The Return of the Condor Heroes Chapter 23 – Part 6

A person came to the bedside and gently pressed a hand to his forehead. “Guoer, rest well. Your Gugu had business outside the city and has gone out.” It was Guo Jing. Seeing that Guo Jing’s wounds had healed, Yang Guo’s heart was greatly comforted. But then he remembered: For Uncle Guo’s wounds to heal required seven full days and nights. Could it be that I was unconscious for so many days? But then why has the passion flower poison in my body not erupted? A wave of confusion washed over him, his mind went hazy, and he sank back into deep sleep.

When he woke again, it was night. A red candle burned by the bedside. Wu Santong was still sitting at the head of the bed, his eyes fixed unblinkingly on Yang Guo. Yang Guo gave a faint smile and said, “Uncle Wu, I am all right. You need not worry. Are both Brother Wus well?” Wu Santong’s eyes brimmed with hot tears. He could only nod, unable to speak.

Yang Guo had never in his life received such gratitude from anyone and felt rather embarrassed. He changed the subject and asked, “How did we get back to Xiangyang?” Wu Santong wiped his tears with his sleeve and said, “My Zhu shidi¹, entrusted by your shifu, Miss Long, delivered the Sweat-blood Horse to you in that desolate valley. He found the four of us collapsed on the ground and brought us back to the city.” Yang Guo said, puzzled, “How did my shifu know I was in that valley? And what business kept her from coming herself, that she had to ask Elder Zhu to bring the horse to me?” Wu Santong shook his head. “After I returned to the city, I did not meet Miss Long either. Zhu shidi said that though she is very young, her martial arts have reached a realm of divine transcendence. What a pity I had no chance to pay my respects this time. Such a young hero, so extraordinary. I told Zhu shidi that all our years have been lived in the bodies of dogs.”²

Hearing him praise Xiaolongnü with such sincere regard, Yang Guo was very pleased. By age, Wu Santong could easily have been Xiaolongnü’s father, yet he had used the words “pay my respects.” Naturally, it was through the disciple that he honoured the master. Yang Guo smiled faintly and began, “Your nephew’s wound…” But he had spoken only four words when Wu Santong rushed on: “Brother Yang, in the jianghu, it is common for people to help one another in times of danger. But to sacrifice yourself to save others, as you did, saving my two sons, who had so grievously offended you in the past, such great benevolence and righteousness, apart from my own shifu, no one else could ever…” Yang Guo shook his head repeatedly, signalling him to stop.

Wu Santong ignored him and continued, “If I were to call you benefactor, I am sure you would not accept it. But if you call me ‘Uncle’ again, then you are clearly looking down on me, Wu Santong.” Yang Guo, by nature straightforward and never one to stand on ceremony, had already taken Xiaolongnü as his wife in his heart. He was always happy to flout custom and reverse all proper forms of address. So he said cheerfully, “Very well, I will call you Big Brother Wu instead. But when I meet your two sons, it will be awkward to address them.” Wu Santong said, “Address them how? Their petty lives were saved by you. They should be your oxen and horses for the rest of their days.”

Yang Guo said, “Big Brother Wu, you need not thank me so profusely. I am afflicted with the deadly poison of the passion flower. I was already unlikely to live. Sucking the poison for your two sons was nothing remarkable at all.” Wu Santong shook his head. “Brother Yang, that is not how it is. Never mind whether the poison in your body is truly incurable, even if it were certain that no medicine could save you, every extra moment a man lives is a moment worth having. Even the span of a single breath is something no one would willingly give up. There is no one in this world who does not die. Even if your martial arts reach the heavens, in the end you must still die. Yet why does every person still delight in life and loathe death?”

Yang Guo smiled and asked, “How many days has it been since we returned to Xiangyang?” Wu Santong said, “Today is the seventh day.” A look of confusion crossed Yang Guo’s face. “By all reason, I should already have died from the poison’s eruption. How is it that I am still alive? How strange.” Wu Santong said joyfully, “That shishu of mine is a divine monk from India. In healing wounds and curing poisons, he can be counted the finest under heaven. Years ago, when my shifu mistakenly took the poison sent by Madam Guo, it was he who cured him. I will go fetch him at once.” And he bustled excitedly out of the room.

