The Meeting at Han Gu Pass, completed first draft
The Meeting at Han Gu Pass
Gatekeeper Lü knew the old man was a master the moment he saw him. The year before, there had been another man who came to his village at the very edge of civilization, claiming to be a superior man; he had demonstrated it by flying in the air and appearing in the form of a great lung dragon. Lü had been impressed by this, as had the others in the village. It was not every day that such a spectacle was visited on them; they were fortunate to have a grand parade on New Year’s Day. But Lü knew that such tricks were not the makings of a superior man, ignorant as he was about philosophy and wisdom.
By contrast to the wandering trickster, the old man who walked slowly towards the gate that led into the vast and unknown West was simply an old man, dressed in gray robes that showed the signs of long travel, carrying a wooden stick to balance himself with and wearing a broad straw hat to keep the sun from his eyes. The old man, who was short and somewhat stunted, also had a long white beard that flowed like the water which fell from the nearby mountain cliffs. Behind him, he led a great water buffalo by a leather strap; the buffalo did not resist the old master’s silent commands at all, but followed peacefully behind.
Gatekeeper Lü guarded the pass of Han Gu, which led out from the Zhou kingdom and into the wilderness. Lü was a young man, with a wife and a new son, only two months old. He had been born in the Han Gu region and expected to die there; from childhood, he had been raised to be the gatekeeper, and it was a profession he took to and performed admirably. He had never taken an interest in education, and knew only a little about the world outside of Han Gu; travelers sometimes told of the great wars in the world outside, battles of men on foot and men on horseback, fighting in the same of some warlord or another, but these things were largely confusing. For the most part, Lü understood that somehow, the coins he gave to taxes left his village and made their way to the king, and the particulars, including which king they would go to, made little difference to him.
The old man came to the gate and stopped, looking up from beneath his straw hat.
“I would like to leave,” said the old master.
Lü paused and did not open the gate. “Where are you planning to go, if I may ask?”
The old master scratched at his long beard. “I am going away. I do not know where, save it will be some place I have not yet seen. I fear this kingdom is not long for the world, and in any case, it has little regard for the way of things. And so I am choosing to leave it.”
Lü nodded, though he did not truly understand. “Master,” he said, “must you leave at this very moment?”
“Why do you ask, young one?” asked the master.
“Because you are heading into the unknown West, master, and you do not plan to return. There are many things that an old man must know that a young man does not; and fewer old men become old masters. I would talk with you, if you will let me.”
The old master looked to his water buffalo, who looked back with great, liquid eyes. Then the old master looked back to Lü. “I would be willing to speak with you, young one, but I am old and weary and I do not know whether my teachings would matter to you. Or,” he added, “to anyone else, for that matter.”
“I do wish to listen, master.”
The old master nodded. “Very well. I will wait here until you are relieved, and then we will go to the teahouse. I will tie my buffalo, and we will talk for a time.”
Gatekeeper Lü was pleased to hear this, and waited patiently for Shen, his relief, to appear. Shen was late, as he often was, but Lü made no mention of this as he turned his duty over; Shen did not seem to notice the old master, despite the great water buffalo which stood at his side, steam pouring from its nostrils in the cold mountain air.
Lü and the old master walked silently away from the gate, and came by and by to the teahouse. It was not the grandest teahouse in the kingdom, but neither was it the least; it was simple, but the matron served good tea, and the music was often charming, and Lü spent many nights there. The old master tied his water buffalo up outside the teahouse, and the two went inside, where soon they were seated and drinking.
“Master,” asked Lü, “where are you from?”
“I am from Zhou,” said the old master. “For many years, I was the archivist of the imperial library there.”
“And why are you leaving?”
The old master grew quiet for a moment, taking a long sip from his cup. “As an archivist, I saw many things, and most of them were disquieting. The kingdom is in turmoil; many of the warlords that once pledged themselves to the king now rise up, calling themselves kings in turn. In this sense, there is now one kingdom and there are many, and this cannot be a good state of affairs.
“Myself, I have tried to think of ways to rectify the situation; I have spent many long hours deliberating on the proper way to govern the state. However, I am but one of many such thinkers, and we may all be wrong. We all are certainly ignored,” said the master. “I have spoken with some of them personally. I spent many hours with a young man named K’ung, some years ago, who believed the kingdom could be saved through ritual. He was wise enough, as his kind goes, but he did not look beyond the surface of things; his world was dictated by social etiquette. I do not believe such things to be overly important." The old master sighed. "Yet even his way that would be better than this."
