Volume Two: The Road to the Azure Clouds 12. Azure Cloud Mountain

This was a Saturday morning. Lately, so much had happened—major setbacks in both love and career—that my mood had turned bleak. For days, I had been engulfed by this gloom, feeling listless no matter what I did.

After breakfast, I decided to go hiking—alone. At this moment, I didn’t want anyone disturbing me or even speaking to me; I just wanted solitude and quiet. But staying alone in my dorm would only deepen my brooding, so I chose to go out for a walk.

I resolved to climb Qingyun Mountain, not far from the Eastern Chemical Plant. It wasn’t because Qingyun Mountain was especially picturesque, but because it was nearby and sparsely populated—peaceful and quiet.

Qingyun Mountain is the green lung of Jiangning City, the capital of Huajiang Province. It boasts vast forests and serves as a vital oxygen source for the city, which often suffers from air pollution.

The highest peak is called Divine Turtle Peak. Near its summit stands the Qingfeng Temple, a Taoist shrine rumored to house a mystical turtle capable of divination. During readings, the turtle would crawl to a bamboo slip containing an oracle. However, this turtle was said to be temperamental, unwilling to perform every day, and then only up to three times daily. Yet many believed the turtle’s predictions to be uncannily accurate.

Qingfeng Temple is small, staffed by only two Taoist priests—an elder and a junior. No one could say exactly how old the elder priest was, but many elderly locals claimed to have seen him since their youth, when he was already middle-aged. He was reputed to be a scholar versed not only in Taoism but also in Confucianism and Buddhism. Several masters of classical Chinese studies had visited him. In recent years, however, he had rarely been seen, as the junior priest said he had gone wandering.

Because of the turtle’s sporadic appearances, the mysterious elder priest’s rarity, and the steep, arduous path to the temple, few visitors made it to Qingfeng Temple. Most hikers were already exhausted by the time they glimpsed it.

I had never been much of a believer in divination, but I felt some matters could not be simply dismissed as superstition. Chinese traditional culture is profound; classics of Confucianism and Taoism should be distinguished from superstitions. Street fortune-tellers often spout nonsense with no basis and belong to superstition, which should be firmly rejected. But works like the I Ching and Tao Te Ching deserve serious study—they are precious legacies from our ancestors.

Back in junior year, Xiang Xiulan and I once climbed Qingyun Mountain. I was reluctant to seek the turtle’s divination, but she insisted on knowing our future, so I went along.

The memory of that visit was vivid. After climbing hand and foot, we finally reached the temple gate and paused to catch our breath, observing this fabled mysterious place.

Qingfeng Temple was small. The blue bricks looked ancient, yet the yellow glazed tiles on the roof were clean and new, lending the temple a solemn dignity. Above the gate hung three large characters: “Qingfeng Temple,” eye-catching and clear. On either side of the wooden pillars were couplets:

“Heaven and earth are one; naturally arise clear wind and bright moon.
Objects and self both forgotten; only then can one see the soul’s true nature.”

At first glance, the couplets appeared ordinary, but upon reflection, they closely echoed Taoist thought.

The gate was open. Inside, the temple was modest. Directly opposite the entrance were three rooms; the middle one’s door was wide open. Inside, three statues stood—though aged, they remained vivid. These were surely the Taoist Three Pure Ones. The flanking rooms were closed; their contents unknown. On either side of the gate stood two side rooms, their purpose unclear. The temple’s layout was simple and could be comprehended at a glance.

Just then, a young Taoist acolyte emerged from the right side room. He looked about fourteen or fifteen, delicate and refined. Seeing us, he clasped his hands in salute and said:

“You two are fated; today’s the day for the third lot.”

Xiang Xiulan and I exchanged glances, feeling fortunate.

“Are you here to ask about love?” the acolyte inquired. We nodded together. He said no more.

He led us to the room housing the divine turtle, to the right of the Three Pure Ones’ statues. Opening the door, we entered to see a stone round table. At its center lay a large turtle, resembling any common one, though its shell bore a brownish tint and its sides a purple hue. It seemed to rest with eyes closed.

Looking closer at the table, I noticed yin and yang fish engraved on its wooden surface. Encircling it was a ring of small bamboo slips—delicate and ancient. Below each slip were carved lines and small squares, each holding a tiny bamboo segment inscribed with images and characters. These represented the sixty-four hexagrams of the I Ching.

The acolyte took a wooden hammer and lightly tapped the table’s edge three times. The turtle slowly opened its eyes, glanced around, then lumbered clumsily but deliberately in one direction. Reaching the table’s edge, it bit a bamboo slip, then returned to the center to place it inside an old ceramic bowl already there. The turtle then returned to its original spot, closing its eyes once more.

Following the turtle’s path, I saw the bamboo slip bore three ancient characters: “Water Mountain Difficulties.” Without knowledge of the I Ching, I could not grasp the meaning. The acolyte then handed me a yellow scroll, about two inches square. Unfolding it, I read four neatly written lines in clerical script:

“Since ancient times, fate determines love; even talented men find it hard to match with beauties.
Laboring swallows part in cold times; countless smoky rains laugh at the mortal world.”

