KENSHO
Dennis A. Schmidt
v2.5 – fixed broken paragraphs, garbled text, formatting; by peragwinn 2004-09-19
This book is dedicated to:
Niels Bohr, Albert Einstein, Werner Heisen-berg, Geoffrey Chew, and all the other shapers of modern physics
Martin Heidegger, F.S.C. Northrup, Steven Toumlin, Hans Reichenbach, Fritjof Capra, and numerous contemporary thinkers, philosophers, and epistemologists
D.T. Suzuki, Katsuki Sekida, Dogen, Nan-sen, Eno, and generations of Zen scholars, monks, and masters
but most of all to my wife.
PROLOGUE
The thief crouched silently in the deepest shadows at the base of the wall.
Patiently he watched, as across a few yards of moons-lit courtyard the Brother who guarded the door of the shrine yawned and stretched. It was late and the lad was tired, bored by an eventless night and a duty that was purely ceremonial. For who would ever want to steal what lay within the shrine?
Eventually the young man braced himself against the wall next to the doorway and dozed off. As the guard's chin touched his chest, the thief flowed across the yard and through the door, moving so softly and quietly that he seemed but one more shadow among the rest.
Gently placing one foot in front of the other to avoid even the slightest creak of floorboards, the thief approached the chest that stood against the back wall of the shrine's single room. By sheer chance a tiny window set high into the wall to the right let in a mingled beam of light from the three moons that hung in the sky outside. The glow struck the left end of the trunk lid, casting fuzzy, triple shadows on the floor.
The thief reached the chest and knelt in front of it. With both hands, he slowly, slowly raised the unlocked lid so that soundlessly it revealed what lay within. Ever so gently, he lifted the long, cloth-wrapped object that was the sole occupant of the chest. Cautiously unwinding the covering, he bared the narrow, slightly curved shape of a sword in its scabbard. Placing the sword on the floor next to his knees, he replaced the cloth and slowly, slowly closed the lid again.
As softly as before he rose, then thrust the sword through his waist-band, securing the cords attached to the scabbard to hold it firmly in place. Then he turned once more and, as quietly as the moons-light itself, re-crossed the shrine.
As he passed the lightly snoring sentry at the entrance, he paused for a moment, a mischievious smile lighting his hooded features. Looking about, he spied a Ko blossom lying on the ground nearby. Two steps brought him to it and two more returned him to the peacefully sleeping lad. With the lightest touch imaginable, he drew the guard's sword from its scabbard and put the blossom in its place. Then he stuck the sword in the ground at the place where he had discovered the flower.
With a last dark grin, he disappeared into the night.
BOOK I
FATHER ANDRETTI
I
It was one of those rare, wonderful nights when all four moons rode together across a cloudless sky. Subtleties of shape and shade invisible beneath the blue-tinged glare of the daytime sun crept cautiously out to transform the world with delicate beauty, finely edged with a fairy lace of quadruple shadow.
The central courtyard of the Brotherhood on the Mountain was filled with the soft moons-light and the hushed murmur of voices. The intricate tracings cast by the great Ko tree that dominated the middle of the yard nearly reached to the open-air meditation hall that lay at its southern edge. To the north squatted the low, wood-and-adobe buildings that housed the senior Fathers, their rough textures and harsh angles smoothed and mellowed by the gentle glow. East and west were buildings dedicated to instruction and administration, quiet and empty now, their silence adding to the stillness of the night. Beyond, in all directions, other shapes were barely visible, and at the very edge of perception, more suggestion than reality, loomed the wall that completely surrounded the Brotherhood.
In the courtyard itself, on either side of the Ko tree, one could make out two amorphous but discrete groups of robed figures. The first seemed ordinary enough for a Brotherhood: the usual assortment of Fathers and Brothers, young men and old, tall and short, thin and fat, spanning the range from Tenth Frame Novices to Masters. There were at least fifty of them all told, gathered in little clumps of murmured conversation.
