RED DUST, GOLDEN LIGHT
As told to Sophia Bell by Professor Wang Ming
Chapter 3: The hermit on the mountaintop (3) | Excerpt
From the skeptical lens of a scientist to an awakening to Eastern mysteries,
this book is a journey in search of truth amidst the fragile boundaries of life, death, and steadfast faith.
(…)
The Moonlit Night and the Strange Visitor
The moon had risen high. The night sky over the mountain was crystal clear, without a single cloud. The ethereal, silvery moonlight cast a gentle glow over the small earthen yard in front of the hut.
The hermit placed another small oil lamp on the tea table, its warm yellow light mingling with the moonlight from outside. He calmly poured another round of fresh tea, then said softly, his voice placid:
"On these mountains, it is usually just me. If you and your wife have no pressing matters, feel free to stay here a few more days to quiet your souls. There is no binding schedule up here, and I have no urgent business."
He smiled faintly, then turned to me.
"I wonder if Mr. Wang would be interested in a few games of chess tonight? Whether it's Chinese chess or Go, I can play a little of both."
Before I could even respond, he suddenly paused, his gaze lifting toward the bamboo forest rustling in the night wind.
"Oh, a fellow Taoist friend… seems to be coming for a visit."
Before Qing Ling or I could fully understand what he meant, a tall, slender figure suddenly emerged from the trail hidden behind the bamboo grove. The figure had short, neat hair, and his steps were unusually light. There was something very different about the way he moved, an elegance I had never seen before.
As the person drew closer, about a dozen paces away, I was suddenly struck by an unbelievable sight: the man appeared to be flying!
He wasn't soaring high, but gliding smoothly about a hand's breadth above the ground. It was clearly a glide through the air. His heels never touched the rustling dry leaves on the ground, and his shadow did not cast a distinct shape like ours did under the moonlight. Everything happened right before my eyes, so real, so clear, yet at the same time so irrational, so far beyond my conventional understanding.
Qing Ling instinctively gripped my arm. I could feel that we were both holding our breath, trying not to miss a single detail of this incredible scene.
The hermit calmly stood up, clasping his hands together in a very ancient gesture:
"Fellow Taoist Liu Yun has arrived."
The strange visitor also clasped his hands in greeting, then stepped closer. Now, his steps were completely normal, touching the ground like anyone else. He was a man of about forty, dressed in a simple, light-gray cloth garment and soft-soled cloth shoes. He had a very lithe, sturdy build, the tanned skin of someone who often worked outdoors, and his eyes were piercingly bright and sharp.
The hermit turned to us and introduced him naturally:
"This is Liu Yun, a friend of mine. He usually lives down in the town and works as a freelance merchant. He comes up to visit me from time to time. This time… he must have brought something for me."
Liu Yun smiled, nodded a greeting to us, and then placed a small, carefully wrapped cloth parcel on the tea table.
"Yes, venerable brother. A few brothers down below have just pooled their efforts to reprint some books. I thought you might like one, so I brought one up for you."
My attention was no longer on the parcel of books; my mind was still reeling from the way he had appeared. After a few brief, gentle exchanges among the three of them, I could no longer contain my curiosity and ventured to ask:
"Mr. Liu Yun… may I be so bold as to ask a question? Were you… were you actually flying just now?... And if so, do you often travel that way for your daily work, or do you only do so in special, deserted places like this?"
Liu Yun burst out laughing, a hearty laugh without any attempt to hide anything.
"I have to drive a car or ride a motorbike every day, just like everyone else, Mr. Wang. As for this…" he shook his head slightly, "...it cannot be used casually. Heavenly principles do not permit it. Only in truly quiet places, with no ordinary people around, where it won't disturb the social order, can one display a little of it on rare occasions."
He took a sip of tea, then calmly stood up.
"Well, I should probably leave tonight. There's still some business to attend to down in the town. When we are not busy, we will surely have a chance to meet again."
He gave a slight bow to the hermit and us, then quietly departed, his figure quickly blending into the darkness of the mountain forest, as light and mysterious as when he had arrived.
The atmosphere in the small hut returned to its inherent quiet. The flame in the oil lamp on the table flickered, illuminating our pensive faces.
Qing Ling whispered, as if afraid to shatter something:
"I… I have never seen anyone… actually fly like that."
I could only remain silent. We both sat there, stunned, trying to digest what we had just witnessed, not knowing where to place it in our consciousness.
The hermit gently closed the book Liu Yun had brought and set it aside on the table.
"One cannot see the true reality just by searching for it in the outside world," he said, his voice still soft and distant. "Sometimes, if one can just sit quietly, allowing the mind to settle, other doors will naturally open."