They were given rice, and they ate quietly for a moment. Lü looked up from his bowl and watched the old man, who never removed his hat. The old master was bald, he could see, and very, very old, though there was still a small glint of youth in the wells of his eyes.
"And what do you expect to find in the West, master?"
"I do not know, child, nor do I wish to. To expect it would be to limit my experiences. I could name each of the ten thousand things that lie beyond your gate, but that would not make them substantial."
The old master looked up at Lü and saw in his face that the young man did not understand. The old master stood up. "Come. Let me show you."
"Master?" Lü followed him from the teahouse. He did not worry about the matron; he came to the teahouse often enough that she would let him pay some other time. He was more concerned with the old master at the moment. The old man walked out into the village, and stopped as he reached the village square. The sun was setting behind the mountains, and it cast the old master's face in shades of orange and blue.
Lü stopped behind the old master and looked, but he did not see anything. "What are you looking at, master?"
"The mountains," said the old master. "Look at the mountain, child. It is large, and strong, and you could not move it with ten thousand men. Yet what can the mountain do? It stands, and men build their villages on it, and in time, the mountain will slowly fall away into nothing."
The master walked towards the East, and they came by and by to the river that gave the town water. The old master stopped again, and gestured at the stream.
"Water, however, is low, and it does not strive; it stays in the humble places, where men do not go, and so it is like the way. Yet in time, the river will level the mountain." The old master leaned on his staff and looked at Lü. "Do you understand?"
Lü watched the water for a long moment. He stepped forward and looked at himself in the river's clear, flowing waves. He somehow looked older than he had the last time he came to the river, though it was only hours before.
"I think so," said Lü. "The weak and soft overcome the strong and hard, like the water and the rock." He looked to the master. "Is that it?"
The old master nodded.
"Come," he said. "There is more."
The old master led Lü back across the small village. Lü saw his fellows begin to close their shops and prepare themselves for bed as he and the master walked by; none of them paid the master any more mind than they would have for another old man with a broad hat and stained gray robes. They came to the gate, where Shen stood, dozing off. He did not notice them as they stepped just beyond the gates of the city and looked down into the great valley beyond Han Gu Pass.
"Young one," said the old master, "you must do something."
"What is it, master?" asked Lü.
"Close your eyes and forget. Forget everything you know. Forget all that you are and have been."
Lü closed his eyes, and at first, he could think of nothing save how hard it was. In time, he found he was taking deeper and deeper breaths, slower, calmer, and without realizing it, his mind was empty.
"Now," said the master, whose voice seemed to ring in Lü's ears like a traveler calling from the far side of the pass, "open your eyes."
Lü looked, and he saw, far below them in the valley, a woman far more beautiful than he could have hoped to describe. Her hair was long, and it spiraled around her, occluding her face. Lü could still make out her eyes, though, large and almond-shaped, and possessed of an otherworldliness that haunted him though he could not tell why. Her breath was perfume, and her movements were like a soft wind, invisible and gentle. Lü knew without being told that she was not human, but a spirit.
"This is the spirit of the valley," said the old master. "She is the source of all things on heaven and earth."
Lü said nothing, and doubted that he could say anything had he tried.
After a long time, the old master began to walk down the path, and Lü saw the valley spirit begin to rise to meet him. He followed, his eyes fully believing in the wonder of her, the fear of her resting deep in his belly. Soon, the three met, and there they stayed and spoke for many hours, until long after the moon had risen and set and risen again, and never once did Gatekeeper Lü wonder why he was not hungry or why he felt no need to sleep.
* * *
Gatekeeper Lü and the old master walked back towards the gate, neither one speaking. The great water buffalo snorted, its great hooves leaving deep tracks behind it. They had returned from the valley a little over an hour before to collect the water buffalo, and without being told, Lü knew that the old master would now be on his way into the West forever. It began to snow; soft, drifting flakes. The encircled the old master, dancing around him like little spirits. The old master did not seem to notice, one way or the other.
“Are you sure that you must go into the West, master? Surely there is so much more you could do here.”
The old master shook his head softly. “No, young one. There is something I have learned, and that is that pointless struggle brings only misery. One cannot force a man who does not possess the Way to follow it; in forcing the Way on another, one loses the Way. The rulers now are bad, and that saddens me, but in time, that will pass. There is no point in struggling against that which will change in time anyway.
