Chapter Ten: A Farewell

As the work drew steadily toward completion, the scaffold was lowered level by level until it reached its very last tier, and Wang Erlang finally finished every apsara that had needed the height of the scaffold to reach. Tomorrow, the scaffold would be taken down entirely. Only one blank space remained, near the ground beneath Amitabha's lotus seat, requiring no scaffold at all — just a folding stool or a low bench would do, and by alternating between standing and crouching, the work could be finished with ease.

But something seemed a little different about the young woman today. Ordinarily, once the work was done for the day, she would simply murmur, "I'm off," and climb down from the scaffold. Yet today, for once, she seemed to break from habit, saying instead, "Goodbye." Her voice had been so faint that Wang Erlang wondered whether he'd simply misheard her.

But even if he hadn't misheard, what of it?

They would surely see each other again tomorrow. Or so he thought.

Every day at this hour, Wang Erlang began looking forward to the next morning's arrival. The instant the first rays of sunlight touched his bed, he would spring upright at once, not daring to waste a single moment, all so he could see her as soon as possible. And so he hurried to gather up everything on the scaffold, making sure not to leave anything behind that might trouble the workers who would dismantle it. Then he rushed straight home, so he could go to bed early and sleep a good, hopeful sleep — the very best fuel for tomorrow's work. Perhaps it was simply that "what one dwells on by day, one dreams of by night," for every so often he would dream of her handing him the water skin and the cloth, and even in sleep this left him feeling refreshed and clear-headed, all his weariness melted away.

But in tonight's dream, she no longer handed him the water skin or the cloth. Instead, dressed in radiant, colorful robes, she merely waved to him once before leaping into the night sky. At once, the sounds of the konghou harp, the ruan lute, the pipa, the transverse flute, clappers, and drums rose together all at once. Behind her trailed drifting clouds, her sashes shimmering in a riot of color as she danced, whirling gracefully through the air; she reached back to bring her pipa around behind her, plucking out a resonant, ringing melody, leading six other maidens beneath her in a chorus of pure, otherworldly music. In an instant, golden light blazed forth, lighting up the night sky as bright as day.

Wang Erlang watched, unable to tear his eyes away — such beauty, surely nothing the mortal world could ever produce. It was all simply too incredible, especially the pipa played behind her back — how could that possibly be within the power of any mortal being?

Suddenly, it struck Wang Erlang: wasn't this exactly the celestial musician he was painting in the Contemplation Sutra mural, offering music and dance to Amitabha Buddha? What he was witnessing now might well be the truest, most vivid expression of it imaginable.

At that thought, the young woman led the six maidens soaring ever higher, ever farther, until, glancing back at him with the faintest of smiles, she vanished from sight entirely — and it was at that very moment that Wang Erlang woke. He lay stunned for a long while, and at last decided he must first sketch down the vividly real figures and scene from his dream, for that alone was the wellspring of his inspiration.

Carrying with him the dream he had just painted from the night before, Wang Erlang walked into the cave and, without thinking, looked once more toward where the scaffold used to stand — only to remember, a moment too late, that the scaffold had already been taken down. The space stood empty now, and the young woman was nowhere to be seen. For reasons he couldn't quite explain, a deep sense of loss settled over him. But he had no time to dwell on it; he needed to start painting at once, while the memory was still sharp and clear, so he dragged over a folding stool, set out his pigments, brush, inkstone, ink, and water bucket, and began. This continued for three full days, and still the young woman never appeared again. Wang Erlang, disconsolate, took the painting he'd made of her and went around asking his fellow painters and the workers who had dismantled the scaffold — did anyone recognize this young lady who had led the dance? Whose daughter was she? Where did her family live?

Everyone in the cave could only exchange baffled glances; their answers all amounted to much the same thing.

Not one of them had ever seen this young woman. And besides — wasn't she simply the celestial musician from Wang Erlang's own brush? How could she possibly have appeared within the cave in the flesh? And so they all laughed at him for dreaming daydreams in broad daylight.

Wang Erlang refused to give up. He spent the better part of the day going from cave to cave, asking everyone he could find, but the answer was always the same — they teased him, saying he'd grown so obsessed with painting apsaras, thinking of nothing else day and night, that he'd started seeing things.

Stooped and weary, Wang Erlang walked back to stand before the reverse-pipa apsara he had been about to color in. He gazed at her blankly for a long while, and something within him seemed, at last, to understand — the young woman, he feared, would never appear again. That night's dream must surely have been the parting gift she'd left him.

Wang Erlang began grinding his pigments once more, and as he ground, he realized that what he was mixing in wasn't water at all, but his own tears. One drop, two drops, three... and at last, standing before the wall, he began to weep.