[8th] Week 302: Tales of Enlightenment (BANNED FOR PLAGIARISM)

[littlepriests]

	Tale	WC
•	Monk is a Four Letters Word	2528
•	Tears of Fall	2267
•	A Winter's Morning	1594
•	Questioning Spring	1948
•	The Fiery Fire of Summer	2003
•	Voiding the Soul	2559
__	________________________________	______
	ToE	12872

Unexpected Arc

I know that there's a circle in hell for people that dish out more than 12k words in a week...

 

[littlepriests]

Monk is a Four Letters Word
[2528]​

Most of the indoor activities of the monks took place inside the huge hall on the ground floor of the monastery. Except for eating, which was held in the refectory, and a few other selected and dedicated choirs, the Brotherhood members shared the ample room for exchanging ideas, taking part in games of wit, as well as any other community moments. Especially when the days were shorter, or promised heavy rain, the monks gathered together and shared tales and stories. The one-eyed monk had already heard the story at the center of the current debate, yet he stopped to listen to it again. If truth be told, he had never truly understood the meaning of it.

There they stood, a pair of beggars huddled around a small fire in a winter storm.
"I wish it were not so cold!" said the first.
"I can arrange for that," said the second
“Then do so," said the first, "and quickly!"
With that, the second beggar put out the fire.

As much as other monks had explained to the Russian throughout the brief moments of gathering after his cloistered period in the monastery, the greatest goal of those who followed the path of the Brotherhood was to reach enlightenment. The concept of enlightenment is tenuous and cannot be fully expressed in words. In fact, the very concept of illustrating enlightenment in words defies the concept itself. Enlightenment is beyond description, a higher state of consciousness that can only be understood by those who have attained it.

Though by its very nature enlightenment might be wordless, enlightened individuals throughout the ages have written endless stories, or koans, to help others along the way, as the road to enlightenment is often called. The paradoxical nature of the koan is often ignored by the unenlightened, and the philosophical riddles are disregarded as mere babbles. Ironically, the truth behind many koans is to demonstrate their untruth. In the end, words are necessary for understanding but become a burden to true understanding, and must be discarded. For this reason, the koans of the Brotherhood are confusing and intentionally self-negating.

The Reader subsided and a senior monk took from there with a nasal voice. “Enlightenment can only be found with no words, but cannot be approached without them."

The mathematician’s mind had always been structured to accept logical facts, strengthened by numbers and able to construct theories based on the scientific relationship of causes and effects. The contradictory and illogical nature of the koans was ill-faced by the blonde monk, for his brain would keep approaching the problem from a squared perspective. Thinking outside the box, maintaining a floating point of view, was not the real issue; the true challenge was to keep up with the continuous and utter nonsense.

They said that anyone could become enlightened, from the lowliest soul to the most powerful shinigami, though those who lived their lives according to the tenets of the Brotherhood are said to stand a better chance at finding the path. On the other hand, karma might be a factor, and an enlightened soul can hardly hold his elevated position if he wishes ill upon others. Enlightenment is by no means permanent; those who are unworthy will find themselves cast back into doubt and confusion just as quickly.

That was how the Russian had explained himself his scarce ability to better himself along the path towards enlightenment. He held such regrets and such hatred that his inner soul was anchored to events of the past that he should have discarded already. Ole had been trudging along carrying a weight with him, a binding that forced him to live only a false half-life.

The most basic concept of enlightenment is simplicity. The enlightenment brought about by following the way is immediate, an instant and complete perception of reality. Just as all things in nature are permitted to be themselves, no more is required for a human soul to reach its full potential than merely to realize itself. As all souls are different, so is every path to enlightenment different. What one individual finds to be enlightening, another may not. Each must follow his own path amid the constraints and freedoms of reality.

A popular approach in the quest for enlightenment is the practice of deep meditation, a state in which the soul blends perfectly into the dance of primal energies. It is a form of meditation in which the mind is encouraged to focus upon nothing. Just like Jinzen. Through this state, the mind reaches a perfect state of non-being. It is said that a minute in this state is like unto a minute of enlightenment.

For as much as Ole tried, there was no peace in his meditations. What was worse, the more he practiced, the more vivid his dreams became. It was a bitter sense of irony that the world had seen fit to add to the quest to final enlightenment. There were vagabonds of the soul that would not need to confront their inner self and demons in order to reach the desired goal. The stronger the bond with the world of reality, the harder it is to get rid of correlated emotions, and therefore the longer the path.

Anyhow, the monks of the Brotherhood believed that enlightenment can be most easily found in the casting off of material things. Some sects extend this belief so far as to include the body itself. Fear, desire, and regret, the three greatest sins, all stem from the needs and weaknesses of the body. If there were no physical self, what would one fear? What could one possibly desire? What need would there be to regret? For these monks, the body is as much a corruptive force as any enemy. Only by rising above the body, by shedding aside its weaknesses and allowing the soul to flourish, can the true nature of the self be unleashed.

Another popular concept behind the idea of enlightenment is the idea of restfulness. Only one without ambition can find the goal. Consider the idea of a man climbing a mountain. A monk of the Brotherhood would suggest that only the climber who does not wish to reach the top has a hope of achieving his goal. The climber who thinks only of the top divides his focus by half. The climber who further wonders what he will find when he arrives divides it by one third. The climber who quests to reach the top before all others has the least hope of all. Similarly, those who seek most rigorously the goal of enlightenment have the least hope of finding it.

By reflecting about that additional consideration, a koan in itself if you might, brought the worst of Ole’s personality out. What should one be concentrating on while attempting a feat? Completing it. How could this act reduce the focus and disperse the required energies? Frustration and resentment had clogged the blonde mathematician effort more than once, leaving him even bitter, only partially interested in pursuing the path. Unless it was the path of revenge they were talking about.

There are many dangers upon the road to enlightenment, what many amongst the monks call “false paths”. The skills that one learns in the everyday practice - proper concentration, cultivation of a ready mind, mastery of oneself, a powerful and fluid character – can potentially provide an unworthy soul with great power, an illusion of enlightenment that seems true but leads only to ruin. Many great souls throughout history have believed their path to enlightenment to be straight and true, only to be brought low by their own arrogance.

An added danger is presented to those monks that are deemed ready for the outside world and are confronted by the presence of any kind of evil beings. Most of those, which are completely rooted by their own material desires, find no end of amusement by tormenting pious monks. Such creatures evaluate the inner fortitude of a skilled monk a mock effort, something that should be crushed, and quickly lead such a powerful individual down a false path to corruption. This is always a sad event, and the Brotherhood seeks to redeem a traveler on a false path wherever possible.

Probably, but that was mainly his grim perspective, Ole was one of those meager creature walking down a fake path, one paved with lies and falsehood. The Brotherhood had accepted him and welcomed him with open arms. Yet, he felt just like a less fortunate bystander that is pitied more than comprehended. It was not compassion what was the Russian was seeking! On the other hand, the mathematician had not a clear idea what was the thing he was seeking either. Especially considering that there was no procedural approach in determining whether one had reached enlightenment or not.

It is generally agreed upon that enlightenment is verifiable - certain sects doubt this, especially the Questionables, but they make a practice of doubting everything. However, is it possible to give proof of such attainment? This is a difficult question. Technically, the answer seems yes. Many large temples, conduct secret “tests" to determine an enlightened soul. The abbot of the temple might even present those that pass with certification of enlightenment. Of course, a material document is hardly proof of spiritual enlightenment, and many temples laugh at the very idea. Those who find enlightenment are likely to live out their lives in obscurity, for those who find the way are unlikely to seek fame and fortune for their accomplishment.