Standing at the edge of the first group, Burke glared with ill-concealed hostility at the twenty or so members of the second, arranged in a loose cluster, separated from everyone else by six or seven yards of empty ground. No one made any attempt to approach them and they seemed quietly content to remain by themselves. Talk between them was sparse, each individual seeming to be taken up with his own private reverie, yet there was a sense of closeness and belonging about them that made their mutual silence companionable and binding rather than isolating and divisive.
Burke glanced at them again and shook his head. Different, that's what they are, he thought. All pretty much the same age, same height, same build. Look at 'em quickly and they might seem normal. But look and you discover how strange they are.
Their faces, for example. Calm. Too calm. Always that slight half-smile on their lips. Nothing ever startles them. It's like they already know what's coming.
Or watch the way they sit or stand or move. Slow, deliberate, controlled, smooth. So damn smooth. Never a wasted motion. And always ready to lash out with lightning swiftness. Always, always ready.
Maybe some people can't tell what they are, Burke thought. But I can. I can pick 'em out of a crowd of 'steaders, settlers, Brothers, whatever. Even without their swords, I can smell 'em.
Deadly. Unpredictable. Different.
Burke twitched his head in their direction and muttered to the gray-haired man who stood next to him: "They always stay apart from the rest of us. Aren't we good enough for 'em?"
The tense line of Father Andretti's mouth was the only thing that betrayed his annoyance. Otherwise, his manner was relaxed and mild as he replied. "They mean no harm, Burke. True, they stick together, but I imagine the real reason isn't so much pride as simply the fact that they haven't much to say. After all, their lives are rather circumscribed. They're totally dedicated to two things: the Way of the Sword and the Way-Farer. That doesn't leave much to talk about with ordinary people. But if you'd ever take the trouble to strike up a conversation with one of them, I think you'd find they're really quite affable. Gentle, in fact. Yes, and almost child-like."
"Talk to one of 'em?" Burke snorted. "Who can talk to 'em? The only answer you ever get is a grunt or a nod! Why, damn it, Father, even when they talk with each other they hardly say a word. They're the quietest bunch I've ever seen. I swear to the Gods, they must have their own sign language or something! Unnatural, that's what I call the lot of 'em!" He shuddered slightly with aversion, casting a black look in their direction.
Andretti's reply crackled with barely suppressed anger. "That's enough, Burke! You're overstepping yourself when you criticize the Seekers of the Way of the Sword! They serve the Great Way and all of Mankind here on Kensho, just as Jerome intended. Remember that and keep your prejudice to yourself!"
The harshness in the older man's voice caused Burke to recoil, his face momentarily blank with surprise. He had never seen Andretti angry before. Then Burke's answering anger came, creeping into his face and eyes along with an expression of cunning. "Aye, Father," he grated, "to be sure they serve. I'll not forget. And you'd be wise not to forget that we also serve, and serve right well, in a far more ticklish area! It's The Faithful who are your strength out on the Plain, not the Seekers! We're the muscle of the Free Council and the Great Way and the Way-Farer outside this Home Valley!"
Surprised by the sudden strength of his anger and his loss of control, Andretti clamped down on himself, using the mind-calming techniques every child on Kensho learned almost before he could walk. What's wrong with me tonight? he wondered. To lose control, and in front of Burke? I must be more worried about the situation than I've admitted to myself.
Forcing a cool smoothness into his words, he answered. "I know it well, Burke. The Faithful have been honored by everyone ever since Jerome founded them. They helped clear the Ronin out of the passes. And they still protect the settlers from those Ronin bands that survived the Great Killing.
"As for yourself," he continued soothingly, "have no fear. We value your loyalty and services for all they're worth. The information you gather for the. Free Council is properly appreciated, believe me."
