RED DUST, GOLDEN LIGHT
As told to Sophia Bell by Professor Wang Ming
Chapter 12: Chapter 5: The town where time stood still (1)
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.
CHAPTER 5: THE TOWN WHERE TIME STOOD STILL
The Thirteen-Day Sleep in a Forgotten Land
After the haunting encounter with Master Mo and his shocking explanations of the soul and karmic force in Qingxi, both Qing Ling and I felt a strong urge to find a true moment of quiet. The rush of experiences, from the hermit on the mountaintop to the story of Old Man Wang’s “soul returning in another’s body,” had shaken the very foundations of our thinking. We needed time, we needed a truly quiet space to reassemble the shattered pieces of our beliefs, to face the countless immense questions that had just been unveiled before us.
During our final conversation with Master Mo, when we expressed our desire to find a secluded place to quiet our minds for a few days, he just gazed pensively out the window, then casually mentioned a rather unfamiliar place name: “Wangyou Town.” He didn’t say much about it, only smiled faintly and said that there, “time sometimes becomes strangely elastic for some people, and one can more easily forget the troubles of the secular world.” His half-joking, half-serious words, along with the evocative name “Wangyou” (Forgetting Sorrow), quietly planted an indescribable curiosity in our hearts.
Finding the way to Wangyou Town was no easy task. It didn't appear on any standard tourist maps, and the people in neighboring towns we asked only had a vague knowledge of some remote valley. Our journey began with a train ride, then a transfer to a rickety local bus that crawled along winding mountain roads, finally stopping at a small, secluded town at the foot of a high mountain range. From here, to get to Wangyou, we had to hire a local young man and his self-made three-wheeled motorcycle to traverse a rough and treacherous dirt road.
By the time we reached the edge of the Wangyou valley, it was already dusk. Both Qing Ling and I were exhausted after a full day of constant travel. The scenery of Wangyou Town appeared from a distance, with its dark brown tiled roofs emerging from the evening mist, looking ancient and somewhat isolated. Our guide introduced us to a hospitable local family at the entrance of the town, who had a small, simple room often reserved for stranded wayfarers.
The host family, a middle-aged couple and their young son, welcomed us warmly, albeit with the shyness of mountain folk unused to strangers. They quickly prepared a simple dinner for us with white rice, boiled wild vegetables, and some salted stream fish. Being so exhausted, neither Qing Ling nor I could eat much. Immediately after dinner, an overwhelming, unprecedented drowsiness suddenly hit both of us, so swift and powerful that it was impossible to resist. I vaguely remember my head spinning, my eyelids growing heavy, and then everything dissolving into a void. My last fleeting thought before completely losing consciousness was how quiet this place was, an unusual kind of quiet.
I awoke with a start, feeling incredibly light and refreshed, as if I had just experienced an extremely deep and restful sleep. My mind was completely clear, with no trace of fatigue, a stark contrast to the usual sluggish mornings after long trips. I stirred slightly, my eyes taking in the simple wooden room. Morning light was already seeping through the cracks in the door, casting pale yellow streaks on the floor.
Qing Ling had also just woken up beside me, looking around with a similar dazed expression, a look of unusual freshness and relief on her face.
“Did you sleep well?” I asked softly. “I feel strangely refreshed, my mind is so clear. It feels like I only dozed off for a moment, I can’t believe it!”
Qing Ling nodded, gently rubbing her eyes. “Me too. So incredibly light. It’s strange, I just had a very clear, vivid dream.”
“A dream?” I was surprised. I rarely remembered my dreams. “What did you dream about?”
“I dreamt we were lost in a valley filled with white mist,” Qing Ling recounted, her voice still a bit dreamy. “Then we found a trail leading up a very high mountain. At the top, there was an ancient temple, with elegantly curved roof tiles, looking very majestic. We went inside and saw many monks in yellow kasaya robes, sitting upright and chanting scriptures. The sound of the chanting was deep and resonant, the bells and wooden fish echoed… it felt so peaceful, so serene, and also strangely familiar, as if I had been there before…”
I listened to Qing Ling’s story, my heart stirring. In truth, I had just had a nearly identical dream, clear down to the details. But before I could share this with her, the door creaked open.
