Manryeokseung seemed skeptical of Gwaeui’s story.
“You’re telling me Tang Shiju is going to fix the wooden dummies? Isn’t he supposed to be a doctor?”
“Yes, he’s a doctor. But who says a person can only have one skill? Just like a beetle can crawl and roll.”
Tang Mujin eyed Gwaeui with a crooked smile.
“Old man, your metaphors are lacking.”
“Like a beetle that can both roll and crawl.”
“Let’s just skip the metaphors.”
While Tang Mujin and Gwaeui bickered, Manryeokseung sized up Tang Mujin from head to toe, clearly unimpressed.
“Your steps are light, and you carry a sword at your waist. You seem to know some martial arts, but you’re also a doctor and a carpenter?”
“Well, technically, I’m more of a blacksmith than a carpenter.”
“At your age, you’re a martial artist, a doctor, a carpenter, and a blacksmith? This is getting interesting.”
“There are always strange folks in the world. Look at this.”
Gwaeui handed over a sheathed sword from his waist to Manryeokseung.
“This sword was made by that guy.”
Manryeokseung awkwardly drew the short sword from its sheath and examined the blade, mumbling his response.
“Hmm. It’s a sharp sword.”
Gwaeui rubbed his forehead, recognizing that Manryeokseung couldn’t appreciate the sword’s true value.
Then again, it would be odd for someone like Manryeokseung, who had never wielded a sword, to recognize its worth.
“Just think of it as an impressive sword. Anyway, where are the wooden dummies?”
“Keep going this way. But the door will be locked, so don’t head straight to the dummies. Go to Chubodang first. The facilities are under the jurisdiction of the Chubodang master. The problem is, he might not be too pleased.”
“Why not?”
“Because the Chubodang master is the one who suggested tearing down the wooden dummies to build a training ground.”
Gwaeui’s eyebrows twitched, as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“The person in charge of maintaining the facilities wants to demolish the wooden dummies? Why?”
“The current Chubodang master has been in his position for nearly thirty years. He’s had his share of headaches from people claiming they could fix the dummies. It’s understandable he’d want to get rid of them.”
“And what does the current abbot of Shaolin think?”
“The abbot is ambivalent. He declared he’d give anything to have the dummies repaired, but he doesn’t believe it’s possible. Even if you attempt to fix them, you won’t receive any support until the repairs are complete.”
The lack of support wasn’t a major concern. What intrigued them was the reward the abbot had promised.
“Anything?”
“Well, he said anything except the Jade Buddha Staff.”
If everything but the Jade Buddha Staff was on the table, that meant even the renowned Great Elixir of Shaolin could be offered. Even without the Great Elixir, obtaining the lesser but still valuable Elixir of Summoning would be a significant gain.
Gwaeui spoke with confidence.
“Alright. We’ll handle the rest. Which way to Chubodang?”
“Walk between the Daeungjeon and the Ginarajeon, and you’ll see a building straight ahead.”
“Got it. See you later.”
The three of them headed towards Chubodang. Tang Mujin and Hong Geolgae, like the country bumpkins they were, gawked at their surroundings. At first, they saw many martial monks, then scholarly monks, and finally, administrative monks appeared.
Administrative monks, unlike martial monks who practice martial arts or scholarly monks who study the teachings of Buddha, are responsible for the temple’s operations and administration.
People unfamiliar with the inner workings of a temple might think of administrative monks as mere laborers.
But the reality is different. Without administrative monks, the temple wouldn’t function properly, and they are quite respected within the temple. The head of Chubodang, in particular, holds significant power within Shaolin.
Gwaeui approached a young administrative monk.
“Is the Chubodang master inside?”
“Yes, he is.”
The group entered Chubodang, where an elderly, gaunt monk was grinding ink.
His forehead was lined with wrinkles, a testament to the burdens of his managerial role.
The Chubodang master paused his work and spoke.
“What brings you benefactors here?”
“We’re here about the wooden dummies.”
At the mention of the dummies, the Chubodang master visibly grimaced.
“Just leave.”
“Why dismiss us without hearing us out? I heard repairing the dummies is a long-standing wish of Shaolin.”
“The previous abbot thought so. But not anymore. The current abbot has given up on the dummies.”
“Why?”
“Because no one has succeeded. In the thirty years I’ve been Chubodang master, dozens have come claiming they could fix the dummies. Renowned carpenters, famous tacticians, experts in mechanisms. Yet none have managed to repair even a single arm.”
As he spoke, the Chubodang master’s voice grew louder, fueled by frustration.
“The bigger issue is that they all had demands. Some needed a whole season, others wanted five lightning-struck oak trees. Some asked for travel expenses and advance payments to bring in craftsmen. The previous abbot, hoping against hope, met all these demands, nearly bankrupting Shaolin.”
Now, the Chubodang master’s voice carried not just frustration but outright resentment.
“Those who tried and failed were the lesser evil. Some took the advance and fled over the wall! Others pretended to work for days, only to be caught trying to steal secret scrolls from the library! Every time such scoundrels came, the Eight Great Protectors looked down on us…”
“We’re not like that.”
The Chubodang master shook his head and sighed deeply.
“Sure, you say that. What do you do?”
“I’m Lee Chung, a martial artist and doctor. This guy is just a beggar named Hong Geolgae, and the one next to him is Tang Mujin. He’s a martial artist, doctor, blacksmith, and carpenter.”
The Chubodang master closed his eyes tightly.
