Wu Jin Zang. Pang Bei

saw Fatherly get up slowly. I saw him about to walk toward the courtyard when Mother rush out of the drawing room. Mother looked sad and upset, as if crying voicelessly. I saw tears sparkling in Father’s eyes. He looked at me steadily. First he nodded slightly at me, and then took down his sword silently. The soldiers in armor were about to take it, when Father suddenly unsheathed the sword. The soldiers were startled, watching Father dashing towards the Buddhist Prayer Room on the left. Soldiers then pursued him carrying weapons.

      Noises of cutting and killing came out of the Buddhist Prayer Room. Our family guards also took swords and spears and rushed towards the Room crying. My neck was clutched by soldiers and I was pressed down on the ground motionless. They maliciously pressed me on the ground and kicked my back. My forehead pressed on the ground and mouth knocked against sand, I could hardly breathe or shout. I turned back my bleeding forehead and saw the family guards rushing towards the Buddhist Prayer Room, where there were no more noises of cutting or killing.

      Father was bound up and pushed out by many soldiers. The wounds on Father were bleeding. Mother threw herself at him while wailing. Father only shook his head gently at her. I saw Mother faint in a sudden and was supported by maids in a hurry. Father looked calm, holding a golden Buddha statuette in his left hand, and making a fist with his right hand. I saw his right hand fist smash down suddenly. Father slightly nodded at me at again. Just as I nodded back muddleheaded, Father looked back at the Buddhist Prayer Room again.

      Mother fainted and fell on the ground again. Soldiers pushed Father outside while shouting at the top of their voices. Father no longer struggled, dragging his wounded leg through the veranda and pass those saddles and arrow pots.

      The black and white horse was neighing mournfully. Father left home this way, no more struggling, no more looking back.

      I rushed towards the Buddhist Prayer Room admist the lamentations of my family. Did Father just want to take away a golden Buddha statuette by rushing to the Buddhist Prayer Room at the last moment before he was arrested?

      That was a statuette of Maitreya Buddha. In the middle of the Buddhist Prayer Room was also a large Maitreya Buddha made of jade stone. The large and small Maitreya Buddha statues, both in Buddha costumes and having spiral-shaped coils of hair, appeared solemn and merciful. Maitreya Buddha is a Buddha of afterlife, but Father said that Maitreya Buddha had a replicate in this world, often appearing before people unrecognized. I think that people fail to recognize his replicate perhaps because such a replicate does not resemble the statue. The Maitreya Buddha in the middle of this room sat with legs down, widely different from the big-bellied monk in the vogue recently. The Maitreya Buddha should have been so solemn and calm, with the corners of his mouth turning upward slightly. But today’s Maitreya mostly grins cheekily. It has become a fashion to have such a liking, but Father detested this bad taste, and he especially disliked the cloth pocket of the big-bellied monk. (The editor’s note: The Giant Stone Buddha at Leshan Mountain carved in the Tang Dynasty is also a Maitreya Buddha, also the largest cliffside Buddha statue in the world, which also appears dignified, solemn and sedate, with eyes half closed and brows lowered, sharply different from the big-bellied Maitreya people often see now.)

      Would Father offer this golden Buddha statuette to the king? Would Father try to save his own life with it? The king occupied all the treasures in the state, and I didn’t see anything special with this golden statuette. Perhaps in so doing Father just wanted to confuse the imperial guards, while his intention was to direct me to this Buddhist Prayer Room. His posture and expressions in his eyes had given me adequate hints.

      Embroidered banners dropped and censers rolled on the floor. The Buddhist Prayer Room was in a mess and there were several bloody traces on the altar, left over from the fighting. Father was valiant and good at archery. With exceedingly strong muscular strength, he once fought unarmed with armed bandits and beat them. No matter how powerful these imperial guards were, they were no rivals for Father. Why didn’t Father, who was an unyielding and brave person, kill these imperial guards, but instead let himself be arrested? Perhaps Father was deeply convinced that he did nothing wrong to the king, perhaps he thought he had the opportunity to plead innocence before the king, and perhaps he wished the king’s better nature would assert itself. He accepted the edict by rites and didn’t kill any imperial guard, but as he obviously had the presentiment about the imminent catastrophe, he directed me to the Buddhist Prayer Room.

