續高僧傳 25.49

25.49

Shi Yuantong. His family clan is unknown. He went forth from the household in his youth. Universally affectionate, comprehensive, and broad [in knowledge], he was known for his warmth and acumen. He lived at Da Zhuangyan Temple in the capital Ye, where he scrutinized and cantillated the Nirvāṇa [Sūtra], thoroughly examining its text and purport. In the fourth year of the Wuping era of Northern Qi (573 CE), when the summer lectures were suspended, a guest monk arrived whose appearance and robes were unadorned and plain, yet his conduct and deportment were vast and refined. Because of an illness, he sought refuge across several monasteries; but because his affliction was foul-smelling and stifling with stench, the monastic assembly all abhorred him and none dared let him stay. Tong observed that his capacity and discernment were vast and profound, deeply marveling at his composure, and so welcomed him into his chamber. Though there was defilement, from the first he harboured no disdain or reluctance. Day by day their mutual regard grew; gradually comprehending the guest's thoughts, he asked what he studied. The guest replied, 'The Nirvāṇa [Sūtra].' Tong had long made this his ongoing practice, and they hit it off as if old acquaintances. Tong then set forth and discussed the deep essentials of the scripture and what prior masters had long been perplexed by and never resolved. The guest monk concurred with what was adduced, and further established chapters and verses, evaluating and interpreting them clearly and with profound elegance. Delighting that they were attuned in the Way, Tong doubled his previous attentiveness. He prepared medicines and broth, watching over him morning and night. Once in the night, he brought a cup of spring liquor, saying, 'As a guest lodged in affliction, taking this is best.' The guest then knitted his brows and drank it, stopping after a single swallow. When the summer ended, the illness was cured, and he took leave of Tong to depart. Tong said, 'The time of robe-distribution is now drawing near; official monasteries as a rule receive gifts of robes. If you wait three to five days, I shall present you with a winter robe.' The guest said, 'I have already caused you much trouble; how could I allow further burden?' Tong firmly detained him, and having made a robe, gave it to him. Approaching departure, grasping Tong's hand, he admonished him, saying, 'Cultivating the Way admits no deceit even in a dark room. The Dharmabhāṇaka offered wine before: I feared injuring your kind intentions, yet it was not correct principle. From now on, this practice should be severed. Have you ever been to Gushan Shiku Temple? I live in a modest small temple further down, exactly five leagues north of Shiku. Going around the post station east of the ravine, there is a small vale; to the east is Zhulin Temple. On a favorable occasion, consider visiting each other.' Tong respectfully apologized for his prior fault, promising he would surely go to call upon him. Thereupon they parted. At the beginning of the next summer, because few monks visited the Shiku Mountain temple, more than a hundred monks from official temples such as Zhuangyan, Dinguo, Xingsheng, and Zongchi were gathered into a single rotation. Tong at that time was lodged at Shiku for the summer, intending to visit Zhulin. He gathered the hosts and guests, inquiring where the temple was located. The assembly all laughed loudly and warned Tong, 'Do not spread such delusive talk! Zhulin is utterly elusive; it is merely a persistent legend among the worldly.' Tong considered that the guest monk had come to rely on him, and their encounter was of extraordinary intimacy; his speaking of this matter could hardly be an empty pointer. The assembly also wondered at it, and so each brought incense and flowers to go with Tong. Arriving at the small valley five leagues north of the temple, heading east there was a faintly discernible footpath. Travelling about five leagues and climbing a mountain knoll, they saw an old man wearing a kerchief bound on his forehead, cloth trousers, and a short coarse jacket, wielding a mattock and clearing over twenty mu of wasteland. Seeing from afar the assembly of monks releasing their horses and advancing, he said, 'Where are these men of the Way from, not keeping to the paths?' The monks said, 'We reside at Shiku, and wish to head toward Zhulin.' The old man became furious, saying, 'Last year the official temple released horses that ate my young crops; my son blocked and protected them, and was beaten nearly to death. Now you come again with such brass?' Dragging