The Tempting

**Night Log of Lanruo Temple · The nineteenth day of the ninth month · Night**

(Night. One lamp. The bolt in place. Tonight, someone came again. I did not open the door.)

Let me first record the day.

This morning I walked the temple grounds. The halls and pagoda were as before, brambles shoulder-high, the wind-bells at the eaves silent. Behind the hall I saw the soil beneath the poplar — turned over once more, a fresh layer.

The last two times I looked, the soil was level, old grass-roots pressing down new earth. This time the new earth lay over the old, damp, put there during the night. Around the mound ran a ring of footprints, fresh, circling the whole mound. The prints were shallow, not like a man's walking — more like something that had paced around it all night.

I stood there a while. Behind me, someone coughed.

It was the old monk. He leaned on his bamboo staff, standing on the hall steps, watching me. I turned. He said nothing for a long time. Then he said: "A passerby, why look at such things?"

I said: "Just looking."

"Just looking, then look less." He said, "Tomorrow morning, you should be on your way."

"I leave the day after."

He looked at me once more, said nothing more, and turned into the hall. The staff tapped the ground, once, twice, toward the back of the hall.

In the afternoon I read in my room. Sunlight came through the west window; the words on the page, line by line, read clear. The temple was quiet by day, only the birds on the eaves, fluttering down, fluttering away. A stray cat often crouched in the veranda to sun itself. I knew it; it was not afraid of people. My tea went cold; I refilled it once. I read till dusk, closed the book, and lit the lamp.

The lamp lit, I rose and checked the window paper once more. The scratch from before was still there — a nail mark, stopping halfway. I ran my finger along it: from the middle of the paper, outward, stopping at the edge of the third pane. Where my finger stopped was exactly where the figure had stood in the night. I shut the window, bolted it, thought a moment, and set the lampstand against the sill corner.

The lamp had just caught when, outside the door, someone laughed.

It was not laughter. It was a woman's laugh — low, as if holding water in the throat, rolling out. I sat up straight and listened. The laugh came along the veranda, step by step, toward my door.

"Young master—"

The voice pressed against the door-panel, soft, sent through a layer of paper: "The night is cold. Your slave has warmed a jug of wine, to warm you, young master."

I did not answer. The lamp-wick had burned long and knotted into a flower. I reached over and trimmed it. Outside, the voice waited again, then called softly: "Young master, the wine grows cold." I turned a page. The voice laughed once more and said: "The young master has a cold heart." With that it went west. Its steps were very light, almost inaudible.

I sat, unmoving.

After about the space of a joss-stick, a figure was cast on the window paper.

It stood beyond my window, neither tall nor short, hair in a knot. It stood a while, then opened its mouth and sang. A little tune, a soft air, word by word through the window: "Flowers there are, wine there is — spring abides—no candle, no lamp—the night lights itself—"

This air, I had heard it before. The day Scholar Fang left, he said he had heard it once. He said it with a slight smile: "This temple — lively at night." And I remembered his other words — "this temple cannot be lived in." He left by day. In a hurry; his bedroll was not even gathered.

I sat, unmoving. The figure finished one verse, then sang another, the same air, new words. The second verse ran: "The east-neighbor wife, the west-neighbor girl—one combs her hair, one weeps." I listened and turned a page. It sang a third verse, and the voice sank, sank, listless, with a touch of vexation. The window paper darkened — the figure had withdrawn.

I sat, unmoving.

In the small hours the wind stopped. The temple was very still. I could hear the lamp-flower crack.

Then, beyond the door, someone called me.

"Young master—"

This voice, I knew it.

"Young master, open the door. It is I."

It was Xiaoqian's voice. She called low, called urgent, with a shiver of cold in it: "Young master, open the door. The night at the temple is cold; let me in to shelter."

Her hand tapped twice, lightly, on the door. Very lightly, as if afraid of startling me.

I knew Xiaoqian's voice, and I knew her way of speaking. In all the nights she came, she never spoke in haste. When she said "Young master, tomorrow do not go to the poplar tree," she spoke word by word, clearly, as if each word was thought out before it left her mouth. She did not tap. She knocked — three times, a wait, three times more. She said: "If the young master does not wish to see me, your slave will go."

This voice outside — it tapped, twice, and urged.

I sat up and asked: "Are you Xiaoqian?"

"It is I, young master." The voice trembled. "Open the door."

"Has Xiaoqian come tonight?"

Beyond the door, a silence. Then the voice said: "She came. She has gone. She bade me come and tell the young master to open the door."

It said "she has gone."

Xiaoqian never carried messages for anyone. She said she herself was a "bait," and when she said it, she looked away, and after a while added: "A bait does not carry messages."

I sat, unmoving. The hand that had drawn the bolt halfway drew back. The bolt, I drove home again.

Beyond the door, a silence.

Then the voice changed. It was no longer Xiaoqian's voice. It was that soft woman's voice again, but with a smile in it, low: "The young master is quick."

"Yes," I said, "the night is cold. Please return."

The one beyond the door laughed. That laugh was long, letting all the air in its throat out at once. The laugh retreated down the veranda, footsteps pattering, step by step, toward the poplar. After it had gone far, it could still be heard laughing.

I sat back under the lamp. I turned pages; not one was read.

Near dawn I rose and checked the bolt once more. The lower part of the door-panel was cold. I crouched and looked — along the bottom edge ran a patch of damp, where something wet had stood long outside the door. The damp was dry, rimmed white, like frost-salt. I touched it with a finger and brought it to the lamp: not salt — ash, the ash of burnt paper, fine, clinging to the finger, not to be rubbed off.

I blew out the lamp. Beyond the window, the sky was gray-blue. I had sat all night; my eyes were dry.

At daylight I went behind the hall to look. Around the poplar mound, the ring of footprints had gained more prints. I counted — five old, one new. Six. Circling the whole mound, deep and shallow, as if something had paced around it through the night, ring upon ring.

I stood, unmoving. Behind me, the tap of the bamboo staff sounded again.

The old monk stood on the hall steps, watching me. He said nothing; he followed my gaze and looked at the mound. He looked a long while. Then he said: "Six?"

I said: "Six."

He lowered his head, tapped the staff on the ground, and said: "Tomorrow, you truly should be on your way."

"I leave the day after."

He opened his mouth, said nothing, and turned into the hall. The staff tapped the ground, once, once.

Five souls; tonight, six.

Last night three came. One offered wine, one sang, one learned Xiaoqian's voice and called me to open the door.

I did not open.

But I sit here thinking — it learned Xiaoqian's voice, and learned it so well. Had it not been for that flaw, I would have opened already.

Today it learned her voice. Tomorrow, what will it learn?

Recorded here tonight.