Those were words that the monk had heard from other candidates. Most of the time they failed but, every now and then, there was someone that truly followed the Way. That’s what gave him hope. The older man took the boy back to the courtyard and introduced him to a stern-looking monk.
“This is the sentry. He will guide you to Heaven.”
The boy bowed deeply in respect to the sentry, then to the monk in respect.
“We will go now,” announced the sentry simply.
The elder monk watched wistfully on as man and boy walked away.
He had been watching Wudan from the moment he arrived at Shaolin Paradise. He saw Wudan’s thin body, the fatigue written on his face, the dried blood on his feet. He knew where these came from because that’s how he looked when he arrived fifty years ago. The monk inhaled. He was excited. Excited, but cautious as well.
Only time would tell whether he assessed Wudan correctly, and he would likely not be alive to find out if he was right or not.
It took Wudan and the sentry another six months to get to Heaven. It was only a hundred miles away, but the sentry’s responsibility was not only to guide the boy in body but to prepare him spiritually.
This was a supreme challenge. Meditation was not easy for a vibrant, energetic boy but, with the sentry’s prodding and training, Wudan began to taste the possibilities of a free mind.
Another imposing problem was the learning of Scriptures—Wudan was illiterate. The boy despaired that he could never learn enough Chinese characters to read. “I can’t do it,” he cried.
The sentry was unmoved by Wudan’s outburst. He took out two sheets of paper filled with handwritten Chinese characters. “These are basic concepts of dharma. When you can read these out loud to me, we will proceed to Heaven.”
There was no point in arguing. Wudan asked the sentry to teach him three paragraphs or about five hundred words a day so that he might accomplish his goal in two weeks. The sentry didn’t argue but it took Wudan less than two days to realize his goal was unattainable.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” asked Wudan, clenching his teeth with exasperation.
“It is better for you to find out on your own, rather than me to tell you.”
“Please. Help me,” pleaded Wudan.
He learned. That is good. “Very well. We will learn at the pace you learn at, whether it be one month or one year... or longer.”
“Okay. Okay. But can you show me how to break boards? Or jump as high as a house? Or beat up bullies?” Wudan punched air the way he remembered the drunk dispatching his own village nemesis.
The sentry sighed inwardly but outwardly, a smile tugged from the corners of his mouth. “Of course, but there is one thing.”
“Yes.”
The monk leaned in and spoke with resolute authority. “You will never complain or question my methods. If you do, the journey ends immediately.”
For a fraction of a second, Wudan flinched but then, he blurted out, “Yes, yes, yes.”
After a week, Wudan regretted his rash promise. Yes, he had learned to read over two hundred words, but there was no teaching of knife-throwing or punching a foe into submission. The small maneuvers the sentry taught him were agonizingly slow.
But he remembered the sentry’s threat and kept his complaints to himself.
After two months, Wudan began to feel an awakening. He knew enough words to read more than half of the dharma teachings; his time in meditation began to reveal another dimension of existence, and he began to feel the spiritual heritage of every martial arts move the sentry taught him. Wudan’s journey was not only to Heaven but to the path to the Shaolin, the Way.
All this time, the sentry never told Wudan his name nor did the boy ask. Wudan told the sentry about his life in the village, his family and about the drunk who inspired him to come. The sentry made him write the story down. Without pen or paper, Wudan found a deposit of clay at a riverbank. He flattened it and used a twig to etch the words. It took him almost a week to compose the seven hundred word story but, by the end of that week, he knew those seven hundred words intimately. It was a large step to literacy.
Learning by doing was a philosophy the sentry applied to the martial arts as well. Introducing Wudan to the Five Animal Styles of Shaolin kung fu—Tiger, Crane, Snake, Leopard and Dragon—was only the beginning. While there were no dragons or tigers in the Yellow Mountains, there were plenty of snakes and wild boars that Wudan had to contend with.
One morning after meditation, the sentry pointed to an almost-camouflaged enclave on a mountain. “We are here.”
