The Cotton Kasaya

Shanghai, No. 74 Shaoxing Road. Two lush, leafy camphor trees stood sentinel over this secluded courtyard. Tucked within was a three-story building, its entrance bearing a brass plaque: Story Session Editorial Office! Early in the morning, He Chengwei rode up on his bicycle for work. Having joined the magazine in 1974, he was its youngest editor. "Morning, Chief!" "Morning!" He Chengwei walked up to the second floor and took his seat. The office was sparsely staffed; counting editors, art designers, and distribution personnel, there were only twenty people in total. As a bimonthly publication, they should theoretically have had ample time to assemble each issue, yet his days were perpetually fraught with tension. Usable manuscripts were simply far too scarce. At present, Story Session had no distinct columns. Each issue serialized five long stories: two from hand-copied manuscripts, two from old revolutionary tales of the past, and only one brand-new story. When pushed to their wits' end, the editors had no choice but to write pieces themselves or scrounge for material everywhere they could. Just yesterday, He Chengwei had traveled to Chongming Island to visit a man famous for bragging. People who loved boasting were often gifted storytellers as well; he had thoroughly picked the fellow's brain, unearthing over a dozen anecdotes until his notebook was packed to the brim. "Xiao He, take a look at this hand-copied manuscript and see if we can run it." "Right away!" The editor-in-chief tossed him a battered notebook. It was thick, filled with chaotic handwriting, and missing several pages. He Chengwei was already well accustomed to this. From the start of the year until now, he had read countless hand-copied manuscripts, all of them "banned books" from that extraordinary era. Besides the previously mentioned The Second Handshake, there were titles like The Green Corpse, A Pair of Embroidered Shoes, The Plum Blossom Party, Heart of a Maiden, and many others. Just how fervent had the craze for hand-copied manuscripts been back then? It was said that an educated youth, upon learning that someone possessed a copy of The Second Handshake, walked twenty li just to borrow it. Using an ink bottle fashioned into a makeshift oil lamp, he hid in a sweltering livestock barn at night to read in secret. When mosquitoes swarmed in the summer heat, he bundled himself in thick layers, submerged his feet in a bucket of water, and spent five consecutive all-nighters finally finishing The Second Handshake. Heart of a Maiden was even more notorious, telling the story of two young people falling in love, complete with explicit descriptions. In truth, those so-called erotic passages were laughable. No one knew what the earliest version looked like. In any case, as it circulated from hand to hand, restless young men and women would reach the passionate scenes, get carried away, unleash their imaginations, and add plenty of saucy details of their own. Yet none of them had any real sexual experience. What they produced was downright comical, amounting to little more than lip-smacking, fondling breasts, and watching babbling brooks flow. Much like certain online web novelists of later years who could unironically write virgin fiction about "kneading his girlfriend's chest until it grew from a C-cup to a B-cup"... Back then, however, Heart of a Maiden had served as spiritual sustenance akin to a raging beast; countless people passed it around, and plenty were led astray by it. It was said that a student in Shanghai, after reading the book, began pursuing his own younger sister and engaged in hooliganism imitating the plot, for which he was sentenced to death. He Chengwei flipped through the manuscript as quickly as possible. All he needed was to grasp the gist of the story and determine whether it could be published. Any forbidden content would be subjected to meticulous scrutiny later. "We can use this story!" "Good, you take charge of it." By the time he settled the matter, it was already noon. He Chengwei ate lunch and went out for a short stroll. Upon returning, he happened to bump into the mailman. "More and more mail is pouring into your office lately. I read every issue of Story Session. Keep up the good work!" "Thank you, comrade!" Carrying the parcel upstairs, He Chengwei opened it to find reader letters alongside submissions enclosed in kraft paper envelopes. He went through the submissions first. The first was a new story written by an amateur author from Jiangsu who claimed to be a factory worker. It told a tale about a factory security department, catching thieves, pursuing the factory belle, and the like. "The quality is decent!" He marked it for potential use, then moved on to the second piece. "Sent from Mount Lu..." Flipping through the