Chapter Forty-Three: Preaching on the Prairie (III)

Liaochen had no intention of competing with the future Tibetan Buddhism for followers on the Mongolian plateau. The Daoist pursuit of self-transcendence was inherently different from Buddhism’s emphasis on universal salvation and propagation. The Buddhist “precepts and disciplines” were clearly the true artifacts capable of bringing peace to these grasslands. Yet, should opportunity arise, Liaochen would never let it slip by. To spread the Dao was an unshirkable duty for every disciple of the Three Pure Ones.

That midday, accompanied by Bayar, Liaochen, Yunhua, and Yunhuzi rode on horseback alongside emissaries from the chief of the Huhuru tribe, Erdemutu Taiji, to the main encampment by a lakeside, several dozen miles away.

Chief Erdemutu himself came out to welcome them. Liaochen and Yunhua hurriedly saluted, saying, “Blessings without measure from the Heavenly Lord. May I ask what matter brings the esteemed Taiji to summon this humble Daoist?”

Erdemutu was clearly fluent in Chinese. In truth, the higher one’s status among the Mongols, the more likely they spoke Chinese. The southern steppes were always more deeply influenced by Han culture than the lands to the north.

“Honored Immortal,” Erdemutu said respectfully. “I have heard of your miracles, so I invited you here. There is indeed something I wish to ask of you.” Perhaps this reverence was linked to the legendary Genghis Khan once receiving the Daoist priest Qiu Chuji, and Daoism’s longstanding prestige during the Yuan dynasty.

As they walked, Erdemutu explained that he had lately been plagued by recurring dreams of his father, who was being savaged by wild beasts—tormented, crying out for Erdemutu to save him. But Erdemutu was powerless. He had invited many shamans, hoping they might deliver his father from suffering and grant him peaceful sleep, yet nothing worked. The nightmares persisted daily; Erdemutu’s spirit grew weaker and weaker. He even feared that, should this continue, he might follow his father into death.

Inside the chief’s grand tent, several maidens served traditional milk tea, fried grains, butter, and even rare dried fruits. Once all were seated, Liaochen observed the chief’s swollen eyes, a sign of his sleeplessness, and asked, “Did your father, while alive, delight in tossing living men to beasts for sport?”

“Ah!” Erdemutu nearly spilled his milk tea, his eyes wide with reverence and anxiety. “My father only punished rebellious traitors by letting the mastiffs tear them apart. Surely this can’t be why the Eternal Sky torments his soul?” He shivered, and cautiously inquired.

“It is precisely so. His methods were too harsh. Cause and effect: this is why your father’s soul knows no rest,” Liaochen sighed. “Those who suffered such cruelty in life could not help but bear anger. Your father, as chief, was beyond their reach while living. But in death, they would not spare him. Thus they take the form of beasts, gnawing at his soul.”

Erdemutu turned pale, terrified. Clearly, he too had once executed others in such a manner, which explained his fear upon hearing Liaochen’s words.

“Is there any way, Immortal, to save my father?” Erdemutu pleaded—not only for his departed parent’s sake, but for his own.

Liaochen fell silent, then rose and walked out of the tent. The chief and his retinue quickly followed.

“Let us visit the hill by the lake,” Liaochen said, pointing toward a small mountain across the water.

Erdemutu immediately ordered horses brought. Liaochen led the way, with Erdemutu and his men close behind.

Truth be told, the hill by the lakeshore was less a mountain than a mound, but its proximity to the water offered a sweeping view. Amidst endless grasslands, it was a fine spot—ideal for a Daoist temple, nestled by mountain and water, scenic and serene.

“Taiji, build a Daoist temple here. I will draw its design for you. Your tribe migrates with the water and grass; each time you pass this place, come and worship. The spirits above will bless your cattle and sheep, your descendants will flourish, and your tribe’s legacy will endure,” Liaochen said to Erdemutu.

“Yes, I will send for Han craftsmen from Bansheng City and have our men help. I’ll see that a temple rises here as soon as possible,” Erdemutu replied.