"Hmmmm, hmmmmm," Burke nodded, mollified by the praise and the change in Andretti's attitude. Teach him to get tough with me, the little man thought smugly. For a few moments he savored the older man's apology, remaining silent as he looked over the assemblage with his sharp, quick eyes.
"Don't see any of the representatives from the Council of the PlainsLords here," he said finally. He chuckled dryly, rubbing his long, thin hands together with malicious glee. "I'll bet Dembo's really sweating this one! Imagine! The Way-Farer calls a special meeting in the middle of the night and doesn't invite the representatives of the Lords!" He turned again to Andretti, his gaze penetrating. "Any idea what it's all about, Father?"
Uncomfortable because he had no answer, Father Andretti shrugged. How he disliked this sneaklizard of a man! Small, dark, stoop-shouldered, with swift little eyes that constantly darted here and there, spying, snooping, seeking advantage in everything. The kind of creature that steals eggs from nests. It bothered him that such riff-raff, no matter how useful, found a home among The Faithful.
But what can I do? he asked himself. I need their strength to balance that of the PlainsLords. And I need Burke's information to keep one step ahead of that devil Mitsuyama.
Father Andretti sighed hugely. A large man, well over six feet, he had a massive head with a strong, square face, surrounded by short, curly gray hair and an equally grizzled beard. In his youth, he had been powerful. But as he had risen through the hierarchy of the Brotherhood until he had reached its pinnacle as President of the Free Council, somehow his muscles had grown soft, and he had acquired a layer of fat around the middle. Nevertheless, he was still quite impressive and carried an undeniable aura of determination and authority.
So much to think about, he repeated to himself. What could this middle-of-the-night summons to Audience mean? Why had the Way-Farer called them all together? And why had he excluded Dembo and the other representatives of the Plains Lords?
"Couldn't be that you finally got through to him about Mitsuyama, eh?" asked Burke with a calculating glance. "That'd explain why no Dembo."
Mitsuyama! At the very name, Andretti felt a surge of anger and frustration. Finding ways to counteract that man and his infinite, intricate scheming consumes my every waking hour, he thought in silent fury. Mitsuyama and his cursed PlainsLords represent the greatest threat to Mankind since the Mushin nearly destroyed us at First Touch!
And now this new information that Burke had brought: did it mean that Mitsuyama was moving toward a final showdown, that the battle of rhetoric he had been waging with the Free Council was about to turn into a real battle, complete with bloodshed and death?
Andretti looked up momentarily from his internal conversation and noted with pleasure that Burke had moved away and was now talking to someone else. Spies, he thought. It isn't bad enough that I've had to turn The Faithful into a para-military reserve to enforce the power of the Free Council against the threat of Mitsuyama; no, I've actually had to create a spy network with Burke at its head to find out what that devil's up to. And if this new information is true, it's a damn good thing I did!
For an instant a wayward thought crossed his mind. Was Mitsuyama really a devil or only a misguided fool? No. The man knew exactly what he was doing, carefully plotting each devious step. It took all the best minds on the Council to deal with the man's ceaseless machinations.
And even then, Mitsuyama scored victory after victory. His stand against the Council's decision to disband the Keepers and Artisans had gained him a great deal of support, especially out on the Plain. And if Burke was to be believed, there were many, even within the ranks of The Faithful, who half-believed his claim that the Free Council was subverting the purpose of the Great Pilgrimage!
What utter rubbish! he thought indignantly. Why, any fool can see that there are ten times as many men spread across Kensho now as in the days of Jerome.
And someday the entire planet would be settled. But growth had to be slow and deliberate. In keeping with the Great Way. There could be no explosive breeding, no overwhelming of the world, no conquering and subjugation. That was the way of Earth, the way that had led to the very conditions that had forced men to undertake the Great Pilgrimage in the first place. There would be no repeating the mistakes of the Home World here on Kensho. The Council was determined.
For Mitsuyama to twist this sensible caution and concern into a subversion of the Pilgrimage was the height of irresponsible demagoguery. Everything the man said and did was nothing but a ploy to discredit the Free Council. His real ambition was clearly to replace them and seize power for himself!