The steps were soft, but the approaching subject was full of life and ardour. The man was tall, not that much higher than Ole himself, but with a great more deal of muscles to boast. Completely bald, as it was customary, he proudly showed an array of scars all around his body. They said that he had survived various close calls over the years. His already thick body frame seemed accentuated by a set of interesting tattoos. The Russian had never seen him wearing any more clothes than leggings and sandals, with a large poncho to cover his torso when strictly needed, especially during winter.

Unlike most brethren of the Brotherhood, that one monk liked people to know what he was and what he was able to do. Matsuyama was his name and he was known to smile often, always appearing engaged in the interests of others - this is how he had gotten the attention and trust of the blonde mathematician, by the way. He was able to listen to a commoner’s talk about his rice crop for hours on end, as well as participating in a discussion between jockeys about the best saddle to use with equal interest. As a matter of fact, however, Ole had never succeeded in obtaining any information from that man about himself, as he rarely gave personal details of his own life. He returned to the monastery when he could, but never stayed for long, his feet constantly yearning for the feel of the road.

Although he was one of the best known members of the Brotherhood, Matsuyama had little in common with his brethren. For as much as they were language challenged, he was open. For as much as they were solemn, he was jovial. For the love they shared to speak in riddles, he preferred to speak with clarity. Technically and not, Matsuyama was nothing like the other members of his order. Yet no one else so well embodied the tenets and philosophies they adhered to. He was raised in the family's monastery from birth, and it was always assumed that he would spend his life in quiet meditation.

He spent years in study and devout preparation for his role, embracing the philosophy of the Brotherhood with a zeal few had seen before. But as soon as he received his vows, he got outside the gate and began traveling the length and breadth of Soul Society. Some of his teachers were outraged and confronted the abbot with what they felt was a gross failure of duty.

The sensei had merely laughed. “Do not expect the crow to swim just because you tell him he is a goldfish," he said with a chuckle.

Matsuyama stopped just by the Russian’s position and looked him up and down. “It seems to me that you can live even outside of your small cell, then...” he commented with his usual smile of taunt.

“It does seem so,” the blonde mathematician replied, not so interested in playing the part. “Where do you come from anyway?”

“You know what they say of me,” the other commented, “and everything is possibly true!”

The tales of Matsuyama's exploits in Rukongai were abundant, even though not all of them were verifiable. They said that he had chased off dealers from small neighborhoods, caught mobsters trying to blackmail honest merchants, although apparently aiding them in blackmailing dishonorable noble families. The most famous reported incident involved leaping from a mountain to impress a shinigami sent to understand the Brotherhood’s ways and philosophy. For years, he had wandered Rukongai's Districts, appearing and disappearing, aiding the plights of some and thwarting the plots of others.

“You would like me to believe that you really took the role of a tattooed court jester,” Ole said, turning to face his most beloved mentor, “only to mock the lord of the house and find out if it was possible to slip into the bedroom of his fabled beautiful daughter!?”

“I can tell you that such fabled beauty was completely overrated,” the monk pointed out, “since a noble nature cannot be bought with money or commanded with status.”

“If the girl’s presence was hideous, just say so,” the Russian retorted, amused.

“I’m just saying that you should never expect people to be better than they truly are,” Matsuyama explained solemn.

“Meh,” the blonde mathematician snorted, “I like the fact that you can afford to be as clear as a mountain pond.”

“Would you expect a monk to be clear in his koan?” the mentor asked his pupil.

“I would not be so arrogant to know what a monk is supposed to be,” the maimed man commented, “but flirting shamelessly with geisha is not the first thing that strikes my mind...”

“Your mind is clouded,” the tattooed monk pointed out, “I confront temptation with forethought and an equal amount of zest.”

“For the love of what is good and just,” the blonde mathematician exclaimed, “why would you do that?”

“I wish to understand as much as I am able to about the world's passions, without necessarily succumbing to them,” Matsuyama explained, “dancing on the edges of the forbidden, while never crossing over. Going hungry at opulent feasts, or drinking nothing but bitter tea in the midst of sake festivals, is no torture, nor blatant denial of what I may indulge in. I just consider any experience as thrilling as any other else: that is my monk way.”

“I have never heard you referg to yourself as a monk, or having a monk way,” Ole retaliated as sly as possible.

“Ah,” Matsuyama exclaimed, “but monk is just a four letters word.”

 

[littlepriests]

Tears of Fall
[2267]​

“No! You cannot leave! Just tell us which of them is responsible for this, and...” the voice of the young man trailed off. Not even a man, proper, but just a boy of fifteen years old. He did not know how much cruelty could be created in the name of revenge. In his naivety, he could not devise any fate of pain and suffering sufficient enough to smack down upon his father's enemies.

“Stop,” the older man said, and the pain could be heard in his voice. It snapped like the waves on the rocks below the White Cliffs of Dover. “You will find yourself at the wrong end of a pointed blade,” the father told the child, “and that will be the death of our whole line, not just my departure.”

Tatsuo was a famous strategist, well-known for his tactical skills and court abilities. He was not someone that could be swayed easily, or forced to relent. Daisuke, the young son, bit his lip in frustration. Death, he thought, my father is going to die. Perhaps not by the swift stroke of a katana, but forgotten in the league of oubliettes known as the Brotherhood.

The scene in itself was sad. The son watched his father as he folded his last kimono. Pristine white, enclosed in the sky-blue kashimo, the old man carried it out to the courtyard. He was dressed in plain gray, a symbol of his humility. He looked like a ronin. Of course retiring to join the Brotherhood was honorable in a way, but not the reward of a life devoted to duty. But to be sent away in your prime to a cold, barren cell, to shave your head and waste your best years with shriveled old men and meditate upon a world you did not even participate in - it was just another death.

Daisuke’s father gave the last of his personal belongings to the thin monk who waited nearby. As he watched the monk carry them away to be given to the Brotherhood, he said, “it will not be so bad. l remember how the monks would come to worship around our mansion in the spring. You can look for me among them, teaching the children.” The father hesitated, and added, “The Noble families have no longer a need for my knowledge of political maneuverings. Perhaps those children can put the information to better use.”

His words were bitter. The son’s anger choked his throat when he tried to retort. The young heir looked at his father's tears as the world he had created slipped away. His mouth was dry as he spoke next. “Just give me a little time, Father,” he promised, “I’ll make sure they take you back.”

The old man pulled his sword from his obi and laid the sheathed blade in his son’s hands. “I once thought that,” he began, “if I had but enough days to live, I could make a difference in this world. Each day, each moment, was precious, because there was so much to live for.” He seemed resigned, lost. “Now, all of that time has slipped out of my hands. I look into the future, and see only the Brotherhood and endless days of... nothing at all. I do not know what I will find in that future. But I think, for me, time has ended.” He released the blade.

“For you, it is only beginning. I will pray for you,” he added sourly.

Daisuke watched his father walk out of the courtyard, the first steps of his pilgrimage to the monastery and into solitude. I swear that I will free him, somehow, he vowed in his mind.

***

The room was cold, a barren stone cell empty of adornment. A simple pallet, stuffed with straw, served as a futon. An oil lamp burned lazily and filled the air with its scent. A set of brushes and paper were the only remnants of the man Daisuke had known all his life. The son resolved to leave as quickly as possible and, therefore, went all-out.

