It was a beautiful spring morning. The ocean winds blew gently against the leaves of an old tree that stood near a high ocean cliff. A seagull, flying away from the rising sun, flew right over the old tree. She, the seagull, was searching for something. There was a strong gust of wind and she glided until a long stretch of beach appeared far down below her; she had just flown past the sharp edge of a towering mountain wall. Beside the sea she could see scores of thatched huts cluttered around a circular plain, and from the western and northern edges of this village she saw flooded rice fields and newly plowed vegetable fields, both irrigated and not irrigated, leading up to a forested valley. And at the far end of the beach she saw a second mountain wall. She was relieved. She had finally arrived. She descended searching for someone.
A man emerged from his thatched hut and sniffed the air; he could smell the lingering scent of the night rains. He looked at the sky and felt the faint chill of winter saying its last goodbye. He clapped his hands three times, kneeled, placed his hands on the ground, and bowed his head until it touched the ground. He prayed to the goddesses of the sea for he was a fisherman of Ikishi. When he was done, he grabbed the spear that he had stabbed into the earth the night before and walked to the beach. Along the way he saw the pink buds of the cherry trees beginning to bloom. Hmmm, he thought, they are blooming a bit early this year.
When he arrived at the beach he stopped and looked out to where the sea met the sky before clapping his hands, kneeling, and bowing his head to the ground again. He prayed to the gods of the winds. When he was done, he stood up and saw his small sailboat at the end of a long pier made of wooden planks and bamboo stems. He walked to the pier, and he smiled when he saw a familiar seagull circling above him. "There you are, old friend. Come looking for food to feed your young?" He stepped up onto the pier, walked to his boat, stood before his boat with his hands held together before his heart and whispered a few words. He then stepped down into his boat, untied the rope that held it to the pier, and shoved off.
He set his sail, which was heavily marked by long curving lines of his own poor stitch work, and relaxed as he looked back and saw his young son dart across the beach waving at him. He waved back and smiled and thought of how proud he was of his little friend. When he had sailed safely past a reef of jagged rocks he prepared his traps and threw them into the ocean. He then reclined in his boat and waited as the morning sun began to shine upon him.
When the sun had risen high into the morning sky he awoke and found the seagull that he had seen earlier sitting patiently within his boat. He rubbed his eyes and said, "Let's see if I have something for you." He sat up and pulled in one of his traps. "Looks like I've got nothing. But, anyway, you wouldn't like a crab, now would you? Let's see what I can do." He grabbed one of his nets and threw it out into the sea. "I have yet to wake," he yawned. He yanked the rope that was attached to the net, pulled the net back into the boat, and was pleased to find a few lively fish squiggling within it. "Now I have something for you," he said with pride. "The gods are looking favorably on me today, now wouldn't you say?" The seagull agreed by flapping her wings. He picked out a fish from the net and asked, "Are you ready?" to the seagull. She replied again with flapping wings. He threw the fish high into the sky and the seagull flew up and caught it with her beak. "There you go," he commended as he watched the bird fly away to feed her young.
By midafternoon the seagull had returned to Ikishi. She stood on a high tree branch watching the rush of activity among the villagers who were preparing for the spring festival. Women ran to and from the marketplace trading and bargaining for the ingredients they needed to bake their cakes while old men debated over whose cows were to be sacrificed; children could be heard in the distance singing with glee: One cow to feed the gods, a second to feed our forebears, and a third to be eaten by adulty-dult men ...
The air was cool, and the sky bright blue. The Ikishi villagers savored days like these because they were so few in the year. It was the seventeenth day of the third month of the year forty-three, of the reign of Aikoke, in the island region of Kadek, on the Island of Kadek, in the Kingdom of Lemuria.
The villagers of Ikishi pursued their doings and undoings with rarely a word from the outside world. They revered their Queen, although none had ever seen or been affected by her royal decisions. Nonetheless they all adored her, their land, and their ancient ways.
It was said by those in the West that the people of Lemuria were a primitive race whose technology and beliefs had not advanced for millennia upon millennia. Of course, such opinions of the Yellow race–the Sun race–were based not upon understandings, but upon ignorance, propaganda, and fear. It served the Blood race–the Red race–to diffuse such misunderstandings of the Yellow for the more primitive they made them appear the easier it became for their minds and hearts to conquer them in the name of their Atlantean Empire.
Regardless of the thoughts and opinions of the West the people of Kadek carried out their ways and lives. They were a people dedicated to the sea for it was their "breadbasket," although they had never called it that for none among them, except for one, had ever seen or tasted a loaf.