And if he ever succeeded? Andretti quailed inwardly at the very thought. Death. Destruction. A repeat of First Touch and the Madness. He shuddered. The Mushin, the mind leeches that fed on men's emotions and drove the unprotected mind into screaming Madness, are still with us, he thought grimly. Still very much with us. Only the Brother and Sisterhoods, following the Great Way laid down by Jerome, keep the invisible creatures under control. If the Council were to fall, who would maintain the inviolability of the Great Way? Who would continue the training that keeps the 'hoods fully staffed? Mitsuyama? He laughed ironically.
No, he told himself, there is no other way. If Mankind is to survive on Kensho, the Great Way must be maintained in total purity. And that means the Free Council must stay completely in charge of the situation. If that required turning The Faithful into an army, so be it. If it meant using spies, then they had to be used. And if it led to a final, bloody confrontation with Mitsuyama and the Plains Lords, then that too had to be.
From the corner of his eye, Andretti noticed a movement to his right. Someone was approaching. He looked up and saw Father Olson coming across the yard in his direction. Damn! he thought. All I need is Olson's ceaseless antagonism to really upset me. Again he realized how agitated he was and firmly calmed himself as the younger Father, another member of the Free Council, walked up.
"What's it about, Andretti?" Olson asked sharply. Everything about the blond-white man was points and angles. There was nothing soft about him anywhere. Tough, lean, with a harsh aquiline nose that jutted across an ascetic-looking face, cold blue eyes that never seemed to blink and cut into one like an ice dagger, there was no way to like Olson. You could admire the preciseness of his mind, the keen, cutting edge of his intelligence. But there was no way to like him.
His very presence put Andretti on guard. Any conversation between them took on the character of combat from the very first words. Attack, parry, counter. "Which it!? Be more specific."
"You know what I mean. Did you tell him about the information your spy brought?"
Andretti nodded curtly.
"And?" pressed Olson.
"And nothing. The Way-Farer responded as he always does to our concerns about Mitsuyama and the PlainsLords. 'My, that sounds bad, Tomas. Very serious. I'm glad you and the Council are on top of the matter. But I'm sure you're misinterpreting things. Surely it doesn't matter in any case.' "
"The fact that the PlainsLords are training a secret army didn't make any difference?"
Andretti snorted. "He didn't seem in the least surprised."
Olson eyed Andretti coldly. He had known how the old man would react to the news. They all had. The Way-Farer wouldn't react at all. He never did. In that Johnston had been consistent ever since he had taken up the Sword of Nakamura from the great Coran, the third Way-Farer in the line that began with Jerome.
It's a good thing the old man's utter indecisiveness is balanced by the fact that everyone loves him so much, he thought. For everyone did love and revere Johnston. Even Mitsuyama and the Plains Lords.
Uncharacteristically, Olson sighed. "So he won't do anything?"
"Has he ever?"
"No," Olson replied, the coldness returning to his voice once more. "He's much more concerned with meditation and his hand-picked pack of Seekers," he jerked his head in the direction of the group which stood across the courtyard, "than he is with the Way or the 'hoods or Kensho itself. He never makes any decisions, not about the Keepers, or the Message, or the PlainsLords. We have to do it all," he finished bitterly.
"And what should we do about Mitsuyama and his new army?" asked Andretti, his tone heavy with sarcasm.
"You know my views. You don't respect them, but you know them."
"You've stated them often enough in Council Meetings."
"Yes, and I'll state them again. We could undercut Mitsuyama's position and destroy his credibility if we'd ..."
"The Council has decided ..." Andretti interrupted firmly.
"The majority of the Council has decided," Olson amended sharply.
"All right, damn it, the majority, the overwhelming majority, of the Council has decided that what you're asking, even in the limited form you propose, would harm the Way and begin the same vicious cycle that ruined Earth."
