Aboard the ferry were a monk, a teacher, a bandit, two antique smugglers, a mother and her child, a young couple, and the ferryman's wife.
The ferryman's wife laid down a wooden plank as the two smugglers struggled to push their motorbike aboard. The tall smuggler cautioned his plaid-shirted companion:
"Careful!"
He wasn't talking about the bike but the cloth bundle in his friend's arms—inside was an ancient porcelain vase.
As they strained, the plaid-shirted smuggler called for help. The teacher hesitated, but the young man from the couple stepped forward, lifting the fallen bike.
Inside, a refined mother and her nine-year-old son sat quietly. When the smugglers positioned the bike, it grazed her leg. She frowned.
The tall smuggler apologized, reaching to brush off the dirt. She swatted his hand away.
Behind them, the monk spoke to the teacher about Bodhidharma:
"When Huike cut off his arm to prove devotion, he pleaded, ‘Master, my mind is troubled.' The great sage replied, ‘Show me this troubled mind.' Huike searched but could not find it. The master then said, ‘See? I have already put your mind at ease.' And with that, Huike was enlightened."
The plaid-shirted smuggler, clutching the bundle, sat near the monk—the safest place. The teacher scowled:
"You, sir! Why squeeze in here?"
The smuggler muttered:
"Forgive me, elder. If this vase breaks, my life is ruined."
The young man sat close to his girlfriend, his fingers grazing her belly beneath the coat. She stiffened slightly but didn't move.
The boat drifted away. The sky darkened. A lone bird flapped toward the mountains.
Suddenly, a sharp voice called from shore:
"Ferry!"
The tall smuggler waved dismissively:
"Ignore them."
But the ferryman's wife hesitated.
A rugged man leaped aboard, splashing water over the monk.
The monk flinched:
"Amitabha Buddha!"
The teacher muttered:
"Looks like a bandit."
He was. Yet he grinned politely, casually took an oar, and lit a cigarette. He winked at the ferryman's wife:
"The sky is neither sunny nor rainy, yet the day has slipped into dusk."
She responded vaguely:
"What storm brings crows from the mountain?"
The bandit laughed:
"A wedding. A sixty-year-old groom, a seventeen-year-old bride."
The boat fell silent.
The little boy, watching the water, suddenly declared:
"I see spirit fish!"
The plaid-shirted smuggler smirked:
"Kid, ask your mom—spirit fish or just carp?"
The mother stiffened, pulling her son close.
Just then, the boy reached into the smuggler's bundle and slipped his hand into the vase.
His mother gasped:
"Take your hand out, now!"
The boy tried—but his wrist was stuck.
Panic spread. The tall smuggler grabbed the vase:
"Damn brat! Always causing trouble!"
The mother sobbed:
"What do we do?!"
The ferry reached shore. A cold wind blew.
Then—knives flashed. The smugglers pressed their blades against the child.
The mother shrieked:
"I don't have money!"
Desperate, she yanked a ring from her finger. The plaid-shirted smuggler snatched it. The tall one pressed his knife to the boy's throat. A crimson drop formed.
The young man clenched his fists. He ripped his own ring from his finger and thrust it at the smugglers:
"Take it. Now let the boy go."
At that moment, the bandit moved. With a single, fluid motion, he swung his nunchaku—shattering the priceless vase.
The mother wept, clutching her son. The smugglers stood in shock. The bandit smirked and leaped onto shore.
The teacher murmured:
"That man... a hero! A revolutionary!"
The ferryman's wife smiled to herself. She knew better. Alone in the dark, he was nothing but danger.
The boat emptied. Only the monk remained.
The ferryman's wife hesitated:
"Master... it's time to disembark."
The monk shook his head:
"I've changed my mind. Take me back."
She sighed:
"I don't ferry people back across."
The monk chuckled:
"That's alright. Once, the great Bodhidharma crossed a river on a single blade of grass."
The ferry turned back. Under the rising moon, the river shimmered like glass. A distant temple bell rang. The monk murmured his mantra:
"Gate gate, paragate, parasamgate…"
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