| Soul's Waters She looked deeply within, saw herself reflected, the lines of torment etched into her features, turning their sweetness bitter. Blinking didn't change her face back, it was there to stay. Forever. Benet the monk nervously twisted the ring on her finger. It had been carefully crafted to fit her hand, but she felt it biting into flesh. An illusion, of course. Just the pain playing tricks with her mind. Ashamed of how uncontrolled she was, Benet tried to center herself, meditating in the serene stone garden. The tended gravel raked every day, the grass lush but regularly cut; the flowers bright, their perfumes relaxing, soothing. She meditated upon the One Principle: "This body is only a vessel. The flesh is weak, the soul strong. The soul can weaken to the level of the flesh, or the flesh may be fortified to the level of the soul. For the whole to grow stronger is the Path; to follow the soul's will is the Way." Like much knowledge imparted to Benet here, it was both simple and complex. To understand the wisdom in those words was one aspect, to implement it into one's daily actions was another. Sighing quietly, Benet rose from her place by the reflection pool. She thought clearly and calmly about her situation, removing her personal feelings from her thoughts, fading to black, the shade of the disciplined mind. Benet concentrated on the ring on her finger, what it represented. Her love, once joined closer to her than soul, was consigned to the void. But her feelings were not. She sought to remove them from her soul, but they were there forever, confusing her, dulling her edge. Outside of the monastery this confusion had made Benet hesitant. The darkness of the world had extended sharp claws to rake her fragile body, and she had almost succumbed to Death's final embrace. The orcs had almost beaten her senseless, who knows what they would have done to her within their clutches? It had been the gods' will that someone had been there at the right time, blasting their brutish forms with eldritch coils of bright magic, sending the marauders screaming into the night. So they had brought her here, to recuperate from her pain. Benet felt safe here, protected. But she knew, a slight twisted grin pressing through, her love would never have been able to stand such changeless serenity for long. Always active, a free spirit, outspoken, extroverted, excitement only barely caged into human form, battering at the bars, attempting to escape. She felt her heart's loss keenly. Her love was everywhere, yet nowhere. An echo strong enough to cause her grief, yet not intense enough to comfort her suffering. "My child, why do you cry so?" She had started again, she realized. Blinking them back, swallowing her burning emotion with ice-cold logic. Dispassionately Benet regarded the man in front of her, cheap raw silk robe and a peasant's straw hat. The elderly man was holding a rake in both hands, withered fingers clenched loosely around the haft, a benevolent expression on his weathered features. She smiled at the old man. Here she was, the pinnacle of physical excellence, accomplished martial artist, a living weapon; and this little gardener wished to fight off her inner demons with his flimsy rake. She found his vulnerability disarming. Feeling something within her resurface, Benet decided to confide in him her situation, her past, her thoughts of the future. Her pain. He listened as he raked the gravel into smooth, sweeping patterns. After he had created his beautiful designs he spoke to her again. "My child, your agony is over. Feel the peace of this place, allow it to enter your soul. You shall be healed, you need never leave this monastery." The notion was both comforting and frightening. "If I were to stay here, what would I do?" Benet asked the gardener plaintively. "Come with me, child, and I will show you some of the other monks who stay here." He led her slowly to a small rise. Looking down into the vale they could see a young man moving fluidly in the midday sun. Graceful and elegant were his movements, but Benet knew that while they were beautiful in motion, those katas he practiced could snap limbs, break bones. Noticing her analysis of the man's practice, the gardener remarked, "He is probably the most practiced martial artist within the Order. For one so young, his body is agile as a dancer's, but such a dance would be a dance of death." Benet pondered this carefully. "If he is of such puissant skill, why is he here?" The gardener turned grave at her question. "Some years ago, he returned to his abode after a long journey to find the tortured, dismembered corpses of his wife and children. He regrets that he could not protect them from harm. Now he channels his anguish into his practice, here safe from the afflictions of the world." Gesturing to another part of the tranquil garden, he addressed her once again. "But let us not disturb him from his practice. I wish you to meet someone else." He led Benet down into a shadowy glen enfolding sunny spots of greenery. Within one of these bright clearings calmly stood a young woman, painting a canvas upon an easel. Seeing the gardener approaching, she ran to him happily; almost skipping with joy, ending her rush in a heartfelt hug. The love between the gardener and the sweet young child-woman was obvious; touching to witness. He patted her tenderly on her shoulder. Facing Benet, the innocent child proudly showed her what she'd been painting. It took Benet's breath away, a mandala of such complexity and beauty that evinced feelings of serenity and tranquility, quenching the turmoil within her soul. "Peace!" Benet exclaimed, realizing the meaning of the mandala. The young woman smiled brightly, clapping her hands with delight. Benet smiled to see the child so happy from something so inconsequential. Her talent was undeniable. The gardener spoke softly to Benet "She cannot speak. As a novice she was captured by bandits and was ... used ... by them for many years. They cut her tongue out so she could not cry out for help. She was rescued by members of the Order, and has been here ever since. She never wants to leave these protected confines." A mixture of revulsion, anger and compassion coursed through Benet, scorching her fa�ade. The little girl looked at her puzzled, wondering about the emotions chasing each other across Benet's face. Love won out eventually and she fervently drew this wondrous child to her, Benet's mask was torn apart by torrents of tears. The girl broke down in tandem, their tears intermingling, yet the child still tried to comfort Benet within their mutual heartache. Having felt another's pain, Benet could feel her own pain lessening, receding from the love contained within her, bursting free. When Benet and the child were more composed (the gardener having stayed a comfortable distance away), the young girl led her to other works of breathtaking