Liberi Reader

Since childhood I grew in a monastery in Higashi. Be that as it may, I was only adopted by the old head priest. I was not a true monk.

This name too, Saga, is one I only sought from him, at the time I determined I would descend the mountain and enter the secular world.

After I departed Higashi, I resolved to wander far and wide. I saw the great mountains and rivers of Yan, captivating me to linger. A childhood memory came asudden, of the day I charged in error into the head priest's garret.

In it a deal of clutter was piled, dust like snow, yet held some rarities that roused the childly heart in me. Among them, a large picture scroll most caught my interest. The box that held it, I only remember 'twas taller at the time than myself.

Only later did I happen to learn, it was the witness of all the travels of my head priest, in the times he wandered as I do now. 'Twas near a hundred meters, and a work of no renowned artist.

For half a day I implored him, and only then with reluctance did he unfurl the scroll for me.

It has been however many years. To this day, I still cannot forget the falling leaves borne down by the wind, and my still-healthy head priest opening that scroll across the monastery courtyard—I... I had never before seen such magnificent mountains and rivers.

What I do not understand to this day is how scroll was not meticulous as a true, vivid and lifelike 'masterpiece' of ordinary, yet true enough, one was there in the blink of an eye. In the late autumn season, I felt, sensed the abounding vitality of those midsummer waterfalls—

Ah, mistake not 'one was there' as an adjective of mine. In that instant, it was as if truly, in reality, I found myself in the painting, visiting as a fowl flies over the forests. Mountains risen in layers of peaks, ponds filled with pebbles, tree shadows swaying, I was below a waterfall, vast, one I could hear!

But when I dazedly returned to my senses, it seemed I was only drawn in by the painting, lost staring at it and nothing more. The fit of shivers I even had, coming from those midsummer mounts and streams back to the late autumn courtyard, lives deeper in my memories yet.

My head priest told me this painting came to him from a chance meeting, along the K'u-t'an River in Yan. At the time, he was just slightly younger than I am now, only a mere novice monk. The chieh-tu-shih patrolled the south, and the regular way was blocked, the only option to take a river ferry.

Countless sails fluttered along the river, but far in the distance he sighted a lone boat, along the riverside, as though it did not belong to this scene full of life. My head priest was curious, and followed it close.

That lone boat sailed steady, unwavering. From the other vessel he caught one glimpse of her, gazing to the zenith of Mount Sky like one would in preparation for ascent, its clouds and mists winding round. For a moment he was sheerly confounded, nearly falling into the water, and within a single breath, that person saved him.

The woman was magnificent beyond compare. She spoke not a word, taking him all along the riverside, shoring at Fei-shan Crossing, walking for Mount Hui-ch'i. Repaying her kindness for saving him, all the way my head priest made meals over fresh firewood, carried their bags and cut down the brambles, toiling day and night.

The woman seemed to never need sleep, and whenever my head priest turned in for the eve, he would dream of past events he had never seen before. After waking, he would forget them deeply, feeling as though he had dreamt, and as though he had not.

After several recurrences, he fell into prolonged thought. The two of them were clearly travelers side by side, yet appeared as if two strangers, reflecting upon themselves deep in their own solitude.

On a certain day, the two arrived at a place of graceful mountains and rivers, and it seemed to move her. She stopped and gazed from far above, watching for several hours. My head priest asked her what she was doing, and she spoke: she was painting. Painting a scroll, a scene of crude mounts utmost risen.

My head priest was compelled to a brief nap, and when furiously awoken, he realized he was still inside the boat upon the K'u-t'an River. There was never any Fei-shan Crossing, and never that seemingly transcendent woman. Only new before his eyes now was a picture scroll, holding this exact painting.