“I have the promises of assistance we need, at least one Noble House will approve,” he explained, “there had been developments so that the Court needs your guidance once more, Father. It is time to come out of retirement, put aside your poetry, and reclaim your place where you truly belong.”

The old man just watched his son with quiet eyes and said nothing. The brown robes enfolded his frame, still strong, still healthy. Those eyes contained all the sharpness Daisuke remembered from his childhood, but as they had done when he was a child, they told him the answer without any need to speak. His eyes said, “No, I cannot!”

“But you were forced to retire, Father!” the son’s voice was desperate. “Everyone knows that your honor in the court was beyond reproach, your counsel heeded by all. They saw the first gray in your hair, and turned all against you, claiming you were too old for your duties. They forced you into this monastery, this exile. Out of jealousy! Do you not remember?”

He answered, but his face still held the half smile he wore when he watched his son as a child, “I do remember.”

Daisuke was angry. He had worked for six years to return his father to his rightful place at the Court, where once his eloquence prevailed, and he was refusing to return. He was spurning the fruit of the youngster’s efforts. The court needed him, how could he be so blind?

“You wept when the Lords told you to go,” the son continued, “there were rumors you had died of a broken heart. That your angry spirit had brought down penance on the Noble Houses as a whole... did all of that mean nothing to you?” Daisuke needed him.

The old father closed his eyes. “It meant everything to me,” he explained slowly, “I lived to serve, and I was treated with kindness and opulence in return. I had all I wished, and thought there was nothing more that I could desire... There was no happiness. Why...?”

The pause was full of mystery and meaning, before he continued, “I needed to find the one thing I could never have. Something too precious to sacrifice, even for the sake of the Noble Court.”

The old man held out his hand, begging the son to understand. Daisuke was still too angry to reach to him. All his planning, all he had done for his sake, was being lost. "What did you find?" he asked bitterly.

“Freedom from time,” the answer came as a whisper.

***

The monk saw the courtesan before Daisuke saw him. He remembered the pious man was neither young nor old, a man of his own age. The children of the District which had nobody caring for them were clustered around him, listening to his stories and parables. So distracted he was by his duties of the day that Daisuke had just walked through the middle of their gathering in his desire to reach the assembled court.

“Courtesan-sama!” the monk hailed. His voice was respectful enough, but there was laughter in his eyes. Daisuke was too preoccupied to be concerned. “Sumimasen, courtesan-sama... Please forgive us for gathering in such a traveled place, where we could impede your path.”

The busy man waved the apology away, not eager to talk to one of the Brotherhood, even after ten years. “It is nothing. I am far too busy to be concerned with such trivial matters.” Daisuke tried to walk away.

The corners of the monk's mouth tilted upward slightly. “Of course, courtesan-sama,” he called out again. Then he said, “If I may ask, for the further knowledge of these children regarding the duties of their elders, what sort of tasks are you concerned with this day?” He bowed deeply to him again and said, “Forgive me if the question is impertinent.”

The strategist’s son was annoyed with the monk's question, but the day was bright and fair, and the children were watching him with eager eyes. Daisuke had enough time to answer for their sake, at least.

“I’m going to fulfill my obligations at the Court, before meeting with the merchants that tend to our rice,” he explained. “Then I will set up a series of events to permit two prominent patriarchs to interact in a peaceful and controlled setting, so they will be able to come to an understanding and prevent war between their two families. I also will be arranging the Court's activities in celebration of the Sake Festival. This way, the Noble Houses may perform the rites that insure their ancestors are properly venerated throughout the land. If I have time, I then will try to compose some poetry in honor of our Lady for the Festival.”

Some pride tainted his words, but he was truly proud. He had worked hard to reach a position where he could serve the Noble Families well and see that it was kept on the correct path. The monk bowed deeply again in his direction, and the children followed in turn. Daisuke stood straighter, pleased at the acknowledgement.

The monk then said, “Domo arigatou. It sounds to me as though you are concerned with many great things, courtesan-sama. You have very little time, and on each moment, great things hang. It is perfectly understandable that you would not be able to divert, even for a instant, to move around this humble class.” He bowed a final time, and remained bowed until Daisuke moved away.

The proud man walked away slowly. Daisuke wanted to feel anger toward the monk, but his anger had no fire. The courtesan perceived the words the monk was proposing to the school of children, “Be more concerned with good actions than with great ones.” Those words resonated with something that he had heard in his childhood. Instead of rage, he felt shame. Later, kneeling in prayer, Daisuke searched in his heart for greater wisdom and understanding, searching for what he had lost. However, he could not search long; other obligations swiftly drew him away. The courtesan did not have any time to spare.

***

Many years have passed since then. His father joined the ancestors long ago. Now his hair was gray, and his arm no longer had the strength it had when he was younger. Daisuke had said farewell to his sons with the dawn of the morning, and the sunset was upon him by then. He was wearing a gray robe, standing before the monastery door. He was not angry any more.

“Come, courtesan-sama. He will see you now,” the monk who came for him was surprisingly young. He must have been one raised in the Brotherhood. Daisuke wonder if he wished his life had been different, wished that it too had held a wife, lovers, children. Was he bitter?

I will pray for my sons, I will go of my own free will, he said in his mind, while he was led around the line of waiting supplicants. The abbot was awaiting him. He knelt humbly. My star has risen and fallen in the Noble Court... Daisuke pondered next, I have lived much. I bear wounds to my spirit from the battles I have waged, battles fought without raising a sword. I do not have regrets.

“Why are you here, courtesan-san?” the abbot enquired. The room seemed to draw itself about him, and he reached out to it, one in communion with all things. His wisdom touched levels too deep for Daisuke to understand, and that wisdom, that power, captured him like the words of a master orator. But, despite the mantle of power the senior monk bore, he was no different than what he seemed. He was only an old man in saffron robes. He reminded Daisuke of his father.

“I have come to beg your favor,” the man said, “I ask to join the Brotherhood, as my father did before me.”

Daisuke had read the poetry of his father's last years, haiku of rain and the passing of seasons, the crashing of waves upon the shore, and they speak of change and of eternity. He knew the Brotherhood would not take everything from him. His poetry still waited. And something else.

“What do you seek here, courtesan-san?” the abbot asked again, his voice contained and formal. The other monks watch the supplicant with ageless eyes. He knew the correct response. Daisuke knew that he should say that he was seeking enlightenment. It was expected. But... to become enlightened, to be one with all things, to lose the self... The man of the court was not ready to walk that path. He was still yearning for the world too much.

“I seek freedom,” he said finally, breaking the mantra.

The abbot looked amused, “Freedom from what, Daisuke?”

The question was formulated using the man first name, discarding any family and any heritage. The decision to accept him into the monastery had already been taken. Soon, his head would be shaved, and he would wear the saffron robes as all the other monks.

***

“Did you find freedom from time?” the blonde mathematician asked at the end of the tale.

“Yes and no,” the senior monk observed.

“That is...?” Ole pressed.

“Sometimes it doesnâmatter what you obtain,” Daisuke commented, straightening up and stretching his long limbs, “it matters only what you gather along the road.”

“What have you gathered, then?” the Russian asked impatient.

“More haiku...” the other replied, leaving the one-eyed monk alone.

 

[littlepriests]

A Winter's Morning
[1594]​

The palanquin swayed gently, its golden etchings gleaming in the bright morning sun above the lands of the souls. The men who carried it were hardly burdened by the slight weight of their passenger, their shoulders bearing the long mahogany poles which held the litter aloft. They had traveled long through the Districts, from almost the Walls of the White City itself. They would have preferred to be escorted by a small honor guard of samurai, but there were no personnel to spare in those troubled days. The journey had not taken long, but it had taxed the carriers gravely for the fear they had of their passenger’s wellbeing. They knew that her Lord father’s palace awaited their return.