The now thirteen-year-old boy left the sentry and joyfully scrambled up the beautiful arbored mountain.
All told, a year of false starts, false directions, false leads and intense training―but ultimately he found Heaven, the home of Hung Gar, the home of the truest Shaolin in the world.
The boy saw monks streaming out of the monastery. He thought they were greeting him and he waved eagerly.
“Hello! Hello!”
But when the monks arrived, they did not stop but continued downhill until they met up with the sentry.
There, the monks prostrated themselves in front of him.
Wudan clambered down the mountain to join them.
“Who are you?” he asked.
The sentry stood erect. “I am Sigong Zhang. I am the leader of Heaven.”
The boy blinked, staring wide-eyed. “You are the one the drunk told me to look for. Why didn’t you tell me who you are?”
Sigong Zhang nodded. “I am the drunk’s brother. I told you nothing because it is not me who is important. It is your journey.”
Wudan’s eyes lasered on the Master of Heaven, the monk who had spent every moment for the last six months training him, guiding him, teaching him. He felt himself swelling with pride but caught himself just in time. The honorable man would not do that.
“Thank you, Sigong Zhang. I hope I will never disappoint you.”
Wudan bowed deeply before the master.
Chapter 3
Twenty Years Later
Thirty-three-year-old Wudan stared across the clearing in Heaven’s courtyard to his best friend, Jingsha. If achievements were something to be honored in this humble monastery, the two would be the pride of Heaven. Constant companions, they helped each other gain a deeper level of the teachings, they spent more hours in meditation and not only mastered the Hung Gar Tiger and Crane style of martial arts faster than anyone could ever recount, they created new moves and techniques.
Over the years, Wudan and Jingsha pushed and encouraged each other to their own limits. Their exhibition of dynamism, accuracy and athleticism was performed with ever more jaw-dropping and gravity-defying acrobatics and velocity. Virtuosic poetry in motion. At the height of their physical prowess, they were ready to spar.
Wudan stepped to Jingsha. They made their deep bows and the Shaolin hand sign to each other, then retreated to the perimeter of the circle of monks.
Wudan sprinted three light steps and did a handspring ten feet in the air, landing firmly on his feet. He folded his arms across his chest, challenging Jingsha to come after him.
Jingsha started circling his arms like a propeller on steroids. He dashed to the right side of Wudan, deliberately missing him with his arms but then kicked out his left leg. His goal was not to attack with his arms but to use them as a decoy.
Jingsha’s leg connected with Wudan’s chest, but—Wudan’s hands were faster.
He grabbed Jingsha’s leg and began twisting.
Jingsha had to do cartwheels to keep up with Wudan’s turns of his hands.
The monks clapped and hooted with excitement. They loved this!
Jingsha pulled his leg from Wudan’s grasp and rolled away on the ground.
Wudan sprang high into the air and landed behind Jingsha’s back.
He squatted on the ground and shot out a leg sideswipe to Jingsha’s butt, pushing his good friend over.
Both jump
ed up, but Wudan was a millisecond faster. Wudan pivoted and landed a roundhouse left foot onto Jingsha’s chin.
A rapid-fire series of twisting left and right punches landed on Jingsha’s torso and sent him toppling, but Jingsha managed to grab Wudan’s leg and brought Wudan to the floor with him.
Both did backward handsprings to land upright on their feet.
Wudan lifted his arms in the air and curved them like tiger paws.
Jingsha spread his arms wide like a crane in flight.
Was this going to be Tiger versus Crane instead of Tiger and Crane?
In his typical unpredictable fashion, Wudan did the unexpected and brought his fists together and fired them out—left, right, left, right—at chest level. Each blow was accompanied with a little twist that gave them extra energy and made them harder to grab.
Wudan was relentless. His feet swiped out to Jingsha’s thighs, causing Jingsha to buckle.
Wudan clapped his hands hard at his friend’s temples, and Jingsha crumpled to the ground.
It was over. Wudan made the Shaolin hand sign to his fallen comrade.