The hostess came in carrying a small tray with two bowls of steaming white congee and a simple dish of boiled vegetables. Seeing us awake, she smiled kindly.
“Ah, our esteemed guests are awake. Please have some congee to warm your stomachs. You must be very hungry.”
“Yes, thank you,” I said, a little surprised by her thoughtfulness. “We must have slept quite soundly, sorry to have troubled you.”
The hostess just waved it off with a laugh. “It’s no trouble at all. It’s good that you could sleep. Seeing you sleep so deeply, we didn’t dare to disturb you.”
“So, we probably slept until almost noon, right?” Qing Ling asked, looking out the window where the sun was already quite high.
The hostess looked at us, her eyes hesitant for a moment, then she said slowly:
“Well… I don’t know if you’ll believe me, but today is the fourteenth day since you arrived.”
“Four… fourteen days?!” Qing Ling and I exclaimed in unison, our voices filled with utter disbelief. I hastily looked at my wristwatch—it had stopped at some unknown time, the battery probably dead. Qing Ling also quickly took out her cell phone, but the screen was dark, without a flicker of life.
“Are… are you serious?” I stammered, my heart pounding in my chest as if it would leap out. “We… we slept for thirteen straight days and nights?”
The hostess nodded, her expression strangely calm. “Yes, that’s right. For the first few days, when you didn’t wake up, we were a bit worried. But my husband and the village elders said that, in the old days, there were one or two cases of strangers from afar coming here and also sleeping for a long time like this. Some said it was because they weren't used to the mountain air, others said it was people with a predestined connection for cultivation, fated to be with the gods and Buddhas of this mountain. We saw that your breathing was steady and your complexions were rosy, so we didn't dare to disturb you much, just checked on you from time to time, and moistened your lips with a little thin congee when they looked too dry.”
Thirteen days! Thirteen days and nights had passed without us knowing, feeling only like a short nap, a fleeting dream. Even more unbelievable was that after such a long period with almost no food or drink (that bit of thin congee was hardly enough to sustain a body), we felt neither famished nor exhausted. On the contrary, I felt an unusual vigor and mental clarity, as if my body had just been recharged with some new form of energy. I didn't even feel the need to use the restroom.
I looked at Qing Ling and saw the same utter shock and disbelief on her face, mixed with something indescribable. The dream of the ancient temple, of the solemn chanting ceremony… what did it mean? And for the past thirteen days, where had we really been, what had we experienced in that state of deep, unconscious sleep?
The scientist in me screamed that this was completely irrational, impossible according to any biological law I had ever known. But the truth was right before my eyes, along with the hostess’s sincere, unembellished words, leaving me unable to deny it.
Wangyou Town. This land, it seemed, held many more secrets, many more wonders, far beyond what even Master Mo had hinted at.
Meeting People with Unusual Experiences or Concepts of Time and Aging
After a somewhat restless night, partly from being in a new place, but mostly because the feeling of Wangyou Town's unusual rhythm of time from the previous afternoon still haunted my mind, Qing Ling and I awoke as the first rays of morning sun barely seeped through the cracks of the wooden window. The early morning air here was unusually fresh, carrying a bit of moisture from the nearby river and the distinct earthy scent of the mountains. In stark contrast to the usual hustle and bustle of other places at this hour, Wangyou Town was still submerged in an almost absolute stillness. Only the chirping of birds from afar and the gentle, gurgling sound of the river were the rare sounds breaking the vast silence.