As they approached the great gates of the mansion, a wizened beggar sitting by the road lifted his wooden bowl in supplication. With a single word from within the curtains of the palanquin, the procession slowed, and the carriers lowered the litter. The beggar bowed very low, his face nearly touching the ground and his worn and travel-torn kimono creasing beneath him as the door of the palanquin slid gently open.

The guards bowed slightly as a young girl stepped forth from the covered carriage. Her dress was rich, her face young and unlined, yet her bearing was exquisite and her voice sounded cultured and confident. With a bright smile, she bowed slightly to the beggar in return, and knelt by the side of the road. Her step was smooth, but rocked in an unusual rhythm - the rhythm of one who had learned to compensate for a marred birth, and a twisted foot.

For nearly an hour the girl sat by the road with the old man, sharing stories and exchanging tales of the world. When they were done, the girl placed several shining golden coins in the wooden bowl, stood, and bowed politely to the old man. One of the members of her entourage approached her as she stepped back to the palanquin.

“Forgive me, Yoko-sama, but that man is nothing more than a beggar!” His voice was filled with concern and confusion. She paused by his side and smiled a gentle smile, her pale green eyes dancing with amusement.

“When the world was young and the First Soutaichou sat upon the throne of the Gotei Thirteen, our Lord paused by the side of the road to speak and give aid to a beggar, as it has been requested of him. Should I, her descendant, do any less?” The samurai's eyes were narrow and uncomprehending, but he bowed respectfully. Yoko stepped to the door of the palanquin, her hand delicately resting on its crested roof. Just before she set foot within the litter, she turned back to the armored man beside the road.

“Have you not heard the tale of Great Elder and the Little Man?” she said softly, her cultured voice amused. The samurai paused for a moment, then shook his head.

“No, my Lady. I was only schooled in war. I am but a humble soldier...” he commented sadly.

“Oh, my courageous guard, this story has nothing to do with schooling,” she pointed out with serenity and a smirk. “Then let me tell it to you.” Yoko's white hair blew softly in the gentle sea-breeze that surrounded them, and she reached up to brush a pale wisp behind one small ear.

“It was long ago,” lady Yoko began softly, “the Little Man had climbed the highest mountain and it was finally in front of the Great Elder of the World....”

"Hello, Great Elder," said Little Man. “I walked so long that my legs cannot hold me any longer. But my problem is huge and only you can help me."

“Is that so?” the Great Elder replied, surprised.

"Of course,” the younger of the two continued, “down in the valley, wherever I go, everyone says I'm a child and that I must learn. If I ask questions, they get annoyed. They keep saying that one day I will understand and that it is not now the time to know. When I grow up, they affirm, and I'll finally be a man, I will have all the answers I seek. But I want to grow up now. And I do not want to become a man. I want to be like you."

"Like me?" the Great Elder enquired.

“Yes, just like you,” the Little Man responded rapidly.

“How am I in your eyes, then?” the Great Elder questioned.

"In the city down in the valley, every person repeats the same rumor,” the younger interlocutor pointed out, “only the Great Elder of this Mountains knows what wisdom is. And I want to be wise. Just like you. Tell me, Great Elder: what is wisdom?"
"You're tired," the Great Elder commented in return, stroking fondly the head of the Little Man. "You walked three days and three nights, without ever stopping, and you attempted this feat only to come to me. And all of this just for one question."

"Sure," the Little Man confirmed, with decision. "If it was necessary, I would have walked another three days and three nights. And then three days and three nights more. To get an answer to my question, I would have done even more than this."

"No doubt," the Great Elder sighed. "I can see that in your eyes, as well as perceiving your resolve in your words. And if words can betray, the eyes are incapable of lying. But I will not serve you, because you've got the answer already. "

"I do not understand, Great Elder,” the Little Man interjected, “I do not have the answer! Otherwise, I would have not come all the way up here."

“But you have the right question,” the older villager pointed out.

“Indeed, the question I posed to you,” the LIttle Man retorted.

“Then you have everything you need, Little Man,” the Great Elder observed serene.

"What do you mean, Great Elder?” the Little Man enquired with a puzzled look on his plain face. “Maybe it's fatigue, but I confess I still do not understand. "

"It's very simple, Little Man,” the other offered promptly, “I do not have answers. I do not know any profound truth and therefore I can not give it to anyone. I am old, and old people can venture advices, at most. And always with discretion: only when someone asks to them."

"My ears await only your voice, Great Elder," the Little Man stated, his voice imploring slightly.

"So remember well, Little Man,” the Great Elder inspired, heightening the suspense, “there is no better answer than a question."

“A question?” the younger seeker of truth was lost.

"Of course, Little Man,“ the Great Elder observed, patiently. “Was it not a question that made you decide you wanted to climb this mountain and reach right up here? And for this question, were you not even willing to walk for days and nights?”

"Certainly, Great Elder," the Little Man said with more decision.

"That means, Little Man,” the other continued, “that only those who have questions can really walk. Who already owns the answer, however, has arrived. But perhaps it is just because it has never left.”

"Yeah, Great Elder,” the Little Man consented, pausing in his track, before resuming with renovated vigor. “But then, will I ever know what wisdom is? "

"I do not know, Little Man,” the Great Elder confessed, “perhaps, walking, you'll never know if you have won wisdom over. But perhaps, Little Man, wisdom is just what you make of it."

The yojimbo stood in front of his lady without a proper understanding. The tale was easy in its structure, yet he had no idea why his lady had decided to put him up to it. WIth confusion on his face, the samurai thanked his mistress with a martial bow, “Thank you very much for this lesson. I will be sure to ponder on it with extreme care.” Obviously, he was not trying to be smart, or insolent; the guard truly thought that the lady Yoko had been extremely gracious to offer him such a precious consideration.

Yoko looked at him, raising an eyebrow in the process of getting surprised. Nonetheless, she understood by herself that the man was honest, if not properly educated in the way of proper etiquette. Things should always be taken as they truly are, not as they appear, as his Lord father kept saying. Therefore, she smiled and replied naturally.

“What are you going to meditate upon, if I may be so rude to insist?“ Yoko enquired.

“The nature of wisdom, of course,” the other replied sternly, “and how to attain it.”

“Ah, so you will halt on your course and ponder on this truth,” the lady asked.

“That is my intention, yes,” the yojimbo replied.

“How will you be able to determine whether you have found what you were looking for?” the female philosopher enquired.

“I will know it when I’ll know it,” the guard replied, even if his face showed all the symptoms of wild guessing.

“So I would not be able to understand whether you are enlightened or not,” Yoko pressed on.

”I imagine... not,” the samurai answered, thinking that he had just set a point.

“Then, how could you guess that the hobo over there was not enlightened himself?” the ivory-haired lady stioned, a hint of triumph in her voice.

“I... hmmm... well,” the guard mumbled, clearly in difficulties.

“Do not get frustrated,” Yoko consented cunningly, “such is the ephemeral nature of wisdom...”

 

[littlepriests]

Questioning Spring
[1948]​

“I beg your pardon,” the one-eyed monk asked from his stool, “how can you say such things? Isn’t it in contrast to what you said before?"

The old man's eyes glittered mischievously and he grinned a toothy grin that warned of a lesson misunderstood. "I say what I should because it is true. Of the few things we can say with certainty, I feel the liberty to say this is true...”