beauty and wonder. Benet and the gardener departed, leaving this innocent child to her exquisite creation. They reached a peaceful glade under weeping willows. The gardener turned to Benet once again, "My child, you have heard the stories of those that dwell within, seen their happiness here, sequestered from the tortures of the world outside. There is a place for you here, stay and be welcome. You need never leave ever again." Again, feelings of disquiet rippled the waters of her soul. Something struck her. "How long were the others required to stay here?" The answer was what she feared: "The allotted time, as is required of you; no more, no less. They just have decided to remain." Benet knew then that if she stayed that long, she would never leave. Although the peace within the monastery was sublime, it would just bring the cruelty of the outside world into sharper contrast. When given the choice between peace and turmoil, pleasure and pain, why would anyone choose pain? Benet knew why. "How do I affect the world, involve myself in it, if I stay here? How does anyone enrich the world, hidden away from all its woes?" The gardener shrugged unknowingly. "I do not know. Is it important to do so? I have been here many years. Does the world need such enrichment, at the cost of your happiness, at the cost of your very life?" "Yes!" cried Benet, impassioned. "Imagine if all the world were this peaceful, harmony welling out to enwrap the land. It will be true one day, not merely the dream it is now." She spoke vibrantly, eyes shining with her zeal. Thoughtful, the gardener reminded her of the realities of the situation. "Do you wish to leave prematurely? You know that this is against the will of the grandmaster and the dictates of the Order. The grandmaster is reclusive, not many meet him - he has displaced himself far away from earthly concerns to meditate upon the higher mysteries, as the elder monks have it. But I met him in my youth, when we were both much younger. Even then I saw much wisdom within him. Perhaps he knows best, yes?" A blinding flash of inspiration! "The Path and the Way! The Path teaches to grow stronger in body and soul, how does one test and improve oneself without constant challenge? The Way - the will of my soul tells me that this is not my place. I MUST leave!" The gardener slowly nodded, gradually accepting this revelation. "But, my child, it is the grandmaster's decree that you stay. What of his Way, his soul's will? May he not know more than you, in his wisdom?" Another epiphany. "But it is my soul telling me to depart. I cannot listen to his soul over my own. Again, the Path and the Way. To follow the teaching of the Order, I must remove myself from it." A delightful paradox. But true nonetheless. Benet removed her sash of rank without regret. What was it, but a bit of brightly coloured cloth? Her enlightenment could not be contained in any material object. Benet knew she was doing the right thing, she had made the correct decision. Picking up her sash with a smile, the gardener patted her tenderly on the shoulder. "My child, I have merely been telling you the consequences of your choices. I do not hope to understand the Order, or your situation. But I believe you are right. I believe in you. Do as your soul's will directs." Gesturing to the horizon he showed her the dark clouds approaching. "But, my child, will you not wait here until the storm has blown over? It looks angry and savage." Benet smiled at him. "That storm is like Life, and one cannot truly be sheltered from its onslaught, just merely hide a time. I shall not be delayed." Taking something from behind his back, the gardener called after her departing form, "Wait, my child! To replace what was lost." He laid upon her brow a crown of chrysanthemums, simply made by his deft fingers, an item that a child might make. But she held it more precious than any mark of status she had ever received. It more than made up for any of the trappings of the order. "You are right again, my child. You shall not be balked, even by Death itself." Benet gazed fondly at the little gardener. "You are very wise for just a gardener, it speaks well of your profession!" she said, amused. Looking bashful, the gardener replied, "Well, for one to live near such learned people, one picks up a few things!" Benet hugged the old man; he was startled but pleased by her gesture. "And you care, care so much for one you barely know. Did you pick that up here also?" He shook his head, smiling. "No, one learns that from gardening. One must love and care for one's plants like people, then they thrive. People are like plants, too; all ultimately seek the light and properly tended they achieve it in their own fashion. Wisdom from the garden!" Smiling broadly at the gardener's lightheartedness, then a sharp, stabbing pain twisted her features. The ring. Looking at it through enlightened eyes, she saw the truth of it. A reminder of her pain that would shackle her to the past, unable to progress past it. She couldn't cherish her pain, clutch it desperately as if it were a strength, she had to resolve it like the weakness it was. Slipping the ring from her finger she threw it over her shoulder. Consumed by the reflecting pool behind her, it left an ever-expanding nexus of ripples in the still waters. The tempest's vanguard, tiny drops of rain, made many more ripples in the formerly still pool. She did not look back to see it. "Go with my blessing, child." was the gardener's final benediction. Benet set forth into the maelstrom. Placing the remaining chrysanthemums in his sack, the grandmaster watched her go. Copyright (c) 2000, Cailean Darkwater. You may freely distribute this work to anyone as long as it remains intact. You may make formatting changes (such as global font changes and the like), transfer between platforms, print it out, put it on a website or even translate this work as long as it remains intact, with these messages at the bottom, and that the author, Cailean Darkwater, is acknowledged. You may not charge for this work in any way, whatever the trade may be. There, as you might have noticed earlier, is no charge for this work. But if you enjoyed it, please consider sending it to 3 other people you think might enjoy it. And well, maybe they, after reading this message, might like to send it to 3 people they think would enjoy it. No, this is not a chain letter. I don't think sending this on, or not sending it on, will bring you bad or good luck for "passing it on" or failing to. If anything, even if you did not like this story, and you choose not to send it on, thanks for at least giving it a try and taking the time to read it. I wish everyone good luck, irrespective. How does it help me if you have bad luck? :) Make your life get a little better every day. Blessed be! Cailean Darkwater, [email protected], [email protected] http://goodreading.ipfox.com/darkwater/ |