Morris grabbed a bowl of seaweed, and Kōng Fú pointed him toward a hut where he could find his next teacher. Inside, the hard-faced, middle-aged elder monk meditated on the ground.
The man grumbled as he opened his eyes. “My name is Chénshuì De Lóng. I will instruct you in Right Livelihood and Right Effort. My instruction will be simple; other teachers already provided the necessary framing devices and any questions can be reasoned through in contemplation.”
Morris sat, slurped seaweed stew, and listened.
“There are three tiers of profession,” said Chénshuì. “The noblest tier is monkhood, in which one joins a monastery, possesses only what is essential, and begs for food. The next-noblest jobs, such as dentistry and teaching, help others. Jobs which harm others, such as bounty hunting or selling alcohol, are unacceptable.”
Morris raised an eyebrow at the notion that begging for food was more honorable than helping others. Was it really more moral to receive than to give help?
“Right Effort boils down to two core precepts,” continued Chénshuì. “The first of these is willpower. Not motivation, for this is short-lived and dependent upon reward. Not discipline, despite its wondrous powers, because to cultivate discipline you must already possess willpower. Humans are creatures of habit -- to change, one must use willpower to let go of bad habits.
“One cannot dispel all bad habits immediately. This brings us to the second precept: Pacing. As Buddha did not expect his followers to reach nirvana their first time meditating, neither did he expect them to change their ways instantly upon conversion. Rather, he expected them to honestly reflect, and to strive for daily improvement.”
“Improvement toward what end?” said Morris.
“Preventing suffering.”
“How are you preventing suffering by meditating?”
“My whole life I have struggled to find peace, and one must save oneself before one can save others.”
“Things are never going to be perfectly peaceful. Is it not selfish to demand perfection for yourself before you start to help others?”
Chénshuì De Lóng scoffed. “You dare question my expertise and call me selfish? I have been a student of Buddhism my whole life and you just started yesterday.”
Morris figured it was time to change the subject. “So what do you think about the situation with the Mahayan? Do they have a rightful claim to your boats?”
“The Mahayan are a menace. They are heretics and fools. Before his conversion to Mahayana Buddhism, Juéxǐng nearly drove me mad with his constant negativity.”
Morris raised an eyebrow. Was Chénshuì De Lóng the father of Juéxǐng De Lóng? He examined Chénshuì’s face; the family resemblance was there. “Do you ever feel guilty?”
“About what?” Chénshuì took a drink of water.
“Your son.”
Chénshuì choked on his water and started coughing. “He is not my son. He is a Mahayan. And I have nothing to feel guilty about. His problem is not me; his problem is that he seeks war instead of peace. I am merely an object for him to rage against.”
This seemed hypocritical to Morris; Chénshuì blamed others at the drop of a hat but now argued that each individual has only themselves to blame for their unhappiness. “Are things so much better with him gone?”
“Truthfully,” Chénshuì sighed, “no. When I close my eyes the river and the waterfalls seem to scream at me. The monks are either slow to learn or overly friendly. The sea-plants cause my stomach to gurgle and ache and my quietude is replaced by bitterness. Now leave me; I must meditate.”
“Hm,” said Morris. As they talked, Morris had rested his gaze on several loose strings littering the ground, and he suddenly became conscious of them. Were these strings from the frayed rope of the drawbridge? Could Chénshuì be the spy? He lacked morality, and had a history of poor decision-making. He was unhappy with the Theravids and their way of life. He probably felt guilty but refused to admit it. Everything added up.