Chapter 350. Guangyou Temple 4 — A Change in Treatment
After that, the way they treated Youngwoo changed a little.
When he returned to sit down, the monk from earlier appeared carrying an unusually thick meditation cushion.
It was not one of the thin cushions given to ordinary visitors, but the kind used by monks who spent long hours seated in practice.
Youngwoo looked down at it for a moment.
Then he bowed his head without a word.
There was no reason to refuse a better seat and a thicker cushion.
He sat cross-legged on it and settled his breathing once more.
He had been practicing for some time when the evening service began.
The monks entered the hall one by one.
The wooden moktak sounded softly, and fresh incense was lit.
Youngwoo considered moving aside, but since he was already sitting inside the hall, he simply followed along as best he could.
When they bowed, he bowed.
When they joined their palms, he did the same.
He did not know the chanting well enough to follow the words, so he merely sat with his head lowered.
As he did, one phrase kept catching his ear.
They were praying for the warrior's safety.
The words came once.
Then a little later, again.
And then again.
At first, Youngwoo thought he had misheard.
But no.
The monks really were praying for him.
Youngwoo nearly laughed to himself.
Come to think of it, he had heard of such things before.
If someone donated enough money to a temple to equal a year's harvest and left his name behind, the monks would pray for him at each meal and service.
They would pray for the safety of the living, for the dead to reach the Pure Land, for households to prosper, and for the sick to recover.
Youngwoo himself, however, had never felt much benefit from such blessings.
He had followed his mother to temples as a child, and whenever the opportunity arose, he bowed and made donations.
Even so, his life had not exactly gone smoothly.
He had taken up the sword.
He had wandered from battlefield to battlefield.
He had nearly died more times than he could count.
And he had killed many people.
He knew from experience that prayer and blessings did not make the world gentler.
Yet now, after he had left behind a single silver ingot, the monks were praying for him with remarkable diligence.
Even the moktak seemed to sound more earnest.
The chanting seemed to go on longer.
For a moment, Youngwoo could not tell whether all that devotion was directed toward the Buddha or toward the silver ingot.
Still, he did not dislike it.
Temples had to eat too.
Monks had to survive the winter.
They needed firewood and rice.
Candles and incense did not simply appear on their own.
Even a temple that seemed removed from worldly life still existed within the world.
Youngwoo sat quietly with his head lowered.
There was something amusing about how much one silver ingot had changed the way he was treated, but then again, perhaps that was simply how people lived.
Whether the blessings worked or not, having someone pray so earnestly for his safety did make one corner of his heart feel a little less empty.
The sound of the moktak spread evenly through the hall.
The monks' chanting continued in low voices, while incense smoke rose slowly before Shakyamuni Buddha.
Youngwoo sat among words he could not recite, simply keeping his breathing steady.
He did not place much faith in the power of prayer.
But he did not mind the fact that someone was wishing for him to return safely.
Even when the evening service ended, it was not really over.
After the other monks left one by one, a single monk remained in the Mahavira Hall.
He set the moktak beside him and continued chanting in a low voice.
"Namu Shakyamuni Buddha."
It was simply a chant.
At first, Youngwoo followed along a few times.
When the monk chanted, he chanted.
When the monk bowed, he bowed.
He bent down, rose again, joined his palms, then bowed once more.
A few repetitions were easy enough.
But the bows did not seem to end.
The chanting continued.
The bows continued.
Then the chanting began again.
Youngwoo's body was well trained through cultivation, but endlessly bowing after a meal gradually left his thighs and lower back feeling heavy.
After a long while, a strange thought occurred to him.
He looked more carefully.
At some point, the monk had stopped bowing.
Only Youngwoo was still doing it.
Youngwoo froze halfway down.
The monk sat there with his eyes half closed, chanting as calmly as ever.
"Namu Shakyamuni Buddha."
Youngwoo slowly straightened.
His breathing was slightly heavier now.
He had been bowing for no reason.
