This poor monk is called Faming. I come from the east; I walk toward the west.
The temple where I took my vows stands by a river. Its name, I won't say — the moment I do, donors start asking: is it that temple? The one from the River Float tale? When I was young I used to argue: there are plenty of monks who share a name. Now I'm old and arguing bores me. And if it is? And if it isn't? A name is given by others. The road is walked by oneself.
I've been on this journey four years. From the river to the sea, from the sea to Flower-Fruit Mountain. People ask: Venerable, what are you after? I tell them: one look.
One look at how the monkeys of that place managed to live on.
Donors all know the pilgrimage of three hundred years ago. Four masters and a horse, they say, brought the scriptures home. But my own late master — the one who shaved my head — told me one thing before he passed: the scriptures came home; the one who carried them did not. I asked what he meant. He said: walk to Flower-Fruit Mountain, and you'll understand.
Now I'm here. I understand half.
The monkeys of this mountain are still waiting. Three hundred years, still waiting. When I begged alms below, the people of Aolai Town called the mountain cursed, plagued by yao. But I climbed it and saw monkeys mending a stele, standing sentry, brewing wine, teaching their young to read. I asked them: the yao are fierce — aren't you afraid? An old monkey asked me back: Master, you humans have been waiting three hundred years for someone who isn't here. Aren't you afraid?
I had no answer.
I walk west from here. How far, I don't know. To where, I don't know. My master said: roads are made by walking; scriptures are carried on the feet. I carry few scriptures. Only one sentence: if someone is waiting, the walking is worth it.
If you're west-bound too, donor, let's travel together. I have no other gifts, but I walk tolerably well.