The Mysterious Buddhist Kingdom: Luojia Temple

金狐谷（心理探索）

By Golden Foxvalley

——You read me, I bless you.

1、

In the early autumn of 2049, when my friend Xiaoyu called from Quanzhou, I was flipping through an old photo album. She was my college classmate and the closest friend of my life. Her voice on the other end carried the dampness of the tide: "Come to Quanzhou. I'll take you to see a temple floating on the sea."

I went. She also brought her good friend Zhan Ling. The high-speed train crossed the hills of southern Fujian; the mountains outside the window receded one by one, like someone unrolling an endless scroll of paintings. Xiaoyu waited at Quanzhou Station, holding two boxes of misua soup, its unique local aroma faintly refreshing the senses. She smiled: "Eat first. After you finish, I'll take you to see Luojia Temple at high tide." She stood in the flow of people at the station exit, the sea breeze having already blown her hair into slight disarray, but her eyes were bright. After more than twenty years, she had gained the gentle warmth unique to southern Fujian women, as if the sea breeze here had reshaped her.

All the way through emerald green and floral fragrance, the car headed toward Shishi. The sea breeze slipped softly through the window cracks, carrying saltiness and some indescribable breath. Xiaoyu pointed into the distance: "See that, old classmate? That's the Taiwan Strait." Following her finger, the sea surface was flat, like a spread-out gray-blue satin. At the end of the satin, a line of deep gray loomed faintly. She said that was Taiwan. From the coast of Quanzhou to the main island of Taiwan, the nearest point is only ninety nautical miles. The Shishi coast is only 6.5 nautical miles from Kinmen; on clear days, you can see the cooking smoke curling on the opposite shore.

"Doesn't it look like a zipper?" she asked. "The zipper of the sea. Pull both sides, and it closes."

I smiled. But when I stood on the reef of Luojia Temple, I suddenly felt her words were no joke. In college, Xiaoyu's way of speaking was like this—always able to draw an unexpected layer out of the most ordinary scenery.

2、

The tide gradually rose. First, white foam seeped from the crevices of the rocks, then seawater surged in from all directions, overflowing the stone steps, the incense burner, and the half-buried claws of the pair of stone lions. Before my eyes, Luojia Temple—a place of faith standing on the reef, connected by a delicate stone bridge—began to sink. The eaves of the Guanyin Hall touched the water first, like an egret tentatively dipping its long beak into the sea. Then the bell tower, the drum tower, and the stone plaque inscribed with "Luojia Temple." They submerged one after another, yet remained faintly visible underwater, magical, like a group of shadows hidden beneath the sea.

"Look," Xiaoyu said, "doesn't it look like a mirage?"

Yes. Oh, but no. A mirage is illusory; Luojia Temple is real. It merely temporarily hides itself in the water, like a Bodhisattva occasionally closing their eyes, yet compassion never breaks the chain. At the highest tide, the entire temple gracefully enters the water, leaving only the golden bridge railings exposed on the surface, like a string of prayer beads floating on the vast sea. The red silk ribbons tied to the railings drift underwater, like clusters of coral growing from the seabed. And underwater, the temple's outline ripples in the waves; the vermilion pillars, blue-gray tiles, and golden plaques all transform into an ink wash painting in the water, indistinguishable as to which is heaven and which is the human world, like a dream.

Xiaoyu pointed east: "Look, that line is Lukang."

Lukang. Hanjiang in Shishi and Lukang in Changhua are cross-strait ferry ports. Since ancient times, merchant ships have traveled between them, and believers have communicated. The sea breeze of Hanjiang and the sea breeze of Lukang share the same saltiness; even the oyster omelets on shore are fried identically. Lukang's Longshan Temple is a direct descendant of Quanzhou's Longshan Temple, and Lukang's Mazu Temple shares incense from Meizhou. And Luojia Temple, this Guanyin sanctuary floating on the sea, is in the hearts of Lukang people the brightest lamp pointing toward Quanzhou. Looking west from Lukang, Quanzhou, Xiamen, Zhangzhou, Fuzhou—every port was once where Lukang ancestors boarded ships. Every route is the breath of the same faith in the same strait.

"When I was little, my grandfather said," Xiaoyu's voice lowered, "when he was young, he traveled by ship to Lukang. The ship sailed for three days and three nights. When it docked, he saw Lukang's Mazu Temple, identical to Quanzhou's. He was astonished, then he knelt before the temple and wept. He felt it wasn't arriving in Taiwan, but merely returning to another familiar Quanzhou."

