Lu Da turned around and saw who was tugging at his sleeve—it was none other than Old Jin, the man he had saved at the wine shop in Weizhou. The old man pulled him into a quiet corner and said, “Benefactor, you have nerve! There’s a wanted poster hanging right there with a thousand strings of cash on your head, and you go staring at it? If I hadn’t spotted you, the constables would have hauled you in. It lists your age, your face, your hometown.”

“I won’t lie to you,” said Lu Da. “Because of you, I went back to Zhuangyuan Bridge that very day, ran into that butcher Zheng, and killed him with three punches. So I’ve been on the run ever since—bumped around for forty or fifty days, and here I am. Why didn’t you go back to the Eastern Capital? What brings you here?”

“Benefactor,” said Old Jin, “after you saved us, I found a cart and meant to return to the capital, but I was afraid that brute would chase us down, and with you not there to protect us, I didn’t dare. So we headed north, ran into an old neighbor from the capital who does business here, and he brought us along. Thanks to him, he arranged a match for my daughter with a wealthy squire named Zhao—she’s now his kept woman, and we eat well and dress well, all because of you. My daughter often tells her patron about your great kindness, and that squire loves spearplay and staff work himself. He always says, ‘If only I could meet your benefactor.’ We never thought we’d see you. Please come stay at our house for a few days, and we’ll talk things over.”

Lu Da walked with Old Jin less than half a li to the door. The old man lifted the curtain and called out, “My child, our great benefactor is here!” The girl came out decked in fine makeup and ornaments, invited Lu Da to sit in the place of honor, and bowed six times like a candle dipping in worship. “If not for your mercy,” she said, “how could I have come to this day?” Lu Da looked at her—she had blossomed into quite another beauty than before.

Her gold hairpins slanting, shadowing dark clouds of hair;
Embroidered sleeves neatly cut, lightly veiling snow-white arms.
Cherry lips faintly flushed, bamboo-shoot fingers half-unfurled like tender jade.
Slender waist swaying, green gauze skirt hinting at golden feet;
Light figure graceful, red embroidered jacket fitting her jade body well.
Face piled with March blossoms, brows swept like early spring willow leaves.

When she finished bowing, she said, “Benefactor, please go upstairs and sit.” Lu Da said, “No need for all this trouble—I’ll be on my way.” Old Jin insisted, “Now that you’ve come here, how could we let you leave?” The old man took his staff and bundle, and led him upstairs to sit. Then he told his daughter, “Keep our benefactor company—I’ll go prepare a meal.” Lu Da said, “Don’t fuss; whatever you have is fine.” Old Jin replied, “Your kindness is beyond repayment. A few plain dishes are nothing worth mentioning.”

The girl kept Lu Da company upstairs while Old Jin went down, called the new servant boy he’d hired, and told the maid to light the fire. The old man and the boy went to market and bought fresh fish, tender chicken, roast goose, fat pickled fish, and seasonal fruit. They opened wine and set out dishes, then carried everything upstairs. On the table they placed three cups, three pairs of chopsticks, vegetables, fruit, and savory plates; the maid warmed the wine in a silver pot. Father and daughter took turns pouring. Old Jin knelt and bowed to the ground.

“Old man, why such ceremony? You’ll crush me with respect!” said Lu Da.

“Listen, benefactor,” said Old Jin. “When I first came here, I wrote your name on a red paper tablet and burned incense before it morning and evening—we both bowed to it daily. Now that you’ve come in person, how could I not bow?”

“That’s a rare kindness,” said Lu Da.

The three drank slowly. Near dusk, they heard fighting break out downstairs. Lu Da opened the window and saw twenty or thirty men below, all holding white wooden clubs, shouting, “Catch him! Don’t let the thief get away!” One man on horseback in the crowd bellowed, “Don’t let that villain escape!” Lu Da saw trouble coming, grabbed a stool, and hurled it down from the window. Old Jin waved his hands frantically, shouting, “Everyone stop! No fighting!” He rushed downstairs to the mounted officer and spoke a few words. The officer laughed, shouted for the twenty or thirty men to disperse, and they all went off.

The officer dismounted and came inside. Old Jin invited Lu Da down, and the officer threw himself to the ground in a deep bow. “Hearing of you is not like meeting you—meeting surpasses hearing. Receive my respects, righteous warrior.”

Lu Da asked Old Jin, “Who is this gentleman? I’ve never met him—why does he bow to me?”

“This is my daughter’s patron, Squire Zhao,” said the old man. “He thought I was entertaining some young rogue upstairs drinking, so he brought his farmhands to fight. Once I explained, he called them off.”

“Ah, no wonder,” said Lu Da. “I can’t blame the squire.”

Squire Zhao invited Lu Da back upstairs to sit. Old Jin set out fresh cups and dishes and served more food and wine. Zhao yielded the seat of honor to Lu Da, who protested, “How dare I!”