"And an armed confrontation with Mitsuyama won't hurt the Way? Bah! You're a blind fool, Andretti! You're impervious to reason and opposed to change. And determined to drag the rest of us down with you!" Olson spun about and stalked away.
For a moment, Andretti felt something akin to despair. Enemies everywhere! How could anyone sort it all out? There was so much, too much, to think about! So many factors to consider! Mitsuyama, the PlainsLords, the new army, the Keepers, the Message . . .
Damn! he cursed himself. Control! You can't control the situation until you control yourself. And you've got to keep control because you're the only one who can. Johnston's a wonderful old man, but he's useless, he's ...
A sudden stillness settled over the courtyard. Aware of the silence, Andretti turned to see the Way-Farer enter the yard and walk slowly toward him. It hurt him to see how old and tired the Master looked. Johnston caught his gaze— and held it. He's coming directly to me, Andretti realized, surprised but not displeased. What could that mean?
"Ah, Tomas, Tomas," the old man said as he embraced Father Andretti. "We've seen so little of each other these last few years. I've missed you, my son, missed your inquisitive mind, your constant doubting and searching. But then, I suppose you've been very busy with being President of our Free Council."
Turning from Andretti, the Way-Farer faced the rest of them. "Thank you all, my friends, for coming. I assure you that the reason I called is important enough so that none of you will go away feeling you have been unjustly cheated of a night's rest. Aside from sharing the beauty of the night itself, I have something very important to relate to all of you."
The old man turned half-way back to Andretti. "Tomas," he began, "one of my first disciples, one of my oldest friends, and perhaps the staunchest support my term as Way-Farer has had; I have a request to make of you."
Andretti bowed low. "You have but to ask, Master."
The Way-Farer nodded. "Ummmmmm, yes, yes, I'm sure. Tomas, please go to the shrine and bring Nakamura's Sword to me." A murmur ran through the crowd.
"Yes, bring me the Sword. It's time it passed from my weakening grasp to that of a stronger man.
"Yes, do it now, Tomas. For tonight I am going to die."
II
Despite his years of training, Father Andretti found it almost impossible to control the surges of contradictory emotion that swept through him. Deep sadness at the imminent loss of a loved and revered Master vied with exultant hope that now something might be done to stop the PlainsLords before it was too late. A new Way-Farer was bound to be more sympathetic to the Free Council's concerns!
But the strongest emotions centered on the Way-Farer's words just preceding his declaration. He asked me to get the Sword, recalled how long he'd known me, praised my work as President of the Free Council! Surely I'm to be the next Way-Farer! His mind aflame with speculation, Andretti approached the door of the shrine.
Bowing to the young honor-guard, he composed himself. Then, at a stately pace, he entered the shrine. Slowly, ceremoniously, he walked softly across the floor toward the chest, which stood against the far wall. From the tiny window high on the wall to the right, a splash of moons-light fell on the chest, casting a quadruple shadow on the rough planks of the floor.
Reaching the chest, he knelt in front of it, touched his forehead to the floor in reverence to the most valuable thing on Kensho, the treasure, of the race. The Sword of Nakamura, brought by the Admiral from Earth. Given into the hands of Jerome on board the Flagship. Passed from Way-Farer to Way-Farer since then as a symbol of the transmission of office and power. The Sword of Nakamura was the symbol of Mankind on Kensho, the symbol of the Great Way they followed, and the symbol of their eventual victory over the Mushin.
Father Andretti stretched out his hands and slowly lifted the lid of the trunk. Then, with it resting back against the wall, he reached inside to take up the cloth-wrapped sword.
As his fingers touched the cloth, a shock ran through his body. Hurriedly, he felt around. The cloth was there! But there was nothing wrapped in it!
A wave of dismay struck his mind. Jerking the trunk to him, he peered inside. The dim light of the moons fell on the empty space where the Sword should have been. Nothing! Wildly, he stared about, then again felt over every inch of the trunk's interior. Gone! Empty! The Sword was not there!