The words were not obscure, but their meaning was ominous. A heavy weight settled in my heart. Xiang Xiulan leaned in to read. When she saw “laboring swallows parting,” her expression changed instantly. She trembled against me. I grasped her hand tightly as she bit her lips, eyes reddening, struggling to hold back tears.

We bade farewell to the acolyte and descended the mountain. Soon after leaving, Xiang Xiulan could no longer hold back her sobs, which intensified. I helped her sit on a large stone by the roadside, watching her shoulders shake with grief. My heart ached for her. I sat close, putting an arm around her shoulders, soothing her:

“Don’t cry, don’t cry, alright?”

She said nothing but buried herself in my embrace, crying harder, clutching me as if afraid I would vanish.

“It’s just a fortune slip. You believe it? Whether we stay together depends on us. If we insist, who can tear us apart, silly girl?” I patted her back gently, trying to comfort her like a child.

Gradually, she calmed and looked up at me, tear-streaked but still on the verge of tears.

“Dong, you must promise me—we’ll never part, never, okay? Okay?” She gazed into my eyes, seeking an answer.

“Lanlan, of course we won’t part. Not this lifetime, nor the next, nor the next after that.” Finally, she relaxed and smiled.

---

Only two years had passed since then, yet everything had changed. The prophecy of the slip had come true. All the vows of eternal love were lies. In the end, no one escapes the whims of fate.

Lost in memories, I soon reached the foot of Qingyun Mountain. It was the weekend; many were still asleep. Few climbed the mountain. The sun had yet to fully rise, and a light mist draped the forest. I had no heart to enjoy the scenery; I just wanted to ascend quickly.

I soon reached the point from which Qingfeng Temple was visible, but today, I had no desire to visit it. Still, I wished to reach the summit, so I pressed onward.

After a while, I felt a few drops of water fall on me. At first, I thought it was dew dripping from the trees, but soon it became clear it was rain, growing heavier by the moment.

At the summit, where few ventured and no shelter existed, I hurried toward Qingfeng Temple. “Hurried” is imprecise; the path was too rough to run, so I merely quickened my pace.

Finally entering the temple gate, I caught my breath and saw the acolyte emerge from a side room. To my surprise, he had grown significantly taller and more robust, his delicate features replaced by a stronger, more resolute expression.

He approached me, clasped his hands, and said, “Master has been waiting for you with the first lot today.”

I hadn’t planned to draw a lot again, but seeing his enthusiasm and having time while waiting out the rain, I replied, “Then please, go ahead.”

He led me back to the divination room. The setup was unchanged. At the round table, he gently tapped three times with the wooden hammer, but I sensed a difference in the spot he struck. Also, I suddenly realized he hadn’t asked what I sought this time.

Lost in thought, the old turtle again clumsily but purposefully retrieved a bamboo slip and placed it in the ceramic bowl. The acolyte pulled out a yellow scroll and handed it to me. Squinting, I read:

“Since ancient times, wealth and honor depend on fate; even the path to the clouds is hard to tread.
Climb high to gaze afar and embrace the splendid view; when glory fades, wash away the worldly dust.”

“‘The path to the clouds is hard to tread’—my future is destined to be difficult. But ‘climb high to gaze afar’—perhaps I still have a chance to rise.” I pondered silently.

Just as I was about to ask the acolyte, he spoke:

“My master has requested to see the one who draws the first lot today, alone.”

The elder priest was here after all. Why would such a mysterious figure want to see me? Excitement stirred within me. What kind of person was this legendary recluse?

The acolyte led me through the long corridor, past the hall of the Three Pure Ones, to a side room. He knocked; a deep voice replied, “Come in.”

The acolyte opened the door and ushered me inside. Seated there was a man who startled me—far from the image of a white-haired elder priest. He looked about fifty, with mostly black hair except for graying temples. This must be the elder priest.

“Please sit,” he said in a deep voice. “Serve tea,” he added to the acolyte.

I recalled tales of “please sit, please be seated” and “serve tea, please have tea.” Receiving such hospitality was a good sign.

“Thank you, master,” I said, sitting opposite him.

I studied him closely. Unlike the acolyte’s robe, he wore a simple dark Tang suit and deep blue cloth shoes. Lean but vigorous, his eyes were clear and calm yet unfathomable.

The room was simply furnished with several intricately carved but aged wooden chairs and a tea table—nothing else.

“Have you lately felt everything going wrong, with a knot of sorrow in your heart?” the elder priest asked.

“Exactly so,” I replied, surprised he knew my state of mind.

“Buddhism teaches emptiness and purity of the senses, but how many truly achieve this? Humans are bound by emotions and desires. You are not a practitioner; feeling troubled by setbacks is natural.”

“But fortune and misfortune, causes and effects, are predestined. Misfortune harbors the seed of fortune; fortune contains the shadow of misfortune,” he continued.