Nishiaka, the western man of the Red race that had come to them some twenty odd years ago, had named their sea their "breadbasket." He attempted to bake them a loaf, but failed continuously, and in defeat he explained that bread was to his people as fish was to the people of Lemuria. Old farmer Toasu, the only man of the village who, in his youth, had traveled far beyond the borders of Lemuria, later corrected this explanation. The old farmer explained that bread was to the people of the West as rice was to the people of the East. No villager paid any heed to the old farmer unfortunately. And so, the old man kept to himself by plowing his fields and rarely visiting the sea or those who took bounty from it.
The sea bore nearly all that was to be eaten by the villagers. Fish was eaten raw, baked, or dried, and with rice or in soup. After fish came squid, crab, and the many seaweed plants. They also ate vegetables, fruits, and berries from their gardens and from the wild of their lands and mountains.
For the many holidays that they celebrated they slew and ate poultry and swine, and for the days that marked the birth of a new season three cows were sacrificed. It was a great honor for the farmer whose cows were chosen to be slaughtered for the gods would grant him many good fortunes, and in Kadek there was no greater a cow farmer than Kono; his cows were rich in soft and sweet fat. Season after season Kono's cows were chosen, and in return he received many riches from the Elders and the villagers of Ikishi. Kono had the favor of many men for he satisfied their lust for cow's meat. Had it not been for the rules of Lemurian men so many centuries ago that forbade the consumption of meat, except on the days that marked the seasons, Kono would not have enjoyed the wealth he possessed and used to spoil his only son, Aiko.
Aiko had no memory of his mother, Kania, who had been raped and killed by Atlantean soldiers when he was an infant. She was on a four-day journey to Erima, her home village, to pay her last respects to her dying father when Atlantean men seized her and her older brother, Nam. Weeks later their bodies, severely mutilated, were found by Kono and his search party; Kono's hate was deep for the Red race, and deep had he sown it into the heart of his son.
Aiko was a very masculine and handsome boy. Many girls adored him from a distance. He was a natural athlete in the sport of Teshi-do, and he was clever in devising traps for small creatures. His closest friends were the plump but strong Taka, and the skinny but quick-mouth Niko. The three of them would spend their spare time torturing Kieko, the boy of mixed blood.
Kieko was the only boy, for several days in all directions, mothered by a Lemurian and fathered by an Atlantean. And although his mother, Madonai, along with the young girls of his village delighted in his exotic features, he found little comfort in his physical differences. He was a constant reminder to the elder people of his village of the past abuses waged against them by the Atlanteans, and for that he was treated like an unwanted disease.
It was late afternoon. The seagull, thinking of her young ones, took off with the blowing winds and flew up the valley that cradled Ikishi. In the distance, she saw a boy running through a farm field. She flapped her wings more and flew straight over the boy.
Running as fast as he could through old farmer Toasu's vegetable farm Kieko looked up and saw the seagull. I wish I were like her, he thought. Fast behind him were Aiko, Niko, and Taka.
"I'm going to get you, Akai!" Aiko shouted as he ran, reached, grabbed Kieko's long black hair, "Got you!" and pulled. Kieko tumbled to the ground. Aiko dropped to his knees and slammed his fist into Kieko's face. Niko kicked Kieko in the head. "Did I say you could cross through here?" Aiko demanded as he pounded Kieko. "I can't hear you–Akai!"
"To hell with you!" Kieko shouted trying to fight back, but both Niko and Taka began kicking him in the ribs and legs.
"What did you say, Akai?" Aiko threw a hard punch into Kieko's jaw releasing streams of blood from his lips. "What did you say?" he continued punching until blood splashed up onto his own fists and arms. He stopped and looked at his hands, "I am stained by Akai blood!" He spat on Kieko. "Worthless Akai! Be gone from here!" he threw another fist into Kieko's jaw launching a spray of blood onto Taka's face.
Taka jumped back, "That's enough–leave the Akai alone."
Aiko shot his hateful eyes at Taka; "It'll be enough when he leaves Ikishi!"
Kieko reached and grabbed a handful of loose topsoil and slammed it into Aiko's face, rubbing it hard into his nose and mouth. Aiko coughed violently trying to spit out the dirt. Kieko kicked him in the groin.
Aiko rolled onto ground cupping his bruised manhood moaning, "Get him–you fat cow!" Taka advanced, but his heavy momentum betrayed him when Kieko sprang up from the ground and tripped him into a small pile of rotten cabbages.
"Come on, filthy Akai! Fight me!" Aiko, now standing, roared. "You're nothing like your Kai father." He threw a punch, but Kieko blocked it. The next thing he knew Kieko had grabbed his head and shoved him down to the ground.
"What did you say about my father?" Kieko demanded before being knocked to the ground by Niko who had struck him across the back of his head with a thick tree branch.