“Just a small token of respect,” said the squire. “I’ve long heard you were such a hero. Heaven granted me this meeting—truly my good fortune.”

“I’m a rough man,” said Lu Da, “and I’ve committed a capital crime. If you don’t scorn my lowly station and would befriend me, I’ll do whatever you need.” Squire Zhao was delighted. They talked about the killing of Butcher Zheng, exchanged idle chat, compared staff techniques, and drank half the night before retiring.

At dawn the next day, Squire Zhao said, “This place may not be safe. Come stay at my estate for a while.”

“Where is it?” asked Lu Da.

“A little over ten li from here—a place called Seven Treasures Village.”

“Best you send someone ahead to have two horses brought,” said Lu Da. Before noon the horses arrived. The squire invited Lu Da to mount, had servants carry his luggage, and after Lu Da took leave of Old Jin and his daughter, the two rode side by side, chatting along the way to Seven Treasures Village. Soon they reached the estate gate and dismounted. Squire Zhao took Lu Da’s hand and led him to the main hall, where they sat as guest and host. The squire ordered a sheep killed and wine set out. That evening a guest room was prepared. The next day more food and drink were served.

“You’re too kind,” said Lu Da. “How can I ever repay you?”

Squire Zhao replied, “Within the four seas, all men are brothers. Why speak of repayment?”

Lu Da stayed at Squire Zhao’s estate for five or six days. One day the two were sitting in the study when Old Jin came rushing to the estate and straight into the study. Seeing no one else about, he said to Lu Da, “Benefactor, it’s not that I’m overly cautious, but the other day when I had you drinking upstairs, the squire misheard a report and brought his men to make a ruckus in the street. After they dispersed, people grew suspicious and word got around. Yesterday three or four constables came asking questions—the neighbors are being pressed hard. They may come searching this village for you. If something goes wrong, what then?”

“In that case,” said Lu Da, “I’ll just leave.”

Squire Zhao said, “If I keep you here, I fear some mishap that would make you resent me; if I let you go, it would be a shame to our friendship. But I have an idea that will keep you completely safe—a place to shelter and hide. Only, I’m afraid you might refuse.”

“I’m a man under a death sentence,” said Lu Da. “Anywhere I can settle is fine. Why would I refuse?”

“If so, perfect,” said the squire. “Thirty-odd li from here stands Mount Wutai. On it is Manjusri Monastery, a holy seat of the Bodhisattva Manjusri. There are five or six hundred monks there, headed by Abbot Zhenzhi—he’s my sworn brother. My family has long been donors to that temple. I once vowed to sponsor a monk’s tonsure there and have already bought an official ordination certificate. I just never found the right man to fulfill this vow. If you’re willing, I’ll cover all expenses. Would you truly shave your head and become a monk?”

Lu Da thought it over: “If I leave now, where would I go? Might as well take this road.” He said, “Since you’ll arrange it, I’m willing to be a monk and rely on your care.”

That settled, they packed clothes, travel money, silk, and gifts that night. Early the next morning, servants carried the loads, and the two set out for Mount Wutai. After mid-morning they reached the foot of the mountain. Lu Da looked up—it was indeed a great mountain:

Clouds veiled the peaks, the sun wheeled round the slopes;
Crags towering as if touching Heaven’s gate, jagged ridges piercing the Milky Way.
Before the cliffs, flowers and trees danced in spring wind, faintly breathing fragrance;
At the cave mouths, vines hung with last night’s rain, threads of green dangling.
Flying clouds and waterfalls—the Silver River’s light soaked in cold moonlight;
Sheer walls and ancient pines—iron bells ringing like dragon tails swaying.
The mountain’s roots straddled the triple world; its ridges had stood for ten thousand years.

Squire Zhao and Lu Da rode up in two sedan chairs, sending a servant ahead to announce them. At the temple gate, the monastery’s stewards and supervisors came out to welcome them. The two dismounted and sat in the pavilion outside the mountain gate. When Abbot Zhenzhi heard of their arrival, he led the head monk and attendants out to greet them. Squire Zhao and Lu Da stepped forward and bowed; the abbot returned a Buddhist salute and said, “Patron, you’ve come far—it must have been trying.”

“I have some small business,” said Zhao, “and came especially to trouble your temple.”

The abbot said, “Please, patron, come drink tea in my quarters.” Squire Zhao led the way, with Lu Da following behind. Looking at Manjusri Monastery, it was indeed a grand temple:

The mountain gate embraced green ridges, the Buddha hall reached to blue clouds;
The bell tower joined the moon’s abode, sutra pavilions faced the peaks.
The kitchen drew from a spring of clear water; monks’ quarters took in mist and haze on all sides.
The abbot’s chamber stood near the Dipper; meditation halls floated among clouds.
White-faced apes offered fruit, tapping strange rocks like wooden fish;
Yellow-spotted deer daily bore flowers to worship the golden Buddha in the hall.
A seven-story pagoda pierced the crimson sky—an ancient sage had come to this great temple.

