"Then can I?"
He looked at me. His eyes shone—not from lamplight, but from within. Like stones in deep water, untouched by sun, yet glowing.
"Whether you can bear it isn't for me to decide."
He handed me the bowl. The water was warm, bitter. It burned down my throat to my stomach.
"The road decides."
---
Next morning, sunlight poured through the roof hole in a beam, dust motes dancing inside. I sat up on the bamboo bed. Hands, feet, knees wrapped neatly in clean white cloth.
The bed creaked sharply.
Door open. Outside blindingly bright. I walked to the threshold, feet on cool blue stone slabs. Fine green grass grew in the cracks.
The platform was vast, edged by cliff. Thick white clouds below like cotton. Sun just risen, light shooting from beneath the clouds, gilding their undersides gold.
He sat at the platform's edge, back to me. Low table before him: teapot, cup. Tea hot—I smelled it. Same as last night—bitter, astringent, hint of sweet.
He held the cup, didn't drink. Watched clouds.
I stood behind him. Neither spoke. Clouds drifted west to east, reached the cliff, fell away. More surged up, fell again.
"What happens when clouds fall?" I asked.
"They scatter."
"Scatter where?"
"They return."
"How?"
"Become rain, fall to earth, flow to rivers, evaporate to sky, become clouds again."
He sipped. Thin white vapor rose from the cup, drifted, vanished.
"Coming and going," he said.
"Not annoyed?"
"No. What comes comes. What goes goes."
He set the cup down, turned. Sunlight carved deep lines on his face. White brows, white beard, white lashes. But eyes black—deep night black.
"Slept well?"
"Yes."
"Hands still hurt?"
I looked at the white wrappings. Couldn't tell.
"No."
"Then kneel."
I froze. His eyes didn't waver.
"Kneel."
My knees bent. Stone cool through cloth. Knees pressed grass—wet with dew.
He stood. Table behind him, teapot and cup still. Wind from below lifted his white robe like clouds.
"I, Bodhi, take you as disciple today."
His voice wasn't loud, but clear. Each word like stone dropped in deep water—thunk—sinking to bottom.
"From today, your path is yours to walk."
He looked at me. Sun behind him, face shadowed, only eyes bright.
"I will teach you three things."
He raised three fingers. Thin, knobby, nails clipped short.
"First: the Seventy-Two Transformations. Change the form, train the mind. What the heart desires, the body becomes. A chaotic mind makes chaotic forms."
"Second: the Somersault Cloud. One flip covers one hundred eight thousand li. Speed isn't skill. Stability, precision, knowing when to stop—that is skill."
He lowered two fingers. Index pointed at my chest.
"Third—"
He paused. Finger steady, pointing just below my ribs, above the stomach.
"Third: I teach you to know yourself."
Wind stopped. Clouds stilled. His finger felt like fire—hot, burning inside.
"Sun Wukong, remember this."
"The strongest power in heaven and earth is not on this mountain, not below ground, not in the sky."
"It is here."
He withdrew his hand, turned, sipped tea.
"Rise."
I stood. Two round bruises on knees—blue from stone. Grass sprang back slowly, dew glistening cool.
"Master."
"Hm."
"When do we start the Seventy-Two Transformations?"
He glanced over, cup paused at lips.
"Why the rush?"
"Not rushing."
"Then why ask?"
"Want to know."
He set the cup down, walked to cliff edge. Clouds still falling, more rising. He stood hands behind back, robe fluttering up, down.
"You came from Flower-Fruit Mountain?"
"Yes."
"How long did it take?"
"Don't know. Didn't count."
"Didn't count?"
"Just walked."
Silence. Wind lifted his white beard, floating beside his face. He stood long—long enough I thought he forgot me.
Then he turned.
"Tomorrow we begin."
He passed me, headed inside. Three steps, stopped.
"Porridge in the kitchen. Serve yourself."
He entered. Door open, but inside dark.
I stood, watched clouds below—falling, coming, falling.
"Master."
No answer.
"What's porridge?"
No answer.
I went to kitchen. Stone stove large. Iron pot on top, wooden lid damp with steam. Lifted it—white vapor hit my face, hot. Porridge inside: white, thick, grains burst open.
Searched—no bowl. Found chipped coarse porcelain on stove, bottom with water. Poured it out, ladled porridge. Hot. Carried bowl to threshold, sat.
Sun higher. Light from east stretched platform shadow onto western clouds. Clouds white, shadow gray—gray drifting on white.
Sipped. Scalding, tongue numb. But sweet. Broth sweet, grains sticky—melted in mouth without chewing.
Another sip. Less hot.
"System."
No response.
"System, you there?"
Panel appeared. Faint—fainter than yesterday, like running out of ink.
[Here.]
"I took a master."
[Recorded.]
"No congratulations?"
Silence.
[Congratulations, Host.]
"If you don't want to say it, fine. Fake."
Panel flickered—like words swallowed back.
Finished porridge. Bowl on ground. Sun hit bottom—dried residue stuck to porcelain, white blending with white.
"Master said three things."
[Recorded.]
"Third is knowing myself."
[Recorded.]
"Do you know who I am?"
Long silence.
[System does not know.]
"Aren't you supposed to know everything?"
[System does not know many things.]
"Like what?"
Panel dimmed, brightened.
[Like—why the peach tree on the back mountain bears no fruit.]
"What tree?"
[The peach tree on the back mountain.]
I turned toward the house. Door open, inside dark.
"Back mountain has a peach tree?"
[Yes.]
"Does it bear fruit?"
[No.]
"Then why keep it?"
No answer. Panel went fully dark.
I sat on threshold longer. Sun climbed from feet to knees to chest.
Stood, returned bowl to stove.
"Master."
"Hm."
Voice muffled from inside, like through cloth.
"Can I go to the back mountain?"
Silence.
"No."
"Why?"
"The peaches aren't ripe."
I stood at kitchen door, looking toward back mountain. Nothing visible—only roof eaves curling up. A gray bird perched motionless.
"When will they ripen?"
"When they ripen."
Bird spread wings—large—flapped twice, gone.
I returned to room, lay on bamboo bed. Roof hole showed sky—bluer, almost white. No clouds. Nothing.
Closed eyes.
In dream: stood under enormous tree. Top unseen. Leaves green, dense—no fruit.
Wind came. Leaves rang.
Not rustle—ding-ding. Like tiny bells, hundreds, wind stirring them all.
Stood long. Then voice—not wind, not leaves. From inside tree, distant.
"You've come."
I woke.
Sky dark. More stars through hole—brighter than last night.
Rolled over, faced wall. Adobe wall, whitewashed, flakes gone, exposing mud.
"System."
[Here.]
"Is the peach tree on the back mountain waiting for me?"
Panel bright—brighter than day. Light rippled on ceiling like water waves.
[System does not know.]
"You're lying."
[System does not lie.]
"Then why not say?"
[Because—]
Panel flickered long.
[—because the system is also waiting.]
I watched ceiling ripples—slow, like water.
"Waiting for what?"
Light went out.
Room black. Stars outside didn't reach in. Door closed. Nothing visible.
But wind slipped through roof hole—thin, cool, pine-scented.
And another scent.
Faint. Sweet.
Like peaches.
---