Meadowlarks danced quietly nearby, filling the air with their song. The light of the setting sun exploded around them in a myriad of colors no man could ever describe. The master simply listened, his head tilted one way in a hearing pose, and watched the colors as they unfolded. The young monk questioned him again, asking, practically begging, him to explain.

“Not even our first father was enlightened. No more so than the first Soutaichou, or the King of Souls, or any number of persons whom you may give deference."

Ole insisted that every book spoke of the great wisdom displayed by Amaterasu, the first of their order, and that she reached enlightenment where so many others had fallen short. He spoke with deference, but kept his position, going at length about the fact that as the other masters always stressed, one may found wisdom discoursing with the people across Rukongai.

Was it not a sort of sacred duty to teach the lessons, propose the riddles, and guide people toward the understanding of the ways of the universe? During the whole heated lecture, the old master listened patiently, smiling and nodding on occasion. He sipped tea as the Russian spoke, then smiled as the other elaborated. Finally the former shinigami finished, satisfied that he had seen through the master’s deception. Yet, the master laughed.

“Listen carefully, my child, to what I will say now,” the old man commented, patiently, “for the lesson is not always carried by the words of men. You see, many believe that the nature of the universe is to hide itself from mortal eyes. That we must search and meditate upon all around us to see and grasp the simple truth that is enlightenment..."

The master fell silent for a moment and stared at the sunset, taking in the colors and sounds of the evening, “...however, perhaps the answers are being told to us all the time and we have just forgotten how to hear them.”

A question raised itself in the mathematician’s mind, that logical mind for which he had been praised in the past. Rather than ask it, the Russian sat quietly listening, not to the master, who sat silently as well, but to the world.

“The first Soutaichou was a soldier, for that was what he must be. The King of Souls is an emperor, for that was what he must be. Amaterasu walked this world as a teacher, for that was what she must be. Yet, remember, none of them, in your or any other’s eyes, must ever be thought of as enlightened, for in that is the greatest trap of all."

The newest monk listened.

“Let me tell you something more about how the story began,” the weazened scholar proposed, “about how the first question was asked. A tale that few know and even fewer will speak of freely.”

Born as an unacknowledged soul, she came to this afterworld in the days of the First Soutaichou. It may be so she remembered it, or it was given to her when she appeared here, but before her sixteenth birthday she carried the name Amaterasu. She carried that name all her life. Amaterasu heard the tales of the shinigami and sneered at their names. She heard of the legendary arrogance of the Captains of the Gotei, their bluster or their deceptions, almost never of their compassion. Indeed she heard the tales and frowned at every mention of every name.

At last, Amaterasu raised her voice to the heavens in defiance, “To come from the heavens does not bestow upon you knowledge of the heavens. You suffer from fear, jealousy, anger, love, and all the passions that we 'unfortunate souls' suffer! They no more know the movements of the universe than you or I! Yet, to venerate them will move us that much further away from ever understanding the universe or our place in it!”

The young philosopher turned to follow the path set before her - to understand the world into which every soul was born. Amaterasu found her way to the quiet corner of Rukongai. There she set her small home, and listened, watched, and thought, making the greatest discovery of her life.

The master smiled at the younger monk. Then, he asked if Ole had any idea what that discovery may have been. The Russian blinked and stated that he could not know her mind or what she had learned.

The senior monk smirked and continued.

A young wanderer sat before Amaterasu on a large flat stone in a field just paces away from the large plum trees that grew in the front of her house. The philosopher warned him that if she told him what she had learned, his own path to understanding, or enlightenment, would forever be more difficult.

He said he understood and would hear her anyway, afterward deciding for himself the value of her words. She clapped and then leaned over to whisper to him.

"The wind blows,” she pointed out.

The wanderer frowned as a raven cawed from a nearby tree.

"I do not understand," he retorted.

Amaterasu nodded, and spoke again. “The tree feels this wind, as do the grasses, the rock you sit on, and even you and I. Yet, do they not all move differently within this wind?”

Cawing again, the raven took flight in the sudden breeze. Nodding, the wanderer, who became her first student, smiled at her words. He understood.

“But most importantly," the master said with a twinkle in his eyes, "he knew she was wrong. Just as you will know I am wrong. For to find the answers you seek, we must all be wrong.”

“If you seek the tranquility of nature it is best to ask the hare that is caught within the talons of the falcon,” was a thought Amaterasu would present a wanderer.

As Amaterasu grew older, more and more students came to hear her words. The first student stayed by her side, always trying to fault with Amaterasu's words. Others journeyed, carrying understanding and questions with them. Though they were not enlightened, as to you no one must be, each held a distinct, if incomplete, understanding of the world around him.

They listened and the world told them of its secrets. They watched and nature warned them of coming turmoils. All the things residents needed to know could come from these wandering teachers. In time, most of those wandering teachers settled here or there, always maintaining a distance from the villagers, as Amaterasu had explained them.
Always teaching of the primal nature of the world through confrontation, as Amaterasu had tried them. Always each one fell into the same trap of enlightenment.

The master sighed heavily and began tracing small letters into the sand at our feet with his walking stick. I watched the words forming there and shook my head quietly, again missing the lesson. Envy, he wrote, blindness, sloth, greed, arrogance.

He looked up at me then, nodding. “None of them were 'enlightened,' as I now know. Perhaps they believed they were. They followed the patterns of Amaterasu every day. They bathed when she did, ate what she did. They mimicked her actions of meditation. Of course, what did they meditate upon if Amaterasu never told them?

"They were wise, and giving with that knowledge, but they were also mortal men and as all men they were flawed. Even today you see this. We follow the same rituals every day believing that this will grant enlightenment.

"I tell you now, no path to enlightenment ever succeeded. You must know this."

As nature continued in its cycle of growth, death, and rebirth, so too did these wandering teachers grow and die, only to be reborn. This was a golden age of man's understanding. Some precious few took the lessons of Amaterasu and did not believe them. They would speak with the people of Rukongai and teach them to know the words of nature and they would teach them the false teachings of Amaterasu. They realized that there is no simple way to enlightenment, to understanding. One cannot simply follow another's path, or meditate as another does. You must allow the universe to show you the path that will bring you to enlightenment. Indeed, you must understand that enlightenment is not a goal but a journey.

Yet, for the most part, men saw these monks as enlightened teachers. So much so that many monks believed them. Houses became temples. Habits became rituals. Monks became men of power and influence. So new traditions arose: poverty, celibacy, and utter withdrawal from the world around them.

The Russian shook his head in disbelief. "Master, I don't understand...” he observed confused, “Is it not the way to meditate upon, to eschew the formative world for the spiritual one?"

My master nodded sadly. "Remember, I am speaking of the first days and the first questions. We did this to try to free ourselves from the relentless traps of the seeking. I will try to explain. You cannot listen when you are not hearing. The early teachers, even those of today, found themselves serving as counsels in disputes. Peasants relied on their foreknowledge of nature so they could plant harvests, and not starve.

"We were trapped. Trapped fulfilling the obligations our understanding brought with it"

Ole noticed then that he spoke of ‘we’ as though perhaps he lived during those times. Perhaps a previous life that he remembered so well.

So the students of Amaterasu and the first student tried to free themselves from the trap of obligation only to find the trap of lies. It is the nature of enlightenment to trap the unwary. Many do not possess the strength to overcome these traps of the mind and instead fall prey to them. In the next life maybe they will learn their error.

Amaterasu, the story tells us, wandered during this time. She admonished those teachers she found caught struggling within traps. Amaterasu told them not to believe her words, nor the words of others. Her ways and the ways of the world would not bring them to understanding.