The abbot invited them into his quarters, seated Squire Zhao at the guest’s place, and Lu Da sat himself on a meditation chair below. The squire whispered in Lu Da’s ear: “You’ve come here to become a monk—how can you sit facing the abbot like that?” Lu Da said, “I don’t know the rules,” and stood up beside the squire. Before them, the head monk, rector, attendants, supervisors, stewards, guest master, and secretary lined up in two ranks east and west. The servants settled the sedan chairs and carried gift boxes into the abbot’s quarters, setting them before the elder.

“Why bring gifts again?” said the abbot. “The temple is already much indebted to your patronage.”

“Mere trifles,” said Squire Zhao. “Not worth mentioning.” Attendants cleared the boxes away.

Squire Zhao rose and said, “One matter, Reverend Abbot: I once made a vow to sponsor a monk’s tonsure at this temple, and I’ve already obtained the ordination certificate—only never found the man. Now I have this cousin, surnamed Lu, a soldier from west of the pass who has seen the hardship of the mortal world and wishes to leave it and become a monk. I beg you to accept him, out of compassion and for my poor sake, and shave his head. All expenses I’ll provide myself. I hope you’ll grant this.”

The abbot replied, “This matter brings glory to our humble temple—easy, easy. Please, have some tea.” An attendant brought tea, and after they drank, the cups were cleared.

Abbot Zhenzhi then called the head monk and rector to discuss the tonsure, and ordered the supervisors and stewards to prepare a vegetarian feast. The head monk consulted with the other monks privately: “This man doesn’t look like one suited for monastic life—those eyes are fierce and dangerous.” The monks said, “Guest master, go invite the visitors to sit in the guest hall while we discuss this with the abbot.”

The guest master came out and led Squire Zhao and Lu Da to the guest quarters. The head monk reported to the abbot: “This man who wants to take vows has an ugly appearance and a vicious look. We should not tonsure him, lest he bring trouble to the temple later.”

“He’s the brother of our patron Squire Zhao,” said the abbot. “How can I disregard his face? Don’t be suspicious—let me see for myself.” He burned a stick of incense, sat cross-legged on his meditation chair, chanted a spell, and entered samadhi. When the incense had burned down, he returned and told the monks: “Tonsure him by all means. This man answers to a star in heaven; his heart is upright and firm. Though fierce for now and mixed in fate, in time he will attain purity and achieve no ordinary enlightenment—none of you will match him. Mark my words, don’t refuse.” The head monk muttered, “The abbot just protects his own. We’ll have to go along. If we don’t advise him, it’s wrong; but advising him won’t change his mind.”

The abbot ordered a vegetarian feast and invited Squire Zhao to dine in his quarters. After the meal, the supervisor drew up an expense list, and Squire Zhao produced silver to buy materials. For a day or two they made monk’s shoes, robes, caps, cassocks, and prayer implements until all was ready. The abbot chose an auspicious day and hour, had the bell struck and drum beaten, and gathered the assembly in the Dharma hall. Five or six hundred monks, neat and orderly, all in their cassocks, came before the abbot’s seat with palms joined, dividing into two ranks. Squire Zhao brought out silver ingots, gifts, and incense and bowed before the altar. After the invocations were read, an attendant led Lu Da to the foot of the abbot’s seat. The rector had Lu Da remove his cap and tied his hair up in nine coils. The barber shaved all around—but when he was about to trim the beard, Lu Da said, “Leave me a bit of this, eh?” The monks could barely stifle their laughter.

The abbot intoned from his seat: “Hear the verse.” He chanted:

“Not a blade left behind;
The six senses pure and clean.
I shave it all for you—
To end all strife between.”

When he finished, he shouted, “Off! Shave it all!” The barber made one stroke, and it was gone. The head monk presented the certificate before the abbot’s seat and asked him to bestow a dharma name. Holding the blank certificate, the abbot recited:

“A single spark of light,
Worth a thousand in gold.
The Buddha’s law is vast—
I name you Zhishen.”

With that, he handed down the certificate; the secretary monk filled it in and gave it to Lu Zhishen. The abbot also gave him a robe and cassock and had him put them on. The supervisor led him before the seat, and the abbot laid his hand on his head in ordination: “First, take refuge in Buddha-nature; second, in the true Dharma; third, in the teachers and elders—these are the Three Refuges. The Five Precepts: one, do not kill; two, do not steal; three, do not commit lust; four, do not crave wine; five, do not speak falsely.”

Zhishen didn’t know how to answer “yes” or “no” in the Chan manner, so he just said, “I’ve got it.” The monks all laughed.

After the ordination, Squire Zhao invited all the monks to sit in the meditation hall, burned incense, and offered a feast. Every officer of the temple received congratulatory gifts. The supervisor led Lu Zhishen to pay respects to his senior brothers, then brought him to the meditation platform in the back grove. That night nothing happened.

