Chapter Forty-Five: Buddha, Tao, Demon, and Monster (Part Two)

July fifteenth marks the very heart of the year—a day, they say, when the gates of the underworld swing wide and a hundred ghosts roam freely. On this night, Taoists offer sacrifices to the Earth Official at the Festival of the Dead, while Buddhists hold ceremonies to release the souls of the forgotten in what they call the Ullambana Festival. On a night for ghost stories, Princess Taiping’s taste for the macabre is well known.

It was the first grand event Princess Taiping hosted in a year—her seclusion due to childbirth and the death of her consort had kept her from public view. Now, not only did the scholars and poets who received her invitations flock to attend, but the young heirs of every great house in Chang’an came to pay their respects. Even Shangguan Wan’er, the palace’s arbiter of talent, had sought special permission to stay the night at the princess’s residence. As the Empress’s only beloved daughter, no one dared show her any disrespect.

When Quan Ce arrived, the guests were already numerous. The steward led him to a private grove, separated from the rear courtyard by only a wall. Within, lush trees and jagged rocks framed each step with a new scene. At the center lay a vast artificial pond, crossed by a bridge of white marble that stretched to a pavilion at its heart. The pavilion’s octagonal terrace spanned over two acres, flanked by arched echo-walls shaped like petals. Lotus lanterns glowed all around, and two rows of embroidered couches stood at the center. Facing these, the seats curved outward in three tiers, each larger than the last, accommodating hundreds. Every place had its own servant and maid, with trays of seasonal fruits set out.

Soft light shimmered on the terrace and graceful figures drifted in and out of view; below, mist rolled over the water, the sound of the konghou filling the air—a scene as dreamlike as it was real.

Quan Ce spotted Cui Rong, Song Zhiwen, and other Hanlin scholars seated in the curved rows and joined them. Cui Rong introduced him to two friends: Du Shenyan, a scholar at the Institute of Letters, and Li Qiao, an official. After Quan Ce’s assassination attempt, both had spoken on his behalf at court. Along with Su Weidao, now a minister, the four were famed as the “Friends of Letters”—masters of poetry and prose.

Quan Ce greeted them all, showing special deference to Du Shenyan, which the others attributed to his seniority. In truth, Du Shenyan’s yet-unborn grandson was none other than Du Fu.

Du Shenyan took a liking to Quan Ce and, with a hint of irony, mentioned the absent member of their group: “Su the Ambiguous now sits among the immortals and no longer consorts with us humble writers. I suppose the seat of honor is reserved for the likes of him.”

Though equals in letters, their careers differed widely. Su the Ambiguous—Su Weidao’s nickname—was a minister in name, but with little real power, forced into equivocation by pressures on all sides. Du Shenyan’s tone betrayed some resentment.

Quan Ce took it lightly; friendships were best enjoyed in the moment, and fate would run its course. He changed the subject: “All of you are elders to me, your experiences far beyond mine. I hope you might share some rare tales to broaden my horizons.”

Li Qiao laughed, stroking his beard. “Matters of gods and ghosts are not learned through experience. Judging by your poetry, Master Quan, you are a man of feeling. Such men dream easily, and in dreams, all manner of spirits and immortals may be found.”

Laughter rippled through the group, and Quan Ce bowed, modestly declining the praise.

Suddenly, the konghou’s welcoming melody ceased. The deep, hoarse sound of the bili flute resounded, and the gathering fell silent. The air filled with the chime of ornaments and the scent of incense. Princess Taiping entered slowly, accompanied by her honored guests, and took her place at the head. She raised both hands to receive their obeisance.

“Be seated, gentlemen. All of you are learned men. Allow me to set you a challenge: identify tonight’s dance, and I will drink three cups with you.”

Her voice, already full and resonant, was amplified by the echo-walls. Each word rang clear.

Clap, clap—two sharp slaps. A group of bare-chested men strode onto the stage, wearing wide-legged trousers painted with flames, belts adorned with bull skulls, torches in hand, and masks of beasts and demons. They crouched and leapt in time with the drums, spinning and bounding, mouths echoing the roars of wild animals.

Quan Ce’s eyes lit up. He had once sketched this dance while painting in Jiuzhaigou—it was the Dance of Twelve Aspects, performed by the local Baima Tibetans, symbolizing the spirit in all things. The dance was rooted in sorrow: the Baima, a Tibetan battalion, had won a fierce victory against the Tang, only to be forgotten by their command in Lhasa. Never recalled to the plateau, they settled there. “Baima” in ancient Tibetan simply meant “Tibetan soldier.”

Now the Dance of Twelve Aspects had reached Chang’an. That battle, Quan Ce mused, must have taken place at the cusp of the Sui and Tang dynasties.

