My grandfather's grandfather was a Marshal.
Not the kind who governs provinces. Back then Flower-Fruit Mountain had no borders and no soil to govern — only one mountain and a mountainful of monkeys. The King made four old monkeys his captains: the two Red-Rumped Macaques became Marshals Ma and Liu, the two Long-Armed Apes became Generals Beng and Ba. My line descends from Marshal Ma. I'm not making this up — it's in the old book. Every time Shecan the storyteller reaches that passage, he glances my way.
I wasn't born yet the year the King left. My father said the whole mountain saw him off at the cave mouth, and he turned back and smiled and said, back in no time. Back in no time — my father imitated that line best of all, down to the little upward lilt at the end. When he grew old he stopped performing it. I asked why. He said, it's too accurate. It hurts.
Three hundred years now.
Travelers came back saying the King became a Buddha in the west, seated on a lotus, receiving incense. Good. Buddhahood is good. But if he's a Buddha, why hasn't he come home? We don't understand Buddhas. We only know this mountain is his home. And then the night the stele cracked, the whole mountain shook and stones leapt off the cliffs while we monkeys huddled in knots. His name was carved on that stele. After it split, half the name stayed in the pedestal. The other half was never found.
From that night on, the yao beyond the mountain grew bold. The Havoc Demon's brood dares show its face again — yes, the same nest that bullied us back then. Three hundred years ago the King came home once and cut that demon down. Now his offspring come to test us. Test what? Whether this mountain still has a second monkey who dares to stand up.
I'm old. I can't fight anymore. Old Beng refuses to grow old and bellows daily about storming the Scorched Ridge. I hold him back. Not from fear — the mountain cannot afford a second wound. Holding ground is also a kind of fighting. That comes down to me from my grandfather: the Red-Rumped Macaque knows yin and yang, understands the ways of the world, slips in and out, and evades death to prolong life. Eight words. The first four I grasped young. The last four took me a lifetime — evading death doesn't mean hide. It means stay alive and wait.
Not long ago, a cub fell out of the stone itself, smelling of rock. I held his wrist for a long time. Three hundred years without a cub like that. I didn't dare think it through, and I don't dare say it aloud. Beng says I'm a doddering mystic. Let him.
If you're headed up the mountain, I'll show you the path. If you want the stele's story, I'll tell you all of it. And if you want to know what I'm waiting for —
I'm not waiting for anything. The stele is still here. So I stay.