The next day Squire Zhao prepared to leave. He took leave of the abbot, who tried to keep him longer but couldn’t. After the morning meal, all the monks saw him out through the mountain gate. Squire Zhao pressed his palms together: “Reverend Abbot, and all you masters—please be merciful in all things. My brother Zhishen is a blunt, simple man. If his manners fall short, or he speaks rashly, or breaks your rules, I beg you to forgive him for my poor sake.”

“Rest easy,” said the abbot. “I’ll slowly teach him sutras, mantras, meditation, and the Way.”

“He’ll repay you in time,” said Zhao.

From the crowd he called Zhishen aside under a pine tree and said quietly: “Brother, from today your life is changed. Watch yourself in all things—never get too bold. If you don’t, we may never meet again. Take care of yourself. I’ll send clothes regularly.”

“No need to tell me, brother,” said Zhishen. “I’ll obey everything.”

Squire Zhao took leave of the abbot and the others, mounted his sedan chair, and with his servants carrying a spare empty chair and the gift boxes, went down the mountain home. The abbot led the monks back into the temple.

Lu Zhishen returned to the meditation platform in the grove and flopped face-down on his bed. The two meditating monks beside him pushed him up: “That won’t do! If you want to be a monk, how can you not learn sitting meditation?”

“I’ll sleep if I like,” said Zhishen. “What’s it to you?”

“Blessed be!” said the monk.

Zhishen rolled up his sleeves. “I eat turtles too—what’s all this ‘blessed be’?”

The monk said, “Oh, what suffering!”

“Turtles are big-bellied, fat and sweet—good eating,” said Zhishen. “Where’s the suffering?” The monks beside him ignored him and let him sleep.

The next day they wanted to report his rudeness to the abbot, but the head monk advised: “The abbot says he’ll achieve no ordinary enlightenment, that we can’t match him—he just protects him. You’ll have to bear it; don’t sink to his level.” The monks went off.

Seeing that no one scolded him, Zhishen every night sprawled spread-eagled on the bed and snored like thunder. When he got up to relieve himself, he made a great fuss and urinated and defecated all over behind the Buddha hall. An attendant reported to the abbot: “Zhishen is utterly rude—no monkly decency at all. How can this grove hold such a man?”

“Nonsense!” snapped the abbot. “For the patron’s sake, we’ll see—he’ll change in time.” After that no one dared speak of it.

Lu Zhishen had been stirring up Mount Wutai for four or five months when early winter arrived. The long quiet made him restless. One fine clear day he put on his black robe, tied the dark sash, changed into monk’s shoes, and strode out through the mountain gate. He wandered to the pavilion halfway down the mountain and sat on a bench, thinking: “Damn it! I used to have good wine and meat every day—now they’ve made me a monk and I’m starving thin. Squire Zhao hasn’t sent anything in days. My mouth tastes like ashes. If only I could get some wine about now.”

Just as he thought of wine, he saw a man far off carrying two buckets on a shoulder pole, singing as he came up the mountain, a dipper in his hand:

“Before Nine-Mile Mountain the battlefield lay;
A shepherd boy finds old swords and spears.
Downriver wind stirs the Wu waters—
Like Yu Ji parting from the Hegemon King.”

Zhishen watched him come to the pavilion and set down the load. “Hey, fellow,” said Zhishen, “what’s in those buckets?”

“Good wine!” said the man.

“How much a bucket?” asked Zhishen.

The man laughed. “Monk, are you joking with me?”

“What would I joke about?” said Zhishen.

“This wine I carry up is only for the temple workers—the fire-tenders, sedan-chair bearers, and old hands who do labor,” said the man. “The abbot has decreed: if we sell to monks, we get beaten, lose our capital, and are thrown out of our houses. We hold the temple’s money and live in the temple’s buildings—how dare I sell to you?”

“Truly won’t sell?” said Zhishen.

“Kill me and I still won’t!” said the man.

“I won’t kill you,” said Zhishen. “Just want to buy some wine.”

The man saw trouble coming and shouldered his pole to leave. Zhishen jumped down from the pavilion, grabbed the pole with both hands, and kicked him once in the crotch. The man clapped his hands over himself, squatted crumpled on the ground, and couldn’t get up for half a while. Zhishen hauled both buckets into the pavilion, picked up the dipper from the ground, opened the covers, and scooped cold wine into his mouth. In no time he’d drunk one whole bucket.

“Fellow,” said Zhishen, “come to the temple tomorrow for your money.”

By then the man’s pain had eased, but he was afraid the abbot would hear of it and cost him his livelihood. He swallowed his anger, dared not ask for payment, split the remaining wine into two half-buckets, shouldered them, grabbed his dipper, and fled down the mountain like the wind.