manuscript pages, He Chengwei estimated it at around twenty thousand words. The penmanship was not particularly pretty, but it was legible enough. Written at the top was the title: The Cotton Kasaya! "What's this? What an odd name." He glanced down at the opening sentence. "In the waning years of the Ming dynasty, the common folk struggled to survive amidst rampant corruption. Treacherous court officials showed no regard for human life, continuing their extortionate levies and taxes. Righteous men across the land raised the banner of the authentic Shaolin lineage to resist them. Wang Cheng, a villainous high official, hated them to the bone and summoned the Wudang renegade Qi Tianyuan, ordering him to infiltrate Shaolin Temple and seize the cotton kasaya..." He Chengwei's spirits instantly lifted. Here was someone who knew how to tell a story! Though called a magazine, Story Session actually published oral literature. It demanded accessible language, brisk pacing, and relentless climaxes, much like the web fiction of later eras. If one were writing a short story for People's Literature, describing a woman might go: "She was in her twenties, tall and fair-skinned, with features exquisite as a painting and eyes brimming with liquid grace..." In Story Session, however, it was simply: "There was a woman, and she was very pretty." This was also why Story Session was often looked down upon, dismissed as reading material for migrant workers and the top pick for mangliu. Even Sister Feng, far away in America, remained fond of it, continuing to read Story Session even after moving abroad. He Chengwei read on. The text maintained this straightforward, lively style throughout, using plain, accessible prose to spin a martial arts tale. It recounted how Bodhidharma had traveled east long ago, bringing with him a cotton kasaya that was passed down through generations at Shaolin Temple. Whoever possessed the robe was entitled to become the abbot. The Wudang renegade Qi Tianyuan shaved his head and slipped into Shaolin, plotting to steal the kasaya and usurp the position. Meanwhile, the narrative shifted. Ding Mo, a secular disciple of Shaolin, was wandering the realm when he made the acquaintance of a horse dealer named Lin Cangbo. Lin Cangbo had four daughters, each exceptionally skilled in martial arts. The eldest, Lin Ying, was particularly striking—as beautiful as a blossom and adept in both civil and martial pursuits. On this day, Wang Cheng's subordinates arrived without warning, seeking to requisition horses by force. Lin Ying secretly rallied the herdsmen and spooked the herd. Across the boundless grassland, ten thousand horses thundered away. Wang Cheng's men had no hope of giving chase and were forced to back down in bitter resentment. As Lin Ying and her three younger sisters rounded up the scattered horses, Ding Mo happened upon them and lent a hand. Struck by his heroic bearing, Lin Ying quietly developed feelings for him. Ding Mo was equally fond of her, and the two exchanged keepsakes. Learning from Lin Cangbo that Wang Cheng might move against Shaolin Temple, Ding Mo departed in haste, heading south toward Mount Song. On the other front, Qi Tianyuan attempted to seize the abbot's seat by force and fought Master Yuanhui of Shaolin, but was outmatched. Wang Cheng then led troops to the temple and ordered a full-scale assault. Ding Mo arrived just in time to rescue Master Yuanhui, retreating to hold out in the Sutra Library. Master Yuanhui entrusted the kasaya to Ding Mo and several other disciples, telling them to flee first. Wang Cheng led his soldiers to overrun Shaolin Temple, capturing many disciples and threatening their lives to force Master Yuanhui to surrender the robe. In response, Master Yuanhui resolutely strode into the raging inferno. "Abbot!" "Abbot!" "I came in purity, and in purity I depart. Though mountains of blades and seas of fire await, what can they do to me?" Amidst the mournful cries of his disciples, Master Yuanhui stepped into the sea of fire, choosing self-immolation and attaining parinirvana. Ding Mo and his fellow disciples fled, with the imperial hounds hot on their heels. Fashioning a decoy kasaya, Ding Mo drew off the pursuers alone. Yet he proved no match for Qi Tianyuan and was struck off a cliff... "Aiya!" The story flowed like drifting clouds and flowing water. He Chengwei read with a mixture of thrilling excitement and profound grief, each sensation feeding into the other. When Ding Mo plunged over the cliff, He Chengwei's heart clenched, and he could hardly wait to see what happened next. He turned the page, only to find... "That's it?" "God damn it all!" He Chengwei grew as frantic and restless as an ass in heat. Wasn't this sheer torture? What happened after he fell off the cliff? How could it just cut off there!