“The West holds many things which I cannot anticipate. But I hope that there I will be at peace with myself and the Way. It is out of the reach of kingdoms and men, for now. It is still at one with the Way-at least for the time being.”
At the gate, the old master looked back to Lü and smiled. “Thank you for listening to the valley spirit and myself, young one. So few do.”
Lü nodded. “Thank you, master, for showing me the Way.”
“You did not need to be told,” said the old master, and with one swift motion, he mounted the water buffalo. He patted it on the side and it began to move off into the West. “You already knew.”
And with that, the old master left. He disappeared into the West, the snow clustering about him as though every flake wished to be the one to touch the old master. It grew harder and harder, until Lü could no longer see even the shadow of the old man’s hat or his water buffalo. However, just as the snow grew hardest, he thought he could see something else near the old master- a figure, perhaps a woman, whose hair spiraled about her. But he could not be sure.
When the snow let up, Lü could see the light of the moon poking through the clouds, and the old master was long gone. It seemed as though no time at all had passed.
Lü stood there for a long time, watching the shadow of the old master, thinking about his words, before he finally turned and walked back into the village. He did not move towards his home, where his wife and new son were waiting. Instead he moved towards the town square, and came by and by to the home of Scribe Qui. Scribe Qui was outside, putting out a lantern, when he saw Lü approach.
“Good evening,” said Qui.
“Good evening,” said Lü. “I know that it is late, but I must have your help with something. I have something which must be written, but I have never learned the characters.”
“Well,” said Qui. “Tell me what it is which must be written, and I will write it.”
“It will be long,” said Lü. “Five thousand characters, at least.”
Qui ruminated, and then looked back at Lü. “And how does it begin?”
Lü thought for a moment about how to best begin the old master’s teachings, which he would come to pass on to his children, and from there to others, never knowing the great destiny of the book he was to scribe from the words of the Old Master, never suspecting that the words he gave to Qui would one day be known throughout the Empire.
“It begins,” said Lü, “ ‘The way that can be named is not the eternal way; the name that can be spoken is not the eternal name. The nameless is the boundary of Heaven and Earth; the named is the mother of the ten thousand things.”
Qui nodded and stroked his long beard. “Yes,” he said. “I believe that will be good.”
Gatekeeper Lü knew the old man was a master the moment he saw him. The year before, there had been another man who came to his village at the very edge of civilization, claiming to be a superior man; he had demonstrated it by flying in the air and appearing in the form of a great lung dragon. Lü had been impressed by this, as had the others in the village. It was not every day that such a spectacle was visited on them; they were fortunate to have a grand parade on New Year’s Day. But Lü knew that such tricks were not the makings of a superior man, ignorant as he was about philosophy and wisdom.
By contrast to the wandering trickster, the old man who walked slowly towards the gate that led into the vast and unknown West was simply an old man, dressed in gray robes that showed the signs of long travel, carrying a wooden stick to balance himself with and wearing a broad straw hat to keep the sun from his eyes. The old man, who was short and somewhat stunted, also had a long white beard that flowed like the water which fell from the nearby mountain cliffs. Behind him, he led a great water buffalo by a leather strap; the buffalo did not resist the old master’s silent commands at all, but followed peacefully behind.
Gatekeeper Lü guarded the pass of Han Gu, which led out from the Zhou kingdom and into the wilderness. Lü was a young man, with a wife and a new son, only two months old. He had been born in the Han Gu region and expected to die there; from childhood, he had been raised to be the gatekeeper, and it was a profession he took to and performed admirably. He had never taken an interest in education, and knew only a little about the world outside of Han Gu; travelers sometimes told of the great wars in the world outside, battles of men on foot and men on horseback, fighting in the same of some warlord or another, but these things were largely confusing. For the most part, Lü understood that somehow, the coins he gave to taxes left his village and made their way to the king, and the particulars, including which king they would go to, made little difference to him.
The old man came to the gate and stopped, looking up from beneath his straw hat.
“I would like to leave,” said the old master.
Lü paused and did not open the gate. “Where are you planning to go, if I may ask?”
The old master scratched at his long beard. “I am going away. I do not know where, save it will be some place I have not yet seen. I fear this kingdom is not long for the world, and in any case, it has little regard for the way of things. And so I am choosing to leave it.”
Lü nodded, though he did not truly understand. “Master,” he said, “must you leave at this very moment?”
