Long ago, on the flank of a mountain, there stood a small hamlet, and within it a pagoda dedicated to the Buddha, built many, many years before.
In the pagoda there lived no one but an old monk of about seventy. By then his eyebrows had turned entirely white, and his beard drifted over his chest like a tuft of white thread; and yet he remained strong and hale. Every task of the pagoda — the morning and evening chanting, cooking the rice, sweeping the grounds, pulling weeds, washing robes, lighting the lamps and incense — fell, one and all, to his own two hands.
The people of the hamlet, passing the pagoda courtyard each day and seeing him toil so hard, would ask him with concern:
- Venerable! You are old now, and your strength is failing, and yet you go on with such hard labor. Do you not feel the weariness of it? Let us, your neighbors, help with the washing! And whatever else needs doing, only tell us, and we will gladly see to it in your place.
- I thank you for such generous hearts. For now, this humble monk still has strength enough for the work; when that strength fails, and you are still willing to help, how could I refuse you then? Besides, to labor while one still has the health for it is itself a joy to the spirit.
Having said this, the Venerable bared his toothless gums and broke into a hearty laugh: Khách... khách...
On the whole, the Venerable's daily life was simple and content, untouched by the smallest trace of worry or care. Whenever the villagers had some difficulty they could not settle, or something they did not understand, they would come and ask him, and he always answered them clearly, full of compassion and generosity; sometimes, as the talk allowed, he would go on to explain a passage of sutra or a point of the Buddha's teaching, so that nearly every family in the hamlet held him in deep reverence.
To show their gratitude, they often brought rice, vegetables, and soy sauce to the pagoda as offerings. Whenever the rain and wind grew fierce, they would come to ask the Venerable whether the pagoda had suffered any damage, or whether the roof had sprung a leak.
The Venerable would answer them cheerfully:
- Thank you, thank you all! Last night the water dripped right onto my head, onto my bed — if it keeps raining like this a few more days, mushrooms will surely sprout on my bed, and then I'll have a fine harvest to gather!
So everyone climbed up together to mend the leaking roof, replace the rotted rafters, and fill in the gaps. Because the Venerable was a man of such virtue, though the pagoda was small and poor, the people supported it with all their strength and held its resident monk in the deepest respect. As for the Venerable himself, he felt not the slightest weight of poverty. On the contrary, he remained always simple and untroubled — so much so that in this tiny pagoda, mushrooms grew freely on his own bed, and grass grew freely along the walls and across the courtyard. Still the Venerable kept to his cheerful way of life, compassionate and at ease.
A year passed, and the bleak winter came again.
That day, snow lay pure white and piled deep over the gate, the roof, and the courtyard; as evening drew on, the cold grew ever more bitter, cutting to the very marrow. Suddenly there came a knock at the door: tok, tok, tok...
- Who is it? the Venerable called out.
- Old Venerable! Old Venerable! a voice answered from outside.
The Venerable found this strange, and thought to himself: “How odd — who would come calling for me on such a bitter winter night, cold enough to cut through one's very insides?” And yet his feet, as if of their own accord, had already carried him to the door.
The door swung open, and there — who would have guessed it — sat a small fox spirit, curled tight into the crack of the wall; outside, gusts of north wind howled past and beat against the gate. Chilled to the bone, the little fox trembled from head to tail, shivering like a leaf.
- So it's you, poor thing! What brings you here on such a freezing night? Is there something you need of this humble monk? (The Venerable, moved by the sight before him, let these words slip out — though of course, like anyone, he never imagined an animal could understand human speech.)
But strange to say, this fox spirit could understand — and even speak — human language. No sooner had the Venerable finished speaking than it knelt low to the ground and said to him:
- Old Venerable! Don't you recognize me? I live just behind this mountain. I grow older with each passing year, my body has grown thin and weak, and I can no longer bear the winter cold in my den. So I have come to beg the Venerable's compassion, to take pity on my suffering — might I shelter here just for tonight, and light a fire to warm myself a little?
- Yes, yes. Come in!
The compassionate Venerable led the fox spirit into the kitchen, gathered wood, and lit a fire at once to warm it, then said:
- This wood was brought by the good people of the hamlet, back when autumn first began, so that I might be ready for winter. But I've always thought it wasteful to warm myself alone — two of us will burn no more wood than one. So don't be shy; come warm yourself here with me whenever you like.
Hearing this, the fox spirit, moved by the Venerable's kindness, nodded eagerly again and again.
The Venerable asked the fox spirit further:
- They say an empty stomach only sharpens the cold. You must be famished, aren't you? I still have some rice here — let me bring it out for you, shall I? So saying, the Venerable brought out a large bowl of rice and set it before the fox spirit.
The fox spirit took the bowl with joy shining plainly in its eyes, its tail wagging high in the air, and in the blink of an eye the whole great bowl of rice had vanished into its stomach, leaving nothing but the bare bowl behind.
Fed and warmed, the fox spirit gradually returned to its natural ease; thinking now of a good night's sleep, it took its leave of the Venerable and made its way back to its den.
The Venerable answered with a bright smile:
- Since you're used to sleeping in your own den, I won't try to keep you here. But the weather is so cold this season — do come often to warm yourself!
From that day on, the fox spirit came to the pagoda every evening to warm itself with the Venerable. One evening, it arrived struggling under a great log carried on its back, and brought it to him.