He quietly brought his hands together and sat down.
The monk continued chanting.
Youngwoo no longer bowed.
He simply listened in silence.
One low voice circled through the Mahavira Hall while incense smoke slowly climbed upward.
It was already late in the Hour of the Dog. One would have thought the monk would go to bed, but still he continued.
The low chanting alone moved through the quiet hall.
Youngwoo listened for a while, then sat down on the meditation cushion again.
He placed both hands on his knees and was just about to cross his legs when the monk stopped chanting.
"Layman, that cushion is for monks."
Youngwoo blinked.
"Ah. Of course."
He immediately stood up and picked up the thick cushion.
He returned it to the central place where the monks sat, then fetched the thin cushion he had originally been using.
For a moment he felt awkward, as though he had been caught coveting someone else's belongings.
The monk who had given him the better cushion after seeing his silver donation was nowhere to be seen.
This monk clearly knew nothing about that and was entirely right to tell him that the cushion was for monks.
Youngwoo carefully spread the thin cushion and sat down again.
But the monk did not resume chanting.
Instead, he studied Youngwoo closely.
His gaze seemed to weigh something about him, as though deciding what exactly was wrong—or what exactly was strange.
Youngwoo stopped halfway through crossing his legs and looked up.
"Did I do something wrong again?"
The monk did not answer.
He merely narrowed his eyes and looked in turn at Youngwoo's posture, the hwando resting at his waist, and the thin cushion beneath him.
The look almost seemed to say, What is someone like you doing here?
Youngwoo drew in a deep breath and shook his head.
There was no reason to linger where one was not wanted.
His life had not been especially long, but that was one principle he had always taken seriously.
He stood.
He bowed three times before the Buddha.
He returned the cushion to its place and put on the belt from which his hwando hung.
The chanting still murmured low inside the hall.
The monk seemed to be watching him from the corner of his eye.
Youngwoo wrapped his cloak around himself and stepped outside.
Cold air touched his face.
Most of the temple's lamps had already been extinguished, and winter darkness lay heavily over the courtyard.
He had barely taken a few steps when a door to the monks' quarters opened a crack in the distance.
The monk who had first greeted Youngwoo hurried out.
Apparently, he had been watching from the doorway and had seen Youngwoo leaving.
"Are you going now?"
"Yes."
The monk asked carefully,
"How was it?"
Youngwoo glanced back toward the Mahavira Hall.
"Earlier, it was very good for cultivation, but now... I do not think the place suits me anymore."
The monk followed his gaze and gave a quiet laugh.
"That monk had trouble today. He is being punished. He has to chant through the night, so of course he is not in a good mood."
Youngwoo's face immediately brightened.
"Ah! He is being punished. Ahahaha."
He remembered the business with the cushion.
But it did not stay in his mind for long.
If anything, he felt a slight urge to go back into the hall and tease the monk.
The monk asked,
"Where will you go now?"
"I have been given a place to stay at a great household's estate not far from here."
"Ah, I see. If you ever have nowhere suitable to go, you may stay here."
Youngwoo smiled and bowed.
"Ahaha. Then I will ask you another time. Tonight, there is already someone being punished..."
The monk could not hold back his laughter either.
A small ripple of laughter spread softly through the temple courtyard on that cold winter night.
Youngwoo brought his hands together once more in a respectful gesture, then slowly walked toward the half-open side gate.
He left the temple with careful steps.
The monk followed him all the way to the main entrance to see him off.
He had said there was no need for ceremony, but somehow one silver ingot seemed to have changed the temple's hospitality by a noticeable degree.
Youngwoo felt slightly awkward.
He did not have that many silver ingots left.
What was he supposed to do from now on?
Money was a strange thing.
When you had it, you spent it without thinking.
Once it was gone, you immediately felt its absence.
Perhaps they were being this kind to him because they expected another silver ingot next time.
Still, what had already gone into the donation box was no longer worth thinking about.