Aiko got up and wiped his lips. "Your father was a coward. Run, run he did to the far corners of the Mother," he pinned Kieko down by sitting over him and began pummeling his fists into his face. Kieko, slightly unconscious, could not fight back. Aiko finally stopped, stood up, and jumped onto Kieko's stomach causing him to heave an airless cough.
"Stop it before you kill him!" Taka demanded.
Niko turned to Taka and sneered, "What's the matter, Taka? Can't kill an Akai?"
Aiko reasoned, "If the Akai can kill my mother then I can kill the Akai!"
"Wicked devils!" Niko cursed. Aiko looked up and saw Shinsei, the village priest, approaching. Niko sprang into a run, as did Aiko and Taka.
Shinsei, quickening his steps to reach Kieko, laughed lightly to himself when he saw Taka, who was trailing far behind Aiko and Niko, bobbing up and down as he ran like an apple in the sea. When he reached Kieko he kneeled before him and took his right wrist into his coarse hand, "Another fight, my young friend?"
The wind blew causing the priest's dark brown, raw silk robes to flap gently against Kieko who mouthed the word, "Shinsei."
"Quiet, my young friend. Do not try to speak, just rest." Shinsei placed his index and middle fingers over Kieko's wrist and closed his eyes; his eyes moved rapidly beneath his eyelids like dogs wrestling beneath a wrinkled blanket. He opened his eyes, "Young Kieko?"
Kieko was fighting back his welling tears. Shinsei wanted to comfort him by placing his hand over his forehead, but Kieko rejected the gesture by shoving the old hand away, "Leave me alone."
"You are always alone, young friend. You are no different than your father."
Kieko stifled his tears; he did not want to appear weak before the spirit of his father.
"I see I have your attention."
Kieko waited.
The priest continued, "I also know that the beautiful Kira can hold your attention as well" –Kieko gave a confused look– "She is quite unique, wouldn't you say? She possesses a rare and simple beauty. She reminds me much of your mother."
Kieko was angry; he did not appreciate what Shinsei had done to get his attention. Bitterly he said, "Don't talk to me about her."
Shinsei was silent for a moment. He then tried to apologize, "I am your friend–"
"I'll consider you a friend when you begin teaching me how to fight against three. I hate Aiko and his stupid friends."
"I'll never teach you if that is your attitude toward him and them."
"What? Do you expect me to love him like a brother?"
"Yes," Shinsei stated as if the answer was quite obvious. He then stood up and began walking toward the sea while running his fingers through his long white beard. He stopped to look back, and asked, "Young Kieko, are you coming?"
Kieko ignored his throbbing pain, gathered his remaining strength, stood up, and limped over to Shinsei.
As they walked Kieko thought of his father, Nishiaka. He had very little memory of him; he had left Ikishi when he was two years old. His mother had explained that his father's journey back to his homeland in the West was prompted by the news of a death in his family. Many in the village speculated that a journey to the far lands in the West would take years to reach by foot; and after ten years of waiting for his return Madonai and Kieko finally took council with Shinsei.
Madonai asked Shinsei to visit the spirit world, and it was there that the priest discovered that Nishiaka was dead. When Madonai asked how he had died Shinsei said nothing more than that his spirit was at peace and watching over Kieko.
Kieko did not want to accept Shinsei's words; he did not want to end his hope that his father would one day return. But, gradually, his dreams of the day when his father and he would sail the open sea faded into the endless nights of his mother's cries.
In the distance Shinsei saw smoke rising from the thatched homes of Ikishi. He could smell the faint scent of grilled fish and looked over to Kieko who was keeping pace and said, "You take after your father. You heal quickly."
Kieko said nothing, but he wanted to ask a question.
"I can see that you would like to ask something, young Kieko."
Kieko was not surprised to hear the priest's keen observation; he was a holy man, a man devoted to the spirit, and as a result he was very perceptive of the feelings and thoughts of those around him. He looked up and asked, "Was my father a Kai guardian?"
"What causes you to ask such a question?"
"There are rumors that I hear, whispers in the forbidden dark, when I sleep–"
"Enough! Do not mock me with your renditions in the high tongue. No time for mystic foolishness. Who told you?"
"Aiko. He says it's true. He says that my father left because he was being hunted."
"When did he tell you this?"
"A day ago."
"Aiko is always a thorn in my side. His father especially ..."
"Is it true?"
Shinsei looked at Kieko choosing his words carefully, "In another land very far from here he was."
"Atlantis," Kieko said with a disapproving hiss as his thoughts bent around the stories he had heard of the western empire from the elder men of his village.
"When I was your age Atlantis was not what you now understand it to be."
"I hate Atlantis."
"Quick to anger, young Kieko. It can be your ally, or so you may think. It may win your wars, but it will never defeat your fears. And fear is what cradles your unhappiness."