The tide began to recede. The seawater withdrew inch by inch, and Luojia Temple emerged inch by inch. First, the stone steps, wet and draped with seaweed, like steps rising from the seabed. Then the entire temple, dripping all over, like a fairyland emerging from a sea bath. Inside the hall, the Guanyin statue rose slowly, rising, the water droplets on its robes shimmering like diamond fragments under the setting sun. Those droplets fell on the lotus throne, drop by drop, beating a rhythm like a wooden fish. Since the late Tang Dynasty, over a thousand years, this cycle has repeated.

"Look, it's back again," Xiaoyu smiled. "That's why I said it's like a zipper. The tide rises, it closes; the tide recedes, it opens. When closed, the sea is sea, the land is land; when open, Quanzhou is Quanzhou, Lukang is Lukang. In dreams and waking, they have never truly been separated."

3、

In the rise and fall of the tide, dusk fell, and the lights of Luojia Temple came on. Xiaoyu pointed to the sea: "Look more carefully."

I saw it. On the sea, the evening ferry was heading to Kinmen, the lights on its hull dragging a ribbon of galaxy-like light in the water. It was from this area that Shi Lang once trained his troops and set out to recover Taiwan. Now, container ships from Quanzhou and cargo ships from Kaohsiung meet in the middle of the strait, bow to bow, like two family members passing in a corridor, nodding, smiling, each going their own way. On deck are Quanzhou's shoes and hats, Zhangzhou's fruits, Xiamen's electronic components; from the other side, pineapple cakes, high-mountain tea, silicon wafers. Cross-strait sea express mail from Taichung to Quanzhou matches air freight in speed but costs only sixty percent. After the weekend container route from Quanzhou directly to Taiwan Island opened, the waiting period for goods dropped from seven days to three, arriving in beautiful Taiwan the next day.

Overhead, night flights constantly swept by, their wing lights blinking like UFOs in the sky. Flights from Quanzhou Jinjiang Airport and Taipei Songshan Airport crisscross in the clouds, their contrails like two thoroughfares meeting at a crossroads in the sky.

Xiaoyu said again: "Let's dive down and take a look together. There's a diving amusement park ahead where we can go down." So we agreed to go into the sea.

Underwater, a transparent tunnel extended from the bottom of Luojia Temple, crossing the seabed, stretching eastward. Inside the tunnel ran silver-white trains, their windows lit, like a glowing snake swimming from Quanzhou to Taiwan. The train stopped at Kinmen, at Penghu, at Lukang, and finally at Taipei. At every stop, people got on and off. When the doors opened, what rushed in were Quanzhou accents, Lukang tones, Taipei inflections. But mixed together, they didn't sound noisy; instead, they were like a big family in a hall, each speaking their own way, lively yet peaceful. A family, after all, has different customs even ten miles apart, I thought.

"What are you thinking?" Xiaoyu asked.

"Thinking about this tunnel," I said. "From Quanzhou to Taiwan, how long does it take?"

"Very fast," she said. "Faster than the tide."

Three lines: one in the sky, one on the sea surface, one beneath the sea. They exist simultaneously, operate simultaneously, and simultaneously bring people from both sides of the strait to each other. And Luojia Temple stands at the intersection of the three lines, like the entrance hall of a home—whether you return from the sky, from the sea, or from beneath the ground, you finally stop before this temple floating on the sea. Push the door, and there is Guanyin. Walk further in, and there is Quanzhou. Further in, and there is Taiwan. Further in, and it is the same home.

Coming out of the water, we walked out side by side. Xiaoyu patted my shoulder: "Let's go. You get busy as soon as you arrive, eyes only for seeing, not for your stomach. The misua soup is cold."

Looking back at Luojia Temple. The tide was rising again, and it was sinking into the water, like a clam slowly closing. The ever-burning lamp shone from underwater, dyeing the surrounding waves golden. In the rise and fall of the tide, it rises and falls, like a deity breathing. And everyone who sees it will, in that breathing, hear their own heartbeat.

Xiaoyu's voice came from behind: "The lamp is on, the door is open. No matter how late you return, someone is waiting for you. How wonderful."

The last ferry was heading east. The lights in the cabin, like a string of prayer beads, lit one by one, transforming the broad Taiwan Strait into a golden bridge, never sinking.

September 30, 2026, in Altay