Chapter Eleven: Looking Back

By now, Wang Erlang's hair had grown streaked with white, wrinkles etched deep and shallow across his face, and the apprentices who followed him had long since surpassed the master he himself had studied under in his youth. Though the murals bore only the names of the patrons who had funded them, he had nonetheless become renowned far and wide among painters of murals, with people flocking from every corner to seek him out as their teacher. These days, he hardly painted at all anymore, and yet he still labored tirelessly, teaching his disciples without ever holding anything back.

One day, his disciples gathered around him once more to study his old paintings, listening intently to every detail and every stroke of brushwork — how had he achieved such an uncanny, almost divine sense of form and spirit?

At last, one young apprentice, only fifteen years old, asked earnestly, "Master, which of all your paintings, across your whole life, are you proudest of?"

Wang Erlang gave no answer. He walked quietly over to stand before the reverse-pipa apsara offering music and dance to Amitabha Buddha, and lingered there a long while, gazing at her. A faint smile spread across his face, though his eyes glistened, faintly, with tears...

No one knew that this was the most beautiful memory of his entire life.