Aboard the ferry were a monk, a poet, a teacher, a bandit, two antique smugglers, a mother and her child, a young couple, and the ferryman’s wife.
The ferryman’s wife laid down a wooden plank as the two antique smugglers struggled to push their motorbike onto the boat. The tall, thin smuggler cautioned his plaid-shirted companion:
“Careful!”
He wasn’t talking about the bike but about the cloth bundle in his friend’s arms—inside was an ancient porcelain vase.
“Give us a hand!” the tall one called to the man behind him.
That man happened to be the poet. As they struggled with the bike, the poet clumsily lost his footing, causing the bike to tilt. His knee hit the water. The young couple standing on the shore burst into laughter. The girl nudged her boyfriend:
“Help them out!”
The young man took off his coat and handed it to her before stepping forward to lift the fallen bike.
Inside the ferry sat a mother and her nine-year-old son, both from the city, returning to their countryside roots. The mother, a refined beauty of thirty-two, watched as the smugglers positioned their bike. When the vehicle shifted sideways and grazed her leg, she frowned.
The tall smuggler immediately apologized:
“Sorry, ma’am.”
He bent down to brush the dirt from her knee, but she swatted his hand away and turned her face in disdain.
Behind them, the monk spoke to the teacher about Bodhidharma:
“When Huike cut off his arm to prove devotion, he pleaded, ‘Master, my mind is troubled.’ The great sage replied, ‘Show me this troubled mind.’ Huike searched but could not find it. The master then said, ‘See? I have already put your mind at ease.’ And with that, Huike was enlightened.”
The plaid-shirted smuggler, clutching the bundle tightly, chose to sit beside the monk—surely the safest place on the ferry. The teacher, unimpressed, scolded him:
“You, sir! Why squeeze in here?”
The smuggler hunched his shoulders and replied:
“Forgive me, elder. If this vase breaks, my life is ruined.”
“What kind of vase?” the teacher asked.
The smuggler hesitated, shifting uncomfortably.
At the ferry’s edge, the poet dipped his fingers into the water, rocking the boat. The tall smuggler slapped his shoulder:
“Stop it! You’ll drown us all!”
The poet murmured:
“The water’s so clear… I see spirit fish below.”
The smuggler laughed:
“Spirit fish? Just common carp!”
The little boy chimed in:
“No! They’re spirit fish!”
The smuggler smirked at the mother:
“Kid, ask your mom—spirit fish or carp?”
The mother stiffened, instinctively pulling her legs together and grabbing her son’s hand.
The ferryman’s wife pushed the pole. The boat drifted away from shore. The sky darkened, heavy with gray clouds. A lone bird flapped toward the mountains. The ferry turned sideways.
Suddenly, a sharp voice called from shore:
“Ferry!”
The tall smuggler waved dismissively:
“Ignore them.”
But the ferryman’s wife hesitated.
A rugged man leaped aboard, splashing water over the monk.
The monk flinched:
“Amitabha Buddha!”
The teacher muttered:
“Looks like a bandit.”
He was. Yet he grinned politely, casually took an oar, and lit a cigarette. He winked at the ferryman’s wife:
“The sky is neither sunny nor rainy, yet the day has slipped into dusk.”
She responded vaguely:
“What storm brings crows from the mountain?”
The bandit laughed:
“A wedding. A sixty-year-old groom, a seventeen-year-old bride.”
The boat fell silent.
Only the young couple remained oblivious. The young man’s fingers slipped on his girlfriend’s hand. She stiffened but didn’t move.
The poet eyed the plaid-shirted smuggler’s mole and muttered:
“That mole… unsettling.”
The smuggler blinked:
“What?”
The poet made a slashing motion across his throat:
“A man with a mole like yours could kill without hesitation.”
The smuggler laughed:
“How would you know?”
The poet hesitated:
“I… I have foresight.”
The little boy tugged on his sleeve:
“What about me?”
The poet studied the boy’s sorrowful eyes.
“Do you dare to dream?”
“I do!” the boy declared.
The poet sighed:
“Then you are destined for sorrow.”
The mother exhaled. The teacher muttered:
“The world is full of deception.”
Just then, the little boy reached into the smuggler’s bundle and slipped his hand into the vase.
His mother gasped:
“Take your hand out, now!”
The boy tried, but his wrist was stuck. His face paled.
Panic spread. The tall smuggler grabbed the vase:
“Brat! Always causing trouble!”
The boy wailed.
The poet jested:
“The past traps us all. Once you put your hand into history, it’s hard to pull it back out.”
The mother sobbed:
“What do we do?!”
The tall smuggler’s patience wore thin. His fingers itched toward pockets.
The ferry reached shore. A cold wind blew.
Then—knives flashed. The smugglers pressed their blades against the child.
The mother shrieked:
“I don’t have money!”
Desperate, she yanked a ring from her finger. The plaid-shirted smuggler snatched it. The tall one pressed his knife to the boy’s throat. A crimson drop formed.
The young man clenched his fists. He ripped his own ring from his finger and thrust it at the smugglers:
“Take it. Now let the boy go.”
At that moment, the bandit moved. With a single, fluid motion, he swung his nunchaku—shattering the priceless vase.
The poet exhaled:
“Finally.”
The mother wept, clutching her son. The smugglers stood in shock. The bandit smirked and leaped onto shore.
The teacher murmured:
“That man… a hero! A revolutionary!”
The ferryman’s wife smiled to herself. She knew better. Alone in the dark, he was nothing but danger.
The boat emptied. Only the monk remained.
The ferryman’s wife hesitated:
“Master… it’s time to disembark.”
The monk shook his head:
“I’ve changed my mind. Take me back.”
She sighed:
“I don’t ferry people back across.”
The monk chuckled:
“That’s alright. Once, the great Bodhidharma crossed a river on a single blade of grass.”
The ferry turned back. Under the rising moon, the river shimmered like glass. A distant temple bell rang. The monk murmured his mantra:
“Gate gate, paragate, parasamgate…”