      Except for the traces of fighting, there was nothing abnormal with the room. I carefully examined each corner and found that the Painting on Infinite Dwelling Rosy Clouds on the wall had dropped to the floor. The painting was a masterpiece of Dong Beiyuan. I seldom entered this room. Only this painting was my most familiar article. Father once said that he would remove it to my study. The scroll was perhaps cut in fighting, and the silk ribbon for hanging was broken. I suddenly found that something was abnormal with the scroll, as on the pole of the vertical shaft were three apparent traces of sword cutting!

      The three sword marks were equally spaced, like deliberately made signs. Were these Father’s sword marks? Were they deliberately made by Father? A shaft made of spotted bamboo with lacquer coating, and newly cut sword marks.

      I turned the shaft lever along the sword marks. The shaft lever was not all broken, with a scroll of tough silk emerging from the bamboo pipe.

      The bamboo joints of the shaft lever had been broken through, and a scroll of silk painting was hidden in the bamboo pipe. It was a scroll of about 1/3 meter tall. As thick as a handful, the scroll seemed to a long one.

      The long scroll did not have a shaft head or ribbon, but had Father’s handwriting on the wax sealing: my son, open it on the day of catastrophe.

      I opened the scroll left by Father on the day of catastrophe. The long tough silk scroll had bright colors and elegant objects and scene, but without inscription or sealing style. Looked at from right to left, the long painting in the middle had five sections separated by screens and coaches, and in the middle of the painting was a tall candlestick, which lit up the night scene in the painting.

      It was a painting about a night banquet. From top to end, five scenes were displayed one by one, full of people enjoying songs, dances and drinks. I could identify some of them, as I used to be on the scene. I used to carry a snuffer of about one meter long to snuff fire for the candlestick. I was not on the painting. This was the last banquet of Han Xizai in his life. Secretary Han died three years ago, and should be now called Chancellor Han, as the king had already conferred to him a title of “manager of affairs” posthumously.

      The image of Han Xizao appeared in each scene, repeatedly changing clothes. His most remarkable signs were his handsome beards and tall hat. Even in the scene in which he was undressed he wore this grotesque paillike hat with tassels, which was a light gauze tall hat he designed by himself. The gauze hat of the “Han style” became an elegant fashion for officials in the court and the literati. Han Xizai, with his handsome looks and uninhibited talents, was a truly erudite celebrity and had a natural bearing like a solitary tree that regarded the world with contempt; while his followers could hardly conceal their vulgarity, as they were at their best arty-crafty. The painter’s work was life-like, conveying spirit by appearance. But I read another level of meaning in it. The painting gave out a subtle touch of sorrows. Han Xizai in the painting appeared quiescent and lonely, with a dull look in his eyes, as if full of ineffable sorrows, and a certain kind of resentment was also found between his brows. He sometimes exposed his breasts and belly, sometimes stood solemnly, sometimes was absent-minded, and sometimes gazed stubbornly. The host of the night banquet was versed in music and dance and also the best of eloquent talkers, but appeared so depressed and lonely in this painting.

      The atmosphere of the night banquet was both lively and lonely, sentimental and dreary. The dreariness seemed to be mixed with a sort of anguish and emptiness. What kind of private feelings did the painter peeping at the scenes have when he drew the painting? Besides Father and Lord Han, the most familiar to me was Monk Deming. In the painting, Deming in a frock stood bending his head with an awkward facial expression. His two hands seemed to be applauding, but more like joining his palms. People were watching dancers, but he wasn’t. Obviously it was not an occasion for the presence of a monk. Monk Deming, who had lectured the king on Surangama Sutra,