They were flying home. That was the thing that made the last fall so bitter and so funny at once: they had the scriptures, the true ones, with words in them; the errand was complete; the Buddha had sent the guardian-gods to carry the pilgrims and their sacred load home to the Tang on cloud, a swift and honoured passage, the reward at the end of everything.
And in the middle of the sky, the clouds simply dropped them.
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