his mattock, he came in pursuit. The dozen or so monks looked toward the valley and fled; he pursued none but Tong. He said to Tong, 'It is you who are stubborn and do not turn back; I will let you enter the mountain to feed the tigers.' Tong then went east for several leagues, coming upon a winding ravine that was shallow yet dense and lush. Following the ravine further east, he merely heard the sound of cantillation and recitation on the southern peak. Tong asked where Zhulin was located. A voice responded, saying, 'Where do you come from? Could it be Dharmabhāṇaka Yuantong?' Tong said, 'It is.' He then parted the woods, traversed the treacherous terrain, and approached Tong, briefly recounting their separation, overflowing with joy in expressing his feelings. He said, 'The monastic assembly of the small temple down the mountain is a motley crew; in their mindset and deportment, they rarely meet expectations. Yet since you have deigned to come, you must ultimately reach the temple.' Advancing together for several leagues, they suddenly saw double watchtowers, high gates, long galleries, and compound courtyards; tall bamboos pierced the clouds, and green pines eclipsed the sun. Outside the gate, black-lacquered troughs over a hundred feet long were arranged in ten rows, all adorned with animal masks holding rings, ornamented with gold and bronze, and filled with grain and beans. Beside them were hoofprints, yet the ground was swept clean. He then made Tong stand to the left of the gate, notifying him, 'I must first consult the Great Upādhyāya.' In a moment, he guided him inside to the west porch corridor of the lecture hall. The Upādhyāya sat upon a high dais, attended by fifty or sixty youths and clerks. The Upādhyāya was around ninety years of age, with lofty, refined brows and face, resembling an Indic monk. Leaning against a desk, he processed documents, with people reporting affairs beside him. Tong paid homage and stepped back to stand. The Upādhyāya addressed him, 'Since you reside in an official temple, generous offerings are hard to relinquish. How could you condescend to come? This temple truly has nothing worth seeing.' Tong recounted his reasons in full, whereupon orders were given to lodge him. [The guest monk] led Tong to make the rounds of the chambers to pay respects, seeing that the monks in two chambers each sat within jewelled canopies, interlaced with manifold adornments that outshone the sunlight. Speaking to the guiding monk, they said, 'Who is that man, that he dares enter?' Waving their hands, they dismissed him. The monk looked embarrassed, and turning to Tong, said, 'Our temperaments differ, which causes disappointment. For now, go to my room, where you may rest.' He then led him into his room, fully recounting their past affinities, and served the midday meal. The meal tasted just like the ordinary flavors of Ye. After the meal, he led him to view images and icons, adornments, gardens, ponds, terraces, and pavilions; touring and viewing them all could not be exhausted. Tong consequently expressed his wish, saying, 'If I could but place my footsteps among the dust here and ever attend to sweeping and sprinkling, the aspiration of my life would be complete.' The monk said, 'Upon our meeting, I already bore this in mind; but I must consult the Upādhyāya, and know not whether it will be granted.' He spent the night with Tong, and at dawn went to consult him. The Upādhyāya said, 'I well know your intention, and do not begrudge a single room. But having received official invitations, your debt of recompense is not light. According to monastic law, one may not have one's name registered in two places. For now, return; once your official registration is removed, when you come, you shall certainly be accommodated. Do not harbor resentment.' Thereupon he sent him out, arriving beside the horse troughs. Tong looked back with longing and wept, lamenting his heavy misdeeds that prevented him from being permitted to stay. Grasping the monk's hand, he bid farewell. Walking west a hundred paces, he looked back and still saw the gate and watchtowers imposing and intact. Step by step he looked back, walking several leagues further, when suddenly he saw only craggy precipices and towering cliffs, no longer any monastery buildings. Gazing sorrowfully, he sought the road, arriving at the reclaimed land: there was not a trace left, only hazel thickets. Those with discernment commented, saying, 'The one who raised the mattock to chase the monks previously feigned supernatural monstrosity so that Tong alone would proceed, revealing that he possessed the affinity.' As