Noticing Quan Ce’s interest, Cui Rong leaned in. “Have you recognized something, my friend?”

Quan Ce replied softly, “Brother, now is not our time to shine.”

“You are wise, and I was meddlesome,” Cui Rong smiled, having hoped to keep Quan Ce from drawing attention.

Quan Ce accepted the gesture with a bow.

The dance lasted a full half hour; the dancers’ bodies shone with sweat. Some guests watched with peculiar fascination. Princess Taiping called out, “Gentlemen, does anyone have an answer for me?”

Two young nobles tried and failed. At last, Princess Taiping summoned a stately monk—Huifan—massive and clean-featured, though to Quan Ce’s eye, something about him seemed off.

“This is called the Dance of Twelve Aspects…”

Princess Taiping clapped and laughed, drinking three cups with Huifan and seating him at her side. Quan Ce looked away, folding his arms and legs. The anniversary of Xue Shao’s death had just passed.

Ancient tales from the Classic of Mountains and Seas and the Record of the Search for Spirits were widely told. The imaginative Tang people delighted in gossip and invention. Song Zhiwen eagerly recounted a tale of a reincarnated infant who exposed her mother’s infidelity and her father’s murder—a story poorly received, nearly casting a chill over the gathering.

The leading guests, including Shangguan Wan’er and Su Weidao, rallied the mood, inviting others to share their stories and offering witty commentary—banter and laughter flowed.

“Young Master Quan, you’ve been silent all evening. Is it because you were kept awake by a beauty?” Shangguan Wan’er’s eyes flashed with playful accusation.

As he had to speak, Quan Ce chose not to spar with words. “Since the Lady-in-Waiting commands it, I shall oblige. There was once a temple… and, in the end, Xiao Qian and Ning Caichen found lasting happiness together.”

He told the tale of “The Ghostly Beauty,” with some changes—the swordsman Yan Chixia became a Taoist priest.

“In this haunted tale, men can be crueller than ghosts, and good ghosts surpass mortals in virtue. That priest—defender of the Dao, chivalrous and pure—truly a stirring soul,” mused Su Weidao, the famously ambiguous, moved despite himself.

“While you note the heroics, I find the tangled emotions more compelling,” said Shangguan Wan’er, glancing at Quan Ce. “Ning Caichen’s goodness, Xiao Qian’s lingering conscience—their trials bring them a perfect union.”

Cui Rong, by habit, clasped Quan Ce’s hand. “For Xiao Qian and Caichen to wed, for Yan Chixia to reach immortality—all find their destined place. In my view, Caichen is luckier by far.”

Quan Ce played along. “Brother Cui, do you mean that you envy not immortals, but lovers who pair for life?”

“Exactly! You read my heart. For that, let us drain a great cup!” Cui Rong, delighted at his own wit, laughed wildly, spilling wine as he toasted.

Cups clinked and laughter rang. The phrase “defender of the Dao” was on many lips. Huifan’s face darkened—he rose and, with a smile, addressed Quan Ce: “Sir, you have great spiritual roots and seem destined for the Path. Allow me to assist your practice.”

Quan Ce’s expression grew solemn. He stood and faced Huifan.

“I ask the Buddha: He who sees through the world’s illusions, unfettered by its chains, why does he indulge in wine, lust, and wealth?”

Huifan’s face fell as he set down his cup.

“I ask the Buddha: The Buddha is one who has crossed over; man is a Buddha yet to come. If all are the greater self, why haggle over trifles and struggle for supremacy?”

Huifan, shaken, looked to Princess Taiping, but she watched Quan Ce in silence, showing no intent to intervene.

“I ask again: To save all beings, the Buddha must abandon self. If the heart is divided, soaring like a kite to the sky, where will the Buddha go, and where will he remain?”

Furious, Huifan shouted, “How dare you, a frivolous youth, insult the Buddha with such words?”

“I do not insult the Buddha.” Quan Ce’s tone was calm, turning self-mocking. “I once wished to devote myself to Buddha, but could not let go of a beloved in my heart. Thus I ask again and again. I have a poem as proof:

‘Fearful that deep feeling would harm my vows,
Yet loath to leave the beauty for the hills,
Where is a way to serve both heart and faith?
To betray neither Buddha nor my love?’”

The hall was thrown into chaos. Huifan’s face flushed deep red; covering himself with a sleeve, he fled in embarrassment, stumbling over the hem of his robe and leaving it behind on the terrace.

Quan Ce stepped forward, picked up the robe, dusted it off, folded it, and handed it to a maid.

Let this be a resounding rebuke—should you have no cause, trouble me no more.