However, during this time enlightenment took on a life of its own. Scholars learned of these monks and their tragedy. They debated and formalized the meaning of enlightenment, raising this word, as scholars often do, to a divine form unattainable by men save those of particular greatness. Monks met with scholars and, desperate for escape, took heed of their words and forgot the first question. Temples grew in importance and they taught the people religious ceremonies. While these teachings and religions brought people closer together and unified the thoughts, they ensnared us even more until, at last, no escape was possible.

“As you see, then,” the scholar pointed out, “even the first disciples were not immune to their own desires...”

“Yes,” Ole nodded, hoping the other would reach the point.

“For as soon as you’ll stop and say ‘I’m enlightened’,” the senior monk stated, “you’ll know for sure that you are not!”

“Yes, master,” the blonde mathematician commented, “but you didn”tell me what the first question is?”

“The first question? I don’t know for sure,” the senior monk replied serene, “but the answer is forty-two.”

 

[littlepriests]

The Fiery Fire of Summer
[2003]​

In the past months, Ole had tightened his friendship with various senior monks. Some showed the features of teachers and tried to structure their meeting with the Russian so that he could learn. Others were holy men or hermits, preferring to generate knowledge through riddles and koans. Last, there were those few who acted like companions, interested in spending some good time, telling tales of life.

That morning, when he woke up, the blonde mathematician knew the simplicity of his days. He sucked in the pure air of the glacier, sitting unmovable in the distance. Standing there, the one-eyed monk felt the sun, as it gently wrapped the plants, releasing the intense fragrance of the woods. In the distance, he observed figures walking slowly, hiking to the top of the valley. From there, he was sure, they would witness all the men and womenof the City of Wandering Souls, busy as ants running amok.

Soon, Ole would meet his mentor for the day, who would ask him to listen to the crackling of the fire. Inside the bowels of the monastery, fiery fires were always alight, even at the peak of summer. Only after that, the senior monk would consent to tell him one of his old stories of gods and goblins, with his voice warm and ancient. Old man Ryu would insist too, to say the truth. He had been a storyteller in his life before the monastery, with a keen and interested eye for the children.

“May I ask you a question up front, Ryu?” the Russian proposed.

“You may,” the old man retorted, smiling faintly, “then we will see if I may answer.”

“I’ve been back out in the crowd,” the blonde mathematician explained, “but I seem unable to understand the problems they share. I was not even able to perceive what was worrying the friends I had, not to say those that I had barely met before. They all seemed so strange, their ways of thinking so absurd... Is there a way to tell people?”

“It's a rather simple thing,” Ryu replied with a stern glance, although the equivalent of a sigh of concern almost escaped from his lips. The younger interlocutor did not catch that at all.

“Simple?” the one-eyed monk was marvelled.

"Yes, simple, of course,” the senior monk confirmed.

“I cannot get how it might be that simple,” Ole observed, dubious.

"You are not maintaining the right frame of mind, nor having the right perspective,” Ryu pointed out without pity, “you have to fully commit your head to two convictions.”

“Two convictions you say?” the Russian enquired not sure where the conversation was going. “Which two?”

“Here is the first, my friend,“ the storyteller said, interposing a pause for greater effect. “Always remember that, even if they seem very different from you, the others are never that far from you. All people are just like you.”

“Like me?” Ole's eyes widened, “what do you mean with that?”

“Yeah, just think about it,” Ryu observed, “they feel, suffer, enjoy... in short, they share the same path through life you are walking along. All other people have the same problems you have, they long for the same things. If you look deep in you, you find another.”

“That’s fine then,” the blonde mathematician consented, before asking curiously, “if this is the first conviction, which is the second?"

“The second belief you have to consider,” the old monk pointed out, “is that no one will ever be like you. You are unique. And as you, all others are unique as well. If you look at each of those around you, you’ll find their diversity. Even if you look closely at yourself, you will understand that you are different from any other and that no one is like you.”

“But this second belief is in complete contradiction with the first,” Ole observed shocked.

“Indeed,” Ryu agreed the with his usual composure, “by itself, neither is good. On the other hand, both together are surely true.”

“Yet you told me it was a rather simple concept, Ryu,” the Russian sighed.

“I’m rather inclined to repeat it,” the elder storyteller stressed.

“I do not understand,” the blonde mathematician confessed, “what you're telling me to apply does seem extremely far from simple. Indeed, it seems extremely difficult to me, if not impossible!”

“Improbable, maybe?” Ryu continued, “yes, yet you add another little truth to it.”

“A third conviction?” the one-eyed monk wondered.

“Exactly, and this is perhaps the most important, Ole,” the senior monk pointed out, “because it is not enough to put in practice the two beliefs that I just recounted to you. Unfortunately, most men do not know this truth, or just pretend not to know it.”

“So you say that they have so many problems and find it difficult to live for this reason?” the blonde mathematician asked anxiously.

“I'm afraid so," Ryu replied.

“Why don’t you reveal your secret, then?” Ole ventured forth.

“Well, it’s just a simple secret, my friend. Very simple, indeed,” the elder storyteller replied, “yet, as you have noticed, the simplest things are usually the most difficult to attain.”

For a while they remained there in silence, the one-eyed monk looking stealthily at the elder storyteller. The fire crackled wildly in a walled hole in the floor. Ryu fished inside his robe to get his pipe, before loading it with fresh tobacco. Ole had not seen many monks with personal belongings, but the elaborate long pipe the elder storyteller owned was a very impressing object.

“What is it?” Ruy enquired, raising an eyebrow, while checking the outside of the mouthpiece.

The Russian was surprised, “What do you mean?”

“I feel that you want to ask me something,” the other pointed out, “but you have not yet decided whether to ask it out or not...”

“How would you know?” the blonde mathematician enquired.

“I do not know, in fact,” Ryu agreed, “I just have this feeling... But I may be wrong. And in this case, I'm sorry to have bothered you...” The elder monk was sincere. He had finished loading his pipe and took a stick of wood from the fireplace, using it to light the tobacco inside the chamber.

Ole was forced to agree, and did so smiling. “You're always right...” he submitted.

“Then it's a serious deal,” the senior monk pointed out, pulling the first puff, “should I start to worry?” He took a long inhalation: he seemed to enjoy the sensation of the smoke of the bitter tobacco entering his lungs.

“Worry about what, exactly?” the blonde mathematician did not know what to say.

“The fact that I'm always right, as you say,” Ryu replied, “if so, there's something really wrong.”

“I was taught that it is good to try to be always right,” the one-eyed monk pointed out, defensively.

“Who taught you so?” the senior monk was curious.

“My teachers,” the Russian answered without much need to think about it, “every mentor at the Academy, really.”

“Even teachers occasionally make mistakes,” the elder storyteller commented almost to himself, “but that does not stop them from being good educators.”

“Shouldn’t we want to be always right?” Ole enquired.

“Perhaps it would be better to always have reasons,” the elder monk pointed out. “The plural surely guarantees more than the singular in my opinion. Yet, sometimes, reasons are wrong as well. In this case, there is no reason even with the plural..."

The Russian went silent, not sure if he had understood what the senior monk had tried to explain. As he knew by then, words were necessary to convey a message, but they were not always structured to transfer an idea. From the outside, it was almost possible to hear his brain in motion. After all, Ole was a person intrinsically connected to his cerebral capabilities.

“Well,” the blonde mathematician recovered from his stupor, “this time you had guessed right. I wanted to ask a question, but I was not sure how to phrase it.”