Zhishen sat in the pavilion a while until the wine rose to his head. He came down, rested again by a pine root, and the wine surged stronger. He stripped off his black robe, tied the sleeves around his waist, showing the tattooed flowers on his back, and fanned himself with both arms as he climbed up the mountain:

Head heavy, feet light; eyes red, face flushed—
Lurching forward, pitching back, stumbling east, staggering west.
Reeling up the slope like a crane in the wind;
Swaying back to the temple like a snake leaving water.
He points at Heaven’s Palace and curses the Marshal of the Clouds;
He stomps open Hell’s gate, demanding the Judge of the Dead.
Naked and bare—a drunken demon king:
The Tattooed Monk who burns and kills.

As he neared the mountain gate, the two gatekeepers saw him from afar, grabbed bamboo canes, and blocked his way. “You’re a disciple of Buddha!” they shouted. “How dare you come reeling drunk up the mountain? You’re not blind—you’ve seen the notice on the storehouse wall: any monk caught drinking gets forty strokes of the cane and expulsion from the temple. And if gatekeepers let a drunken monk inside, they get ten strokes themselves. Go back down, and we’ll spare you the beating.”

Zhishen was new to monkhood and hadn’t shed his old temper. He glared and cursed: “You motherless thieves! You want to hit me? I’ll fight you!” One gatekeeper flew inside to report to the supervisor; the other feinted with his cane to hold Zhishen off. Zhishen brushed the cane aside, spread five fingers, and slapped the man across the face, sending him staggering. As he tried to steady himself, Zhishen landed another punch and knocked him flat before the gate, howling in pain.

“I’ll spare you,” said Zhishen, and lurched into the temple.

The supervisor heard the gatekeeper’s report, roused the old hands, fire-tenders, sedan bearers, and about twenty or thirty men with white wooden clubs, and they rushed out from the west corridor—straight into Zhishen. He saw them, let out a roar like thunderclap at his lips, and charged in with great strides. At first they didn’t know he was an army veteran; when they saw how fierce he came, they fled into the sutra hall and slammed the lattice doors shut. Zhishen charged up the steps, kicked and punched the lattice open, drove all twenty or thirty of them running without a place to hide, snatched a club, and came out swinging from the sutra hall.

The supervisor hurried to report to the abbot. The abbot rushed over with three or five attendants and shouted from the corridor: “Zhishen! No more of this!”

Drunk as he was, Zhishen recognized the abbot, dropped his club, stepped forward, made a salute, and pointed down the corridor: “I had two bowls of wine—I didn’t provoke them. They brought men to attack me.”

“For my sake,” said the abbot, “go sleep it off. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

“If not for your face, Elder,” said Zhishen, “I’d beat those bald donkeys to death!”

The abbot had attendants help Zhishen to his bed, where he flopped down and snored. The temple officers surrounded the abbot: “We warned you before—see what’s happened! How can this temple hold such a wildcat who breaks all our rules?”

“He makes some noise now,” said the abbot, “but in time he’ll achieve true enlightenment. There’s nothing for it—for Patron Zhao’s sake, forgive him this once. I’ll scold him tomorrow myself.” The monks sneered: “What a muddle-headed abbot!” and dispersed to rest.

The next morning after the meal, the abbot sent an attendant to the meditation hall to summon Zhishen—he was still asleep. When he finally rose, he threw on his robe, barefoot, and rushed out of the hall in a puff. The attendant startled, ran out looking for him, and found him squatting behind the Buddha hall doing his business. The attendant barely kept from laughing. When Zhishen had washed his hands, the attendant said, “The abbot wants to speak with you.”

Zhishen followed him to the abbot’s quarters. The abbot said: “Zhishen, though you come from a soldier’s life, Patron Zhao has sponsored your tonsure, and I gave you the Three Refuges and Five Precepts: no killing, no stealing, no lust, no craving wine, no false speech. These five are the constant law of monks. For a monk, the first rule is to avoid wine—how did you get so drunk last night? You struck the gatekeepers, smashed the red lattice doors of the sutra hall, drove off the fire-tenders with your shouting. What sort of conduct is this?”

Zhishen knelt: “I won’t do it again.”

“You’ve taken vows,” said the abbot, “and already you break the wine precept and disturb our discipline? If not for your patron Squire Zhao’s face, I’d expel you at once! Don’t offend again!”

Zhishen rose, palms together: “I won’t, I won’t.” The abbot kept him in his quarters, served him breakfast, advised him gently, gave him a fine cotton robe and a pair of monk’s shoes, and sent him back to the meditation hall.