We went downstairs, where the white-haired innkeeper—whom we now knew as Mrs. Lin—was leisurely sweeping the small earthen yard in front of the porch. Each sweep of her broom moved rhythmically, unhurriedly, even as the sun began to rise higher, as if she were drawing lines of tranquility onto the yard's surface. Her hair was as white as snow, and though her face had many wrinkles, her eyes were remarkably clear and sharp. Her hands, though dotted with age spots, did not look as dry or wrinkled as those of other elderly people I had met. She moved with a light, graceful ease, showing no signs of the fatigue or heaviness of old age.
“Good morning, esteemed guests,” she smiled kindly upon seeing us, a smile that was also… as slow as everything else here. “Did you sleep well last night?”
“Good morning, ma'am. We slept well enough,” Qing Ling replied. I noticed her voice had also unconsciously become softer, more unhurried. “This Wangyou Town is truly peaceful, ma’am.”
“Of course, it is peaceful, my dears,” Mrs. Lin nodded slightly, her hands continuing the steady sweeps. “In this place, there is nothing to be rushed or hurried about.”
“Ma'am, have you been here for a very long time?” I blurted out, unable to hide my curiosity about this woman with such a special appearance and demeanor.
Mrs. Lin paused her sweeping and looked up at me, her clear eyes seeming to see right into my soul. She didn't answer right away, but seemed to be searching for something in a distant memory. “A long time, my child,” she said softly, her voice seeming to echo from a faraway place. “So long that I can no longer remember exactly how many seasons of rain and sun have passed over this land. In this Wangyou Town, people don't have the habit of counting the days and months. We just live, day after day, season after season.”
Her somewhat vague answer surprised me. Not remembering how long one has lived? Or simply not caring? That was so different from our common notions of time and life. She smiled again, a somewhat mysterious smile. “Time in this place is like that river. It flows along at its own pace—sometimes it seems very fast, other times it feels very slow—but it never truly stops, like an endless song. The important thing is whether one is quiet enough to feel that special flow.”
With that, she resumed her work, leaving us standing there with our minds racing. Her words, though seemingly simple, seemed to hold a profound philosophy of time that I could not yet fully grasp.
After a simple breakfast of soft-cooked congee and boiled wild vegetables with sesame salt, prepared by Mrs. Lin herself, we decided to take a walk around the town to observe the local life more closely. And indeed, the feeling that time was slowing down here became ever more palpable in my mind. Everyone we met on the road—from the old folks sunning themselves warmly on their porches, to the women carrying babies on their backs to the market, to the men diligently mending bamboo fences or re-thatching roofs—all shared a common demeanor: they were unhurried, deliberate, and seemed completely free from any of life's pressures.
We stopped for a long time in front of a small pottery workshop modestly situated on the bank of a river tributary. Inside, a middle-aged man, perhaps around fifty, sat intently before an old potter's wheel, his hands gently caressing and shaping a mass of reddish-brown clay. His movements were incredibly focused and meticulous, yet carried a rhythm of ease and contentment, as if each stroke on the clay was a slow, steady breath in harmony with the pulse of the earth. The pot gradually taking shape under his skillful hands had a very rustic, simple beauty, yet was also harmonious and well-proportioned. Around him were countless other ceramic pieces, finished or in progress, of all sizes and shapes, all with a very unique style, unlike any pottery we had ever seen before.
Seeing us lingering at the door, he looked up and gave a kind smile. “Are you two visitors from afar?”
“Yes, we’re from the US,” I replied. “Your pottery is beautiful. This craft must require a great deal of patience.”
He chuckled, a laugh that revealed deep wrinkles around his eyes, but his eyes were very bright. “Patience? I don’t really think so. It’s simply about following its nature. However the clay wants to take shape, my hands just follow. Whether a piece is finished quickly or slowly is not as important as whether the pot has its own ‘soul’.”
I pointed to a particularly beautiful jade-green glazed vase displayed prominently on a shelf. “This vase, you must have spent a lot of time making it, right?”