Liaochen smiled. “I’ll teach you a calming incantation. Recite it several times before sleep, and the nightmares will cease. As for your father, once the temple is built, bring his memorial tablet into the sanctuary and light an eternal lamp. I will petition the Earth Officials to pardon his sins. Then your father will rest under the gods’ protection, free from suffering.”

“Yes, yes, I will do as the Immortal says.” Erdemutu’s face brightened, his burden lifted.

When Liaochen and Erdemutu returned from the hill to the tent, they saw an elder standing before the entrance, clad in vivid, strange garments, his head adorned with feathers, his expression dark.

“Erdemutu, do you mean to defy the will of the gods, abandon tribal tradition, and trust this Han shaman?” the elder demanded fiercely.

“Shaman, please don’t be angry, I would never dare defy the gods’ will,” Erdemutu hurriedly soothed his tribe’s shaman. After all, a shaman ranked just below the chief; their displeasure could threaten his position—and spill much tribal blood.

Yet the shaman was unconvinced. He turned to Liaochen. “I know your origins, and the gods you worship. But this is the grassland, not a domain for Han deities. You should leave, lest you anger the spirits and bring disaster.”

Liaochen smiled, dismissing the warning. From Daoism’s founding, it had destroyed false idols, eliminated evil spirits—he had seen countless such minor gods fall. He would not heed this shaman’s threat. “Honored shaman, are you certain your gods can punish me?”

“The gods are omniscient and omnipotent! Those who blaspheme will meet a dire fate!” the shaman snapped.

“Oh? Then I’d like to meet your god,” Liaochen replied. He had encountered true deities, but doubted any small tribe’s spirit possessed great power—most likely a wandering ghost or petty creature masquerading as a god to fool the people.

“Just wait!” the shaman growled, storming off. Erdemutu and Bayar looked at Liaochen with concern. “You won’t really anger the spirits, will you?”

“The grasslands are due for true gods,” Liaochen mused, but gave no answer, striding off to find Yunhua and Yunhuzi.

Yunhua was out on the grass, playing with a group of girls and a fox, while several Mongolian mastiffs watched, wary. The fox, bold as ever, frolicked undisturbed. Seeing Liaochen approach, it chirped and bounded over to greet him, while Yunhua and her new friends respectfully saluted. Liaochen chuckled, “You truly make yourself at home wherever you go.”

Meanwhile, the shaman, having returned home, slumped into his chair, his anger melting into deep worry. For only he knew that since Liaochen entered the tribe, his god had vanished. No matter how many times he called, he could no longer sense the deity’s presence. For centuries, shamans had passed their role down, and such a thing had never happened.

“Is this Han so formidable that even the gods are powerless against him?” the shaman fretted. With his god gone, what was he to do? If the tribe ceased to believe, what purpose remained for a shaman?

“I must not allow that temple to be built,” he resolved.

The war of gods was, in truth, a war of mortals. There was never any gentle mercy. Liaochen well understood that the rise of one deity meant the fall of another, with mortals inevitably shedding blood. If he were to enshrine the Three Pure Ones here, the shamans of the grasslands would not stand idly by. He dared not be careless; if his mind were clear and his powers intact, he would have crushed the minor gods and their shamans without hesitation. But now, he did not understand why his faculties were blurred except when drunk. Still, his status as a true Daoist was recognized by Heaven, and he could invoke divine aid to expose the petty god. Without a god, shamans were no different from ordinary men.

Resolved, Liaochen left his yurt, found Erdemutu, and taught him the calming incantation, instructing him to recite it before bed to dispel the nightmares. He told Erdemutu that he would summon a deity that night, and asked that no one disturb him. Erdemutu readily agreed; the Immortal was so powerful, the god he called would surely be even more so. He hoped the tribe’s shaman and spirits would not conflict.

As night descended, Liaochen and Yunhua stepped out to find Erdemutu, Bayar, and many others waiting outside, eager to witness the ritual. Liaochen smiled, unperturbed. If he wished to spread his doctrine and win followers here, such things were inevitable. With the crowd, he mounted his horse and rode toward the hill.