“Why do you ask, young one?” asked the master.
“Because you are heading into the unknown West, master, and you do not plan to return. There are many things that an old man must know that a young man does not; and fewer old men become old masters. I would talk with you, if you will let me.”
The old master looked to his water buffalo, who looked back with great, liquid eyes. Then the old master looked back to Lü. “I would be willing to speak with you, young one, but I am old and weary and I do not know whether my teachings would matter to you. Or,” he added, “to anyone else, for that matter.”
“I do wish to listen, master.”
The old master nodded. “Very well. I will wait here until you are relieved, and then we will go to the teahouse. I will tie my buffalo, and we will talk for a time.”
Gatekeeper Lü was pleased to hear this, and waited patiently for Shen, his relief, to appear. Shen was late, as he often was, but Lü made no mention of this as he turned his duty over; Shen did not seem to notice the old master, despite the great water buffalo which stood at his side, steam pouring from its nostrils in the cold mountain air.
Lü and the old master walked silently away from the gate, and came by and by to the teahouse. It was not the grandest teahouse in the kingdom, but neither was it the least; it was simple, but the matron served good tea, and the music was often charming, and Lü spent many nights there. The old master tied his water buffalo up outside the teahouse, and the two went inside, where soon they were seated and drinking.
“Master,” asked Lü, “where are you from?”
“I am from Zhou,” said the old master. “For many years, I was the archivist of the imperial library there.”
“And why are you leaving?”
The old master grew quiet for a moment, taking a long sip from his cup. “As an archivist, I saw many things, and most of them were disquieting. The kingdom is in turmoil; many of the warlords that once pledged themselves to the king now rise up, calling themselves kings in turn. In this sense, there is now one kingdom and there are many, and this cannot be a good state of affairs.
“Myself, I have tried to think of ways to rectify the situation; I have spent many long hours deliberating on the proper way to govern the state. However, I am but one of many such thinkers, and we may all be wrong. We all are certainly ignored,” said the master. “I have spoken with some of them personally. I spent many hours with a young man named K’ung, some years ago, who believed the kingdom could be saved through ritual. He was wise enough, as his kind goes, but he did not look beyond the surface of things; his world was dictated by social etiquette. I do not believe such things to be overly important." The old master sighed. "Yet even his way that would be better than this."
They were given rice, and they ate quietly for a moment. Lü looked up from his bowl and watched the old man, who never removed his hat. The old master was bald, he could see, and very, very old, though there was still a small glint of youth in the wells of his eyes.
"And what do you expect to find in the West, master?"
"I do not know, child, nor do I wish to. To expect it would be to limit my experiences. I could name each of the ten thousand things that lie beyond your gate, but that would not make them substantial."
The old master looked up at Lü and saw in his face that the young man did not understand. The old master stood up. "Come. Let me show you."
"Master?" Lü followed him from the teahouse. He did not worry about the matron; he came to the teahouse often enough that she would let him pay some other time. He was more concerned with the old master at the moment. The old man walked out into the village, and stopped as he reached the village square. The sun was setting behind the mountains, and it cast the old master's face in shades of orange and blue.
Lü stopped behind the old master and looked, but he did not see anything. "What are you looking at, master?"
"The mountains," said the old master. "Look at the mountain, child. It is large, and strong, and you could not move it with ten thousand men. Yet what can the mountain do? It stands, and men build their villages on it, and in time, the mountain will slowly fall away into nothing."
The master walked towards the East, and they came by and by to the river that gave the town water. The old master stopped again, and gestured at the stream.
"Water, however, is low, and it does not strive; it stays in the humble places, where men do not go, and so it is like the way. Yet in time, the river will level the mountain." The old master leaned on his staff and looked at Lü. "Do you understand?"
Lü watched the water for a long moment. He stepped forward and looked at himself in the river's clear, flowing waves. He somehow looked older than he had the last time he came to the river, though it was only hours before.
"I think so," said Lü. "The weak and soft overcome the strong and hard, like the water and the rock." He looked to the master. "Is that it?"
The old master nodded.
"Come," he said. "There is more."
The old master led Lü back across the small village. Lü saw his fellows begin to close their shops and prepare themselves for bed as he and the master walked by; none of them paid the master any more mind than they would have for another old man with a broad hat and stained gray robes. They came to the gate, where Shen stood, dozing off. He did not notice them as they stepped just beyond the gates of the city and looked down into the great valley beyond Han Gu Pass.