We stayed at the hermit's home for three more days. Those days passed simply. In the mornings, we sometimes went with him to the nearby hills to pick medicinal herbs. In the afternoons, we would sit together in the yard, basking in the sun. In the evenings, we would gather around the warm teapot, silently watching the moon rise. He didn't say much, nor did he lecture on anything profound. But every story he told, every word he spoke, though very simple, often left me pondering for a whole afternoon, or even for days afterward. Some days, the three of us would just sit in silence for hours, no one asking anything, he saying nothing. But strangely, it was in those moments of stillness that the things I had desperately wanted to ask, the questions that had troubled me, gradually became unimportant, no longer in need of a specific answer.
On the third day, as I was packing my few personal belongings to go down the mountain, he said to me softly, his voice like a breeze:
"There is someone else waiting for you down there. The next door on this journey… it will open on its own when you set foot there."
I did not fully understand his meaning, but I didn't ask further. At that moment, I only knew one thing—that the few short days here, spent mostly in silence, had truly opened something new, something different within me. Like the bright moonlight on the night we first arrived—not loud, not dazzling—but enough to illuminate a path ahead, even if that path was still faint and full of the unknown.
Conclusion of the Wondrous Encounter and the Journey Onward
It was still early. Thin wisps of clouds drifted lazily across the distant mountain peaks. The pure morning light cast a soft, silvery-gray hue over the earthen yard in front of the hut. From the small kitchen, the soft, steady sound of water boiling on the hearth could be heard. The hermit, as on every other morning, was leisurely stoking the fire, preparing a new pot of tea. There was no formal send-off, no words of farewell were spoken.
Qing Ling and I quietly packed our few belongings. We had, in a flash, stayed for three days. Initially, we had only planned to visit him for an afternoon, but then neither of us mentioned leaving—and so the days passed in a strange stillness and peace. Each day, the hermit only did very simple, ordinary things: sometimes he would go to the nearby hills to pick some wild herbs, other times he would be seen diligently decocting medicine by the fire, or he would just quietly tend the fire and brew tea. He hardly explained anything, nor did he proactively share any stories with us. But strangely, it was in that near-absolute silence that we perceived so many things that perhaps no words could ever fully express.
One afternoon, as I was helping him spread some trays of medicinal herbs to dry in the backyard, he suddenly asked, his voice even, without looking at me:
"In your land now, do people still believe that humans truly have a soul?"
I paused for a moment, looking up at him. He still did not look back, merely continuing to meticulously arrange each small bunch of herbs on the bamboo tray. I replied, my voice a bit hesitant:
"Sir, I think… perhaps many people still do, but they often don't know what a soul truly is, and few genuinely pay it any mind."
He said nothing more. But from that afternoon on, I began to pay more attention to the small things, the very ordinary sounds happening around me. The moments when the wind suddenly blew, rustling the bamboo eaves; the soft simmering of the teapot; or the shifting colors of the sunlight on the earthen yard whenever a cloud passed over... All of it seemed to be telling me something—something very old, very familiar, that I had perhaps inadvertently missed for a very long time.
This morning, when we had finished packing everything to go down the mountain, the hermit came out of the hut and handed me a small parcel wrapped in rice paper. Inside were some dried wild herbs that gave off a pure fragrance, and a small, handwritten note with a few words:
"Not for healing. Just to remember the scent of the mountains."
I accepted it reverently, then bowed to him. He only gave a slight nod in return. No more words were exchanged.
We quietly left the small, simple hut. The familiar trail through the bamboo forest leading down to the foot of the mountain was the same one from days before, but for some reason, our steps today seemed somehow different. No one spoke a word for the entire way down. The early morning mountain wind carried a slight, cool dampness and the earthy scent of wild grass. Qing Ling walked beside me, occasionally reaching out to gently brush a bare branch along the path, like a silent farewell.
As we neared the foot of the mountain, I instinctively glanced back. The hermit's small thatched hut was now completely hidden behind the dense layers of green trees. But deep in my heart, the image of his quiet, clear eyes—and the familiar scent of cooking smoke mingling with the drifting mountain mist of the early mornings—was still vividly preserved.
The wind blew up from the valley below, seeping softly through my collar, carrying the breath of ordinary life. I adjusted the straps of my backpack on my shoulders, and without another backward glance, I walked on.
(…)
The excerpt above is part of a complete work, presented within a broader narrative context.
A book is meant not just to be read, but to be felt, reflected upon, and lived alongside the characters.
We invite you to turn the next pages to discover a deeper connection.
👉 Read the full version here:
https://thelivesmedia.com/red-dust-golden-light/