With a cry of anguish, he sprang to his feet, his gaze sweeping the empty room. Making little moans of fear, he circled about the room, ignoring the Brother at the door who stared in, utterly perplexed by his actions.
Finally he stopped, standing in despair in the middle of the floor. He stared vacantly at the young man who still watched wonderingly from the door. Suddenly, "Gone!" he shrieked. "The Sword of Nakamura is gone!"
Only two moons still clung to the sky. The double shadows in the courtyard had become so deep that torches had been brought to offer enough light to see by. The scene that appeared in the flickering brightness was a strange combination of chaos and calm. The outer parts of the yard, especially around the entrance and exit areas, swirled with nervous activity. People met, exchanged news and views, then hurried off again to another meeting. The buzz of excited voices permeated every corner. But the closer one moved to the center of the yard, and the great Ko tree that silently stood there, the quieter things became. The rushing about ceased, and men stood calmly, almost sorrowfully, looking at a figure that sat at the base of the tree.
Immediately surrounding the Way-Farer were twenty other seated figures: the young Seekers of the Way of the Sword. They and the old man were engaged in soft conversation, seemingly unaware of the confusion that filled the rest of the yard.
Suddenly Father Andretti thrust through the standing throng circling the seated men. In two steps he stood, towering over the Way-Farer and his companions, obviously bursting with news. Before he could speak, however, the old man held up his hand in a forestalling gesture. "Calm yourself, Tomas. I can see you have something to tell me. Sit, compose your thoughts. Then tell me."
With a tremendous act of self-control, Andretti sat. But his face clearly showed both his dismay and annoyance. Gods! he thought, how can he sit there like that when the whole structure that Jerome, Obie, and Coran built is about to tumble down around our ears? He shook his head in self-reprimand. He's dying, he reminded himself. He's dying. And he's deliberately calming his mind and detaching his awareness from the world.
Quieted by these thoughts, Andretti's face relaxed and the scowl left his eyes. As soon as it vanished, the Way-Farer turned back to him and smiled. "Better," he said. "That's better. Now, my son, what is it you want?"
"Master," Father Andretti replied. "We've searched the entire Brotherhood, room by room. Nothing. The Sword of Nakamura has simply disappeared. "
The old man shook his head. "Hmmmmmm. Yes. Gone, you say? My, that does create a problem. I'm about to die, and before I do, I'm supposed to pass on the Sword to my successor. But there is no Sword, so I can't pass it on. Which means I can't name a successor. What a strange world it will be without a Way-Farer!"
Father Andretti looked at the old man in shocked surprise. "No Way-Farer? But . . . but. . . that can't happen! It mustn't happen! The Way-Farer is the heart, the soul, the . . . the focus of all Kensho! Why, having no Way-Farer would be like having no Great Way."
Nodding, the Way-Farer smiled gently. "Yes, yes. Perhaps that will come to pass some day, too. But Tomas, really, if there is no Sword, how can there be a Way-Farer?"
Andretti's mind raced furiously. What the old man was saying was true! The Sword was the physical symbol of power. For everyone on Kensho, the man who wore the Sword of Nakamura was the direct descendent of Jerome, the legitimate leader of the Great Way. Would anyone, especially the PlainsLords, accept a man as head of humanity if that man did not have the Sword? The shock of that question jarred his whole system. He knew the answer: No. Mitsuyama, D'Alams, Kondori, all of the PlainsLords would look on this as a sign from heaven. It would legitimate their refusal to support the Free Council. No Sword, no Way-Farer. No Way-Farer, no loyalty. This would provide exactly the excuse they needed to break their allegiance with the Brother and Sisterhoods, to attack the system and set up their own in its place. Andretti felt a premonition of ultimate disaster shuddering in his mind.
