The Trail to Buddha's Mirror - Don Winslow [131]
Another half hour of climbing took them under a wooden arch where four wooden poles supported three tiled, curved roofs, and then up along the edge of a knoll to an ornate monastery. A broad terrace looked out over a deep, forested chasm.
“We will rest here,” Li said.
“If you really want to,” Neal said between gasps.
“This is an historic place,” Li said, “where Emperor Kang-hsi visited and gave the abbot a jade seal.”
“When was this?” Neal asked, eager to keep up the conversation—and the breather.
“Qing Dynasty. In your time, the late sixteenth century.”
Around the time of Shakespeare, Neal thought.
“Emperor Kang-hsi gave this place the name ‘Dragon’s Abode.’”
“Did dragons live here?”
Li laughed. “No, but wolves and tigers did, down the hill, until the abbot built a watchtower with fire to scare them off. The fire at night looked like a dragon’s mouth. So the name is a funny joke.”
“Pretty droll emperor.”
“The resting time is finished.”
Which will teach me to mouth off about the emperor.
To Neal’s surprise and relief, the path went downhill in a switchback around another steep knoll. It crossed and recrossed the curving river on stone bridges, finally working its way down to a waterfall about twelve feet high.
They crossed the river just downstream of the waterfall, and Neal enjoyed the spray of the cool water as he passed by. He looked over the bridge into a pool, where smooth stones sparkled like jade. Then he followed Li around what looked to be an enormous monastery. Li went in a side gate and emerged a few minutes later with two wooden bowls of rice and some pickled vegetables. Neal shoveled the food down gratefully while sitting on the path, and then they started off again.
The path led to a ferociously steep, zigzag incline surrounded by a thick bamboo forest. Each switchback led to just another switchback, higher than the last, on the very edge of the mountain. The view was stunning, overlooking the valleys and plains to the east and the path they had just ascended, but after three or four switchbacks, Neal stopped looking. He just put his head down and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. His shirt was soaked with sweat, and his eyes stung from perspiration and fatigue.
He almost missed the tree with the “wanted” poster on it.
‘“What’s this?” he asked Li.
A sketch of a monkey’s face had been nailed to a tree.
“Bandit monkey,” she said matter-of-factly.
“Bandit monkey?”
“Yes, it offers a reward for this monkey … named One Fang … because it has been robbing pilgrims. There are many bandit monkeys on Emei. Only the very worst get a poster.”
She started back up the hill.
Bandit monkeys, Neal thought. He pictured Central Park with gangs of simian muggers running around, dropping on people out of trees … taking their peanuts … then gave up the fantasy. Central Park was bad enough.
“What do the monkeys steal?” he called ahead.
“You will see!”
Say what?
“What do you mean?!”
“Monkeys any time now!”
Monkeys any time now. Neal stopped for a second to break a dead branch of bamboo and strip it down into a walking stick. Then he remembered that he had a gun and felt a little foolish. I wonder if the monkeys understand what a gun is? he wondered.
They didn’t.
It was three switchbacks later when about half a dozen monkeys came scrambling down through the bamboo and blocked the path in front of them. They were about the size of cocker spaniels and had a good sense of terrain, because they plopped themselves just where the path took a wicked outside curve over a deep canyon. Two of the monkeys stayed in the bamboo on the uphill side to block that escape. The monkeys looked for all the world like a hairy street gang extorting passersby on their turf. The head monkey wasn’t One Fang, because he had two very large,