"Young one," said the old master, "you must do something."
"What is it, master?" asked Lü.
"Close your eyes and forget. Forget everything you know. Forget all that you are and have been."
Lü closed his eyes, and at first, he could think of nothing save how hard it was. In time, he found he was taking deeper and deeper breaths, slower, calmer, and without realizing it, his mind was empty.
"Now," said the master, whose voice seemed to ring in Lü's ears like a traveler calling from the far side of the pass, "open your eyes."
Lü looked, and he saw, far below them in the valley, a woman far more beautiful than he could have hoped to describe. Her hair was long, and it spiraled around her, occluding her face. Lü could still make out her eyes, though, large and almond-shaped, and possessed of an otherworldliness that haunted him though he could not tell why. Her breath was perfume, and her movements were like a soft wind, invisible and gentle. Lü knew without being told that she was not human, but a spirit.
"This is the spirit of the valley," said the old master. "She is the source of all things on heaven and earth."
Lü said nothing, and doubted that he could say anything had he tried.
After a long time, the old master began to walk down the path, and Lü saw the valley spirit begin to rise to meet him. He followed, his eyes fully believing in the wonder of her, the fear of her resting deep in his belly. Soon, the three met, and there they stayed and spoke for many hours, until long after the moon had risen and set and risen again, and never once did Gatekeeper Lü wonder why he was not hungry or why he felt no need to sleep.
* * *
Gatekeeper Lü and the old master walked back towards the gate, neither one speaking. The great water buffalo snorted, its great hooves leaving deep tracks behind it. They had returned from the valley a little over an hour before to collect the water buffalo, and without being told, Lü knew that the old master would now be on his way into the West forever. It began to snow; soft, drifting flakes. The encircled the old master, dancing around him like little spirits. The old master did not seem to notice, one way or the other.
“Are you sure that you must go into the West, master? Surely there is so much more you could do here.”
The old master shook his head softly. “No, young one. There is something I have learned, and that is that pointless struggle brings only misery. One cannot force a man who does not possess the Way to follow it; in forcing the Way on another, one loses the Way. The rulers now are bad, and that saddens me, but in time, that will pass. There is no point in struggling against that which will change in time anyway.
“The West holds many things which I cannot anticipate. But I hope that there I will be at peace with myself and the Way. It is out of the reach of kingdoms and men, for now. It is still at one with the Way-at least for the time being.”
At the gate, the old master looked back to Lü and smiled. “Thank you for listening to the valley spirit and myself, young one. So few do.”
Lü nodded. “Thank you, master, for showing me the Way.”
“You did not need to be told,” said the old master, and with one swift motion, he mounted the water buffalo. He patted it on the side and it began to move off into the West. “You already knew.”
And with that, the old master left. He disappeared into the West, the snow clustering about him as though every flake wished to be the one to touch the old master. It grew harder and harder, until Lü could no longer see even the shadow of the old man’s hat or his water buffalo. However, just as the snow grew hardest, he thought he could see something else near the old master- a figure, perhaps a woman, whose hair spiraled about her. But he could not be sure.
When the snow let up, Lü could see the light of the moon poking through the clouds, and the old master was long gone. It seemed as though no time at all had passed.
Lü stood there for a long time, watching the shadow of the old master, thinking about his words, before he finally turned and walked back into the village. He did not move towards his home, where his wife and new son were waiting. Instead he moved towards the town square, and came by and by to the home of Scribe Qui. Scribe Qui was outside, putting out a lantern, when he saw Lü approach.
“Good evening,” said Qui.
“Good evening,” said Lü. “I know that it is late, but I must have your help with something. I have something which must be written, but I have never learned the characters.”
“Well,” said Qui. “Tell me what it is which must be written, and I will write it.”
“It will be long,” said Lü. “Five thousand characters, at least.”
Qui ruminated, and then looked back at Lü. “And how does it begin?”
Lü thought for a moment about how to best begin the old master’s teachings, which he would come to pass on to his children, and from there to others, never knowing the great destiny of the book he was to scribe from the words of the Old Master, never suspecting that the words he gave to Qui would one day be known throughout the Empire.
“It begins,” said Lü, “ ‘The way that can be named is not the eternal way; the name that can be spoken is not the eternal name. The nameless is the boundary of Heaven and Earth; the named is the mother of the ten thousand things.”
Qui nodded and stroked his long beard. “Yes,” he said. “I believe that will be good.”