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I said forget it, the master chuckles. A rivulet of blood courses down from his left temple, and he wipes it distractedly with his sleeve. People who are in such a hurry are merely hurrying to death faster than the rest of us. The would-be warrior is struck by the remark, and he remembers it years later when he is on a city street, and a monk chattering on a cell phone passes, his elbow and hip knocking into him, all but throwing him to the ground. The monk is tanned and in the prime of health, his head as well-shorn as that of a military conscript, and his freshly laundered robes smell of moun- tain flowers and cologne. For a moment the would-be warrior goes rigid even as he swells with anger, wishing to harm and punish arro- gance, and then he laughs loudly, for even now, 
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following his master's advice seems like defeat. It is clear to him that he is still a student, and will always be. *** Every day, the visitors call. Peddlers hunched over canes built from the wobbly remains of branches, women with steel hair and lips pursed in deference, young men of noble birth with heads and mustaches tilted high. Old Hawk sees all of them, always out in the courtyard, never a step inside the house, as if the house itself is a reticent soul that must be protected. All cour- tesies are offered without fail, and tea is presen- ted to the guests, but always Old Hawk stands with his back to the threshold of his home, hands behind him, amiable and impenetrable.  |
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