“Wudan!”
Wudan turned sharply to see the chief monk, Sigong Zhang, glaring at him.
Wudan prostrated himself in front of the grandmaster. Wudan knew what his mentor was going to say next, having heard it countless times before, but it didn’t change how he felt.
But this time, Wudan’s response would be different.
“You are making Shaolin a circus. How many times have I told you to stop this?”
“Forgive me, Sigong. Forgive me, Grandmaster. I will never do this again.” Wudan inhaled. There, I’ve done it. Now to carry through.
Sigong Zhang sniffed. “Never? How do I know that?”
Wudan stood erect and met the Sigong’s gaze directly. “Because I am leaving now and will never come back again.”
The mouths of every monk in the compound dropped.
“Wait, Wudan, you cannot leave,” gasped Jingsha, taken off guard by this announcement.
“My time here is over,” said Wudan in a tone that communicated there were ten thousand words that would not and could not be said.
“You are a grandmaster, and will be the next Sigong of Heaven,” said Sigong Zhang quietly. “You are to take over from me.”
“You are healthy and will live for fifty years or more.”
Sigong Zhang looked at his prize pupil. It was pointless to argue with Wudan, just the way it was pointless to have argued with his own brother, the drunk, in the Fujian village.
This was the way of life. Every year that passed, someone arrived and someone left the monastery.
But this was the first time a grandmaster had left. One who had true knowledge.
“What ails you, Wudan?” asked Sigong Zhang, the man who as sentry guided Wudan to Heaven so many years ago.
“I want to spread the word to the world about Hung Gar,” stated Wudan confidently. “We should not keep it only to ourselves.”
Sigong Zhang shook his head in disbelief. To leave because he wanted children or women or to eat meat—he could understand that. But not to evangelize for Hung Gar.
“I cannot bless you for that, Wu,” he said quietly, disappointed.
“I am not asking for your blessing.” Wudan swiveled and strode toward the gate. He could never tell any of them the real reason he was leaving. It would be too painful for this group of monks that had become his family to hear.
He could not tell them that his heart was no longer completely there. Meditation, yes. Scripture study, yes... Martial arts, no.
In his heart of hearts, Wudan was a warrior. He could have all the sparring sessions that he wanted with Jingsha, Sigong Zhang and anyone else... but it was meaningless. Nothing was at stake.
A warrior without a war was useless. Wudan would not seek battle, but he would be there if he was needed. And he would prepare others to be offensive and defensive. To be able to take a stand.
He knew that would never happen in Heaven. There were no wars there.
That was why he had to leave.
And Sigong Zhang knew it, too.
After a month, Wudan arrived in Jinshanzui, a quaint little seaside town south of Shanghai. However, unlike his previous travels as a little boy to Shanghai where he was given shelter and food by people who took pity on him, this time villagers were honored to assist this handsome monk, especially as Wudan freely offered his services without prompting.
When a sudden storm came upon a boy chopping wood for the family stove, Wudan quickly took over, using his hands to break the stump into pieces. He quickly carried boy and firewood to the family hut before the downpour hit full force.
On another occasion, Wudan saw bullies beating a young man who refused to give up the portion of rice that he was bringing home to his mother. Three thugs. Three minutes. Three black eyes. That night, a grateful mother insisted that Wudan sleep in her son’s bed. The next day, she gave him three large lotus leaf-wrapped packets of sticky rice for his journey.
From Jinshanzui, Wudan found passage on a junk, one of those sturdy old Chinese sailing vessels that had been in use for fifteen hundred years. The captain needed help with the ship’s repairs and was happy that Wudan was able to carry timber from the forest to the sea by himself while he did the carpentry. Wudan had never been on a boat and he was amused to share the space with chickens, a pet dog, a mini-vegetable garden and the captain’s family.
“How did you pick Hong Kong?” asked the captain as Wudan stood beside him looking out at the open sea.
“In our monastery many seekers came, including some white people from Hong Kong who could speak Chinese. Now, if a white can speak Chinese, maybe I could learn English. That’s why I want to go to Hong Kong.”