A wise man once wrote a verse on wine:

All evils done by men are laid to wine;
I have a word to speak for all the world.
Earth, water, fire, wind make up a man;
Wheat, yeast, rice, water brew the heady liquor.
Wine in the jar lies still and makes no waves;
A man not drunk seems to have no mouth.
Who says an infant is a drunken old man?
Who ever saw a dog reel from eating grain?
But pour three cups straight down—and then the body’s four elements slip away!
Some cannot taste one drop; some drain three hundred pints.
Some with clear eyes are madmen; some dead drunk yet never err.
The sages in wine pass their fame to men;
A man may ruin his country through the cup.
To break confusion, the old saying runs:
“Wine does not make men drunk—men make themselves drunk.”

Indeed, when drinking, never drink your fill. The proverb says: “Wine can accomplish things; wine can ruin things.” Even a timid man becomes bold after a few cups—how much more a hot-tempered one?

After that drunken brawl, Zhishen didn’t dare leave the temple for three or four months. Then one day in the second month the weather turned suddenly warm. He left his quarters, strolled out through the mountain gate, and stood admiring Mount Wutai with a cheer. Suddenly he heard a clanging sound from below, carried up on the wind. Zhishen went back to his room, took some silver, tucked it in his bosom, and walked down the mountain step by step.

Past the archway inscribed “Mount Wutai, Land of Blessing,” he found a market town of five or six hundred households—butchers, vegetable sellers, wine shops, noodle stands. Zhishen thought: “Damn! If I’d known this place was here, I wouldn’t have grabbed that fellow’s bucket—I could have come down and bought some myself. These last days I’ve been parched dry. Let me look around and see what I can buy to eat.”

The clanging came from a blacksmith’s shop; next door hung a sign for a father-and-son inn. Zhishen walked up to the smithy, where three men were hammering iron. “Hey, master smith,” he said, “you got any good steel?”

The smith saw Lu Zhishen’s freshly shaved head with bristling new stubble—a fearsome sight that gave him five parts fright already. He stopped his hammer: “Master, please sit. What would you like forged?”

“I want a monk’s staff and a ring blade,” said Zhishen. “Got any fine iron?”

“I do have some good iron here,” said the smith. “How heavy should the staff be? Tell me your wishes.”

“Make it a hundred catties,” said Zhishen.

The smith laughed. “Too heavy, master. I doubt I could forge it—and more to the point, how would you wield it? Even Lord Guan’s blade was only eighty-one catties.”

“Am I not as good as Lord Guan?” said Zhishen hotly. “He was just a man too.”

“Speaking from common sense,” said the smith, “I could make one of forty or fifty catties—that’s already very heavy.”

“Then follow your advice—make it like Lord Guan’s blade: eighty-one catties.”

“Master, too heavy looks ugly and won’t handle well. Trust me—let me forge you a fine sixty-two-catty water-polished staff. If you can’t swing it, don’t blame me. As for the ring blade, no need to instruct me; I’ll use my best iron.”

“How much silver for the two pieces?” asked Zhishen.

“No haggling—five taels,” said the smith.

“I’ll pay your five taels,” said Zhishen. “If you forge them well, there’s a tip in it.” The smith took the silver: “I’ll get to work at once.”

“I’ve got some loose change here—let me buy you a bowl of wine.”

“Stay easy, master,” said the smith. “I have work to catch up on; I can’t keep you company.”

Zhishen left the smithy and walked less than thirty paces when he saw a wine flag hanging from a roof eave. He pushed aside the curtain and sat down, rapping the table: “Bring wine!”

The shopkeeper said, “Forgive me, master, but this house belongs to the temple, and my capital too. The abbot has decreed that if we sell wine to monks, we lose our money and are thrown out of our homes. I can only beg your pardon.”

“Just sell me a little,” said Zhishen. “I won’t say it was from you.”

“That won’t do, master. Please drink elsewhere—forgive me.” Zhishen had to get up. “Fine,” he said, “I’ll find a drink somewhere else, and we’ll talk later.”

Out the door, he walked a few steps and saw another wine flag hanging before a shop. He went straight in, sat down, and called: “Host! Quick, sell me some wine!”

“Master,” said the shopkeeper, “you know better than this. The abbot has decreed it—don’t ruin our livelihood.” Zhishen wouldn’t budge. Three or four times he asked; still they wouldn’t sell. Seeing it was hopeless, he got up and left again.

He tried three or five shops in a row—none would sell. Zhishen thought: “I need a trick, or I’ll never get a drink.” Far off at the edge of town, deep among apricot blossoms, a thatched broom hung out as a sign. He went to look—it was a small village tavern:

A country tavern years old,
Set by mulberry and hemp on the ancient road;
White benches for guests to sit,
Fence woven of thorns and brambles.
A broken jar presses yellow millet wine;
A blue cloth flag hangs from the brushwood gate.
One more thing worth a laugh:
Cow-dung walls plastered with drunkard’s verse.

Zhishen went in, sat by the window, and called: “Host! A passing monk wants a bowl of wine.”

The farmer looked him over. “Monk, where are you from?”

“I’m a wandering monk,” said Zhishen, “traveling through on pilgrimage. Let me buy a bowl.”

