On the pale rice paper.
From nothing, it arose: towering peaks above the clouds, rooted at the ends of the earth; time flowed into streams, causality into mist.
The vast mountain forest was like an endless image of the boundless ages, life and death cycling, flourishing and withering following one another, surging on without end.
A road stretched into the distance, leading to a mountain village, with eight or nine plots of good farmland. Paths crisscrossed, and the calls of chickens and dogs carried from house to house. Wisps of cooking smoke curled upward, as if it had transcended the grand sweep of time and become a little world of mortal life all its own.
By now, the painting was nine-tenths complete.
Eight parts depicted the mountain landscape; one part brought the Small Mountain Village to life.
Though those eight parts of mountain scenery were vast and captivating, though their beauty seemed boundless, they now appeared to exist only as a backdrop for the Small Mountain Village.
The village stood neither atop the highest peak nor in the center of the painting. And yet it was like a single red plum blossom on a green bough, or a crescent moon over a boundless sea.
The green trees were lifeless, brought to life by that one red plum. The sea was lonely, awakened by that crescent moon.
"At the highest point here, you have painted a picture of the ordinary."
Seeing the painting Li Fan had just completed, the Silent One suddenly sighed.
"It is indeed a fine painting."
"Is it finished?"
Li Fan smiled faintly.
"One part remains unpainted."
He moved his brush with calm ease. Its tip swept away from the Small Mountain Village, then suddenly turned back and settled on the highest peak where they stood.
On the