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night. The other monks are only concerned with the tapestries that festoon the temple chamber walls. All day long they sit cross-legged in the main hall, hunched over their fabrics (for little daylight enters the place), the skin around their eyes prematurely wrinkled, and pull threads, match colors, weave shapes that pour out like flame, and there is no sound save the boom of the gongs every hour. I understand, the would-be warrior says, and turns stiffly on his heel to leave, but Master Lau interrupts, No, you don't. Every path is one to destruction. He gulps down his wine - it is that time of day - and natters on, more to himself: If I train the boy, the boy will kill. If I do not train, the boy may be killed someday. What is it worth, these fugitive moments of joy and accom- 
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plishment, or the knowledge that innocent lives will be saved, only to be taken by someone else at a later time? Skirmish after skirmish in this life . With that, the would-be warrior falls to his knees. This is what I want, he says. Regardless of what happens to me, what happens to others and when, what can we do if not what we feel we must? Crazy boy, Master Lau snorts affectionately. Insanity is a common symptom of defeated swordsmen. Are you willing to accept that? On your feet. Let's get some food. And so they visit the local marketplace. A cool night has fallen, and in the blemished light of  |
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