“Please guide me, master,” I earnestly requested.

“You are a person with a wise root. Follow the will of heaven and your true heart. Do not force outcomes due to temporary misfortune, nor try to change yourself deliberately.”

“Master, this is my confusion. Taoism advocates following heaven’s will and inaction, which has truth. But if one never acts positively in life, it seems too dull and unproductive socially.”

At that moment, the acolyte placed a cup of tea before me and sat beside me.

“My master dislikes being called ‘master,’” the acolyte said, amused.

“Xuanshun,” the elder priest addressed him, revealing the acolyte’s Taoist name. “If you still care about titles, that is a worldly concern. I do not mind titles. If a visitor calls me naturally, that is fine; if done deliberately, it reflects human nature. I oppose only deliberate pretense, not formal address.”

“Yes,” Xuanshun replied, falling silent.

“Drink first,” the elder priest invited, delaying his answer.

I lifted the cup. The tea was dark green, emitting a subtle fragrance. I sipped, though no tea connoisseur, and felt a refreshing clarity spread from my tongue throughout my body.

“Fine tea!” I exclaimed.

“Do you know what tea this is, and where it comes from?” he asked.

I did not answer, and he continued: “Incredibly, such fine tea grows here at our temple.”

I was amazed. Huajiang Province was not known for tea production, yet on this mountain grew such tea.

Noticing my surprise, he explained, “These tea trees were not planted intentionally but grew naturally, over a hundred years old.”

“As the saying goes, ‘A flower planted with care may not bloom; a willow planted carelessly may flourish.’ This applies to nature and people alike.” He drank tea and added, “Only by following the way of heaven can one achieve proper results; otherwise, efforts are wasted.”

“Taoism’s ‘inaction’ does not mean doing nothing but acting in harmony with heaven’s way. Heaven’s course is constant, neither preserving the virtuous Yao nor destroying the wicked Jie. Govern rightly and prosper; govern wrongly and perish. On the basis of following heaven’s way, one must still act positively but not deliberately or against the natural flow.”

“But what exactly is heaven’s way? Not everyone understands the particulars. How can one follow what one does not know?” I asked.

“Seeing the Way is the beginning of cultivating it; without seeing it, how to cultivate? This is indeed a question. Understanding the Way requires insight and must follow nature. Not all can realize the Way; it depends on one’s wisdom and practice.”

“Are monks more likely to understand the Way, since they cultivate regularly?” I continued.

“No. By practice, I mean cultivating the mind and character to align with heaven’s way. Anyone can do this. Those with wisdom need only follow their true heart and block outside distractions. If the mind is cluttered, that’s another matter. Like a field fertile with crops—you just weed, water, and fertilize. If the field is overrun with weeds, you must plow and reseed,” the elder priest explained calmly.

“Is conforming to heaven’s way what we call goodness?” I asked.

“Both yes and no. Conforming to heaven’s way involves good but does not eliminate evil. Everyone knows goodness by contrast to evil. How far apart are good and evil?”

“So, evil is allowed to exist?” I was still confused.

“It’s not about allowance; good and evil exist inherently. Some things in the world are ambiguous between good and evil. Excessive fixation on good and evil distorts the truth.”

“Should we not struggle against evil?” I asked.

“Good and evil both have causes and effects, all predestined. Good and evil coexist like shadows. Good is often accompanied by evil; evil is checked by good. No need to force the balance, but if you align with destiny, just act according to heaven’s will without forcing.”

“I understand. Any other advice, master?”

“Today’s society advances relentlessly; the sun rises in the east and sets in the west; a prosperous era is expected, fitting heaven’s way. Talented people should follow heaven’s will, using their knowledge and skills to build a career. Do not let criticism or temporary misfortune change your heart.”

“Thank you, master.”

“But worldly affairs change; throughout history, fame and fortune are but fleeting clouds. All is emptiness; fortune and misfortune, good and evil, intertwine. Sooner or later, you will awaken. I have a poem for you.”

He spread a sheet of rice paper on a nearby desk. Xuanshun had already prepared brush and ink. The elder priest wrote beautifully in small script:

“Seeking the Way, but only causes and effects,
In the mortal world, fortune and misfortune naturally exist.
Few names remain in history—mere passing travelers by abandoned tombs.
Fame and fortune in the red dust vanish like mist and waves.
Laugh at kings and nobles; who will judge merits and faults?
Sigh for sages and commoners—who truly knows good and evil?
Return home, where only white clouds and green mountains remain,
The evening glow sings softly.”

Reading this poem, I felt a partial enlightenment but also a lingering mystery. Seeing the elder priest’s silence, I refrained from pressing further.

Exiting Qingfeng Temple, the rain had stopped. Looking down, a vast sea of clouds spread, misty and ethereal like a fairyland. To the east, dark clouds drifted, with the sun peeking faintly behind the largest one. Its rays struggled to break through, turning parts of the cloud golden-black—utterly beautiful.