The Knock

> Ning Caichen's night journal at Lanruo Temple

> Autumn of the Guihai year, Kangxi; eleventh day of the ninth month, written at Lanruo Temple, north of Jinhua city

**Day**

At dawn I went first to look at the window paper.

The dark patch I had pressed last night was still there, paler now, as if soaked through and dried. I touched it. Dry. Beyond the paper the mugwort held dew, glittering in the sun. I pushed the window open; the wind came in, carrying the smell of grass.

Breakfast was yesterday's flatbread, eaten with cold water. There are no monks in this temple; the rice and flour I carried myself. The bread had gone hard; it crumbled when I broke it. I crouched on the threshold, eating bite by bite with the cold water. A sparrow flew down from the eaves and pecked at the crumbs at my feet; when it had done it flew away.

After eating, I took my book and sat in the gallery to read.

I had read a while when I heard the east wing's door open.

Yan Chixia came out, stood under the eaves, holding a copper pot, watering the ground. He poured very slowly, one ladle at a time; the water fell and sank in. When he had done he crouched, poked the mud with a finger, and stood, and turned back. At the door he paused, without turning, and said:

"Did you sleep well last night?"

"Well," I said.

He asked nothing more and went in. The door closed, then opened again—he put half his body out, looked at me, said nothing, drew back in, and the door closed.

I looked at that door a long time.

After noon, with nothing to do, I went for water. I crouched by the jar and looked at the fish. There was one more than yesterday, come from I do not know where, a white mark along its back. I counted: three. The jar still held the water drawn two days ago, full; I drew mine, and carried it in.

As I drew water I looked once more at the jar's rim. A film of moss grew along it, slick. The night's affair, weighed in daylight, left nothing in the mind. I carried the water in, poured it into the pot, and sat down at the window again.

In my room I turned pages. I came to the *Surangama Sutra* and stopped there, reading a long while, not a word of it entering. The night's affair—window shadow, scratch, laughter—weighed in daylight, all like a thing seen through water, blurred, unholdable. I shut the book and opened it again, and again; in the end I left it open on my knee and watched the sun through the window, thinking of nothing.

After noon I went to the front of the hall. The great door stood ajar; I pushed it. Inside, empty. Dust lay on the Buddha's shoulders; the offering table stood bare—no burner, no offering. I stepped back and drew the door to. Passing the gallery I saw Yan Chixia's window: a sheet of window paper pasted from inside, whiter than yesterday's, new. His door was shut, no sound behind it. I stood a moment. I did not knock.

At dusk I stood in the gallery again. The temple gate stood open; the road beyond lay white and empty. The white poplar stood by the road, its leaves still. Of the earth under the tree, turned days past, it was the same this morning—no one had touched it. I stood at the gate a while, and it came to me—in this temple, besides Yan Chixia and me, who had come to burn paper money?

I looked at the white poplar a while longer. The trunk was thick, two arms' reach and more around; the bark rough, split in deep lines. The ring of new earth at the roots was darker than the rest, as if rain-wet, or as if turned. I walked over, crouched, and looked. In the earth lay a few scraps of burnt yellow paper, one corner charred, the edges curled. I shifted them with a twig; under the ash a shard of green-glazed porcelain showed, the size of a thumbnail.

I straightened up, kicked the paper ash back into the earth with my foot, covered the shard, and turned back to the temple.

The sky darkened. I went in, lit the lamp, and read.

**Night journal · the fifth night**

The wind is low tonight.

The lamp-wick snapped once; I trimmed it, and the light brightened. I had read some pages when I heard, in the weeds behind the hall, the insect sound—chirr, chirr. Beyond the insects the temple lay very still.

I had read about half an hour when the insect sound stopped. The weeds behind the hall went still, still enough to make a man uneasy. I set down my book and listened—no wind, no insect, the temple as if suddenly emptied. Moonlight from under the eaves lay on the doorboard, a stretch of blank white.

I read about an hour. The flame sank; I added oil once. As I added it I heard my own hand touch the lamp-bowl, one small sound. Behind the hall, still no insect sound. I looked once at the window—moonlight lay on the paper, blank white; beyond the paper, nothing.

I read on toward the third watch. I kept time myself—one watch to an incense stick, and I watched the stick sink joint by joint. Halfway through the third stick, something passed along the eaves outside the window, and a little dust slipped from the eave. I looked up; the moonlight on the window paper was blank, nothing there.

At the third watch I had just turned to a fresh page. Then, on the door, a sound.

Knock.

One sound, very light, as if a knuckle had tapped the doorboard.

I set down my book and did not move. I waited; there was no second sound. Wind, I thought, or a wild cat; I took up the book. I had no sooner taken it up than the door sounded again.

Knock.

This one a little heavier than the first, falling low on the doorboard, as if one knocked stooping.

I sat without moving, without answering. The flame wavered and righted itself. I counted my own breaths; at the seventh, the door sounded again.

Knock.

The third. This time it fell square in the middle of the door, neither high nor low, as if one stood straight and put out a hand to knock.

"Who is it?" I asked.

No answer from beyond the door.

I sat and waited. The flame wavered and righted itself. I asked again: "Who is out there?"

This time, from beyond the door, came a laugh.

The laugh was short, as if held back and then let slip from the throat. Not loud, not far—just outside the door, through the board, clear as anything. I knew it. It was last night's laugh.

I sat without moving. The door-bar was behind me, within reach. I did not reach for it.

Beyond the door it was quiet again.

I heard footsteps. Not the steps of a shod man—bare soles on the mud, light, one step, then another, from the door across the yard to the gallery, where they stopped. After a while they went on again, toward the white poplar.

I sat a long while without moving, without blowing out the lamp. The flame sank; I added oil once and sat down again. No more sound beyond the door. I counted incense sticks; one burned out, then another.

Halfway through the second stick I heard the laugh again, farther off now, as if beyond the temple gate. After it, the temple fell utterly still.

I rose, went to the door, and put out my hand to the doorboard. It was cold; where my fingers lay, colder than the rest—low on the board, a small patch, as if something had pressed there a long time. I pressed it; the cold held against my palm, as if living, or as if dead.

I drew my hand back, wiped it on my lapel, blew out the lamp, and lay down. Outside the window the moonlight was thin. I lay open-eyed, hearing my own heartbeat; beyond the heartbeat I could hear nothing else.

Moonlight from under the eaves leaked through a seam in the window paper, laying a thin line on the floor before the bed. I looked at that line of light a long while. Late in the night I slept a little. In the dream I stood at the door with my hand on the bar—someone stood beyond the door, on the other side of one board, standing as I stood. I woke; it was already first grey, and birds were calling outside the window.

**Tonight I record this**: at the third watch there came a knocking at the door, and when I asked who was there, there was no answer—only a laugh, the same laugh as the night before. Bare footsteps crossed the yard to the gallery, then went toward the white poplar. The doorboard was cold in a small patch low on it, as if pressed a long time. She knocked, and would not answer.