Namaste

by Sean Platt

  Telford shifted, the knife’s sharp tip still pressing against his neck. “Thanks.”

  “I saw your boss come today at your summons. I sneaked inside and heard what you said. You did well with him, too.”

  “Again, thanks.”

  The monk hadn’t moved, and was still smiling blandly down at Telford, his knife’s tip unwavering.

  “So, I did what you said.”

  “Yes.”

  He rolled his eyes around the room: Why-are-you-here?

  “Well, did you forget something?”

  “Yes,” said the monk. “I forgot to kill you.”

  A cold sweat popped out on Telford’s forehead. “But you promised,” he stammered. “And a monk never breaks his promises!”

  “This is true,” said the bald-headed man. “But I am no longer a monk.”

  It was the last thing the Right Hand ever heard.

  JOURNEY

  Chapter 8

  NINETEEN YEARS AGO

  MOST SRI monks had shaved heads, but it was not a requirement. The order held many conventions, topmost among them in Woo’s mind was that there were no immutable truths or unbreakable maxims. True wisdom existed in knowing that he — and the others — knew nothing. Each rule or guiding principle could one day change, and no ritual was above that which the order was founded upon.

  Most monks shaved. Woo did not, nor did he believe it was incumbent on a devoted follower to be uniform. While the others fashioned an unremarkable, undistinguishable exterior — to banish ego and give themselves more fully to the order — Woo felt that shaving was, in itself, an ego-centric behavior. Why would one without ego spend time on appearances at all? It was a contradiction to Woo. He wore his silver-white hair — not colored due to old age, but rather of his own peculiar genetics, as a shaggy, shoulder-length bob that he occasionally cut himself, without a mirror, with fevered motions of scissors or knife. The time he saved — time that the other monks spent with razors and mirrors — Woo spent in contemplation.

  He was in this contemplation, eyes closed, when the racket arose.

  His eyes opened slowly, as if the cacophony was expected. He rose from Lotus, without marring the grass with his hands, bowed to the garden for a long moment, quiet save for the tumult from somewhere behind him, then slowly turned with his hands clasped in front of his blue robe and its tied saffron sash and walked back toward the compound.

  Suni, the abbot, was at the door of the west barracks looking like a doorman, as if waiting for Woo to arrive.

  “Greetings, Suni.” Woo bowed.

  “Greetings yourself, Woo. You will not be surprised to know what is happening inside.”

  “Amit.”

  “Of course Amit,” Suni snapped.

  “What has he done?”

  “Your ward has somehow opened one of the weapons caches. He has a pair of sai blades and is threatening the other children. He began with a sword, but could not swing it.”

  “Have you tried to subdue him?”

  “Of course not. The other children will do it.”

  Woo wanted to chuckle, but didn’t dare. The abbot was outraged not by the incident’s danger, but by young Amit’s impudence. Suni clearly wanted an opportunity to point out the boy’s failings to Woo. They were letting this go to make a point.

  “Why have they not, then?”

  Woo’s cavalier attitude — like his hair — made him a pariah among the monks. Woo’s actions weren’t wrong, but they bucked tradition and the elders didn’t like that. There was no rule saying a monk should shave his head, or that a boy with a past like Amit’s should not be admitted, but both were things a good Sri should know. Woo, however, had never seen it that way.

  The abbot shuffled, clearly uncomfortable.

  “They cannot,” said Woo. “Even though a 6-year-old is unable to wield a weapon effectively.”

  Something in Suni’s composure snapped. The Sri were taught to control their emotions, but Woo had a disarming effect on many. “This is not a validation of your teaching methods, Woo! This is a situation that must be dealt with. You will not turn this around into some sort of a … ”

  “Tell me. Have the monks inside tried to subdue him?”

  Suni was silent, but even quiet told truth. It would be a simple matter for even the greenest shadow monk to defeat a child, but if the child were adept at matching offense to defense — or particularly reckless — he could make it difficult for others to achieve disarmament without death. The Sri hadn’t wanted to take Amit in and didn’t like the chaos the boy had brought to the order since. But they stopped short at wanting him dead.