"What do you expect from me? I have no friends here. I'm hated here because I'm Red. You want me to be happy? You want me to pretend that I'm happy?"
"No. That is good that you acknowledge that you are unhappy, but do not use your anger to hide your unhappiness. Be angry, be unhappy, be who you are. Don't hide it. Those feelings, like everything in this world, come and go. Be angry now, and let it go when it is done.
"All of your emotions are beautiful, powerful, just like the winds, the rains, the sun, and the mighty oceans. When the Sky is happy he shines a light upon the face of the Mother. When the Sky is angry he becomes a rage that feeds the Mother strong rains. Both the light of the sun and the rage of a storm feed and nourish the soul of the Mother, neither is good nor bad. It simply is, just as you are. Do not use one emotion to hide another. Do not hide, that is simply what I ask of you."
"I don't want to hide," Kieko acknowledged. "I want to face my enemy. Teach me Ki sword."
Disappointed with Kieko's request the priest said, "If you can answer this koan–your koan–with a clear mind, I will begin teaching you. Name the face of your enemy."
"Aiko," Kieko responded sarcastically.
"Come and find me when you have found an answer that is closer to your heart." He turned away and continued toward the village leaving Kieko behind to contemplate the koan.
It was a cool night and Kieko, with a face washed clean by fresh waters, approached his hut that sat along a white path made from countless crushed seashells. When he entered his home, he stared at the dirt floor and his sandaled feet with exhausted eyes. His mother was asleep, but she had left his dinner ready in a ceramic pot near the hearth. He walked over to the hearth and warmed his hands before lifting the lid to peer into the pot.
"Kieko?" Madonai said with a sleepy voice.
Surprised, Kieko dropped the lid back onto the pot, "You scared me, mom."
"Why should you be scared?"
"I don't know. You should go back to sleep, you look tired. We'll speak in the morning."
Madonai, too tired to see the cuts on her son's face or the markings of blood on his clothes, fell back to sleep. Kieko walked to her futon and placed a thick wool blanket over her; his grandmother, Rika, had made the blanket when his mother was young. It was an old and ragged thing now.
Rika had never trusted outsiders and as a result she had forbidden her daughter from marrying Nishiaka, but young love knows no boundaries, it knows no scars; nothing could have stopped Madonai from marrying the man she loved. Angered that her only daughter had refused to obey her words Rika decided to leave Ikishi with her frail husband, Reon.
On the night of their departure Reon snuck away from his wife and gave to his daughter the wool blanket. He was a broken man, crippled in a war he had fought when he was young, and saddened by the death of his only son, Reon-no.
The blanket was the only possession Madonai had to warmly remind herself of her father, but it also reminded her of her mother's cruelness. The blanket brought up mixed emotions; the mother she despised had made the blanket, but the father she loved gave it to her as a wedding gift.
Kieko knew that she wanted to rid herself of the blanket by burning it, to, in some symbolic way destroy her mother's fiendishness. But, destroying the blanket would cut her only link to her father. A frustrating emotional mess the blanket was: a blanket of coarse wool to prick the skin and ignite a rash, but a refuge of warmth during cold winter nights. The blanket did not remind Kieko of his grandmother or grandfather. But it was a reminder. It reminded him of the sharp and delicate line between love and hate.
He had seen too many repeated examples of lovers in his village soon at each other's throats. His grandmother had raised his mother adoringly, but despised her when she fell in love with his father. He did not understand how love could turn so fast against itself. He often wondered if all forms of love decayed into hate. He did not want to hurt others as his grandmother had hurt his mother, as his father had hurt her in his disappearance, in his death. He loved his mother, but he was afraid. Would he one day betray her or would his love always remain constant and true? He did not know.
He walked over to a small wooden chair by the hearth and sat down to stare at the reds and yellows of the firelight dancing with shadows on his mother's face. Deep in his admiration for his mother he forgot about his hunger and soon fell asleep in the chair that his father had built long ago.
The next morning Madonai shook Kieko's body yelling, "Kieko! Kieko! What happened? Damn the heavenly stars! Are you all right?"
"I'm all right!" Kieko barked back.
"Don't speak to me with that voice."
"What would you like? You were screaming and shaking me in my sleep."
"Aiko! I'm going to burn his skin. Look at your clothes! Why did he do this to you?" Her voice was trembling with eyes on the brink of tears.
"I'm a man, mom. Leave Aiko alone. He's my problem, not yours."
"I'm going to talk to Kono about this!"
"No, you're not! You're just going to make it worse for me if you do that."
"Then what in the name of the gods am I supposed to do?"
"Nothing! Don't you understand? You can't protect me anymore."
"You are so ungrateful for all that I have done for you."
"I never asked you to do anything for me!"
"How dare you say such a thing!" she raised her hand as if about to slap him.