“If you were one of the masters from Mount Wutai temple, I wouldn’t dare sell to you,” said the farmer.

“I’m not,” said Zhishen. “Quick, bring wine!”

The farmer saw his look and heard his strange voice: “How much do you want?”

“Don’t ask how much—just keep pouring big bowls.” Zhishen drank some ten bowls, then asked, “Got any meat? Bring a plate.”

“I had beef this morning,” said the farmer, “but it’s all sold out.”

Zhishen caught a whiff of meat cooking. He went outside and saw a dog stewing in an earthen pot by the wall. “You have dog meat right there—why won’t you sell it to me?”

“I thought being a monk you wouldn’t eat dog,” said the farmer.

“I’ve got silver here,” said Zhishen, handing it over. “Sell me half.” The farmer quickly fetched half the cooked dog, pounded some garlic paste, and set it before him. Delighted, Zhishen tore at the meat with his hands, dipped it in the garlic, and drank another ten bowls of wine. His mouth ran slick and he wouldn’t stop. The farmer stared dumbfounded: “Monk, that’s enough!”

Zhishen glared: “I’m not eating for free—what’s it to you?”

“How much more?” asked the farmer.

“Draw another bucket.” The farmer had no choice but to ladle out another. Zhishen drank that down in no time too, tucked a leftover dog leg into his robe, and said at the door: “Keep the extra silver—I’ll be back tomorrow!” The farmer stood gaping, not knowing what to do, as he watched Zhishen head straight up Mount Wutai.

Zhishen reachedZhishen reached the pavilion halfway up the mountain and sat for a while until the wine surged to his head again. He jumped up, muttering, “It’s been ages since I stretched my fists and kicked my legs—my whole body feels sluggish. Let me run through a few moves.” He came down from the pavilion, tucked both sleeves into his hands, and practiced left, right, up, down for a while. Putting too much force into one blow, he swung his shoulder into the pavilion’s pillar—there was a great cracking sound as the pillar snapped and half the pavilion collapsed.

The gatekeepers heard the crash from halfway up the mountain and looked out from their high post to see Lu Zhishen staggering up the slope one lurching step at a time. “Disaster!” they cried. “That beast is drunk again, and badly this time!” They slammed the mountain gate shut and barred it tight, then peered through the crack. Zhishen stumbled up to the gate, found it closed, and pounded on it like a drum with his fists—but neither gatekeeper dared open.

After pounding for a while, he turned around and looked at the guardian statue on the left. “You great oaf!” he shouted. “Won’t knock for me? You just stand there shaking your fist to scare me? I’m not afraid of you!” He leaped onto the pedestal, yanked at the lattice railing—it came away like pulling up a scallion—and picked up a broken plank, with which he beat the guardian’s legs until mud and paint flaked off in showers. The gatekeeper watched through the crack: “Disaster! We have to tell the abbot!”

Zhishen waited a moment, then turned to face the right-hand guardian. “You there with your mouth gaping wide—are you laughing at me too?” He jumped onto that pedestal and struck the statue’s legs twice. With a thunderous crash, the whole guardian toppled backward off its base, and Zhishen stood laughing, plank in hand.

The gatekeepers ran to report to the abbot. “Don’t provoke him,” said the abbot. “Go about your business.” But the head monk, the supervisors, the stewards, and every temple officer came to the abbot’s quarters: “This wildcat is drunk beyond reason today! He’s smashed the halfway pavilion and broken both guardian statues at the gate. What are we to do?”

“Since ancient times,” said the abbot, “even emperors step aside for a drunken man—how much more an old monk like me? If he broke the guardians, let his patron Squire Zhao come and have new ones made; if he knocked down the pavilion, Zhao can rebuild it. Let him be.”

“But the guardians are the keepers of the mountain gate!” said the monks. “How can we simply replace them?”

“Say nothing of broken guardians,” said the abbot. “Even if he smashed the Buddha of the Three Ages in the main hall, there’d be no help for it—we could only avoid him. Have you forgotten how he behaved last time?” The monks left his quarters muttering: “What a slippery old abbot! Gatekeepers, don’t open up—just listen from inside.”

Zhishen shouted outside: “You bald-donkey bastards! If you won’t let me into the temple, I’ll fetch a torch and burn this stinking monastery down!” Hearing that, the monks told the gatekeepers to draw the bolt and let the beast in—if they didn’t, he might truly do it. The gatekeepers tiptoed to the bar, slid it back, and darted into their rooms to hide. The other monks scattered too.

Zhishen shoved both doors open with all his strength and pitched headlong inside, landing flat on his face. He scrambled up, rubbed his head, and headed straight for the meditation hall. In the meditation grove, the monks were sitting in zazen when they saw him lift the curtain and lurch in—all startled and bowed their heads. Zhishen reached his bed, his throat gurgling, and vomited on the floor. The stench was unbearable; every monk cried “Blessed be!” and covered nose and mouth.

