Kays Translations

Chapter 346: The Buddhist Scriptures

The setting sun slipped slowly into the western horizon, leaving behind a sky awash with crimson clouds. A faint veil of mist drifted lazily over the earth, soft and ethereal, as though the mortal world had been wrapped in a dreamlike haze. Within that dusk-tinted veil, the Marquis of Linhuai’s grand residence, too, seemed to shimmer and fade, half-real, half-illusory, like a painting brushed with strokes of mist and light.

In the quiet of the rear courtyard, a little maid with cheeks round as a steamed bun sat nodding off. Her tiny head bobbed forward and back in a rhythm of exhaustion—two or three heavy nods followed by a sudden start, as though she frightened herself awake each time. Every time her blurred eyes lifted and fell upon her young mistress—seated at the desk by the window, back straight, brush poised, copying Buddhist sutras with serene devotion—the maid would let out a faint sigh of relief. Convinced her mistress was still safely immersed in scripture, she would allow herself to drift again into that endless cycle of dozing and jolting awake.

The bun-faced maid was unbearably sleepy.

No wonder—last night, the noisy and inconsiderate Duke of Wei’s household next door had set off firecrackers the whole night through. The incessant explosions had rattled her small heart nearly out of her chest and robbed almost everyone in the Marquis’s residence of sleep. Even her mistress had not closed her eyes once. When the crackling din finally ceased at dawn, the household—masters and servants alike—took turns stealing moments of rest throughout the day to make up for their sleepless night.

But not the young mistress.

Instead of lying down, she rose in the morning, personally sent off a century-old ginseng root from Changbai Mountain as a gift to brother-in-law, and then seated herself at the desk with quiet resolve. From that moment until the sun was sinking again in the west, she had been faithfully, unceasingly copying Buddhist scripture. She said it was for the sake of her father and her three brothers, who were all far from home, to pray for their safety and fortune. Since her mistress had chosen not to rest, how could the bun-faced maid dare sleep? She had to remain nearby to serve, and so her small head now drooped again and again, heavy with drowsiness.

The glow of sunset spilled gently through the window lattice, mingling with the soft curl of incense smoke within the room. Together with the pale mist outside, they gave the young lady seated at the window an almost otherworldly aura. She wore a floor-length gown of fine silk that hugged her slender frame, embroidered with plum blossoms in red thread. At her waist was tied a ribbon of deep azure satin, its color accentuating her grace. Her glossy black hair was arranged into a graceful falling-horse bun, adorned with a hairpin strung with delicate lilies. The ornament swayed ever so slightly, its elegance edged with a faint trace of bewitching charm.

In her slender, jade-like hand she held a brush tipped with flower-soft bristles. Her large, limpid eyes—clear as spring water—were fixed intently upon the page. Each stroke she laid upon the pure white paper carried both solemn care and a reverence that seemed to flow directly from the depths of her heart.

The Sutra of Great Compassion and Wish-Fulfillment by the Bodhisattva Avalokiteshvara—
“The Bodhisattva Avalokiteshvara, with the wisdom of Prajñā Pāramitā, sees all things as without form. Where the heart has desire, there is suffering…”

Under Li Shu’s brush, the words of the scripture unfurled in graceful, flowing strokes. Her delicate small script resembled a mountain spring hidden among snow-laden peaks, trickling down in a stream so clear and cool it refreshed the heart merely to behold it.

Upon the table before her lay not one page but an entire thick stack of copied sutras. Each sheet carried the same scripture, every character carefully wrought, every line perfectly ordered. The pages seemed to breathe with tranquility, their neatness soothing to the soul.

One needed no further proof of how earnest and devout the young lady had been throughout the day.

Her soft cherry lips parted ever so slightly as she wrote, shaping silent words. From the faint movement, one could tell she was reciting the sutra under her breath, her whispered prayers blending with her brushstrokes. Yet curiously, at the end of each silent vow, the last three syllables always seemed to form the words: “stinking toad…”

It was, perhaps, a private jest. Or perhaps the stubborn remnant of some childish grudge.

