The Five Brothers' Dream

After the great ancestral ceremony, the square before South Heavenly Temple gradually loosened from its solemn stillness.
The grave and dignified sound of scripture still seemed to linger beneath the beams. The incense smoke had not yet dispersed. When the mountain wind lightly brushed the bronze bell beneath the corner of the bell tower, it gave a faint, delicate ring. The setting sun slanted in from the western ridge, gilding the blue tiles of the ancient temple and laying pale evening cloud upon each layer of stone steps before the mountain gate. Far away, the sea of clouds rose and sank. Nearby, the hidden fragrance of osmanthus drifted. Several camellias beside the hall had quietly opened early blossoms, red as a dot of cinnabar fallen from a scripture scroll.
The elders were still speaking inside the hall with Master Jichan and Perfected Zitian, while the younger generation had gathered in the small garden outside Muyang Abbey.
There was a lotus pond there, bordered by slender bamboo and autumn begonias. Several red dragonflies skimmed over the water, and fine round ripples spread across the surface. The young people shed the restraint of the ceremony just past and stood in twos and threes among the flowers and trees, talking of studies and future prospects. In their words there appeared the sharpness and heat that belong only to youth.
The eldest son of Uncle Ma Zhihui, Ma Chengye, was tall and slender, with proper brows and eyes. He was already studying at the Police Officers’ University. Standing by the stone railing, his back and waist straight, he spoke with the brevity and force of one who had been trained.
“After graduation, I still want to go to the front line,” he said, looking toward the distant mountains. “A person must have some sense of responsibility. Our family has drifted for several generations. By our generation, someone should uphold order, and someone should guard peace.”
Beside him, his younger brother Ma Chengzhi smiled and said, “Elder Brother, here you go again—three sentences and you cannot leave discipline. I think being a police officer does not rely only on authority. One must also understand the human heart. If I handle cases in the future, I will look first at the person, and then at the matter.”
Ma Rende listened and smiled gently. He had already been admitted to Southwest Medical University. His brows were clear and bright, his bearing calm and quiet, and he possessed a restraint beyond others of his age. After the ancestral ceremony, he seemed to have been deeply moved. Now, looking at the lotus leaves swaying in the pond, he slowly said, “You guard peace, and I study medicine to save people. In truth, it is the same. What a person fears most in this life is not illness, nor disorder. It is reaching a place of suffering and finding that no one is willing to extend a hand.”
Ma Yide had just been admitted to Beijing University of International Business and Economics, and was at the height of youthful confidence. He was handsome, with bright eyes, and when he spoke, there was something of the quickness and sharpness of a merchant’s son.
“Second Brother says it beautifully,” he laughed. “But to save people in this world, one cannot rely only on medicine. The country has opened its doors, trade routes have begun to move, and the world outside is vast. In the future, I want to do international trade and walk again the road the Ma family once lost.”
Ma Lide was a little younger, gentle by temperament, and fond of calligraphy. At this moment, he sat upon a blue stone, holding a bamboo leaf and slowly tearing it along its veins. He lifted his head and said, “Third Brother wants to walk the road of trade. I would rather study literature and history, and examine the arts of ancient rulers. Today, when Master Jichan said, ‘When the place of origin is clear, the road ahead will not cause panic,’ I felt that sentence should be written down. If no one in a family records its affairs, then whether it flourishes or scatters, after a hundred years it will be nothing but a gust of wind.”
Ma Zhide, however, was lying by the edge of the pond watching a small insect. Hearing this, he did not even turn his head.
“You are all too ancient-minded. I want to study machinery, or electronics. The world has changed. The future will not be an age of abacuses, nor an age that relies only on brush and ink. Machines will go farther than people.”
The youngest, Ma Xinde, immediately protested, “Then in the future I will build airplanes and fly to Taiwan to bring Fourth Uncle’s older brothers and sisters back!”
When everyone heard this, they first froze, then burst into laughter.
Ma Chengzhi patted his shoulder. “Good. You have ambition. First pass arithmetic, then talk about airplanes.”
Ma Xinde’s face flushed. “I am bad at arithmetic because I do not like things on the ground. I like things in the sky.”
One of Ma Gaohui’s nephews deliberately teased him. “Then if you fly into the sky and meet a Bodhisattva, what will you do?”
Ma Xinde thought for a moment and answered seriously, “I will ask the Bodhisattva whether my mother can be made not to grow old.”
Once these childish words were spoken, the laughter suddenly faded.
Ma Rende lowered his head and looked at his younger brother, tenderness rising in his eyes. Ma Yide, who had been about to joke again, swallowed his words. In the distance, inside Kṣitigarbha Hall, Zhao Youlan was arranging offerings with several of the women. Her blue blouse was plain, and her back already slightly bent. For the first time in such a twilight, the young men saw that their mothers were growing old, while they themselves were walking day by day toward faraway roads.
Beneath the corridor of Muyang Abbey, Daoyin had been standing quietly all along.
She held a white porcelain cup in her hands. She had originally come out to bring tea to everyone, but at some point she had stopped within the shadow of the osmanthus tree. The slanting sunset cast fine flecks of light from the osmanthus leaves upon her shoulders. Her Daoist robe was loose, and the mountain wind lightly lifted her sleeve, revealing a slender, fair wrist. Her brows and eyes still carried a young girl’s shyness, yet her gaze was clear as a mountain spring. She did not join the conversation. She only listened quietly as the young men spoke of ideals, of the world, and of distant places, and in her heart it was as though a book she had never read before was being softly opened by the wind.