The Venerable laughed and said kindly:
- Little fox! I must say your understanding grows sharper by the day, now that you've learned to gather dead wood for our fire — I thank you for it. But take care never to break branches from someone else's trees without leave. They'll beat you to death for it!
Before long, winter gave way to spring; the pure white snow that had covered the mountain melted away entirely, laying bare branches now just beginning to bud. The weather, too, turned mild and warm, as if restoring all things to their natural course.
One evening, the fox spirit bowed low to the ground and said to the Venerable:
- Old Venerable! I was sheltered under the shadow of your compassion — without it, I would have frozen to death that very winter night. Such kindness is immense, and I do not yet know how to repay it. So if the Venerable ever needs anything at all, only tell me, and I will do everything in my power to fulfill your wish.
- No, no, don't trouble yourself over that! This humble monk needs nothing at all, just now.
The fox spirit took its leave, but in its heart it remained restless — determined to find some occasion, someday, to repay the kindness the Venerable had shown it, however much he insisted he needed nothing.
A few days later, the fox spirit came again. In the midst of a pleasant talk, the Venerable, without quite meaning to, let slip a sigh of complaint:
- This humble monk has kept this small dwelling for sixty years now, by the compassion of the Buddha and the support of the hamlet. But in sixty years the pagoda has slowly fallen into decay; it needs repair, and the Buddha statue needs regilding. I've thought that, while I still have life left in me, I really must see to mending the pagoda and restoring the statue, and invite the hamlet to a vegetarian feast to show my gratitude — only then would my heart be at ease.
- Then why doesn't the Venerable begin at once? the fox spirit asked innocently.
- That will have to wait until I have a few taels of gold in hand before there's any use speaking of beginning. For now, even to think of it is nothing but an idle dream!
The Venerable had said this only in idle conversation, never expecting the fox spirit to bow its head, listening in such grave silence, as still as if it could not move at all — which left the Venerable regretting his own words, wishing to turn the talk elsewhere. But the fox spirit hastily took its leave.
- Venerable! I must go now — allow me to return another time. My respectful farewell.
For several days after, the fox spirit did not return to the pagoda. The Venerable thought to himself: perhaps the weather has turned warm enough that it no longer needs to come and warm itself — that would be natural enough. Or perhaps, over those careless words of mine about a few taels of gold, unable to find any, it feels too ashamed to come back — that too would be nothing to worry over. What I truly fear is that it has gone off to steal gold from someone, and been beaten to death for it — that would be a pity indeed.
Thinking this, the compassionate Venerable was filled with remorse, and became convinced the fox spirit no longer lived in this world; so morning and evening, without fail, he redoubled his chanting of sutras and his invoking of the Buddha's name, praying that in its next life the fox spirit would not fall again into the animal realm, but be reborn as a human being.
Time slipped by like water under a bridge. In the blink of an eye, some three years had passed. The Venerable was now well into his eighties, nearing ninety, and still kept this same pagoda.
One summer's night, in the quiet hour toward the last watch, an ivory moon hung suspended in the sky, pouring its gentle light over the whole pagoda grounds. Among the reeds and the grass, insects wove their voices together into a soft, drifting melody. The Venerable was just about to lie down to sleep when, suddenly, there came a knock at the gate and a voice calling:
- Old Venerable! Old Venerable!
The Venerable listened closely — in the silence of the night, it was unmistakably the fox spirit's voice — and hurried to open the door.
- Ah! The Venerable, as if a weight carried for years had suddenly lifted from him, cried out: it truly was the fox spirit! So you are still alive after all? What joy, what joy! Come in, come in quickly!
The Venerable stroked the fox spirit's head, and both their eyes grew moist, moved by so long a separation now suddenly ended in reunion.
The fox spirit took the Venerable's hand and placed in his palm a bar of gold.
Astonished, the Venerable asked the fox spirit:
- What is this? How did you ever come by such a thing? Take it away at once and return it wherever it came from — don't let greed lead you into wrongdoing!
The fox spirit set the gold bar down on the bed and explained gently:
- Three years ago, does the Venerable still remember speaking of needing a few taels of gold to mend the pagoda, restore the statue, and hold a vegetarian feast? From that day, your disciple first thought of stealing gold from others to offer you; but then I considered that the old Venerable, a monk of such high virtue, would never consent to accept a gift so ill-gotten, and so I gave up that idea. Instead I followed some people across the sea to Kim Sa Island — the Isle of Golden Sand — where the local people were mining for gold. Even so, there were still a few grains of gold scattered here and there, mixed into the sand, and I set myself to gathering them, patiently, for three whole years, until I had gathered this much. I lit a fire of wood and melted the grains together into a single bar, and have brought it back as an offering to the Venerable, so that he may at last begin the mending of the pagoda, the restoring of the statue, and the vegetarian feast, just as he had wished.
Having finished speaking, the fox spirit picked up the gold bar and placed it once more in the Venerable's open palm.
The Venerable was so moved that, without meaning to, tears welled up in his eyes — not tears of joy at receiving gold, but tears at seeing such faith and devotion in this fox spirit, who had thought nothing of a thousand miles, who had crossed the sea to glean gold for three long years through who knows how much hardship, with who knows how much patient endurance. It was that very spirit, that very will, that unshakable faith, which brought tears to the Venerable's eyes; and he let the gold bar rest on his trembling palm for hour after hour, unable to bring himself to lower it.
Phạm ngọc khuê
“Man is not wholly a saint, nor wholly a beast, but both at once. And so the beast, too, may become man — and may become a saint.”