"Besides that man, there were several other men who had come along. They were unusually enthusiastic, jostling to donate incense money as they pushed toward the temple gates."
"They all claimed their families needed religious rites and begged the monks to accompany them back to their villages. Their excuses varied, but they all had one thing in common: they specifically asked for Huicong."
The abbot's voice grew heavier. "Though I have been a monk for many years, I understand what these villagers were thinking. I had my disciples stop them at the temple gates and return all the incense money. I could not watch my own disciple make one mistake after another."
"But before I could persuade the villagers to go back down the mountain, they suddenly began shouting as if they had gone mad. I turned around, and Huicong... My disciple Huicong had walked out."
"He went straight into the crowd. Surrounded by the villagers, he just... just went down the mountain with them."
"You didn't stop him, Master?" Jiang Cheng asked, incredulous.
"I thought about it, but just as I was about to speak, my disciple turned around. He looked at me, and it was that same... that same feeling. I froze on the spot." The abbot's voice quickened, with a rare trace of panic. "He knew I was about to speak. No, he even knew what I was going to say next. I mean... he knew every single word I was about to say!"
"Amitabha." As if to suppress his terror, the abbot chanted the Buddha's name in a hoarse, emphatic voice.
Jiang Cheng wasn't swept along by the abbot's story. He was searching for a flaw in it. "Master, there's something I don't understand. The farmers in the village must be very traditional. How could they