And so, as quickly as it began, it was over. Mah Lin walked from the old priest’s chambers, still not sure what had just transpired. The abbot for his part smiled and conversed with the senior monks, feeling much younger than his many years. He had known all along that this punishment fit the talented offender well, and that Mah Lin was the only one with the qualities needed for the honor bestowed.
Still reeling from the morning’s event, the young monk moved lightly along the hallway and down the stairs. Alone once more, he examined every detail of the sword within his hands, and with the eyes of his soul peered into its depth.
Steel and parchment were now his life’s one purpose, and his spirit sailed upon the winds of destiny.
Selah had spent her first six years fatherless, but with no regrets. By age seven she was both strong and resilient, and the taunts of older children were quickly silenced with a small but well aimed fist. In the quiet shadows of night she had often seen her mother lovingly caress the orange robe by her bedside. Instinctively she knew it held a memory and therefore a bond. She did not know, however, that it brought her mother back to that night long ago when a young monk had climbed over the temple walls.
For her mother there would never be anyone else. From conception’s first night she would dedicate herself completely to the study of traditional medicine. As she treated her steady stream of patients, Selah would be there helping prepare tonic, antidote, and cure, for ailments of all description. Mother and child would often forage like free animals for the rare and potent healing herbs that grew in the surrounding area. They would speak often of the time when as an adult she would meet the father she had never known, and he would meet the daughter he never knew existed.
She was surprised when the dark and distant plume from the temple summit had brought forth from her mother tears of sorrow. She did not understand the grief with which her mother prepared the cart and said, “We go now to meet your father.” She knew only that this was not the joyous meeting that they had talked about so often and for so long. Following her mother’s emotional cues, she prepared herself for whatever was to come, and at the age of seven found the strength of steel in her young and innocent soul.
The acrid black smoke that had billowed upward from the ruined temple had changed texture. It hung in the air like the oily black plumage of the crows watching from high places. As the small girl and her mother struggled to pull their cart from mountain path to entrance, the last remnants of a smoldering gate collapsed in what seemed an ominous gesture of welcome.
The open courtyard that had once pulsed with the sounds and routine of sacred monastic life now screamed silently from the faces of the many corpses that lay strewn and scattered about. The actions of the woman and child mirrored perfectly the actions of the scavenging crows; they began methodically to pick apart the dead. This, however, was no common pillage.
They had no interest in the valuable armor and weapons of the many dead soldiers. Instead they searched robe to saffron robe looking relentlessly for him. They sat defeated and still, until a raven cried out from a mountainous pile of armored bodies, awakening them from their despair. They both moved at the same time, and with one mighty push, the black bird flew up and the large body at the top went tumbling down, revealing the treasure that the woman and child had been seeking. They had found Mah Lin.
While the woman struggled with the task at hand, the small girl studied the large black bird. It stood calmly, framed by the open door before it, peering into the dark interior. ‘What was it staring at?’ she wondered, her childlike curiosity immediately banished fear. When the raven walked inside Selah quickly followed. With awkward hops it led her down the stone steps and disappeared into a cool square room. She stood still, listening for its whereabouts and letting her eyes adjust to the darkness.
Her vision cleared and the scrolls and parchments on the many shelves now became her focus. She scooped up an armful. By dust and smell she knew that they were old and that she must show them to her mother.
By sundown the body of the monk, his sword, and the ancient manuscripts he had died protecting were halfway down the mountain on the rickety wooden cart. The raven was never far away. By deep night they had reached her home and only then did it fly directly to the monk and begin picking, not at the flesh, but at the many arrow shafts protruding whole and broken from chest and torso.
She and her cub moved once more in unison. They pulled open the blood stained robes. Underneath was the silk tunic she had spun for him some eight years ago. It was his way of keeping his one night of transgression close to his heart. With a twist and a pull, the silk eased the many broad-heads out as faithfully as it had stopped their full penetration.
As the door closed behind them, the woman and child gathered all their healing skills, and the black bird flew up to join the darkness.
The pale monk lay still but for the occasional cough and the shallow rising and falling of his powerful chest. Selah sat quietly and watched her mother work. In stoic concentration she went about the business of healing. Infection, blood loss, and trauma were the enemies she fought against, but it was the powerful love of a woman and her daughter that kept the monk on this earthly plain.
Over the next year Selah grew in loves complete embrace. Her father took well to life on the small farm. For him the work was joyous and productive. Even the most mundane tasks were undertaken with nurturing in mind. The love between her parents was as vast and solid as the temple’s mighty mountainous foundation. Her father didn’t talk much about his former temple life, but by moonlight he would look toward distant peak and remember.
The army that had ravished it did not pursue him. Perhaps they thought that all twenty-one monks had perished, perhaps they thought no surviving monk would continue to live in the temple’s mountain shadow, or perhaps they were just smart enough to let sleeping dogs lie. The monk that knew the secrets of blade making, and the protector of the monastery’s ancestral wisdom, was now just a simple family man.
For the next eleven years they thrived. Selah, her mother, and Mah Lin lived life with the hearts understanding how strong the bonds of love are, and how fleeting life is. They knew that even if a person lives a hundred years, it is still just a blink of an eye to the mountain. As a family every minute of every day was lived and loved to the fullest.
The rain was gently misting on the day father and daughter returned happily from their labor in the fields. They worked well together and shared a love for all that was nature. They spoke on this day about the changing weather and the coming of the new season. As they crested the last hill before their home, they both fell silent. Selah felt the blood drain from her face and her stomach shrivel.
At a glance they knew that their life had changed. As they neared the house their pace quickened to a run. From a distance they saw that the smoke that always rose up at cooking time was absent. They saw that in its place at the chimney’s mouth perched the raven. Both knew even before they opened the door and saw her still form on the floor, their time here as three had ended.
She lay where she had fallen, pale to the eye, and cold like marble to the touch. Her beauty lingered long after her life force had departed. Even in death her features were calm, and serenity was her last expression. Mah Lin knelt beside his love, closed her eyes, and kissed her one last time. Selah opened the fingers of her mother’s cool hand and lifted from them the leaves of a freshly picked plant. It was woad, the flowering shrub that boils down to the richest blue. Selah was surprised because her mother had said nothing about dyeing any silk, she looked sadly at the dark green leaves and bright yellow flowers, closed her eyes, and inhaled their gentle fragrance deeply.
Death had been kind and swift. She had not suffered or lingered. Instead she had crossed from the world of flesh in one seamless step. Selah’s father said that her heart had just stopped beating, and her spirit had