He followed my finger, his gaze as affectionate as if looking at his own creation. “The time to make it?” He laughed again, then shook his head. “To be honest, I don't remember anymore. It might have been a few weeks, or it could have been several months. When you're truly doing what you love, when you're completely immersed in it, time seems to stop as well. You only know the beginning and the end. The process in between is like a continuous flow; there's no need to measure or calculate it.”
Qing Ling, with the sensitivity of someone in culture and arts, was very interested in these unique ceramic products. She began asking him about the local pottery techniques, the source of the clay he was using, and the meaning of the decorative patterns on the vases. He cheerfully answered all her questions, but when we inadvertently mentioned time, the length of his career, or the rapid changes of the outside world, he seemed rather indifferent. “The world out there must be changing very fast now, right?” he asked us in return. “People there are always rushing somewhere, doing something quickly. But here in our Wangyou Town, things just happen slowly. The sun rises and sets, the trees sprout and change leaves with the seasons. There's nothing to rush for.”
I observed the potter closely. He looked robust and healthy, his skin tanned by the elements, his hands calloused from labor. But something didn't quite add up. If he was really only around fifty as he appeared, then who had made these ceramic pieces with their classic style and clear marks of age? Or was this man actually much older than his sturdy appearance suggested? I didn't dare ask directly, afraid of offending him, but the question lingered in my mind.
Leaving the small workshop, we strolled along the riverbank. Under the shade of a giant banyan tree, whose lush canopy covered a large earthen yard, several old men were leisurely playing Go. The stone Go board was worn smooth over the years, and each black and white piece was polished to a sheen, as if holding countless quiet afternoons within them. The old men played very slowly, each move considered with great care; sometimes an entire afternoon would pass with only a few moves made. The atmosphere was incredibly tranquil, with only the dry 'clack' of a stone being placed on the board and the steady, gentle breathing of the old men.
We stood and watched silently for a long time. What I found strange was their conversation. They didn't just discuss the current moves on the board; they sometimes talked about events from long ago with a natural tone, as if they had just happened yesterday. One mentioned a great flood that had devastated the region ages ago, while another recounted a bountiful harvest from his youth. Listening to them, I had the strange feeling that the past and present no longer had a clear boundary in their consciousness. Was time a completely different flow for them?
“Did you notice?” Qing Ling whispered in my ear. “They talk about things that happened decades ago as if it were yesterday. And look, although their hair is white and their skin is wrinkled, their minds are still very sharp, with none of the confusion or frailty of old age that we often see in other elderly people.”
I nodded. It was true. These old men, though surely very advanced in age, showed no signs of severe mental or physical decline. They were still sharp, still active in their own way, and participated in community life with great placidity. Aging here seemed to follow a very different course—slower, and seemingly not heavy with decay as I was used to seeing, but more like a mellowing, a settling of the spirit.
The more I interacted with the people of Wangyou Town, the more bewildered I felt. The way they perceived and experienced time, the way they faced the aging of their bodies, was completely different from anything I had ever known. It didn't seem to be a denial or an attempt to resist the flow of time, but a harmony, an acceptance so complete that they had almost forgotten its existence. They did not live to race against time; they seemed to be truly living in a different stream of time, a much gentler and quieter one.
As a doctor, I knew very well that the biological aging of the body is inevitable. Cells grow old, organ functions decline, and diseases become more frequent. It is a very natural law of creation. But in this Wangyou Town, that law seemed to be bent, or at least significantly slowed down. Could the pure, isolated environment, the ever-quiet atmosphere, and an easygoing, contented state of mind truly affect that biological process? Or was there another factor, some secret still hidden deep in the heart of this valley, something closely related to the very nature of time and space?
I looked at Qing Ling and saw that her eyes were also filled with similar questions. It felt as if we had wandered into a land that time seemed to have deliberately forgotten, where the familiar laws of the outside world no longer held much meaning. And the people we met, with their extraordinary equanimity in the face of the years and their very different concepts of time, only deepened the mystery of this place in my mind.
(…)
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