24. Echoes of an Immortal's step

In the early days of this millennium, I graduated university in England and set out for a new life in China. Here, I share the quiet stories of my journey, a chronicle of discovery and displacement, woven into the fabric of a land vast and unfathomable.

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The weekends had become my own, a chance to step outside the rhythm of campus life. I wanted to seek something deeper, a sense of history and meaning that I had not yet found in the usual haunts of the expat community. The bright lights and familiar faces were comforting, but they felt transient, shallow. In the quieter corners of Guangzhou, I hoped to discover something more enduring.

That morning, I set out alone. My guidebook had mentioned the Temple of the Five Immortals, tucked away in the old city. The legend was thus: five celestial beings, riding into Guangzhou on rams, bearing sheaves of rice to bless the land with abundance. The rams had turned to stone, and the city flourished in their wake. It was a fable of providence, of gifts left behind. But fables carried weight in China, shaping not just stories, but the land itself.

The temple lay past streets of crumbling homes, where laundry hung above narrow alleys, and the smell of frying noodles drifted from cart vendors. Along the walls, old propaganda slogans were fading into obscurity, half-covered by creeping vines. The way narrowed and turned, and then opened into a courtyard. The temple itself was smaller than I expected, unassuming from the street. The gate stood open, flanked by worn stone lions, their faces softened by time and rain.

Inside, the courtyard felt forgotten. Shadows pooled beneath the eaves, incense curled in forgotten spirals, and the red paint on the wooden pillars was peeling in long, curling strips. Paper offerings had been left on a low altar; burnt at the edges, wind-stirred and half-scattered. There was a sense that the temple still lived, just more slowly now, like an old man who moved through habit, not haste.

At its heart lay a pond.

It should have shimmered with koi, bright orange against the green of the water. But the pond had been drained - temporarily, the sign said - for cleaning. An attendant moved slowly across the basin, scrubbing at the stone with a brush and a hose, his movements rhythmic and unhurried. In place of reflections and ripples was the slick sheen of wet stone. A thin layer of algae clung to the basin like a memory. At first I didn’t see it. Then I did.

At the pond’s lowest point, embedded in the stone, was an enormous footprint.

It was unmistakable. Not carved, but sunken. Not decoration, but imprint. As though some colossal being had stepped here once, pausing for a moment before vanishing into the sky.

I crouched at the edge, camera in hand. As I framed the shot, a voice broke the silence.

"You like to take pictures?"

I turned to find an old man watching me. He was slight, with a face like worn parchment, dressed in a simple short-sleeved shirt and loose trousers. His eyes, however, were sharp with curiosity.

"Yes," I replied.

He nodded, satisfied. "Where are you from?"

"Britain."

"Ah." He seemed to weigh this for a moment, then gestured toward the pond. "You know this?"

I glanced back at the footprint. "Five Immortals," I said, tentatively.

He smiled. "Yes. But do you know why?"

I hesitated. My Mandarin was improving, but there were gaps, places where meaning slipped through, like water through cupped hands. He began to speak, slowly at first, then with growing animation. I caught fragments: the immortal who had stepped down from the heavens… the moment his foot had touched the earth… the blessing he had bestowed. The footprint was a relic, proof of his passage.

I nodded along, grasping at meaning, but some of his words eluded me. He must have seen it in my face.

"You understand?" he asked.

"A little," I smiled.

He chuckled. "Not easy. Even for Chinese, not always easy."

There was no impatience in his voice, only the amusement of someone who had lived long enough to see understanding as a thing that unfolded slowly. He looked at the footprint again, as if seeing it anew, then patted my shoulder and walked away, vanishing through a side gate with the quiet ease of someone who had known this place all his life.

I stayed there a while longer, resting my arms on the low stone wall that circled the pond. There was no cordon. Nothing to stop someone from climbing over - though no one did. The footprint remained untouched, preserved not by glass or rope, but by something quieter: reverence, perhaps, or simply doubt. I traced the wall absently with my fingers. The stone was smooth, and still held the warmth of the afternoon sun.

Later, I sat on a shaded bench, thumbing through my guidebook. The words there filled the gaps in our conversation: the legend of the celestial being who had touched earth only once, the footprint left behind as a gift and a memory. Some said it was a natural formation, carved by time and water. Others insisted it was sacred, a place where heaven had briefly met the mortal world.

I closed the book. The truth didn’t matter. What mattered was that I had stood at the edge of an emptied pond, staring at something I did not yet fully understand.

Perhaps that was why I had come to China in the first place - not just to teach, not just to see, but to stand on the edges of things, reaching for meaning in a land that refused to yield it easily.

The temple was quiet as I made for the exit. Outside, the city pressed close once more: scooters wove between bicycles, market stalls spilled onto pavements, and the air hummed with the rhythm of daily life. But for a moment, I had stepped outside it, into something older, something just beyond reach.

As I walked back toward the bus stop, I thought of the footprint once more. It would remain in my mind as it had remained in the stone: silent, enigmatic, waiting to be understood.

In China, there were no easy answers. Every step forward seemed to uncover more questions. But in the quiet of that temple, in the weight of the footprint, I found something deeper than I had anticipated - an understanding that meaning was not always something to be grasped. Sometimes, you simply had to stand before it and listen.

A Moment of Gratitude

If the words of Ill Grandeur have resonated with you, consider buying me a cup of tea. In China, tea is more than just a drink - it is a symbol of connection, warmth, and reflection. A one-off tea is a way of sharing in the journey, supporting the story, and keeping the spirit of discovery alive. Every cup helps bring the next chapter to life.