The Grounds of Lanruo

**Lanruo Temple Night-Watch Log · Ninth Month, Fifteenth Day · Clear** Daytime. Sunlight leaks through the window paper, falling on the floor in squares. I sit at the window, looking at the flagstone beneath it. The gold horn still lies there—the one I pried off, carved "Tomorrow, at this place," set back where it was; the body of the gold stayed on the ground. Now only the horn lies on the flagstone; the gold body has been taken away.

I did not sleep well last night. With my eyes shut, all I saw was that ingot of gold, and the words "payment for last night's seeing." Five taels of gold, taken away. The one who took it—his steps went toward the white poplar.

I rise, push open the window, and look toward the white poplar. The daylight is blank and white; the shadow of the tree lies on the ground. That poplar stands behind the temple, and from my east wing, across a stretch of waste grass. It comes to me that I have never looked at that tree properly, in daylight.

I put on my shoes, and go out. There is no wind in the temple. The daylight is white, on the tiles, on the walls, on the waste grass. I walk along the gallery; my steps sound in the empty temple. The paint on the gallery posts has peeled away by more than half, showing the wood beneath. Waste grass grows from the cracks in the brick, tall enough to pass the knee. The halls and pagoda of this temple stand, but it is waste—the rows of monks' quarters east and west, their doors ajar, black within, as if no one had ever lived there.

I reach the great hall, and stop. The hall and pagoda are magnificent. Bracket upon bracket, mounting layer by layer; on the beams, traces of painted ornament, faded, only a little green and blue left. But before the hall, waste grass grows to the knee, and grass grows in the cracks of the stone steps. The hall door stands ajar; a crack runs through the plank, and through the crack I can see the blackness within.

I stand outside the hall, and look a while. This temple is not one whose incense has failed—it is one whose incense failed long ago. The halls and pagoda stand; the people are gone.

I am about to turn, when I hear a voice:

"Benefactor." I turn. In the shadow at the side of the hall stands a man. A grey monk's robe; very old; his back somewhat bent; a bamboo staff in his hand. He looks at me, his gaze flat, as at a tree. The daylight falls on half his face; his wrinkles are deep, one after another, like a dried riverbed. "Benefactor," he says again, "the temple is waste; there is nothing to see." I say: "Master. I lodge in the east wing." He looks at me once, and says nothing. After a moment he turns, and walks behind the hall. He walks very slowly; the bamboo staff taps the ground, tok, tok, tok. I watch him go; his robe is long, trailing on the ground, sweeping the waste grass. Suddenly I take two steps after him: "Master—that grave under the white poplar behind the temple—whose is it?" He stops. He does not turn. He stands with his back to me, and after a long while, says: "Benefactor, do not ask." "Why?" "Ask, and one must answer," he says. "Answer, and one must take it up. Take it up, and one cannot get free. You are a man passing through; why ask?"

I stand there, and say nothing.

He leans on his bamboo staff and walks on. After a few steps he stops again; his voice is not high, as if he were speaking to himself: "The ground of the temple holds buried men. Buried ones—do not ask who they are." When he has said it, he walks far. The staff taps the ground, tok, tok, tok, one after another, and gradually is heard no more. I stand where I am, looking toward where he vanished, thinking over his words. Buried ones, do not ask who they are. This waste temple holds buried men—holds whom? It comes to me suddenly: last evening, at dusk, I saw that ring of footprints under the white poplar. Deep prints, facing the temple gate. A ring of footprints, circling that new grave.

I turn, and walk toward the back of the temple. **[Night Record, appended]** Yan Chixia has not left the east wing today. The sun is well up; the east-wing door is shut, the window closed, no sound. Did he hear something too? I do not know. The white poplar stands behind the temple, against a low wall. I walk to the tree, and stop. The daylight leaks down through the leaves, dappled, falling on the ground. Beneath the tree, a grave of earth—that mound, compared with last night, seems a little lower, or perhaps not. The earth is yellow, damp, as if freshly mounded. The grave has no tablet, no wooden marker; a bare mound of earth.

I walk around the mound, once.

That ring of footprints from last night—gone. Around the mound, smooth and level, no footprints, no trace. As if no one had ever trod there—but last night I plainly saw that ring of prints, deep, facing the temple gate. My own two feet stood in that ring last night, treading those prints.

Now, nothing. The earth has been smoothed over. Who smoothed it? When? That sound of digging I heard last night—was it the smoothing of this ring of prints? The bark of the white poplar is grey-white, striated, like cracked dry earth. I reach out and touch the bark; it is cold. I lower my head and look at the roots—the roots coil, one length showing above the earth, thick as a finger, curving. Beside the root, the earth is freshly turned, looser than the rest.

I crouch, and look at the earth of the mound. It is loose, damp. I reach out and press it gently—very soft, as if just turned. I lower my head and see, on the side of the mound, a trace. As if a hand had been drawn from below upward over it. That trace, in the daylight, is faint.

I straighten, and look at the grave, and look a long while.

The grave is new. The earth is damp, as if buried only these last days. But grass grows on the grave—not new grass. A few tufts of old grass, roots sunk deep, leaves already yellow, still standing on the mound. New earth, old grass. As if someone had taken an old grave, mounded fresh earth over it, to make it look new. I stand in the shade of the tree, and a thought rises in me: this grave—how long has its tenant been buried? I turn back. At the temple gate I stop again, and look back once. The white poplar stands in the daylight; the shadow of the tree falls on the grave, like a hand covering something.

The sun has passed toward the west. My shadow trails behind me, long. I stand at the temple gate, and it comes to me: I have lodged in this temple nearly half a month. All along I thought the temple held three living men—Yan Chixia, the old monk, and me. But beneath the white poplar, a man is buried. Beneath the east-wing window, gold is left by night. How many "men" does this temple hold?

I lower my head, and go in at the gate. The waste grass of the gallery stirs in the wind, rustling. I pass the east-wing door; Yan Chixia's door is still shut. I go back to my own room, sit down, and think of that tree, that grave, that old monk who said "buried ones, do not ask who they are."

Dusk. I sit at the window.

The western sky burns into a sheet of red. I take out this morning's gold horn, put it on the table, and look at it. On the horn, the characters I carved are still there: "Tomorrow, at this place."

Tomorrow. That is tonight.

Last evening at dusk, she left a ring of footprints under the white poplar. Tonight at dusk, will she come again? I pried off the horn, carved the words, set it back in its place—this is a letter. If she comes, and sees the horn, and sees "Tomorrow, at this place," she will know that I have accepted the letter.

I sit at the window, looking at the gold horn, looking at the darkening sky beyond the window.

The sky darkens layer by layer. First white, then grey, then ink-blue. In the temple there is no place where lamps are lit, save the east wing, where a thread of light rises. I sit in the shadow before the window, having lit no lamp, looking at the gold horn, faintly bright in the dark.

The temple is very still. No wind, no sound. The old monk lodges behind the hall; whether he sleeps, I do not know. From the east wing, a thread of light—Yan Chixia's lamp is lit.

Suddenly I hear a sound behind the temple.

Very faint. As if someone were digging at earth. Once, once, as if a hand were lightly scraping the soil. The sound comes from the direction of the white poplar, across a stretch of waste grass, faint and indistinct. I sit, and do not move. The lamp flame leaps. The sound goes on, once, once, without stopping. I listen, and suddenly remember the old monk's words: "The ground of the temple holds buried men. Buried ones—do not ask who they are."

It is dark.