She had seen many pilgrims in the mountains: the suffering of the sick and elderly, the sorrowful faces of women, the greedy urgency of merchants, and the discouragement of those who had lost their way. But the young people before her were different. They had just come from the ancestral tablets, their bodies still carrying the lingering warmth of incense smoke and scripture sound, yet they had already begun to speak of the mountains and rivers that awaited them.
One was upright as a pine. One was sharp as a sword. One was warm as jade. One was lively as a stream. One still carried childishness, yet already dared speak his wish to the sky.
Daoyin looked at them and suddenly felt a little envious.
She had entered the abbey as a child. Her parents had died early. The world she knew was no more than Heavenly Mountain, Muyang Abbey, the pine grove, the lotus pond, scripture scrolls, morning bells, and evening drums. She had once thought that life was simply this: sweeping fallen blossoms in spring, drying herbs in summer, gathering pine resin in autumn, and reciting scriptures on winter nights.
But in this moment, hearing the young men speak of the southwest, the capital, the frontier, Taiwan, and Hong Kong; hearing them speak of medicine, law, trade, machines, and flight, she suddenly felt that beyond the mountains there were countless roads, like rivers in the dusk, rushing toward distances she had never seen.
Ma Rende turned back without intention and saw her standing beneath the osmanthus tree.
Their eyes met.
Daoyin’s heart startled. She hurriedly lowered her head and placed the teacups on the stone table.
“Honored benefactors, the tea is cooling,” she said, her voice very soft.
Ma Yide’s eyes were sharp, and he laughed. “Little Master has stood there for half the day. Have you grown tired of hearing us boast?”
Daoyin’s face reddened slightly, yet she answered properly. “Not tired. I only feel that all of you benefactors have very great ambitions.”
Ma Chengye smiled and asked, “Then which ambition does Little Master think is the best?”
As soon as this was said, all the young men grew interested and turned to look at her.
Daoyin became even more embarrassed. Her fingertips lightly pinched the edge of her sleeve. After a long while, she said, “Master says ambitions are not divided into great and small. If they can benefit living beings, they are good ambitions. If they are only for one’s own fame, then even if one travels very far, one is still standing in the same place.”
The sentence fell lightly, yet everyone grew quiet.
Ma Yide, who had been spirited and radiant just moments before, also put away his smile and clasped his hands.
“Little Master is not old, yet you speak like an old Chan master.”
Daoyin hurriedly shook her head. “I only remembered my master’s words.”
Ma Rende looked at her and suddenly said, “To remember them is not easy either.”
Daoyin lifted her eyes and saw the sincerity in his expression. A sudden warmth rose again in her heart, and she turned to fetch the teapot, using the movement to hide her shyness. She walked past the autumn begonias, and the hem of her robe brushed the flower branches. Several pale pink petals fell upon the stone path.
Ma Xinde suddenly ran over, picked up one petal, and handed it to her.
“Daoyin, this looks like you.”
Daoyin froze. “Looks like what about me?”
“Like you when your face turns red.”
Everyone burst into laughter. Daoyin blushed all the way to the roots of her ears, yet could not truly grow angry. She only gave Ma Xinde a light glare.
“Little benefactor is speaking nonsense again.”
Ma Xinde said proudly, “I am not speaking nonsense. Elder Brother saw it too.”
With one sentence, he made Ma Rende suddenly unable to answer. He could only lower his head and drink tea. Seeing him so rarely embarrassed, everyone laughed even harder.
Their laughter passed through the osmanthus tree, rose toward the temple eaves, and startled a white dove into flight. The dove circled Kṣitigarbha Hall once, then returned to the corner of the bell tower. Dusk deepened, and the mountain wind grew cool. In the distance, the elders had begun calling everyone to gather and descend the mountain.
The young people still felt unwilling to part.
Ma Yide reached out, broke off a bamboo leaf, and tucked it into the pages of a book. “I will remember what we said today. Ten years from now, when we meet again, we shall see who has done what he said.”
Ma Chengye said, “Good. Ten years from now, each by his own ability.”
Ma Rende looked toward the distant mountains and said softly, “Ten years is very long, and also very short. May none of us betray this day.”
Standing nearby, Daoyin heard these words, and her heart suddenly stirred.
She lowered her head and saw upon the stone table one small grain of pine incense that had not yet fully burned. It was giving off a fragrance so faint as to be almost absent. That scent reminded her of the pine incense she and Ma Xinde had made in the pine grove during childhood, and also reminded her of a destiny she had not yet understood.
The evening bell sounded.
One note, then another.
The young people turned one after another and walked toward the mountain gate. Daoyin stood beneath the osmanthus tree to see them off, the sleeves of her Daoist robe hanging softly, her gaze clear and reserved. The final thread of sunset rested upon her brow, making her appear at once like a girl of the human world and like a strand of moonlight in the mountains, unwilling to be stained by dust.
After walking a few steps, Ma Rende suddenly turned back.
Daoyin was looking at him as well.
Neither of them spoke. Across a courtyard filled with osmanthus fragrance, half a pond of autumn water, and several lingering bell notes, they only nodded gently to one another.
In that moment, no one knew that this group of spirited young people would one day scatter to different ends of the world. Some would rise to distinction, some would sink and struggle, some would keep their original hearts, and some would lose the road home.
And the little master standing among the flower shadows would not forever remain merely an onlooker.
Fate was like the evening wind in the mountains. Though it seemed formless, it had already quietly stirred every leaf, blowing each of them toward a life no one could yet foresee.