He stepped away from his mother. He bowed his head, clenched his teeth, and guarded his heart with his arms. Madonai's body depressed. She now regretted screaming at him. She did not want to become enemies with him, she needed him; he was all she had.
"I'm sorry ... I'm sorry," she apologized approaching him, but he stepped back trying to appear strong by fighting off his sadness. He was suffering. She could see that he wanted to cry, but that he did not want to do so before her or the spirit of his father. She knew that he wanted a man in their home, a father to look up to. He was pushing his hurt deep into his heart, into a dark place that he would try to forget. She wanted to hold him to allow his tears to flow, but he did not want to be touched by her. She began to cry, "Please ... come here."
He stepped back again as she approached. He knew that she wanted to hug him and cry with him, but he had had enough. He was a man, or at least trying to be. He did not want to tear like a child anymore.
"Please ... Kieko ... come here." She stepped closer and closer until he was trapped against the thatched wall of their hut. He covered his face with his hands. She closed in and tried to hug her son, but he resisted, "Leave me alone ... leave me alone," until his voice faded into his body that had begun to shake. He collapsed to the floor defeated by his heart and wept.
She held her son and whispered a sweet melody. Moments passed and she eased him with her words, "You're my baby. You will always be my little baby. I held your little body in my arms, your little fingernails and toes ... my poor baby." She continued holding her son. He wept less and less and soon took deep breaths to calm himself.
"I love you, my little monkey."
"I love you too, mom."
They continued to hold each other. Kieko knew that his mother was finding it difficult to adjust to him as a son who was no longer a boy but a young man seeking to solve his own affairs. Soon thoughts of his father and what Shinsei had said the day before filled him. He opened his mouth to speak, but stopped. He gently pushed his mother away to look into her eyes, "Why did father leave us?"
"You know why he left."
"I know the reason you gave me as to why he left. Now I want the truth."
"Your father was a good man ... He left to protect us."
"Protect us from what?"
"From his people."
"I know that. I've gathered that, but why?"
"Your father feared that ... that one day his people would find him. He was afraid that they would find you and hurt you."
"So my father was a Kai guardian."
"Who in the name of Mount Kadek told you that?"
"Aiko."
Madonai, unable to look into her son's eyes, said, "He's a liar."
"Shinsei told me as well. My father was a Kai guardian, a guardian of the Kai, an Atlantean Kai guardian."
Madonai did not speak. She only bowed her head and allowed the silence to fill the space between her and her son.
"Why did my father come to Lemuria? He was a guardian of the Kai. He was a guardian of the Kai in Lemuria? Why was my father here in Ikishi? Why lie to me about him? Am I going to learn everything about my father from Shinsei and Aiko?"
Madonai looked at her son confused. She wanted to stand firm, but she wanted to cry as well. Tears began to well in her eyes, but she held them back when she saw how agitated he was becoming with her. She knew that if she began to cry he would not hold her, but, instead, walk out into the cold spring morning. He was too similar to his father in that way. She could see his anger begin to swirl and mix with his intense desire for knowledge. He wanted answers and would not accept anything less from her until she spoke the truth. She held herself together and said with a faint voice, "You're right ... I've kept this from you for far too long. Shinsei knows more than I do, he knows more than I can ever tell you about the ways of the Kai. One day, soon, he will give you your koan and you will answer it ... and you will begin training with him," she paused. Kieko thought to tell her that Shinsei had already given him his koan, but said nothing. She continued, "When the time is right, you will learn of your father's past through Shinsei. He will teach you. He will answer your questions."
"I don't understand why you can't tell me?"
"Because I don't know of your father's past. Your father was a good man. He ran from a past that haunted him, and he never shared it with me ... I remember him waking up in pools of sweat from nightmares. He would wake shaking and I would beg him to open up to me ... he wouldn't let me help him. He only sought help and council from Shinsei.
"Shinsei was a good friend to your father. Shinsei is the one who knows more than I do about your father ... your father, the Kai guardian."
"Yes, I know, but Shinsei tells me very little about my father the Kai guardian. He only has stories to tell about my father the fisherman or my father the farmer."
"In time Shinsei will tell you all you want to know about your father."
Kieko was tired of waiting for the day when all would be revealed to him of his father's past. He muttered, "My father was an Akai coward."
She slapped her son across the face and with a finger aimed at his eye she shouted, "Don't you ever speak down to the spirit of your father! I never want to hear that word come from your mouth again!"
Kieko could not speak; he was in shock as he held his hand to his stinging cheek. Blood began to seep through his fingers from his dry scabs.
She looked at her son who refused to look at her and felt guilt and shame wash over her.
Kieko, head bowed, fought the tears that threatened to drown his eyes again and hurried out of his hut.
