Daoist Priest Jixin

By the time the boat reached the dock, Qin Sang had heard quite a few deeds of Daoist Priest Jixin from the old man. Qingyang Temple on Mount Cuiming had flourished in its early days, but later fell into decline. The Daoist priests within left one after another until only a few aging priests remained, and they, too, gradually passed away. With no one to repair it, the temple grew increasingly dilapidated, overrun with wild weeds. Had it not been for Daoist Priest Jixin, within a few years Qingyang Temple would have been reduced to rubble and broken walls. What people spoke of most fondly regarding Daoist Priest Jixin was not his status as temple master, but his benevolence and righteousness. After taking over Qingyang Temple with a young disciple, he did not seek incense offerings. Instead, he went up the mountain every day to gather medicinal herbs, dispensing medicine and treating the sick among the poor. Whether someone suffered from sprains, fractures, chills, colds, dampness, or heat exhaustion, as long as they came knocking at his door, Daoist Priest Jixin treated them with utmost care. His medical skills were not necessarily extraordinary, but his consultation fees were very low. If a patient truly had no money, it could be put on credit, and even if they did not repay him for three to five years, he never went demanding payment. His reputation gradually spread, and combined with his identity as the master of Qingyang Temple, he earned the title of a living immortal. The old man moored the boat before the pier. As he helped Qin Sang ashore, he advised, "Brother Qin, your leg injury isn't severe, so the living immortal can certainly treat it for you. But Mount Cuiming lies between Sanwu City and the ferry. It's ten li from here, and you'll have to take mountain paths. You'll need to hire a carriage, Brother Qin. I happen to know a few drivers and guarantee a fair price..." Qin Sang politely declined the old man's kind offer. Under the old man's disappointed gaze, he leaned on his wooden stick and limped his way into the crowd. Walking through the throng, with accents from all corners of the land reaching his ears, Qin Sang thought to himself that Sanwu City truly lived up to its reputation. Slowed by his injured leg, Qin Sang stopped and started as he walked. He actually caught the sound of his hometown accent. Looking over, he saw several people dressed in silk on the bank, directing laborers loading cargo onto a ship. Watching them finish loading the ship and sail away from the riverbank, Qin Sang did not say a single word after all. He turned away resolutely and walked into a tavern. After enjoying some delicious river fish and fresh seafood, Qin Sang sat on the second floor, feeling the river breeze, holding a teacup as he gazed out the window at the vast river and the bustling throngs of people, lost in thought for a while. "Shopkeeper, the bill!" Qin Sang took out a bit of broken silver, watched the shopkeeper weigh it on a steelyard scale, and pinched the copper coins returned in change as he asked, "Pardon me, shopkeeper, I wish to head to Sanwu City. Where might I hire a carriage?" The shopkeeper sized Qin Sang up and pointed out the door. "Head straight west along this street. At the end, there are a dozen or so carriage agencies clustered together. They're all reputable businesses, with plenty of carriages going to Sanwu City and the various major ferries." Perhaps because Qin Sang had ordered plenty to eat, the shopkeeper kindly cautioned him, "In times like these... it's best you don't travel alone, young master. Find a few others to share a carriage; it'll be cheaper too." The terrain rose steadily from the first intersection to Sanwu City. Coming into the city from the various major ferries required taking this road. There were many travelers along the way, and the road was broad and flat, so the carriage ride was not very bumpy. Qin Sang got off the carriage at the foot of Mount Cuiming. Gazing up at the towering peak before him, the mountain path looked somewhat perilous, and with his leg still clumsy and injured, he felt a twinge of dread. Mountains undulated along both banks of the Wuling River, and Mount Cuiming was merely one peak among this sprawling range, not particularly conspicuous amid the sea of mountains. Yet Mount Cuiming possessed its own unique grace and charm. Amid the dense mountain forests, the upturned eaves of temples and pavilions occasionally poked through, and from time to time, the long, resonant tolling of bells echoed through the woods, purifying the mind. Qin Sang had heard a few legends about spirits and specters in Mount Cuiming from the carriage driver, and he did not know whether these temples and shrines had chosen Mount Cuiming because of those