  “This is your fault, Woo. You have been too aggressive with the boy’s training. You have shown him too much too soon and fostered his anger. You must subdue and … ”

  “He has the aggression in him already, Abbot. I did not place it there, and it will not be dampened until it is given expression. Jung said, ‘What we resist persists.’ Though I am sure he is far too Western in his thought for you, and the others.”

  Suni fought for control — probably to prove that no matter what Carl Jung said, the abbot could resist his base impulses fine. Woo watched, forcing himself not to smile. Amit’s actions were unacceptable, but Suni’s squirming was worth it.

  “He is inside the dormitory?”

  Suni gestured with his arm. “Just follow the screams.”

  Woo bowed again to Suni — this bow satirical — and went with no hurry down the wide, open passage toward the dormitories. The walk was floored in terracotta tiles, bordered by large arches that opened into peripheral gardens on one side and a series of courtyards on the other. Woo pulled a string of prayer beads from his pocket and began to roll them between his fingers, meditating as he walked. He could hear the yells but shut them out, focusing instead on his sandals clicking against the tile. Auditory discipline was one of Woo’s favorite methods of controlling his mind. It felt like sorting spilled cards, setting sounds he wanted to hear in one pile while ignoring the rest. An insect hummed somewhere off to his right; the wind sighed; he heard the puff of his breath.

  The discipline was so complete that by the time Woo reached the dormitory doors, a small smile had crawled across his features. His heartbeat was slow; his breathing was deep and fulfilling; his head was light, buoyant, and in a delighted trance. Only when his long fingers had curved around the door’s wooden handle did Woo make a small slit in his awareness, peeking through it into the racket on the door’s other side — the same screaming, crashing, breaking noises that had roused him from his morning meditation.

  He opened the door.

  The dormitory was sparse, as was everything at the Sri compound. Monks lived with little: An attachment to objects robbed them of a truer glue with the universe. As such, the barracks were little more than a long row of double-decker bunks, each with a small wooden box for clothing and the few things a monk — young or old — would own. Most of what they needed was provided by the compound, and most of that (save food, of course) was shared.

  Because the room was relatively bare, there was plenty of room for the boy at its center to hold the others at bay like combatants in a fight. As Woo approached, his fingers still rolling across the beads, he saw several of those others around the edges — boys aged anywhere from 5 or 6 through 18, all with conventionally shaved heads and wearing their blue robes with saffron sashes. There was another dormitory across the courtyard filled with girls, and toward the back, Woo could see them starting to surround the boys at the edges.

  The boys, being boys rather than men, were not as controlled as the adults. Woo could see anger on their faces: anger at having been displaced by this small, 6-year-old boy who should never have been among the Sri, and anger at his having apparently bested them. Most were in ready stance, swaying lightly on their toes, craving conflict, hands up and staring into the circle’s center.

  In the middle: Amit, also with the preferred shaved head and prescribed robes. But he held a
weapon in each of his small hands. This was not prescribed and barely allowed. The weapons looked like tridents with short handles, the center tine both straighter and longer than those on the other side. His eyes were furious. Around him Woo saw the things he had heard breaking: a series of shattered clay pots, shards from a nearby window, a double-decker cot turned on its side, bedsheets spilled. He saw the hilt of a sword stuck completely through one of the spilled mattresses, its tip jammed into the hard clay floor. Woo smiled. According to Suni, Amit had realized he wouldn’t be able to move fast enough with the sword, but the sword was still a factor in this one-sided fight. He couldn’t just lay it down in order to gather new weapons. He’d had to stick it hard in a place that would be difficult to reach, so that no one else could use it against him.

  Woo breasted through the crowd. Amit’s eyes flickered toward the movement. He sprinted, then at the last minute held back. The sai pushed against his robe, nudging his belly.