for the Great Upādhyāya, was he not perhaps Piṇḍola? The *Introduction to the Mahāyāna Treatise* says: the venerable Piṇḍola, Rāhula, and other sixteen great śrāvakas are scattered across mountains and islands. Moreover, in other sūtras it is also taught that ninety-nine billion great arhats took tallies before the Buddha to remain living in the world, all abiding in mountains and seas of the three directions to protect the True Dharma. Now the monks of Shiku Temple often hear wondrous bells and chants reverberating through the mountain forests; thus we know that spirit palaces and immortal monasteries are not without reality. Formerly I went to Xiangbu to seek Gushan, which lies to the northwest of ancient Ye. Looking from afar, I saw a horizontal stone shaped like a drum. A popular proverb says: 'If the stone drum sounds, the realm is not at peace.' Toward the end of the Sui, its sound was frequently heard, and the four seas seethed in turmoil; this was indeed no falsehood. Zuo Si's *Rhapsody on the Wei Capital* says: 'The spirit gong sounds distant upon the high peaks; its wondrous ringing intermittently alarms the four quarters'—this refers to it. Ever since Emperor Shenwu moved the capital to Ye, saṅghārāmas were built across the upper and lower reaches of the mountain. Woodcutters encroached, and artisans quarried relentlessly. The spirits, wearying of the din and disturbance, for the most part abandoned it. Hence in recent times, those who climb and visit seldom encounter miraculous traces. Yet the legends of Zhulin are often remarkably distinct. Truly, because karmic dispositions have the refined and the shallow, the experiences perceived are varied. Recently, someone ascended from the eastern face of Gushan, seeing from afar a great avenue at the mountain peak lined with green pines. Following the road, he reached a palace of elegance and splendour difficult to describe; precious trees and beautiful maidens were engaged in continual delight. Inquiring of the men there, all said, 'We have just gone to Shaoshi, and will return toward dusk.' Advancing several leagues further, all was bamboo groves. Following the path west, he found the monastery. The assembly of monks, seeing the guest, received him joyfully, provided food and drink, and pointed out his return route. He then descended to the northwest of the mountain, no more than ten-odd leagues from Wu'an County. When Emperor Wu of Zhou pacified Qi, [monks] uniformly had no distinct vestments. In the Xiabang quarter east of Ye, there was an attendant in ordinary named Guo Mi, who had resigned due to illness and returned home to nurture purity in the lanes. Well-versed in the internal and external [teachings], he harbored compassionate aid in his heart; he took in and cared for all the elderly monks who had been defrocked. Residing at home reading and cantillating, he suddenly heard a knock at the gate. He sent a maid to look, who saw a śramaṇa holding a khakkhara and carrying a bowl, saying, 'This poor monk lives at Zhulin Temple on Gushan, and begs for food as the meal hour approaches.' Mi was near the gate, and hearing the voice, responded from afar: 'Monks should merely say they beg for food; what need is there to pretend to be a sage?' Going out in person to look, he searched in all directions but found nothing; only then did he know it was no ordinary person, regretting that his flippant remark had caused the holy one to conceal himself. Recently, in the early years of the Wude era (618–626), at the Baofu Cliff on Mount Jie, there was a śramaṇa named Huixiu, a monk of lofty purity. Meditating in solitary quietude, he suddenly saw three divine monks beside the Buddha hall. Xiu, wondering at this, thought they were mountain-visiting monks; he entered his chamber to take his sitting mat, preparing to pay homage. When he went to call on them, the youngest among the divine monks held a box in front, while the senior one was behind, riding the void, drifting slowly south toward the high peak, greeted by white clouds from the north and enveloped in darkness so that they disappeared. A short time later, he saw another monk heading east toward the cliff wall. Xiu pursued to pay homage, but he entered into the rock. At this cliff, bells frequently sound, struck according to the hours; though favored with their sounds and marks, he could not receive spoken instructions. These perceptual encounters are diverse and cannot be judged by a single standard. Broadly speaking, the spiritual wonders of cliff-caves essentially require empty quietude; if one engages in noise and clamour, one will rarely hear wondrous signs.