The sun was beginning to set, and Kieko watched it as he leaned against his mighty Thinking Tree; the tree stood near the edge of a sharp cliff that overlooked the Ocean of Mu. He then recalled his first memory. His mother had insisted that at the age of a year-and-a-half it was not possible for him to remember the time when both his father and her took him to the noble tree. But he remembered the cloudy images of his father and mother, and the grand light that shined upon his Thinking Tree.
His Thinking Tree was wise from the score of years that he had lived, and he was bold. He was bold enough to be the only one of his kind to stand at the edge of a retreating cliff. The thousands of trees that lined the borders of the Great Forest of Ikishi stood far back for they feared the rocky edge that was being eaten away by the majestic ocean waves.
This matter of an approaching death did not concern the Thinking Tree for in return he had the most magnificent view of the setting sun and of the Ocean of Mu. The Thinking Tree saw no grander death than that of falling into union with the deep ocean blue.
Kieko had learned from his mother that his father had spent much time meditating under his Thinking Tree by facing the sun that rose in the far beyond of the eastern horizon. Although he rarely enjoyed or saw any point in zazen–sitting meditation–he would, from time to time, engage in the practice beneath the long branches of the tree in the hope of capturing some essence of his father.
"You must meditate, in silence, by sitting like the Buddha," were the words that repeated in his mind. Shinsei had insisted that he, as a young man that sought to study under him, adopt the regular practice of zazen, but he only pursued the practice in times of convenience, never as a disciplined routine. He remembered one of the old priest's lectures on zazen and how it cleared the mind and relaxed the body, but all that he had gathered from that speech was that zazen was no different than being filled by the peace and quiet of a beautiful ocean view or a dreamless sleep.
On this particular evening, he sat under his Thinking Tree, dwarfed by its massive size, and thought about his father as he often did. He dreamed of the grandfathers he had never known and dwelled in the sadness of never having learned the wisdom that came from sitting on the lap of a wise old kin. He had grown envious of the village children who took for granted the teachings passed down to them from their grandfathers. This was not to say that he did not learn the many ways of the world from an ancient heart for before he counted Shinsei a mentor he learned much from his Thinking Tree.
The Thinking Tree had taught him that all rivers run into the oceans, and from the oceans the clouds gathered water, and when it was deemed right the clouds shed rain upon the Mother, and so continued the cycle. He learned of the many great cycles of the world, and discovered that not all cycles were good, and that some cycles had to be changed. He learned that after every storm the sun would shine, and he learned that fire had the power to both destroy and bring new life. He learned that death and life were forever a part of one another and that even in one lifetime he would die a thousand times. The Thinking Tree explained that his former self, of the age six, for example, was forever dead, just as who he was today would be dead and forgotten in even one day's time. From this Kieko understood the lessons Shinsei had taught him regarding impermanence.
Kieko knew that as long as he lived in this world all things would be divided from their oneness into two, and from two into many. He knew that all things were torn apart into far and opposing ends; where there was light there would be shadow, where there was heat there would be cold, where there was love there would be hate; and where there was life there would be death. From this he discovered that the beauty of the world was not in its ability to appear static, but in its ability to flow from one condition into another.
So, there before Kieko was the magnificent view that his Thinking Tree had bravely chosen to stand before so many centuries ago. The bright orange horizon had cast itself across the clouds. Seagulls danced across the splendid evening canvas, and the ocean winds sang through the leaves and branches of their old friend, the Thinking Tree.
The long grasses bent and moved with the winds and caressed the outstretched hands of a beautifully young Lemurian girl. She approached Kieko and his courageous tree on a cliff. She walked barefoot over the soft grasses for it pleased her. The sea winds touched and massaged her, and blew her long hair from her face.
Kieko's tree knew her, as did the setting sun. They understood her desire to surprise Kieko and assisted as best they could in her attempt. Unfortunately, an abandoned broken branch did not agree with her plan and cracked loudly beneath her foot. Kieko heard the branch, but he did not look back for he knew who was approaching him.
"I've been looking for you," were her soft words.
"I wanted to be left alone today," he said without breaking his gaze from the setting sun.
"You've had the whole day to be alone. I think that's enough." Uninvited, she sat beside Kieko to enjoy the evening scene. "It's beautiful," she whispered so as not to disturb him. He did not respond. She rubbed her arms trying to warm them but shivered. She then moved closer to him to gain some of his warmth.
Alarmed, he moved away; his mind began its talk. It cautioned him to not give in to his heart's innocent want to touch her. He began to shake as his mind battled his heart, giving her, the girl, the impression that he was shaking from the cold winds.
She moved closer; he blushed as his body quivered more. Concerned, she placed her arm around him to ease his trembling body, and as she warmed him she noticed that he did not break his stare of the setting sun.