“So, this Tang Mujin intends to repair the wooden dummies?”
“Exactly.”
“Go back.”
“Why again?”
“I told you. Renowned carpenters and blacksmiths from all over the land have tried and failed. How can a young man barely in his twenties, who dabbles in everything, succeed? Go back.”
Gwaeui shrugged.
“If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that skill doesn’t always come with age. Among those carpenters and blacksmiths, none are better than this guy.”
“Experience isn’t everything, but some things can only be learned through experience.”
“Well.”
Gwaeui scratched his head and asked the Chubodang master.
“Is there a place in Shaolin to work with metal?”
“No.”
“Do you have carving tools?”
“No. Carving isn’t common, and if needed, we hire outsiders.”
“Then, do you have farming tools?”
“Monks do farm, so we have a few… What kind of tool do you need?”
“Anything with a blade. Anything will do.”
“We have hoes and sickles.”
“A hoe isn’t much of a blade, but a sickle might work.”
Gwaeui stepped outside, asked a young administrative monk something, and soon returned with a small whetstone, a sickle, and a palm-sized block of wood.
Gwaeui sharpened just the tip of the sickle with the whetstone, then dulled the rest of the blade with the side of the stone.
“What are you doing?”
“Just watch.”
Gwaeui handed the sickle and wood block to Tang Mujin.
“Can you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Carve something.”
It was a vague request, but Tang Mujin knew what to do.
He gripped the sickle’s handle and roughly chopped at the block’s corners. The Chubodang master’s discomfort was evident.
“I have a lot to do, so take your games outside.”
“Games? Maybe. But this will be more interesting than most games.”
The Chubodang master considered calling a martial monk to throw them out but sighed instead. It was easier to humor them for a moment before sending them away.
With a skeptical gaze, the Chubodang master watched as the young Tang Mujin wielded the sickle, carving the wood.
Tang Mujin, with seemingly careless movements, whittled away at the block. He roughly shaped the large piece, then began using the side of the sickle’s blade to carve.
In no time, the shapeless block took on the form of a human figure. As the image of a seated figure emerged, the sickle’s blade grew noticeably shorter.
”···.”
The Chubodang master, forgetting his earlier dismissive attitude, watched intently as Tang Mujin skillfully manipulated the sickle.
With a scythe awkwardly gripped in his hand, Tang Mujin occasionally switched it to his left hand, shaking out his right to relieve the tingling sensation.
An uncomfortable posture and a clumsy tool. A mere piece of wood. Yet, the shape emerging from the wood was anything but crude.
Before he knew it, the figure’s crossed legs and flowing robes became distinct, and soon the face of Vairocana Buddha emerged.
Tang Mujin carved the final ornament atop the Buddha’s head, then set down the scythe and handed the small statue to Chubo Dangju. It was barely the size of a palm.
Chubo Dangju examined the tiny Buddha in silence.
The Vairocana Buddha sat in a lotus position, with the left index finger encircled by the right hand—a mudra symbolizing the unity of the world.
The robes were delicately carved with flowing waves, and an intricate Five Wisdom Crown adorned its head. The Buddha gazed at Chubo Dangju with a serene yet benevolent smile, leaving him breathless.
Chubo Dangju gingerly touched the Five Wisdom Crown. It seemed so naturally part of the head that he wondered if it had been crafted separately and placed on top. Even though he had watched the creation process, he couldn’t shake the feeling.
Could such a small statue be crafted with such precision? Chubo Dangju found himself murmuring.
“Vairocana Buddha…”
“Oh, so this is Vairocana Buddha? I’ve only heard the name before.”
Chubo Dangju turned sharply to look at Tang Mujin. He thought it might be a joke, but Tang Mujin’s expression was sincere.
“Did you make this without knowing what it was?”
“It’s my first time inside a temple.”
“Being here for the first time doesn’t matter. You must have known about Vairocana Buddha to create it.”
“I just remembered the statue in front of that building on the way here, was it the Ginna Temple?”
Impossible.
Chubo Dangju examined the Vairocana Buddha again. The statue in front of Ginna Temple came to mind, though it wasn’t as detailed.
The posture, the ornaments, the attire—they were the same. Tang Mujin had simply reduced the size, adjusted the posture to be more natural, and added a touch of life.
Holding the statue with both hands, Chubo Dangju closed his eyes and silently chanted a prayer. Amitabha.
He returned to his desk, dipping his little finger into the ink he had prepared before the guests arrived.
Despite not adding much water, the ink remained moist and fresh.
Memories of when he first became Chubo Dangju flooded back. He recalled the scornful looks of the senior monks, accusing him of losing the temple’s wealth to a charlatan.
Even though he had only followed the previous abbot’s orders, they often blamed him instead.
How many times had he vowed not to let outsiders into the Mokin Hall once he became abbot?
Yet now, he felt a glimmer of hope that this time might be different. That the wooden figures might come to life. It was as if he were under a spell.
Chubo Dangju chuckled to himself, uncharacteristically.
If it’s a deception, so be it. Even that must be the Buddha’s will.
He addressed the three people with him.
“Follow me.”
Chubo Dangju led the group to the Mokin Hall.
He unlatched the stiff lock, and the monks nearby murmured in curiosity at the unusual sight.
Many had come recently, claiming to repair the Mokin Hall.
But it was the first time in seven years that Chubo Dangju had opened the hall to outsiders.
The dust-laden Mokin Hall welcomed the four of them.