Yang Guo’s heart leaped with joy: Could it be that while I was unconscious, that Indian divine monk gave me some miraculous elixir, and even the passion flower’s deadly poison has been neutralised? Where has Gugu gone? If she learns that I may not die, how happy she will be! His thoughts wandered into tender imaginings. His heart gave a flutter, and suddenly his chest felt as though it had been struck by a giant iron hammer. The pain was unbearable. He could not help but cry out in agony. Since taking the half-pill given by Qiu Qianchi³, he had never experienced such excruciating pain. He realised the half-pill’s medicinal effect had worn off, yet the poison in his body had not been eliminated. He clutched his chest, his teeth grinding audibly. In moments, his entire head was drenched in sweat.

Just as the pain was becoming unbearable, he heard a Buddhist invocation from outside the door: “Namo Amitabha!” The Indian monk entered with his palms pressed together. Wu Santong followed behind. Seeing Yang Guo in such a wretched state, he was badly startled and asked, “Brother Yang, what is wrong?” He turned to the Indian monk and said, “Shishu, the poison is erupting! Quickly, give him the antidote!” The Indian monk did not understand his words. He walked over and took Yang Guo’s pulse. Wu Santong said, “Right!” He hurried off to fetch his shidi Zhu Ziliu to translate. Zhu Ziliu was well-versed in Sanskrit and the Buddhist canon and could converse with the Indian monk.

Yang Guo steadied his breathing for a long while, and the pain gradually subsided. He explained the circumstances of his poisoning to the Indian monk. The Indian monk asked in great detail about the appearance of the passion flower and was greatly astonished. He said, “The passion flower is a rare bloom from ancient times, long since extinct. The Buddhist scriptures record that in those days, the passion flower harmed countless people. It was the Bodhisattva Manjusri who, through the power of his great wisdom, dissolved it from the world. Who would have thought it still survives in the Middle Kingdom? This old monk has never seen this flower and truly does not know how its poison might be neutralised.” His face bore an expression of deep pity. After Zhu Ziliu had finished translating the Indian monk’s words, Wu Santong cried out repeatedly, “Shishu, have mercy! Shishu, have mercy!”

The Indian monk pressed his palms together and intoned, “Amitabha!” He closed his eyes, lowered his brows, and bowed his head in deep thought. The room was utterly silent. No one dared to speak. After a long while, the Indian monk opened his eyes and said, “Layman Yang sucked the poison for my two grand martial-nephews. By the toxicity of those Soul-freezing Silver Needles,⁴ merely sucking a few mouthfuls should have caused instant death. Yet Layman Yang is still alive and well, and the passion flower poison, though its time has come, has also not proven fatal. Could it be that poison has fought poison, the two deadly venoms attacking and restraining each other, and Layman Yang has instead reaped a good result?” Zhu Ziliu nodded repeatedly and translated these words. Yang Guo also felt there was sense in them.

The Indian monk continued, “As the saying goes, good deeds bring good rewards. Layman Yang sacrificed himself for others, this is truly the greatest compassion. This poison must surely have a cure.” Hearing Zhu Ziliu’s translation, Wu Santong leaped up with joy and cried, “Then please, shishu, administer the treatment at once!” The Indian monk said, “This old monk must make a journey to Passionless Valley⁵.” Yang Guo and the other two were all taken aback. The journey to Passionless Valley was not short. Going and returning would take considerable time. The Indian monk said, “This old monk must see the passion flower with his own eyes and test its toxicity before he can attempt to formulate an antidote. Before this old monk returns, Layman Yang must absolutely not stir the slightest thought of love or longing. Otherwise, each bout of pain will be worse than the last. If your vital essence is damaged, then even I will not be able to save you.”

Before Yang Guo could answer, Wu Santong said loudly, “Shidi, let us all go to Passionless Valley and force that old beggar woman to hand over the antidote.” Zhu Ziliu had been wounded by Huodu that day, and Yang Guo had used a clever scheme to obtain the antidote for him. He had long harboured a desire to repay this kindness. He said, “Exactly. We will escort our shishu there together. Whether we two brothers seize it by force or our shishu formulates it, we must obtain that antidote.”

The two shixiong spoke with great enthusiasm, but the Indian monk only gazed steadily at Yang Guo, his brows deeply furrowed with worry.