A gust of wind blew across the plains, cutting into the silence of the night and gathering up dried leaves in a swirl and bearing the stench of fires and burning flesh. The wind tried hard to snuff out the torches that lit the encampment, yet managed only to make them flicker. Men and women ground their teeth at the shadows that danced on the tent, yet they sat silent and motionless, hundred to a row, and rows extending back into hundreds again. The only sound in the gathering came from shuffled papers from the very front – an old man sat reading a sheaf of letters by the light of a torch, its flames emphasizing the shadows that aged the man by a few decades. The general rarely frowned – this was one of those rare times. ~~~ A breeze caressed the mountains, sighing into the silence of the early winter evening, gathering the fragrance of apple blossoms. The breeze danced and laughed with the candles around the large marble hall, teasing them into casting fantastic shadows on the white stone all around. Men and women sat with their eyes closed, the serenity on their smooth faces and wrinkled alike belying the growing sorrow they felt to their bones. They sat in rough semi-circles, all their attention apparently gathered at the old man who sat on a large sofa, all but sinking into its depths. The only sound in the gathering was silk rustling in the mans hands at the very front. He sat reading an old length of silk painted with the old calligraphic script, ornamental, heavily poetic and coded with symbolism only a secretive lineage stretching back into ages unknown knew how to decipher. The old mans eyes twinkled as he sat reading the ancient silk. His lips cracked into a smile, which was the smile of a man decades his junior. He rarely smiled - this was one of those rare times. ~~~ “Warriors, you have long submitted yourselves to cruel training. Long were the days when you toiled beneath the harsh sun practicing your swords, and bitter were the nights when you tried to sleep in the cold desert wishing for the comforts of home and hearth. Such is the way of the warrior – we have to give up our comforts so that those weaker than us, those we have sworn to protect, may sleep at peace. Yet, warriors, the general knows when he threatens his whole army because his eyesight fails him, or because his tired arms do not know how to thrust the sword though his mind tells his unerringly. He dies a thousand deaths seeing his brothers and sisters felled by the enemy sword. The time comes when I have to sheath the sword, and yet I long to hear the song of the warrior for the last time. Shall we sing together, warriors, before your new general comes and leads you to greater victories? We dance the macabre dance of the sword The sword dances in a deadly gleam The dance of the swords is its own reward When we wake up from the dream And sit by the stream of life restored. ~~~ “Monks, you have long dedicated yourselves to my exacting discipline. Long were the days when you sweated beneath the harsh sun sweeping the floors, and bitter were the nights when you tried to pray in the cold desert wishing for the comforts of home and hearth. Such is the way of the apprentice – we have to give up our comforts so that those more ignorant than us, those we have sworn to illumine, may sleep in the Light. Yet, monks, the eldest knows when he fails his whole cloister because his flesh fails him, or because his tired arms do not know how to care for the ill though his mind tells his unerringly. He fails worse than the rank novice when he cannot guide those who trust him with their heart and soul. The time comes when I have to close the book and surrender the rosary, and yet I long to hear the song of the monk for the last time. Shall we sing together, monks, before your new eldest comes and leads you to greater wisdom? We rush to the aid of the dying, the ill Our prayers like unto a single sunbeam Cutting through the fog upon the distant hill When we wake up from the dream And pray for the chaos to be finally still. ~~~ The warriors took up the refrain, passing it back and forth as they covered their heads with red bandanas, the swaddling cloth, as they called it. Soon the entire gathering was swaying in unison with the rhythms of the chant, a sea of red surrounding the general from all sides, rising and falling under its own sway. Nobody took notice when the general methodically slit his own wrists and sank his blade stoically into his stomach, and calmly lay his red cape as his own shroud. The army carried him on their shoulders, passing a small red bundle from shoulder to shoulder, singing joyously away for hours into the moonless night. They sang in joy, because they knew they shall not sing again till the next general marched them into the mourning lands and they mourned for all generals past and future. ~~~ The monks took up the refrain, passing it back and forth as they loosed out of their red capes and swayed in their red robes, the shroud, as they called it. Soon the entire marble hall gathering was swaying in unison with the rhythms of the chant, a sea of red surrounding the eldest from all sides in the hall of marble, like a gash of blood upon a white cadaver. Nobody took notice when the eldest lay down on his side, watching the distant moon as he stopped breathing. The cloister settled down around him covered in their own shrouds, now joyfully chanting the prayers of deliverance long into the night. They chanted joyfully, because they knew they shall not chant again till the next eldest led the great prayer of mourning for all monks past and future. ~ Suneil
Posted on: Sat, 14 Jun 2014 19:11:44 +0000
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