In the old days, it was common for people—especially women—to copy Buddhist sutras as a form of prayer and devotion. They prayed for their parents’ health, their husband’s success, their children’s safety. Buddhism taught that the act of copying, reading, or reciting scriptures generated merit. As written in the Diamond Sutra: “If there are those who hear this teaching, accept it with faith, and do not doubt, their blessings shall surpass all others. How much more so if they copy, recite, or explain it for others?” Thus, the more earnestly one wrote, the more powerful the blessings were believed to be.

And Li Shu was nothing if not devout. Each character she wrote seemed to contain the weight of her heart.

“Miss! Miss!”

The sudden call broke the serenity of the courtyard. Rapid footsteps echoed outside, followed by the hurried creak of the door being pushed open.

Startled, Li Shu’s brush faltered, blotting a character with unsightly ink. She looked down at the blemish, her brows knitting ever so slightly. Then, with eyes cool and bright as autumn water, she lifted her gaze toward the intruder.

The bun-faced maid, who had been nodding off, jerked awake at the noise. Her round face contorted in fright, pudgy hands pressed against her racing heart as she, too, turned her wide eyes to the doorway.

“Miss—Miss, the young master… he has returned from the examinations!”

The little maid who rushed in stopped dead in her tracks. Under the chill of her mistress’s frosty gaze, her knees went weak, her voice stammered, and her words nearly stuck in her throat. But just as quickly, it seemed her imagination had played a trick on her. For in the very next heartbeat, that icy look melted away, softening into something almost tender, as though the coldness had been nothing more than the haze of her own breathless panic.

“What—he has returned?” The bun-faced maid’s sleep vanished in an instant, her whole round face lighting with excitement.

“This time, I will let it pass. But next time you dare to barge in so recklessly… I will not forgive you so easily.” Li Shu laid down her brush, her voice calm and faint, though her glance carried enough weight to make the intruding maid bow her head in trembling apology.

“Thank you, Miss. I won’t ever do it again,” the maid murmured, wiping away cold sweat.

“Miss, Miss, let’s go quickly! I want to see how the young master fared in the exam!” The bun-faced maid was nearly bouncing in her seat with impatience.

“What is the rush?” Li Shu’s long lashes lowered as she gave a small, dismissive smile. “He is not going anywhere.”

Still, as she rose from her seat, her slender fingers smoothing the sleeves of her gown, the faintest curve of a smile tugged at her lips. She carefully placed the copied sutras upon the highest shelf of the bookcase, her movements slow and refined, like those of an immortal untouched by earthly dust. But in the corners of her eyes shimmered a sweetness she could not hide.

The bun-faced maid flushed red, sticking out her tongue playfully at her mistress’s teasing words.

Li Shu washed her hands, changed into a fresh gown, and then led her small retinue—two younger maids and two older matrons—out of the courtyard and toward the front hall.

The Marquis of Linhuai’s residence was already ablaze with lanterns, festively adorned. The Marquis himself had returned early in the afternoon to oversee preparations. Banquets and wine had been ordered to welcome back Zhu Ping’an from the palace examinations. On his way back through the gates, the Marquis had even caught sight of his mischievous son, squatting in the dirt beside a little maid and digging at the ground. The boy turned, saw his father’s dark scowl, and nearly wet himself from fright. Fortunately for him, the Marquis was too busy with the evening’s arrangements, and the boy escaped with only a fierce scolding.

Zhu Ping’an had arrived at the Marquis’s residence just as the sun began to dip. On the road, he had fallen into deep conversation with Wang Shizhen and Zhang Siwei. Zhang remained calm and measured, but Wang was almost uncontrollably excited, exclaiming again and again about how Emperor Jiajing had shown the vigor of a true sovereign. He confessed that, unable to restrain himself, he had written ten separate proposals for governing the realm directly onto his exam paper—so strong was the righteous fervor of a scholar’s heart in his chest.

Had their families not been waiting anxiously in the capital, Zhang and Wang might have kept Zhu Ping’an talking deep into the night.

The Marquis’s residence, resplendent with lanterns and banquet tables, awaited Zhu Ping’an with open arms. The warm welcome, however, left him a little unaccustomed, even uneasy.

After all—ten years of silent toil at a scholar’s desk often went unnoticed. Yet with a single success, one’s name was known across the world.

Truly, the ancients had not lied.

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