"Why do you hide?" she asked.
He did not reply.
"Why do you keep everything to yourself? I want to know you, Kieko, but you make it nearly impossible for me."
He continued his silence.
"Speak to me."
Breaking his silence, he said, "I'm sorry, Kira."
"Why are you sorry?"
He became nervous and his body began to shake more than it had before. She now knew that he did not shake from the cool winds, but from his uneasiness in being touched by her.
She had grown up with Kieko as if she was his sister in some sense; but they were no longer children, they were young adolescents. During her infant years, she watched Madonai's loving hands raise and try to protect Kieko. When she was five-years-old she realized that Kieko did not have any cousins or brothers or sisters and approached him as a playmate; well, at least that is what her mother, Ruka, explained. As the years passed she felt tremendous sympathy for Kieko; he was often treated like an outsider in their village, causing him to be, more often than not, alone. As for the elders in the village they saw little more than his father in him; his father the Red who belonged to an empire that ate away at the peaceful lands and islands of Lemuria. What saddened her most was that Kieko had grown used to the hushing sounds of adults who silenced their foul whispers of him when he passed.
In the years before Kieko befriended Shinsei and old farmer Toasu he had only his mother and Kira to look to for comfort and laughter.
And as he thought of his mother and Kira while staring at the setting sun he felt shame cross his heart for the times he had taken his anger out on them. He needed a father, someone strong who would teach him how to fight and hunt and release the rage that burned beneath his flesh. It was not until the autumn of two years past that he had acquired Shinsei and old farmer Toasu as trusted friends, but they were old men, too old to keep up with him, or so he thought, and all they really offered him were warm cups of tea and story upon story both fiction and not.
Kira's arm rested warmly around Kieko, but he was torn, his heart was content but his mind was in a state of unease. His mind beckoned him to feed the hate he held for his face and eyes, but his heart reminded him of how much his mother adored those aspects of him. My mother is the only one who loves the differences that sets me apart. Nothing brought him greater happiness than his mother's love. How like an angel she is; so beautiful, so much like a rose; and more loving than anyone I have ever known. He remembered how she would hold him in the night, of how she would pray with him before their modest shrine, of how she comforted him and confided in him. He had only known love through her.
He wished for his mother a better life than what she had known. He wished that justice be served harshly against his grandmother who had shunned and abandoned his mother for loving his father. He wanted so much to wish away the sadness he saw deep in his mother's eyes for he knew that she was alone in the world, and that all she had was him, but he had only brought her pain. He knew that the villagers spoke in dark tones behind her back, that they mocked her; and that he was the source of their malice against her for he was a constant reminder that the Red could one day come and destroy their way of life.
The more he went over these dark thoughts the more he wanted to live his life away, alone. He did not want Kira to experience what his mother went through. No, that must never be–I will never be the deliverer of suffering to her, his mind had declared not too long ago. And from that was born the seed of his distrust for his heart. He swore to never reveal his feelings for her in the light of day; he would bury them deep within, yes.
Only in the night, when all was still, would he allow his heart to reign over him. He would dream of her and of a place where they could be with no fear of hatred or judgment passed onto them. He would dream of their children-to-be and of becoming a father and a grandfather, but with the light of dawn he would always be reminded that his dream was only that.
In an attempt to convince her, and even himself, he began, "It's hard for me to be open to you Kira. I've always been alone. I'm content to be anywhere by myself. I don't feel a need to be open to anyone."
"What about your mother?"
He paused, "She is the only one. She knows when I'm sad ... when I'm content. She knows me ... she knows me, but still there are things that I do not tell her."
"Kieko, I want to know you. I ..." she wanted to say more, express more, but her thoughts coupled with the way he looked into her eyes caused her to blush with rosy cheeks of embarrassment. She looked down, "I saw your mother today. She worries so much about you. She told me that Aiko hurt you again."
"I can't wait until Shinsei begins teaching me Ki sword so that I can beat him to dust!"
"If that is your attitude I doubt that Shinsei will ever begin training you. What is the big point, anyway? All you boys ever do is dream about training with Shinsei."
"And all you girls ever do is talk about how beautiful you'll look when it's time for your Hakunuso."
She smiled and said with a hint of sarcasm, "You know that the Elders have chosen Kono's fat cows again."
"Great! I'm so happy for him," Kieko replied. "I hope they all choke on his meat."
"No, you don't," she said. "Are you planning to stay up here all night?"
"No, I've just got to think about some things."
"You think too much. What is so important that you had to spend the whole day thinking about it? I'm sure that you've been thinking so much that you haven't eaten a thing today."
She was right. He hadn't eaten anything. His stomach then growled.