  “You won’t kill me?” Woo looked down at the boy.

  Pressure pushed, then abated to its earlier state, still touching him, a thrust from disemboweling.

  “You may consider it,” said Woo. “I have come to disarm you.”

  The boy looked up at his master. “I won’t be disarmed.”

  “You will. You were not to open the lockers. You are not to hold the weapons when I am not with you. And most here would tell you that you are not to hold the weapons ever, whether I am with you or not. You have caused damage to some property of others and some that we share. After you have laid down your sai, you will head to the pottery, where you will make new bowls. Then you will work to repair the windows. And you will not raise your hand against your brothers again.”

  Amit’s dark eyes flicked to several boys around the circle. Woo saw the truth of what he’d surmised from Suni outside: They couldn’t disarm the boy without killing him. A young, relatively untrained monk might have taken Amit’s eye movements as signs of distraction and tried to take his blades, but Woo felt the tension telegraph from his arm and through the metal against his stomach with each flick. It was a trick Woo had taught the boy himself: turn distraction into advantage. Contrary to appearances, Amit would actually be most prepared and deadly during the moments his eyes were elsewhere, looking to those he saw as enemies.

  “They are not my brothers.”

  “They are your brothers in that we are all your brothers.”

  “They mock me. They call me small.”

  “You are small, Amit.”

  “Rafi tried to take my mother’s locket. He said I had a picture inside of … ” The boy’s voice faltered.

  “It does not matter.” Woo’s eyes flicked toward Rafi — a boy who, at 16, was maybe four times Amit’s size. Rafi had a small red line across his throat. The sai, which were stabbing weapons, didn’t have a cutting edge, but the slash hadn’t been a mistake or move made during a miscalculated parry. Woo had taught Amit, but much of what the boy knew had come from within. That slash told Woo everything he needed to know. He realized, even if Woo had never trained the boy, this scenario would have played out with any sharp object in Amit’s hand. He’d sliced Rafi ever so delicately — not much more than an attention-getter — just to let him know what might have happened. In all likelihood, Amit had done it when Rafi was sleeping. An intelligent warrior was not above stabbing another in the back. He used his skills to do the job while remaining aware of his weaknesses.

  “It matters. He has insulted my mother’s memory.”

  “No, Amit,” said Woo, still very aware of the quivering spike in his stomach. “He has insulted you. And you have decided to accept that insult.”

  At that moment, a large boy named Nairit took advantage of Amit’s attention on Woo. He sprang forward and grabbed at Amit’s left arm. In a second, both of Nairit’s hands were wrapped around Amit’s wrist, torquing it with his superior muscles to free the weapon. Woo thought he knew what the boy was doing: He’d either make Amit drop the sai or force him to counterattack with the weapon currently held on Woo, thus allowing Woo to disarm him. But Amit didn’t flinch with the blade. He pulled his arm along with the sweep of Nairit’s momentum, then raised one bare foot and, without looking, firmed his toes enough to kick him hard in the larynx. Nairit’s hold on Amit’s wrist faltered, Amit spun his hand through the weak point in the grip (Nairit’s thumbs) and a half second later had the second sai inches from the larger boy’s heart. Woo was impressed. Amit hadn’t so much as blinked from his gut through the incident.

  “My mother’s memory and her locket is all I have left of her,” said Amit, his eyes softening as they met Woo’s gaze.

  “They are all you need, Amit.”

  “I will not bear insult.”

  “Then you are a fool.” Woo deliberately took a half step forward, increasing the sai’s pressure. With a small pop, it broke through his robe. Woo felt its tip kiss his bare skin. “You have trained with me for nearly a year now, Amit. During that time, your instincts and reflexes have blossomed to an astounding degree. But between the ears, you are weak and pathetic. Tell me, Amit, what good is training your muscles if you can be undone with a word?”

  “I have not been undone.”