The Way-Farer was smiling at him. Carelessly, the old man picked up a Ko blossom that lay on the ground next to him. He looked at it, then breathed deeply of its delicate fragrance. "Lovely," he announced. "Truly delightful." He held the flower out to Father Andretti. "Here, Tomas, take it. Smell it. Beauty is so ephemeral we should never waste it when we find it. Here. Take it."
Andretti just stared at the proffered blossom. A flower, he thought wildly, a flower. The world is crashing about us in ruins. Nakamura's dream, j Jerome's labor, Obie's battles, Coran's careful building, all, all stood in imminent peril of destruction. ? And all the Master of the Great Way can do is offer me a flower?
Tears welled in his eyes. Even now, as he offered the flower, the old man was dying. And everything Mankind had fought for ten generations might be dying too. And now it seemed that only I care, Andretti mourned to himself. And only I can do anything to stop it. The Way-Farer offers nothing but a Ko blossom!
The tears streamed down his face as he rose. His body was shaken by great wracking sobs of raw emotion. Pity, fear, love, despair surged through him in towering waves. All he knew was that he had to leave here, he had to get away to someplace quiet where he could think. It was up to him, completely and solely, to find a way out of this mess. No Sword, no Way-Farer. No Way-Farer, no loyalty.
His head and chest aching as he fought himself back under control, he croaked out, "I must go now." He turned on his heel and left.
For long minutes, the Way-Farer stared after him kind sadness shadowed his features. Then the old man sighed and shrugged. He looked at the Ko blossom he still held extended in offering. One by one, his fingers began to open, to let it fall to the ground.
Suddenly, he stopped, closed his fingers again and brought the flower close. He turned casually to his left to a young man who sat there calmly, with alert eyes and an air of barely restrained energy. "Edwyr," the Way-Farer spoke quietly, so that even those close had to strain to hear. "Edwyr, is the Ko blossom not lovely?"
Edwyr fixed his gaze on the blossom in the Way-Farer's grasp. It was lovely. He nodded.
"But that loveliness, is it not mere appearance? Does it not exist only in the mind? What if I tell you, this is not a Ko blossom, but in truth it is a Death Sting. What do you say to that?"
The young man smiled. He reached out and took the blossom from the old man's fingers. Then he breathed in the perfume. "Truly," he whispered, "it is lovely."
The Way-Farer smiled back. Slowly, he leaned forward until his mouth was next to the ear of the young man. Those seated nearby could see his lips move, but were unable to hear a word.
The effect upon Edwyr was remarkable, however. The young man stiffened as if struck a blow. His eyes went wide with surprise. Then just as suddenly, he burst out weeping, his body tossed by gigantic sobs, the tears gushing down his face. Yet his features positively glowed with joy at the same time. It was startling and everyone who saw it never forgot the strange contradiction of a joyous man weeping.
Just as quickly, Edwyr was calm again, smiling quietly at the old Master as the latter leaned back into his place. Carefully pushing the stem through a hole in his worn robe, Edwyr placed the flower over his heart.
Looking at those around him, the Way-Farer nodded. He straightened his robe. Then, in a soft voice that carried even to the farthest corner of the busy courtyard, he said, "I think it is time for me to die now."
Complete silence was instantaneous. All eyes turned to the old man. Calmly, with a ghost of a smile lingering on his lips, he folded his hands in his lap and closed his eyes. Gradually, his breathing became shallower. Finally, his chest stopped moving at all.
For several moments, everyone just watched the still form with total fascination. From the Ko tree another flower fell, and in its journey to the earth it lightly struck the old man's shoulder. Slowly, ever so slowly at first, but gathering momentum, the body keeled over. Edwyr quickly bent to the sprawled form and lifted an eyelid. He held his cheek against the Way-Farer's mouth. Taking the slender wrist, he felt for a pulse. Putting the limp hand back on the ground, he looked up at the circle effaces flickering in the torchlight. Then he spoke.
...
allforjesus2001