From within her garments she produced a small leather satchel. Kieko recognized it; it was a gift given to her from her grandmother. It was a little bag, worn down by years of use and the natural elements, such as the rain and the salt waters of the sea, but ardently did it protect its contents from all the muddle of the outside world. Her soft white hand reached into the satchel, and his eyes filled with curiosity. She pulled out a small cotton bag made of a fabric with a loose open weave. She reached into the bag and revealed what appeared to be a small ball wrapped in moist plant leaves, "This is for you."
He recognized the gift as a rice ball; it was the loving habit of Kira's mother to bestow her daughter with treats of food both bitter and sweet. He bowed his head, gently took the rice ball from her delicate hand, untied the coarse cotton strings that held the leaves to the rice ball, peeled the leaves away, and smiled when he noticed the hardened edges of the rice ball.
She felt a wave of heat brush over her like a warm summer wind; she was lifted by Kieko's smile, a small sign of his gratitude.
To not taint the rice ball with his dirty fingers he used the leaves to hold it and then broke it in two. He offered Kira the larger half.
"No, that is too big. You take it, please."
Kieko did not withdraw the half that he was offering her. He insisted that she take it, "Here, it's yours."
"I'm fine. I'm not that hungry, really."
Growing impatient he said, "If you don't take it I won't talk to you anymore."
Kira took the piece of rice half-smiling.
"I knew that would work," he said with a hint of laughter.
She teasingly punched his arm with a bright smile.
"There it is!" he said with joy.
"What?" she asked confused.
"Your smile. I love that smile."
Blushing she said, "You really are a mysterious one, Kieko. One moment you try to be as cold as ice, then the next moment you melt it all away with words so sweet."
He blushed and tried to hide his flushed face by turning his head from left to right before finally bowing his head to eat his food.
Kira's smile faded. She knew that she could uncover no more of Kieko's sentiments. He was guarding them now; to pry a bit would only anger him, like poking a stick into a beehive. So she settled and did as Kieko did, she ate her small meal while listening to the sound of his tongue softening his food with the wet of his mouth.
When they had finished, she asked, "So, what thoughts were so important that you almost gave up food to sit up here all day?"
Kieko was caught off guard by her question. He was still in the midst of trying to savor the remaining bits of rice in his mouth. He repeated the question in his mind and thought for a moment.
"I'm just like my father."
"What?"
He looked down to the blades of grass all around him. He placed his hands over them; he often likened grass to fur, or at least thought of grass as the fur of the Mother. The winds blew and the sun couched into the now rose horizon.
"My father kept secrets from my mother. He hid part of himself from her–I wish I knew him. All I know of him are the stories I hear."
"One day, Kieko, you will be a father, and one day you will be a grandfather. Your children will adore you. You will give them what you never had as a child."
"You know that Shinsei will begin training me soon, as soon as I answer his koan."
Kira was taken aback by Kieko's sudden change of topic. She felt hurt, even insulted that Kieko had not been listening to her, but as she repeated his words in her mind she realized that he was putting up his defenses again; she was getting too close. Swift of mind she asked with a joyful curiosity, "What is the koan?"
"I must name the face of my enemy."
"Let me guess ... Aiko," the two began to tickle with laughter.
He smiled at her, a sign of his praise, and she accepted with the wink of an eye.
As Kira had known Kieko to do from time to time, he began reciting one of the many legends that he had learned from Shinsei:
"There was a monk who sought the great enlightenment on the Kadek Mountain many centuries ago. He bathed in cold stream waters and ate pine needles for 100 days. He sat in zazen during the peak hours of the night and focused his gaze on a star.
"One night, great demons and hellish fires danced around him, but he was not afraid. He only gazed at his star. There was only his mind and the star. And he saw his reflection in the star and the star saw its reflection in him. It was then that the monk had become Buddha. The Buddha returned to his village and shared his light. He saw his reflection in the face of everything around him. The Buddha is the dirt, the grass, the tree, the rock, the ocean, the sun, the sky, the birds, the stars, the gods, you, and me.
"There is no dirt there is no grass, no tree, no rock, no ocean, no sun, no sky, no birds, no stars, no gods, no you, and no me. There is no ally. There is no enemy. I am you and you are me. I am not you and you are not me. I am you and you are me. I am not you and you are not me. Ra di ra di ka gi di ... These are only words. This is only a story."
Kira had heard this story recited on several occasions by Kieko, but to hide her boredom she entertained him by appearing as if she was genuinely interested in what he was saying. She watched him adoringly as he spoke, and focused her gaze from his crooked nose to all the small imperfections of his face. When he was done, she took his hand, drew him close, and whispered, "You think too much."
He nervously replied, "Not really."
The sun had set leaving the two young souls to listen to the songs of the winds and ocean waves crashing into sharp cliffs. Stars began to appear and all was as at peace.