人參靈根 The Ginseng-Fruit’s Numinous Root
卻說這座山名喚萬壽山。山中有一座觀，名喚五莊觀。觀裡有一尊仙，道號鎮元子，混名與世同君。那觀裡出一般異寶，乃是混沌初分，鴻濛始判，天地未開之際，產成這顆靈根。蓋天下四大部洲，惟西牛賀洲五莊觀出此，喚名草還丹，又名人參果。三千年一開花，三千年一結果，再三千年才得熟，短頭一萬年方得吃。似這萬年，只結得三十個果子。果子的模樣，就如三朝未滿的小孩相似，四肢俱全，五官咸備。人若有緣，得那果子聞了一聞，就活三百六十歲；吃一個，就活四萬七千年。却说这座山名唤万寿山。山中有一座观，名唤五庄观。观里有一尊仙，道号镇元子，混名与世同君。那观里出一般异宝，乃是混沌初分，鸿蒙始判，天地未开之际，产成这颗灵根。盖天下四大部洲，惟西牛贺洲五庄观出此，唤名草还丹，又名人参果。三千年一开花，三千年一结果，再三千年才得熟，短头一万年方得吃。似这万年，只结得三十个果子。果子的模样，就如三朝未满的小孩相似，四肢俱全，五官咸备。人若有缘，得那果子闻了一闻，就活三百六十岁；吃一个，就活四万七千年。
逐句解 Line by line
Now this mountain was named the Mountain of Ten Thousand Years of Life.
The narrator now steps back to brief the reader on a place the pilgrims have not yet entered. 萬壽山, Wàn shòu Shān, the Mountain of Ten Thousand Long Lives — the name is the first hint of what grows there.
On the mountain stood a temple, named the Temple of the Five Villages.
五莊觀, Wǔ zhuāng Guàn, the Five Estates Abbey. Note the tone on 觀: as a Daoist temple it is guàn, not the guān of "to look at" that Sha Monk used a moment ago. The novel will run both readings past each other repeatedly in this chapter, sometimes in a single sentence.
Within the temple dwelt an Immortal, whose Daoist style was Master Zhenyuan, and whose byname was Lord Coeval-with-the-World.
鎮元子, Zhèn yuán Zǐ — and the 子 is the full zǐ, the honorific "Master" of 老子 and 莊子, not the light suffix. His 混名 or byname, 與世同君, means "as old as the world" — a claim the chapter will keep escalating.
In that temple there grew a strange treasure, born at the very parting of Chaos, the first sundering of the primal murk, before Heaven and Earth were opened — a numinous root brought forth complete.
The tree predates the universe. 混沌初分, hùn dùn chū fēn, when Chaos first split; 鴻濛, hóng méng, the primal murk before anything had shape. The fruit is a 靈根, a numinous root, and it grew before Heaven and Earth were separated — which puts it outside the reach of anything created afterwards, including the gods.
Across the whole world of the Four Great Continents, only the Wǔzhuāng Temple of the Western Continent of Cattle-Gift brought it forth. It was called the Grass-Return Elixir, and also the Ginseng-Fruit.
Of the four great continents of Buddhist geography, only this one grows it, and only in this one abbey. It has two names: 草還丹, the Grass-Return Elixir, and 人參果, the ginseng-fruit. 還丹 is a term of art from alchemy — the "reverted elixir," cinnabar cycled back to its original state — so its 還 is huán, "to return," not the hái of "still." In 人參, 參 is shēn, the ginseng reading, and not the cān of "to consult."
Once in three thousand years it flowered, once in three thousand years it set fruit, and only after three thousand more did the fruit ripen — a bare ten thousand years before it could be eaten.
Read the arithmetic slowly, because the novel means it to be absurd: three thousand years to flower, three thousand more to set fruit, three thousand more to ripen. Nine thousand — but the text rounds up to 一萬年, ten thousand, before anyone may eat. 得熟 and 得吃 both take 得 as dé, "manage to."
In all these ten thousand years, it bore but thirty fruits.
Thirty fruits per ten-thousand-year cycle. This number matters more than any other in the chapter, because the whole second half turns on somebody counting them. 似 is the comparative sì; 只結得 takes the light de; 果子 ends in the suffix zi.
The shape of the fruit was just like a child not yet three days born — the four limbs all present, the five features fully formed.
And here is the detail the plot is built on. The fruit is shaped like a newborn — 三朝未滿, not yet three days old, where 朝 is zhāo, "morning, day," not the cháo of an imperial court. Four limbs, five features, all present. Every piece of trouble in this chapter follows from that sentence.
If a person had the karmic affinity and got such a fruit to smell but once, he would live three hundred and sixty years; eat one, and he would live forty-seven thousand years.
有緣, yǒu yuán — to have the karmic connection, the affinity that makes a thing possible for you and not for someone else. Smell it once: three hundred and sixty years. Eat one: forty-seven thousand. The second figure returns later attached to something else entirely, and the echo is deliberate.
The story stops for a briefing. Before the pilgrims arrive anywhere, the narrator tells the reader what is waiting: a mountain called Ten Thousand Long Lives, an abbey called Five Estates, and an immortal named Zhènyuán Zǐ whose byname means "as old as the world." He is not a sky-god and not a buddha; he belongs to a category the pilgrims have not yet run into, and the chapter will keep raising his rank.
His treasure is the ginseng-fruit, also called the Grass-Return Elixir, and its pedigree is extreme even by this novel's standards: it grew at the splitting of Chaos, before Heaven and Earth were separated. The arithmetic is designed to stagger — three thousand years to flower, three thousand to fruit, three thousand to ripen, thirty fruits in ten thousand years, one sniff worth three hundred and sixty years of life and one bite worth forty-seven thousand. Nothing in the chapter will be more valuable than this, and everybody is about to behave very badly about it.
Then comes the sentence the plot is actually built on. The fruit looks exactly like a newborn baby — limbs complete, features complete, not yet three days old. Hold that image. To an immortal it is a marvel; to a squeamish monk with a horror of taking life it is going to look like something else entirely, and the misunderstanding drives everything that follows.