Ryu encouraged him. “You know you can ask me everything,“ he said, “the answer is not always up to the question, but I will do my best.”

The Russian interpreted the reply in a far more ironic way than the storyteller had intended. Nonetheless, the one-eyed monk felt refreshed and found the energy to get on.

“Here's the question, then,” he stated, “I’ve spent many days in your company in the past few months. You know that I lost my balance once... whereas you always seem so calm, peaceful and tranquil. How can you always be so?”

The elder monk bent in order to get closer to the Russian’s ear. “You see, this is the evil of goodness,” he said.

“How could there be an evil of in goodness?” Ole repeated, raising his head, not understanding.

“Hmmm,” Ryu mumbled before responding. ”Even goodness, your affection for me in this case, may become evil, or do evil. For example, it might lead to misrepresent reality. I'm not what you think you see. I'm not that person so calm and wise that you perceive. It's true that I aspire to balance. But this balance I seek, rather than a state, is a process: a point dynamically unstable. Sometimes is there, sometimes it is not; you can reach it and you can lose it.”

The elder storyteller fell silent in turn. But the blonde mathematician understood that it was only a pause he needed to put together his thoughts. “Even if...” Ryu meditated.

Ole gave him a few seconds, then said, “Even if...?”

“If you think you perceive me in that way, maybe you are seeing through something true,” the senior monk explained. “That small truth you perceived, might represent something negative: the evil of the excess. Do you know the proverb?”

The Russian remembered. Old grandma would always say, “Too much of a good thing.”

“So, too much equilibrium is bad as well?” the blonde mathematician asked.

“Yes,” the elder storyteller confirmed. “The balance is no longer balance, but fiction, forcing, rigidity. And rigidity is unnatural. It is no longer life, but death.”

At last, they fell both silent. The senior monk followed the raising puffs of smoke he had just exhaled, while the one-eyed monk revived the fire. Many unresolved thoughts were suspended in the air between them.

“You know the story of the two animals that nourish our souls?” Ryu questioned.

The blonde mathematician shook his head, predisposing himself to listen.

“This story comes from the sages of the East,” the elder storyteller explained. “He affirms there are two animals who feed our soul, fighting even to nourish it. The former is aggressive, vindictive, arrogant and violent. The latter is sweet, submissive, gentle and sensitive. If the first animal wins over, we are selfish and arrogant. If it is the second to prevail, we are altruist, compassionate, generous and ready to be in harmony with the world and with the others.”

Ryu focused briefly on the pipe, pressing a flat reamer on the tobacco to adjust it into the bowl.

The Russian believed he could conclude, "But if it all depends on the animals, it depends on the faith... You just need to rely on fate.”

The senior monk slowly moved his pipe in the air, horizontally, in a way that conveyed a strong no, “The animals nourish the soul, but who we are tasked to feed the animals. Threfore, it all depends on which animal we feed!”

The fire was losing its force, all the logs already reduced to ashes. Ole looked up but the storyteller was dozing placidly on his chair. The senior monk had given him enough to ponder upon, and he would need time to digest it. It would be rude to interrupt the old man to continue the conversation then, but the blonde mathematician noted that he had to present himself with a question the next time the two of them met again. After all, it is all about the questions you ask.

 

[littlepriests]

Voiding the Soul
[2559]​

The collector stopped for a moment in front of the closed door. He was about to enter the treasure room, his Sancta Sanctorum. He turned the key slowly as if that gesture was part of a ritual. The fresh air of the interior engulfed him together with the familiar smells of resin and colors. He closed the door behind him, making another small pause before turning on the light. Hence he went down the last few steps that separated him from his secret vault.

He allowed himself a long, slow look at his treasures, representing the effort of a lifetime. From the walls hung with various hieratic Madonna with their Childs. Eastern saints whose importance was emphasized by the gold leaf decorations. Flat on the floor, bronze Buddha held up with their bulk Venetian paintings of the sixteenth century. They were magnificent portraits of the Doges. An illuminated bible was half open on a trestle. The collector walked up to that masterpiece of Irish art. He flipped through a few pages, getting drunk once again by the beauty of those drawn nodes.

He loved to spend time in that place, he loved the chaos of his won personal Wunderkammer. He loved the work and stories that laid behind each of those objects. He imagined the carpenter who had cut the tree and then the square wooden boards. The calloused hands that delivered the art to the shaky limbs of the shady monk. He could imagine the waking hours of the brethren with his long beard, dipping the brush in the colors , mixing binder, pigments and prayers. And finally, the consecration of the image of the Virgin, who had waited along the walls of a church before ending its long journey there. Before his eyes.

He stroked a Hellenistic sculpture, a bronze marvel waiting on the bottom of the sea. His eyes jumped joyfully from one object to another, from one piece of art to another. There had been various attempts to cataloguing. Experts and volunteers from various part of the country had been involved. But nothing had ever been concluded, because the collector could not confine his love to flip pages and evaluate data. The collector wanted to dive into his treasure and cuddle it, talk to it.

He often moved objects to find new locations in harmony with the mood of the moment. In those circumstances, he would make the most intense and unexpected discoveries. Forgotten behind an Egyptian statue, rested a small portrait of a nineteenth century English lady. An oil on copper artwork of so exquisite workmanship, that it made him melt in the heart. The painting brought back to memory, in a fiery assault, the daring purchase in the shoestring market in Paris in rue... Therefore, he clutched it to his chest, setting up one wall of the secret vault just in honor of that portrait. After a month, anyhow, it would be forgotten again, hidden behind a rolled up tapestry.

The collector had dedicated his life to gather the treasure. He was not an entrepreneur or a professional, nor a famous lawyer or a politician. He was a collector. Everything else he had accomplished had been nothing more that the mean to achieve his true purpose.

He sat down on the Louis XIV chair to browse a few pages of the first edition of the ‘On Crimes and Punishments’ treatise, embellished by an autograph of Cesare Beccaria and a dedication to his dear friend Pietro Verri . He put it to aside in order to concentrate his attention on a German medieval astronomical treatise. It was written with those gloomy characters only German people seemed to find amusing. That book was set aside as well: he could not really concentrate on the readings.

The place of honor that week was taken up by a lekythos; he rose and took it in his hands. It brought the bowl mouth closer to his face, in order to evaluate the depictions of the young athletes manfully naked. Fragrant of oriental smells only imagined. He put the vase down. That day the collector was unable to devote himself entirely to his love. There had been a quick, terminal sense of nothingness deep in his soul lately.

An idea caused a breach in the dark swirl of his thoughts. He rushed out, forgetting even to lock. He returned holding a small tank. He began to pour the smelling liquid on the ground and on the objects. When the container was empty, he drew a matchstick from his pocket, and rubbed it on sandpaper. Petrol vapors immediately took fire. He thought about the last few days, but he could not recall anything before getting inside his secret vault for the last time. Had his existence been so vain there were no memories of it in him? There were many things he was leaving behind in this world. His collection would have been lost, forgotten, since nobody loved it as himself. Only a few knew about it, because no one cared about it.

The flames hanged on wooden boards, corroded the canvases, broke up the bronzes and mortared the marbles. The Madonnas wept tears of red sealing wax, while the Bavarian porcelain broke for the change in temperature. The collector fell to his knees, watching her real life consumed in the flames. The smoke began to choke him. The collector saw his life, which in that moment was just made up by the set of those works, his treasure. But suddenly he remembered.