legends, or if the legends had arisen only after they arrived. Qin Sang struggled halfway up the mountain before encountering several people who were also heading to Qingyang Temple to seek medical help. Only with their support was he able to reach Qingyang Temple, situated halfway up the back of the mountain. Leaning on his stick, Qin Sang came to a halt before the gates of Qingyang Temple. The Daoist temple was indeed quite large. Surrounding it was a vast bamboo forest. The afternoon sun was not scorching, the bamboo leaves rustled, and cool breezes blew in gusts. Due to the steep terrain, one could see the tiered eaves within even from outside the temple. The architectural style resembled the Daoist temples Qin Sang had seen in his previous life, but they were severely dilapidated. Broken roof tiles were everywhere, and clumps of thatch peeked out from beneath them, suggesting few of the roofs would keep out the rain. Standing outside, he could hear voices speaking inside, and there were quite a few people. Qin Sang dragged himself step by step up the bluestone steps. The stone lintel above was carved with the three characters "Qingyang Temple." Two rotten wooden doors hung crookedly on either side, their knockers coated in rust. Inside the gate lay a large courtyard with haystacks, a donkey pen, an ancient well, a windlass, a millstone, and a stone mortar. There were two large plots of land; the smaller one grew vegetables, while the larger one was planted with things Qin Sang did not recognize, presumably medicinal herbs. Behind the courtyard, several tall steps led up to a main hall—the largest and grandest hall in the entire temple, and also the best maintained. On the hall hung a wooden plaque, its vigorous calligraphy reading: "Qingyang Hall." The lacquer on the characters had almost completely flaked away. No matter how one looked at it, this was hardly a place where an immortal would dwell. Qin Sang sighed inwardly. Just as he was about to enter, three people pushed the door open and emerged. Two ragged men were supporting a pale-faced elderly woman, repeatedly turning back to express their thanks as they walked out, promising they would bring the consultation fee next month. Knowing that real immortals truly existed in this world, Qin Sang dared not harbor any disrespect. His expression naturally turned solemn as he walked lightly into Qingyang Hall. The hall was spacious. Large swathes of the colorful paintings on the walls had peeled away, mottled and worn until the original images were unrecognizable. Only the three divine statues in the main hall remained brightly colored as if brand new, their lacquer and carving exceptionally exquisite. A stick of incense burned upon the altar table, curling smoke drifting upward and filling the room with sweet fragrance. To the side of the altar table sat a long desk and two cabinets—one holding medicine and the other filled with scriptures. Behind the long desk, an emaciated elderly Daoist sat as upright as a pine, taking an old man's pulse. The old Daoist's hair and beard were completely white, yet his face showed no signs of decrepitude. His eyes were particularly bright and piercing, and a long, snow-white beard hung down to his chest, lending him a truly ethereal, transcendent air. He wore a green Daoist robe that had faded from repeated washings, yet was impeccably clean. To his right were a brush, ink, paper, and an inkstone, while to his left sat a medicine chest along with curious tools: a medicinal hoe, cinnabar, yellow talisman paper, a divination tube, and the like. *This must be Daoist Priest Jixin,* Qin Sang thought. "Young master, are you here to offer incense or seek treatment?" Qin Sang looked toward the voice and saw a young Daoist priest step out from among the crowd waiting for medical consultations. He was thirteen or fourteen, fair-complexioned, and his Daoist robe looked rather baggy and comical on him. Recalling that the old boatman had mentioned Daoist Priest Jixin had an apprentice, Qin Sang smiled warmly. "Greetings, young Daoist priest. My surname is Qin. I injured my leg the day before yesterday and was hoping the Daoist priest could take a look." The young priest brought over a small wooden stool. "Young Master Qin, please sit." Qin Sang sat down as told. The young priest lifted Qin Sang's injured leg, felt the bone with his hands, and said, "Young Master Qin, your leg bone isn't broken. It's likely slightly fractured. Boil and drink some bone-nourishing decoctions, and it won't take long to heal. If you aren't in a hurry, you can sit and wait for a bit, and I'll have my master examine it for you." Qin Sang had come specifically for the old Daoist priest in the first place, so he naturally agreed readily. "Thank you for your trouble, young Daoist."