Blessing

On the bus to the Yonghe Temple I fell asleep against a young woman’s shoulder. Drool soaked into her collar. She shouted and shoved me away. I giggled at her. Linlin immediately apologised to the woman, saying that her younger brother was just like this—sometimes he couldn’t control himself. The Yonghe Temple was an old Buddhist complex. Linlin said coming here would be good for me. In front of the main hall I caught the thick smell of burning incense—an unnameable mix of spice and medicine that flooded my head. Crowds surged everywhere; the queues seemed to refresh endlessly around every corner as people waited for free incense sticks. I wanted to leave. Linlin linked her arm through mine and smiled, asking me to be a little more patient. Half an hour later she finally pushed her sticks into the burner, closed her eyes and prayed for blessings. I had no idea what she wished for. I snapped my own stick in two and tossed the pieces on the ground. Reproachful voices rose behind me. I turned and met the eyes of a middle-aged couple. The man, fingering a string of prayer beads, glared at me. I giggled. Linlin pulled me away from the line. At the temple gate we saw a bronze bell enclosed by a railing. A staff member explained that striking it was a form of prayer. Linlin looked at me expectantly, so we joined the queue. In front of us stood a mother and child. The mother’s hair was completely white; the boy looked no more than six or seven. He grew restless, tugging at her sleeve. When their turn came the mother guided the boy’s hand to the striker. The bell rang low and clear. The boy laughed and struck it twice more. The mother watched him. I had never seen eyes quite like that, but I recognised the expression: satisfaction. Finally it was our turn. The mother and child moved towards the exit. The boy’s hand brushed the railing. His body began to shake violently. He pushed at the rail again. It did not move. He looked at his mother. His eyes turned suddenly cruel. He screamed, white foam at the corners of his mouth, and seized her hair, yanking hard. The mother bent double, making small, wordless sounds, making no attempt to stop him. Everyone stood frozen. After ten or fifteen seconds two staff members rushed into the enclosure and separated them. The boy tried to bite one of the men’s arms, but the uniformed man had seen this before; he caught the boy’s wrist cleanly. The child thrashed, making harsh, animal-like noises. “You should take him to a hospital, not bring him here to pray for miracles,” one of them said. While the staff restrained the boy, the other made a phone call. The mother wept as she walked out of the prayer area. A female staff member hurried over from a distant rest room and took her arm. Linlin gripped my arm tightly. Watching their backs, I giggled. Everyone turned and stared at me in disbelief and anger. “It’s all right. It’s all right.” Linlin took my hand and, head lowered, led me to the bell. She struck it hard; the sound drowned out the whispering behind us. With complete sincerity she said she hoped her younger brother would always be healthy, always happy. I only giggled. I could only giggle.