The Mysterious Case of North Pavilion

In a small village tucked away in the southeastern corner of the land, life had always been simple and untroubled, the people honest and kind, untouched by the world’s strife. Villagers lived in harmony, loving one another, respecting the old and cherishing the young. Call it superstition or call it custom, the people here revered the temples of Buddha and Tao alike, worshipping the vegetarian Three Pure Ones and the meat-eating Guanyin Bodhisattva—never mind that Guanyin actually belonged to Buddhism; in the countryside, such distinctions were blurred. The finest and most beautiful building in the village was the Guanyin Temple by the river, a testament to its esteemed place in local life.

The temple stood in the heart of the administrative village, at the crossroads of its four natural hamlets. Incense burned thick in the air, especially on the first and fifteenth days of the lunar month, when worshippers came in an endless stream. With a population of only six to eight thousand, including elders and children, “endless” might seem an exaggeration, but tradition demanded that every household, young and old together, paid homage to Guanyin.

Though gilded and resplendent, the temple’s grounds were modest, hemmed in by the mountains; including the courtyard and the cement terrace, the whole space measured only some eight to nine hundred square meters. When crowds gathered, it turned lively and cramped. Before the temple flowed a small river called Luoshui, spanned by an ancient stone bridge of the same name. With the mountains as backdrop and water at its feet,