“Yes, well, it has been very hard work,” I sniffed. “As both you and the Lord of the Underworld pointed out, I am not particularly well suited to it. However, through my anxiety and fear, I have done it to the best of my meager abilities, and the benevolent deities have aided me, for my cave has remained a refuge from the chaos, trouble, and disorder of the world outside it. Though human visitors have not been many, still some have come, and after spending time in meditation, they have left with some small addition to their store of wisdom.”
“In that case,” cheered South Mountain Spirit, “I say, well done!”
“Thank you,” I said humbly. “But you can understand, now, my distress when I hear that the Buddha head will not be returning.”
“No,” said South Mountain Spirit, still sunny and unperturbed. “I cannot.”
I attempted to control my exasperation, short temper being an unhelpful attribute along the path. “If the head does not return,” I explained, “I cannot leave this realm. I am to be Cave Guardian until and unless the Buddha statue can resume its former role. If it cannot, I will be here until the coming of the Buddha of the Future!”
Slowly, the sunlight faded behind collecting clouds. After a long, misty pause, South Mountain Spirit spoke. “I cannot, of course, feel the source of your unhappiness. It involves the flow of time, meaningless to me. However, you are my friend, and I am distressed to see you in this state.” Rain began pelting from the black clouds piled along his brow. “How do you know the head will not be returning?”
“The chief of the restoration project is a man called Leonard Wu. He is from New York City, America, but has been sent here with the consent of the government in Beijing. Leonard Wu was surprised and delighted to see the state of the images in my cave. He had anticipated, he told his chief assistant, Qian Wei, that the destruction caused by years of neglect would be much worse. Neglect! If only he knew how hard I have been working!”
“Why don’t you tell him?”
As a ghost, of course, I do not have a heart; nevertheless, something in my spectral chest began to pound. “I? Speak? To a man?”
“Oh, of course, how foolish of me! The timid little monk.” Again he laughed.
“Leonard Wu, however,” I managed to go on, “has been speaking with the director of the Trent Museum, in New York City, America, throughout his time here. In the human realm this type of conversation is called ‘negotiating.’ ”
“I believe humans ‘negotiate’ my paths. Is it the same?”
“Yes. It involves understanding, careful attention, and compromise. Still, it is not always successful.”
“That is true on my paths, also. I try to be of help, pointing out places where they should and should not step. Those places are clear and obvious, it seems to me. However, often the humans cannot understand me, and sometimes, they fall.”
“Human understanding is, alas, limited. The director of the Trent Museum, for example, failed utterly to understand the importance of the return of the head. This,” I said, “even though, as you do here on your paths, I tried to help.”
“You? In what way?”
“I became quite excited when I realized what was being discussed. The return of the head! My next life, finally looming! When it first appeared that negotiations were not proceeding well, I screwed up my courage and began hovering close to Leonard Wu. After some time, though I was trembling, I did what I thought I would never do: I attempted to whisper in his ear.”
“You were trembling? You are the ghost! Leonard Wu is supposed to be trembling!” Again, the laughter of wind in the trees.
“As you mentioned,” I said miserably, “my faults are no fewer in this realm than in the human one. It is difficult to understand how to correct them.”
“And it is difficult for me to understand humans,” South Mountain Spirit said affably. “No less so your spirits than your fleshly incarnations. So, my friend. Apparently this head is important enough to you that you overcame your bashfulness.”
“I have not overcome it. It continues to haunt me. Yes, yes, I know, I am meant to be the one who haunts!”
He did not reply, though a small rockslide tumbled down one of his shoulders.
“The head’s return is, however, as you say, very important to me. So I forced myself to approach Leonard Wu. But I could not speak. Incoherent from nervousness, I managed a croaking whisper. He shook his head, looking around as though he suddenly recognized nothing. Then he continued in his work. I tried and tried, but I could not make words come to me. Finally he left my cave that day, complaining of headache.”
“Then he has not come to understand the importance of the return of the head?”
“In fact he has, though not through me. Leonard Wu, as it happens, is very fond of cats. It has given him joy to take special care with a painting on the north wall, wherein the Buddha allows himself to be eaten by starving tigers. The Spirit of the Mother Tiger, who has been of great help to me in defending the cave—and who, with reason, is not impressed by my prowess—has become close to Leonard Wu. She, more brave than I, has whispered to him, has told him stories of the way the cave once was, how things were here when the statue was whole. He will stop in his work when she speaks, dust-brush in hand, and stare at the painting or carving he is cleaning. Soon after she began whispering to him, he redoubled his efforts for the return of the head.”
“That sounds quite hopeful.”
“Oh, yes! I could hardly restrain myself from howling through the camp. All the cave spirits felt the same. We were so eager, so optimistic!”
“But from what you say, your hopes have not been borne out.”
“No. Leonard Wu has failed. This morning he told his chief assistant, Qian, that the head would not be sent back. Together they stood mournfully regarding the statue, on which they have been hard at work in preparation for the reunion with its head. The assistant asked if that was a final decision. Leonard Wu said it was. I was quite stricken to hear this news, and hurried here for the consolation of a visit with you, old friend.”
“I am honored,” South Mountain Spirit gravely said. We sat together in silence for some time as his streams tumbled and his trees waved. As always, I felt comforted by his presence. “But surely,” he finally said, “once you have taken solace in my wooded hillsides and rocky tors, your unhappiness must spur you on to further action?”
I blinked up at him. “Action? I am the ghost of a simple monk. My entire earthly life was spent in contemplation, in a cave to which I took in order to avoid ‘action.’ Whispering in the ear of Leonard Wu was beyond my abilities. What action could there be for me to take? No.” I shook my head. “All that remains for me is to return to my cave and continue my efforts to protect the multitudinous spirits there, until time itself stops.”
I felt quite low. South Mountain Spirit, however, did not, even in sympathy, share my mood. A splendid sunset broke through the glowering clouds encircling his peak. “Clearly, my friend, you must go yourself to the Trent Museum, in New York City, America, and retrieve the head.”
GLEAMING SUNLIGHT ILLUMINATED the vast vertical cliffs that were the buildings of New York City, America. I stared up at them. Though I had only the faintest understanding of their materials—steel and glass—and though they were certainly larger by far than any manmade structures I had ever encountered, I had lived the only life I could recall in a cave in the side of a towering cliff. As fearful as I had been when considering this journey, I found myself strangely reassured by the sight of these looming structures.