“You should stay away from the white devils,” growled the captain. “They hate us Chinese.”
“I can handle myself.”
The captain nodded his head. “Just don’t marry one of them.”
Both men laughed.
Hong Kong was everything Wudan hoped it would be, and more. Except for his very brief visit to Shanghai as a lad, he had never been to a place so vibrant, so full of people... and so in need of what he had to offer.
Wudan started offering martial arts lessons. He did not charge anything but added a condition that, along with the physical training, there must be study of the Way, of Scriptures and of meditation. He had no money to rent a studio, but that was no problem; a park was a wonderful place to learn.
Despite Wudan’s obvious prowess and lack of tuition charged to pupils, there were few students for the humble monk. He began a time of self-flagellation, trying to figure out what he was doing wrong.
Enlightenment came when a teen-age school dropout who had run away from England arrived. This young man struggled with Chinese, just the way Wudan struggled with English. The teen asked Wudan, “You know, calling you ‘Wudan’ is kind of hard. Can I just call you ‘Master Wu?’”
Wudan thought a moment, then smiled and said in his broken English, “I... I like.”
That day marked the end of Wudan and the emergence of Master Wu.
The teen-age runaway’s name? Garret Southam.
Chapter 4
It was amazing what a change of name could do. Neither Garret nor Master Wu knew the terminology but, by adding the honorific “Master” and shortening Wudan to Wu, they had successfully branded “Master Wu.”
It was an easily recognizable name, and Master Wu became well known and respected in a short time. This notoriety was uncomfortable for Master Wu but Garret was convincing. “What you know needs to be shared with the world. Don’t keep your gift hidden.”
Master Wu reluctantly agreed. Selfishness was not part of the Way. As the number of students grew, he rented a studio. This was not only a place to learn martial arts and meditate but, for many students, it was a place to live. It was not an easy existence, though, especially as Master Wu insisted on keeping his policy of n
ot charging anyone.
Garret, an ambitious and eager student, developed ties with two other teenaged disciples: Chin Chee Fok and Tommy Sung. Garret taught them and Master Wu how to speak English, and they taught the Brit how to speak Mandarin and Cantonese.
Chin, Tommy and Garret were inseparable. They lived and breathed Hung Gar Shaolin Martial Arts. They also dove into the Scripture study and meditated for hours. Master Wu didn’t believe in dreaming, but even he had visions of creating a new Heaven in Hong Kong.
The group was broke, though, and living hand to mouth was a constant challenge. That didn’t matter too much at first. After all, becoming Shaolin masters was the aim of them all, but young people being young people... well, things changed.
Master Wu watched the triumvirate grow increasingly restless. It was all well and good to be in a small studio and to learn, but that was not progress. They wanted to spread the “good news” of Hung Gar to the universe. Chin was the most enthusiastic, and he often went out into the streets to perform “tricks” for the gawkers. Earning a few bucks didn’t hurt either.
Sometimes Garret and Tommy joined Chin, and this became a real event. Groups gathered in the parks and squares to see the three break boards with their heads and hands or spar with each other using the Five Animals of the Shaolin techniques: Tiger. Crane. Snake. Leopard. Dragon. The poses were fearful, and the action was ferocious.
They launched Chinese daggers at each other. However, just before the dao entered their hearts, it was snatched away by a lightning hand or kicked into the air by a speeding foot.
Sometimes they performed handsprings a dozen feet into the air in tandem. At the apex, they clapped each other’s hands or had feet touch feet before dropping to the ground and standing upright.
Master Wu did not appreciate having his beloved and sacred Shaolin made into a spectacle, but Chin, Tommy and Garret convinced him that this was “progress” and “the way things were done today.” Besides, they argued that Master Wu had done the same thing many years ago with Jingsha when the two brought showmanship into the sacred confines of Heaven.
The Noah Reid Action Thriller Series: Books 1-3 (plus special bonuses) Page 2