Hǎo and Morris discussed various creatures from their respective homelands as they returned to the monastery.  Morris complimented Hǎo’s orange eyes and told her about the Eurasian eagle-owl.  Hǎo told Morris about the níng lù, a species of large, flightless bird endemic to the Shù Rén Dǎo, and did an impression of of their facial expression.  She looked furious, queasy, constipated, and so ridiculous that laughter sputtered out of Morris.  Then she told about when she saw a níng lù fighting and dancing in an attempt to intimidate a rock.  Her impression of the dancing bird, with a bent back, flapping wings, an inelegant, swaying dance, and bird-face, caused Morris to laugh so hard he had to turn away and hold his sides.

But as Hǎo departed, reality crashed back down on Morris.  An image had lodged itself in Morris’s mind, never far from conscious awareness, and now it shone fully in view.  In it his mom lay dying under sickly hospital lighting.  Her skin was thinner than her hospital gown; her eyes, foggy and unaware.  Then, her eyes were closed.  Morris wasn’t there.

It was time to get to the next universe.  Morris searched for Voss; Voss seemed to have disappeared.  Morris cursed, and grudgingly decided to finish his investigation and unmask the spy.  Perhaps he would find Voss along the way.

Morris walked to the drawbridge.  He examined the frayed ropes -- an exact match to the strings in Chénshuì’s hut.  He turned to the monk guarding the bridge.  “Were you here when the bridge broke?”

“No,” said the monk.  “I believe Gǎijìn was here that night.”

“Hm.”  Morris had expected to hear Chénshuì’s name, but his line of thinking remained unchanged.  “Did you notice whether the ropes were frayed before they broke?”

“They looked fine to me.  That’s why we think an animal chewed ‘em.”

“Could an animal chew through without Gǎijìn noticing?”

The guard shrugged.  “Maybe.”

Not everything lined up, but Morris felt he had enough evidence to present a compelling case.  He hiked down the mountainside and found Kōng Fú meditating alone in the monastery.  

“Ah, Morris,” said Kōng Fú.  “I hope you have time to chat.  I am a lonely woman in desperate need of good company.”  She beamed.

“I have indeed come to talk,” said Morris, “though I fear the one topic I have time to discuss is rather unpleasant.”

“I should hope not!”

“Well,” said Morris, sighing, “I have uncovered the spy in your midst.”

Kōng Fú remained in the lotus position with her foggy eyes staring straight ahead.  “Indeed?”

“Your drawbridge’s ropes are frayed, rendering you defenseless in case of a Theravid siege.  You said only your elders have access to vital information and items, and therefore only an elder could be a spy.  While I was learning from these elders, I noticed that one of them had bits of string on the floor of his hut -- bits of string which exactly match the frayed ropes of the drawbridge.  Chénshuì De Lóng is a Mahayan spy.”

“Hmm,” said Kōng Fú.  “Did you rig the ships yesterday morning?”

“Of course.”  Morris jumped as Chénshuì spoke from over his shoulder.  “Morris,” he said coldly, then left.

Kōng Fú chuckled.  “Chénshuì rigs our ships.  He works with rope almost daily.  But, I do appreciate your concern.”

Was Kōng Fú right?  Was Juéxǐng lying about the spy?  Morris could have sworn he wasn’t, and the Theravids had suffered more consecutive misfortunes than would seem possible from coincidence alone.  But Morris was an ignorant outsider; it was arrogant of him to presume he knew more about local affairs than the natives.  His face felt hot.  Was he overthinking things?

Morris sighed.  “Well, I’m sorry for stirring up trouble and making accusations.”

“A truer scoundrel I never did see,” said Kōng Fú, jovially.

A corner of Morris’s mouth curled upward.  “Hey, have you seen Voss?  I need to find him.”

Kōng Fú pointed her clouded eyes directly at Morris.  “I have not.”

Morris searched in and around the valley for hours, but Voss had vanished without a trace.  Morris’s frustration burned increasingly hot, cooled only by worries that Voss had abandoned him here.  Several hours into the night, as he trudged through a meadow upstream of the monastery, he stopped himself.  Had he produced a single conscious thought in the last half hour?  Probably not -- irritation simmered in his mind while his body ambled zombie-like along.

He sighed.  He couldn’t keep living like this.  He knew he needed an antidote to his state of mind.  Why not try out Buddhism’s advice, and try it with as little cynicism as possible?  He sat and attempted to meditate.  He didn’t feel spiritually awakened, but he did feel tired, and soon he slept.