In his office, just behind his formal chair rested his most beloved piece, ‘Our Lady of Vladimir’. Not the Saviour in its infancy, nor the Virgin Mother, but a mother and her son. It was an object of pure joy, caresses. It was the first artwork he owned, the item to instil the momentum that gave him the joy of being surrounded by beautiful objects. Only for him. To be enjoyed in the silence of his crypt, now becoming an ancient altar of fire.

The collector in her sad fury had forgotten that wonder. He realized that in that sublime gesture of jealous love there was an important lack. Crucial. He was taking his unfinished collection in the grave with him. Therefore, his gesture was not making any more sense for him. Let Samson die with all the Philistines except one? No! What a disappointment. he pondered, before falling and hitting his head.

Everything became dark.

***

Darkness had enveloped him, darkness and glacial cold. Everything around him was pitch black just like in the depth of a starless night. Finally, he was able to move enough to turn his head, trying to see through unwilling eyes. The complete lack of illumination was an experience perceived only in truly enclosed space, such as a deep cavern. Fear and terror usually ensued, rendering the victim even less resourceful towards escaping from his destiny.
Suddenly a spotlight appeared. If it was there before, the prone man had not seen it. It illuminated a large magnificent mirror. It was as high as an average man, set in a frame of Classical golden leaves. Two leonine feet supported its bulk and allowed it to maintain a vertical orientation. The presence of such object in the pitch-black environment that extends to the infinity and beyond was more than unsettling. Nevertheless, the grounded man crawled in that direction, attracted to it as a moth to the flame.

He saw him in the mirror, way before his own reflection could sprout in it. He had a wry look. They were the eyes of he who knows, or think to know. Disdainful eyes. Haughty eye. The smile of his lips was cold. On his features lurked a sinister grudge, as he who looks at the others from a distance, as someone who feels superior.

The prone man would have a very clear word in his mind for the reflection, and not exactly a delicate one. Yet, something in his own mind told him that the other would not answer. The other one would never stoop to that level. He had the demeanour of one who would never get down among the damned. Perhaps he felt like an angel, the bearer of the Word, perhaps the bearer of a new tiding. Perhaps he had forgotten that the most superb of them all, was now condemned to the down below, away from light and a prisoner of his own anger. A lake of fierce frost wraps and freezes him, as the poet said.

The crawling man felt his eyes on him for the whole trudge on four legs. They seemed just like daggers with a not so pointed tip planted in his shoulder blades, pressing and tearing. They did not leave clean and precise cuts, but overblown gashes, which would soon become infected and purulent. Those eyes had not left him for even a moment, looking at him in his entire excruciating ordeal.

He felt his gaze around him, multiplying second after second in a succession of ghostly images, grim and malevolent. From there, close to the mirror, the whole perception grew in intensity, changing its aspect. The reflection was looking at him with raised eyebrows, his expression a mixture of surprise and disgust. It was as if a sense of repulsion was sloshing out from the glass towards him, as if his attitude could melt his inner soul.

The crawling man found himself alone, as he had never been in his entire life. He felt the sarcastic look upon his efforts, trying to dodge the truth and pretend not to understand. Although he knew, he had known it from the moment he had looked into the reflecting surface of the mirror. That look so devoid of kindness, that disdainful look to the neighbour, cold and acid, is none other than his own.

“Stand up,” the figure in the mirror commanded.

“I can’t,” the crawling man replied with a tremble of fear in his voice.

“You can, just do it,” the figure pointed out less demanding, but still firm.

The prone man was able to get on his knees, but he had not energy to get to a full standing position. “Who are you?” he enquired.

“You know who I am,” the reflection commented with a sigh, “the question is... who are you?”

“What do you mean?” the kneeling man retorted with understanding, “I’m myself.”

“That is just a lame answer,” the doppel-figure replied, “but I can help you find out what you forget...”

“Why should I trust you?” the broken man enquired, with wary eyes.

“I’m you after all,” the other pointed out, “how can’t you trust yourselves?”

“You just look like me,” the crawling man observed, “that doesn’t mean I should trust you.”

“It doesn’t matter what I look like,” the mirror-man spat back, “you very well know that we are one and the same.”

The broken man knew that to be true. “Well, then,” he evaluated, “what is your offer?”

“Come,” the reflection said, “take my hand. I’ll tell you all you need to know.”

“Take your hand?” the kneeling man asked, “how could I do that? You are just an image in a mirror?”

“Make the effort,” the figure replied with a smile, “everything will be much more clear later.”

Reluctant, but needy for answers, the broken man raised a weak arm and touched the surface of the mirror. As soon as his fingers stroke the outer layer of the glass, it rippled as if it was water. After a second, it gave way to his gentle pressure, parting and allowing him to cross over to the other side of the mirror. A sound of surprise fled from his dry lips. His surprised turned to shock when his reflection took the hand with his own.

The contact seemed just like a fated one, for the kneeling man felt like he had found his lost half. That sensation last for nothing more than a second, because he felt his very life energy sucked away on the other side of the mirror. Shock gave way to terror in no time.

“Hey...” the kneeling man mumbled, “what?”

“Did you really think that I would just spend the rest of my life over here?” his mirror duplicate pointed out.

“You told me you would give me answers,” the kneeling man exclaimed indignant.

“You will know all you need to know as soon as we are one again,” the other promised with a nod.

The broken man tried to resist, but the figure was much more strong. He was not able to pull back from his grasp. The inexorable pull was bringing him closer and closer to the surface of the mirror. He put his other hand on the frame of the mirror, but that helped him just as if he had tried to quench thirst with salt meat.

“No... no...” he whined.

“Finally you will be able to help your friends and comrades as you have not been able to,” the figure said, “we will be able to seize what our power entitle to!”

“What are you talking about?” the other demanded, his hair brushing the watery surface.

“You do remember Akiko?” the doppelganger asked. The look of horror and anger in the kneeling man was palpable. “Yes, you do, ” the reflection pointed out, “so you can understand the pain you inflicted on me when you did not seize the lovely prize she was...”

Terror was substituted with primal frenzy. The strength he lacked in the body came rushing from his mind and heart. His soul resonated with his quiescent power, giving him the faculty to stand up and pull back from his side.

“Don’t you DARE say her name!” he shouted.

It was time for the reflection to feel shocked. With a very decisive thug, the once kneeling man moved away from the mirror, bringing his other self with him. As soon as the reflection was free from the watery surface, it exploded and turned into smoke. When the enraged man inhaled the smoke, his soul flared and the dome of darkness shattered in many tiny crystals. The ordeal had ended. He was whole again.

***

He had already tasted that the once before, finding it disgusting to say the least. The Soul Tea was a very potent drug that was used to get in contact with the inner folds of one’s heart. It was so powerful it could cripple a person into dementia, but in small doses it just tinged the dreams with vision of oneself. Ole’s experience had been produced by a far less diluted version of that concoction. It had been an idea of the Reader to tip him off his current unbalanced equilibrium.

Although he could not remember every detail of it, the blonde mathematician felt that he had not appreciated much of it. In fact, the Russian had a few colourful expressions he would like to share with the Reader, but something had really changed back into his inner world. He might not be fully aware of that already, but he the time for a drastic change in his life was drawing near. Perhaps the Reader knew that it was time to let the wind to blow. Perhaps he just was an old man with a poor sense of sarcasm.

 

[Several Zombies]

Senej/Giano/Priests, you are officially banned from Halcyon Days AGAIN.

Plagiarism is absolutely not tolerated, whether it's from your fellow RPers, from internet fanfics, or from The Legend of Five Rings by John Wick.

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