  Amit was a child brought to the Sri as a problem they didn’t want, whom Woo had honed into a weapon, but had yet to teach peace. As they faced off, Woo forced himself to see the boy as a boy: short stature, small hands recently used only for playing with toys, eyes that were recently innocent.

  “You have been, yes,” said Woo. “Look around you — with your mind if you will not use your eyes. Then tell me what you thought would happen.”

  “I … ”

  “You reacted without thought. Your training was withered by words. Insults are not active, Amit. They are weapons laid down by others. You only pick them up if you wish yourself wounded. Others said things, and you chose to fall upon them as if onto a sword. Those actions have undone you. If you do not believe you have been undone, you are stupid and cannot be trained. Will you kill us all? How is that a victory? Of course you cannot, so perhaps we will kill you. At best we will disarm you, then send you beyond our walls.”

  “But … ”

  Woo could see realization dawn across Amit’s features. He’d pierced his anger’s veil and allowed logic to enter; the boy could see the inevitable dominoes fall, one after another. There were many at the order who believed that training young men and women entailed exercises and practice; Woo knew the most important thing to train was the mind — especially in the young. If you could teach a person to think, fighting was rarely necessary. And if you could teach a person to think, the fighting, when it happened, proceeded more easily.

  Woo reached down, gently took the sai by its tip, and pulled the weapon into his hand. Amit gave him the other without protest. Woo nodded to several adults, placed his hand on the boy’s back, and led him from the dormitory.

  Amit’s head fell as they walked. His fury had dissipated, but shame scurried in its shadow. There was nothing wrong with fury, or shame, but both had come at the boy unasked.

  They passed Suni at the door. He met Woo’s eyes with a steely glare, then looked at Amit. Almost imperceptibly, the abbot’s eyes flicked upward, toward Woo’s silver-white hair. Woo pulled Suni’s eyes back to his, and silently sent him a message: Not now. We will discuss the boy later.

  They returned to the garden, alone. The compound’s rhythms settled to normal around them. Woo sat in Lotus on the grass. Amit, with a small effort, crossed his legs then pulled his own feet up, matching Woo’s position. The boy, with his own small shaved head, blue robe and saffron sash, looked up at his mentor.

  “Am I in trouble?”

  “With some, yes. In the coming weeks, you will have more practice allowing insults from the other boys to lay at your feet. They are Sri — many are old enough that they should be enlightened and know better — but they are still boys. Other weapons will be laid at your feet by adults like the abbot.
Those will be more subtle and elegant, for flaying rather than beheading, but they are similar. If you do not allow the judgments of others to harm you, then you cannot be harmed by them. They are toothless snakes hissing around your ankles, full of menace but unable to strike.”

  “I meant, will I have to leave?”

  Woo shook his head. “I will not allow it. You are young, with a violent past that, for now, will give you an excuse. Pity is a weapon that you can lay at the feet of adults. They believe they are above such things, but are not used to pitying children. I can twist those knives for you — remind the others that you have great challenges to surmount, that you have no one else, that you need our help, that we may be the only ones capable of saving you. But you dull my knives with every new incident.”

  “I did not create that incident. Sanjay and his group did.”

  Woo frowned. The Sri were not supposed to form “groups”; only the order was supposed to matter, and the order always came above the individual. That was how it was supposed to work, and for the most part did. But boys were still boys, and still formed allegiances and traveled in packs. Among the adults, there were those who didn’t find idea of individuality beneath notice, like Woo.

  “Of course, you did. Could you not deflect their barbs? Could you not walk away?”

  “They nudge me. They knock me down. It was not only words.”

  “Could you not fall when they nudged you? Could you not accept their attacks without retaliation?” Woo looked to his right and left, then leaned closer and almost whispered. “Could you not sneak up to Sanjay’s cot in the middle of the night, use a blade to draw a line down his middle, and allow him to wake and see it, knowing what might have happened — and what might happen next?”

  The order’s official decree was to turn the other cheek until it could no longer be turned, but Woo felt that often, action resolved disputes faster by a subtle hand.