Chapter 24: Crafting a Horse from Paper, A Tranquil Courtyard by the Well

The morning light was gentle—bright, yet never harsh on the eyes.

By the stream outside the Daoist temple stood a massive boulder, spanning several feet across. Atop the stone sat a man dressed in pale robes, his expression tranquil, his hair black as ink, flowing like a clear stream. Xiaoyu glanced at him and felt he appeared most gentle, bathed in sunlight.

Qingyuan kept his head lowered, a block of wood in his left hand, a small knife in his right, carving with care—neither too quickly nor too slowly, each movement light and unhurried. Only after a long while did a shape begin to emerge.

Was it a dog?

Yet its claws and fangs seemed far too sharp.

A wolf, perhaps?

But atop its head was a distinctive mark, shaped like the character for “king.”

“Sir…” When Qingyuan finally finished, Xiaoyu’s curiosity could no longer be contained. “What is that creature?”

“This?” Qingyuan tossed the carving lightly and smiled. “It was meant to be a wolf, but I got carried away and added a bit of a tiger’s ferocity—now it’s something of a chimera.”

Xiaoyu considered this and said, “But it looks very nice.”

“Nice?” Qingyuan paused, looking at the thing in his hand. From every angle, it appeared rather fierce and menacing; he struggled to see how it could be called beautiful.

Xiaoyu covered her mouth, eyes squinting with laughter, then asked, “Why are you carving this tiger-wolf, sir?”

She knew well enough that he enjoyed reading, admiring scenery, and cultivating himself, but rarely did anything without reason or purpose.

“Tiger-wolf… That’s not a bad name.” Qingyuan smiled gently. “Have you ever heard of Daoist arts, Xiaoyu?”

She nodded. “Yes, you’ve said that in time, I’ll be able to learn them too.”

“My own cultivation is shallow; it’s far too soon.” Qingyuan tossed the tiger-wolf carving in his hand. “The Daoist texts speak of wondrous techniques, such as cutting paper into horses or conjuring soldiers from beans. I know nothing of summoning soldiers from beans, but I have practiced making paper horses. Yet, to bring a paper horse to life, one’s cultivation must be profound…”

“Even if I achieve a breakthrough, reaching the second level, with true energy able to take form and act beyond the body, it would still be difficult to enact. And even if I could, the result would be frail, easily scattered—more a fright than a threat; a martial artist could probably destroy it with a single kick.”

“So, one must rely on external objects.” Qingyuan smiled. “This tiger-wolf in my hand is such an object.”

Xiaoyu’s mouth fell open in astonishment, her curiosity piqued.

“It’s still unfinished. Once the carving is done, it must be painted with cinnabar, then baked and tempered with water and fire,” Qingyuan said with a smile. “That’s all for the future. For now, I’m merely preparing for the day when I might use this Daoist art.”

Xiaoyu nodded and grinned. “I’ve never seen real magic before.”

Qingyuan nodded and smiled. “You will, in time.”

He glanced at the wooden carving in his hand.

There was much he did not say.

The carving was made of locust wood. Locust, known as “ghost wood,” was said to easily attract malevolent energies. Yet for him, it would only augment the tiger-wolf’s ferocity, and besides, he was unafraid of such so-called evil energies.

Still, using such a material lent a certain sinister aspect to what was meant to be orthodox Daoist art. Yet Qingyuan felt he had done nothing improper—his conscience was clear, and he feared no evil from the locust wood, so he harbored no unease.

…

Qingyuan put away the carving and returned with Ge Yuer to the Mingyuan Daoist Temple.

A small side gate stood at the back of the temple, and the two entered through it.

The corridor was empty and quiet. But Qingyuan and Xiaoyu chatted as they walked, their conversation lively enough to dispel any sense of loneliness.

They turned a corner and passed through a small door.

Suddenly, Qingyuan stopped.

He tilted his head to look.

Within the small door lay a courtyard—bare, paved with stone bricks, with a corridor to one side leading to another courtyard not far from the front one.

In the center of the courtyard was a well, covered with an iron grate.

Ge Yuer glanced at her teacher. “What is it?”

Qingyuan frowned slightly, not answering at once.

The courtyard was cold and desolate, pervaded by a chilling sense of sorrow and dampness. It was utterly silent, devoid of any sign of life.

Ge Yuer felt a chill, but seeing her teacher nearby, she regained her composure. She looked at the well in the courtyard and exclaimed in surprise, “There’s a well here, so close to the front yard. Why do the priests always go to the stream for water instead?”

Her words reminded Qingyuan. He frowned slightly, thinking, “Why not use the well when it’s right here?”

With that thought, he patted Ge Yuer’s head. “Wait here.”

Xiaoyu nodded.

Qingyuan gripped an iron rod and strode toward the well.

“Master Qingyuan…”

A voice called from ahead.

At the other exit of the corridor stood a man—Qi Yuan, Zhang Qiming’s senior disciple, who had explained things to Qingyuan a few days prior.

He wore a faint smile. “Did you lose your way, sir?”

Qingyuan set down the iron rod and smiled. “I was wandering by the front gate earlier, and just returned by the back. I lost my bearings for a moment.”

Qi Yuan bowed slightly. “It was remiss of our temple. Please, allow me to show you the way.”

Qingyuan nodded and beckoned Xiaoyu to his side. She trotted over to stand beside him.

As they walked away, Qingyuan asked, as if in passing, “Since your temple has a well, why do you still fetch water from the stream?”

He paid close attention to Qi Yuan’s reaction. As Qingyuan was a step behind, he did not see the man’s expression, but he noticed Qi Yuan’s footsteps halt for a heartbeat before quickly resuming.

Qi Yuan smiled faintly. “That well dried up many years ago.”

Qingyuan replied calmly, “Yet I sensed some moisture lingering in that courtyard.”

A flicker of something crossed Qi Yuan’s eyes before he answered, “A few years back, the well filled again, but the water was filthy and unusable, so it was abandoned.”

Qingyuan nodded, feigning enlightenment. “The courtyard is certainly tranquil and quiet—a fine place to read or rest.”

Qi Yuan forced a smile. “Few people pass through that courtyard, so it lacks the warmth of human presence. According to our Daoist teachings, such places are heavy with yin energy—not suitable for lingering.”

Qingyuan laughed. “Within a temple, with the Daoist ancestors’ protection, what place could be truly unfit for staying?”

Qi Yuan coughed twice. “The well courtyard has been abandoned. The abbot finds it unsuitable and intends to renovate it; for now, it’s best not to enter.”

Qingyuan understood that something was amiss in that courtyard, but he was not overly curious and did not press further.

Every place holds its secrets—there’s no need to uncover them all.

So he changed the subject. “Your abbot seems seldom seen?”

Qi Yuan replied in a low voice, “The abbot enjoys traveling, often mingling in the world, or traversing mountains and rivers, gathering herbs and refining his qi, seeking immortals and the Dao—so he’s rarely at home.”

“A true free spirit,” Qingyuan said with a smile. “May I ask the abbot’s name?”

Qi Yuan answered, “Our abbot’s Daoist title is Shuiyuan; he is known as Daoist Master Shuiyuan.”