After heaving a while, Zhishen climbed onto his bed, untied his sash, tore off his robe with ripping sounds, and pulled out the dog leg. “Good, good—I’m famished!” He tore into it and ate. The monks hid their faces in their sleeves; the two beside him edged far away. Seeing them retreat, Zhishen ripped off a piece of dog meat and held it to the monk on his upper side: “You have some too.” That monk pressed both sleeves hard over his face. “Won’t eat?” said Zhishen, and shoved the meat into the lower monk’s mouth. The monk couldn’t dodge fast enough—he tried to scramble off the bed, but Zhishen grabbed him by the ear and stuffed the meat in. When four or five monks across the way leaped over to intervene, Zhishen flung down the dog meat, raised his fists, and rained blows on their shaven pates with a popping sound. The whole hall erupted in shouts as monks ran to grab their robes and bowls, ready to flee. This uproar was called “the scattering of the hall,” and not even the head monk could stop it.

Zhishen fought his way out, driving most of the meditating monks into the corridors. Without telling the abbot, the supervisors and stewards roused a company of temple officers—old hands, fire-tenders, laborers, sedan bearers, about a hundred or two hundred men—all armed with staves, forks, and clubs, towels wrapped around their heads, and charged into the meditation hall together.

Zhishen saw them coming and let out a great roar. With no other weapon at hand, he rushed back into the hall, overturned the offering table before the Buddha, tore off two table legs, and came out swinging:

Fire blazed in his heart, thunder rolled from his mouth.
He shook his beast-like frame of eight or nine feet,
Spitting fury three thousand yards high.
His murderous boldness could not be checked;
His sea-rolling eyes stared wide.
Straight on, crosswise he charged—
A tiger shot with arrows leaping from a cliff;
Forward rushing, backward surging—
A jackal pierced by spears bounding across a ravine.
Even the guardian gods could not withstand him;
The diamond kings themselves would yield.

Lu Zhishen whirled his two table legs and came out fighting. The crowd of monks saw how ferocious he was, dropped their clubs, and fell back to the corridors. Zhishen swept the table legs low along the ground after them, but the monks closed in from both sides. In a rage, he struck east while looking west, hit south while aiming north—sparing only those at either end. He fought his way all the way to the foot of the Dharma hall, where the abbot shouted: “Zhishen, no more! And you monks—stand down!”

Dozens on both sides had been wounded. When they saw the abbot come, they drew back. Seeing them disperse, Zhishen tossed away his table legs and called out: “Elder! Stand up for me!” By then he was seven or eight parts sober.

“Zhishen,” said the abbot, “you’re killing me with worry. Last time you got drunk and raised havoc, I told your brother Squire Zhao, and he wrote letters of apology to all the monks. Now you’ve done it again—dead drunk, breaking the rules, smashing the pavilion, wrecking the guardians. That I could let pass. But you’ve driven the whole congregation out of the hall—that’s no small sin. This Mount Wutai is Manjusri’s holy seat, a pure place of incense for a thousand years. How can it hold your filth? Come stay in my quarters a few days, and I’ll arrange a place for you.”

Zhishen followed the abbot to his quarters. The abbot had the officers call back the meditating monks to their seats and sent the wounded to rest. He kept Zhishen overnight.

The next day, Abbot Zhenzhi conferred with the head monk: “We’ll gather some silver to send him off and find him another place. But first we must inform Squire Zhao.” The abbot wrote a letter and sent two attendants straight to Squire Zhao’s estate to explain matters and await his reply.

Squire Zhao read the letter and was greatly displeased, but he wrote back: “The broken guardians and pavilion—I will pay to have them repaired at once. As for Zhishen, do with him as you see fit.”

Receiving this answer, the abbot called for a black cotton robe, a pair of monk’s shoes, and ten taels of white silver, then summoned Zhishen into his room.

“Zhishen,” said the abbot, “the first time you got drunk and rioted in the hall, that might be pardoned as an error. But this second time—dead drunk, smashing the guardians, collapsing the pavilion, scattering the whole congregation and beating monks besides—your sin is no light one. This place of mine is a pure refuge, and your conduct does it no credit. For your patron Zhao’s face, I give you this letter to take to another refuge. I can keep you here no longer. Last night I looked into the matter and have four lines of verse for you—keep them all your life.”

“Master,” said Zhishen, “where am I to go and settle? Let me hear your four lines.” Abbot Zhenzhi pointed at Lu Zhishen and spoke these words that would send him on his way. And it was so ordained: this man would laugh and whirl his monk’s staff against the heroes of the world; in rage draw his ring blade to cut down filial sons and treacherous ministers—his name to race three thousand li beyond the northern passes, and at last to win true enlightenment in the first city south of the river.

If you want to know what words Abbot Zhenzhi spoke to Zhishen, hear the next chapter.