A short story without a title

Once there was a boy who sat on a cushion. He had been told by a wise man that sitting on a cushion for long enough would give him access to miracles beyond his comprehension. This boy was no stranger to miracles. He had once walked through the market near his home and seen a man kill a snake. Then through sorcery or magick or some other form of miracle, the man sang to the snake and the snake slithered around the man’s feet and was alive once more.

In a foreign land, while traveling with his father, the boy met a man who could call all forms of life to him, plant and animal, using some old bones in a leather pouch around his neck. The boy remembered all this and longed for these secrets, or ones like them to be his. So he sat.

For days he sat on his cushion, his eyes closed and his mind focused on his breath. Sounds came and went, travelers passed him by. He ignored these distractions and continued to focus on his breath. Physical sensations would surge through him, would call his attention to them like a search light and demanded to be answered. His face would itch, his leg would ache, his back would spasm and still through all of this, the boy focused on his breath. It moved in and out of his body. It danced around the inside rim of his nostrils on its way into his lungs then dance farewell on its way out. This was enough for the boy. This of course, and the hope for access to inconceivable miracles.

Then one day a woman approached. The boy heard the jingle of her jewelry as she drew closer and as with other sounds and distractions, noted them and forgot about it. But smell is a far more powerful sense than its 4 brothers, and the woman smelled of jasmine and lilac. She smelled both exotic and familiar at the same time. Then she spoke.

“I am here looking for a good man,” she said, and the boy could not help but open his eyes and gaze up at her. She was older than he, and beautiful. Her hair was long and dark with a few strands of shining silver growing from her forehead. Her skin was sun baked but the lines near her eyes did not make her look elderly, they made her beautiful beyond words. The red of her lips filled the boy with desire. Her body curved and dipped in ways that eluded the younger women the boy had been with, and her eyes were filled with a depth and lustfulness that made the boy forget his cushion.

“Come with me, boy. Work in my home, lay in my bed, take me as your wife and I will give you riches unimaginable.” And because he had always been a poor boy and had not known a woman’s touch for some time, he stood up, look the woman in his arms and off they went. Together they traveled some distance to the woman’s home. Along the road they met a holy man who poured water on their feet, some sand upon their heads and pronounced them married. The boy was lost in his fantasies of the future and beamed with pleasure as they came to the woman’s home.

Hers was a smaller home in an area where they had not seen many other houses. There was a garden out front and plenty of chickens. Together they went inside to her bedroom and lay together as husband and wife. The next day he began his work around the house. He fixed the furniture, tended the chickens, kept the garden free of pests. He chopped wood for the fire and cleared fallen trees off his wife’s land. At night he would return to her in the bed they shared and what followed was unlike any union he had ever experienced.

He did not completely forget his cushion. Every day he would set aside a little time to sit and focus on his breathing. His wife was a smart woman but did not understand why her young husband, each day would sit in a room saying nothing, doing nothing. It made him content, and she knew from it he derived something she could not provide for him. And so she began making new chores for him, keeping him busy well into the night so that he had time only to eat dinner and return to her bed for a night’s rest and sometimes more.

Time went on and the boy saw no sign of the treasure she had mentioned when they first met. But it could be said that the boy was happy. There was enough food to keep him full, enough chores to keep him busy, and though his wife grew older, she became no less beautiful and powerful in his eyes. He was in many ways a kept man and forgot about the miracles he wanted to perform and riches he was promised by this woman.

One day his wife fell ill. Rather than chopping wood and tending chickens, he tended on her hand and foot. When she was awake he would bring her soup, tell her stories, make her laugh and comfort her. When she slept he would clean the house and prepare her meals.

An afternoon came when his wife was sleeping and had been all morning. The house was tidy, a chicken was slaughtered for soup and a meal that night and he had picked flowers to adorn the bedroom. As he sat, exhausted, on the steps of the house looking out over the property he had tended for so long, he felt something he had long forgotten. He felt the breath, moving past his nostrils and into his chest. A moment later her felt the gentle gust of air push through his nostrils on its way back out into the world. He closed his eyes for a moment and focused his attention entirely on this long ignored sensation. A smile broke across his face and tears streamed down from his eyes as though he were greeting an old friend whom he had not seen in years.

A tear dropped from his cheek and landed on his dirty, calloused hand. He opened his eyes and immediately stood up with resolve. This woman, his wife, had distracted him long ago from the path he had chosen. He had been swept away by lust and kept away by comfort but he would no longer. He went inside, kissed his sleeping wife goodbye, packed some food for the road and walked away from that place.

Walking over the next days was hard on the boy. His food ran out and his mind told him to stop, to rest a while but he would not. He knew that his path had been obstructed for too long by his mind. He knew the desires he felt in his belly and in his loins were born of his mind and he would not allow such a thing to halt his progress any further. One day he found a beautiful tree in a meadow of gold and green. A raven circled overhead and landed on a high bow, calling to him and the boy knew that nature’s call was not one to be ignored. He moved into the shade of the tree and sat on his cushion.

It was a warm day, even in the shade and soon the boy began to sweat. He reached a hand from his lap to wipe the sweat but stopped and returned to his former position. Physical sensations are powerful and he had forgotten the importance of recognizing but not giving into such things. As beads of sweat poured down his face, he smiled at his own resolve to return to the path, and continued to breath.

Soon enough he heard the sound of a woman coming down the road. Her jewelry jingled and reminded him of when his wife first came to him, but this was not his wife. Her sound, her smell, these he would know and this woman smelled of something a bit more sour. From the sounds she made, he knew she was walking straight towards him, but he had learned the tricks of lust that his mind would play and he returned to his breath. When she spoke to him, he did not hear her words, for he was focusing only on his breath. When she touched his shoulder, he did not feel her hand. All he could feel, all he could see, all he could hold in his mind’s eye was his breath. As the woman walked away, the boy knew that lust would never pull him from his path again. 

He sat.

One day his concentration was broken by a smell impossibly familiar. He had not heard the man approach but now felt his presence not a foot in front of him. The man smelled of the boy’s childhood. He smelled of dishes his mother used to make, he smelled of the forest near the home he was born into. The boy opened his eyes and saw before him a pair of eyes. They were green with flecks of brown, like summer leaves interspersed by twigs and bark.

Attached to the eyes was a man of the slightest frame the boy had ever seen. He was clothed only in a dirty rag around his middle and he looked deep into the boy. Not at him, as so many others had, but within him. The boy knew he was in the presence of a holy man.

“My years are drawing to a close,” began the man, his voice hoarse from nonuse. “I seek an apprentice to whom I can teach all the magic and wonders I have discovered. Come with me and upon my death I shall bestow upon you this egg,” and he held out in his hand a perfectly shaped egg of a color the boy had never seen. It was green and blue and silver and the boy realized the colors were shifting before his eyes.

“This is an egg from the great eagle. The mother lays only one every 100 years and within it contains all the mysteries of this world.”

The boy knew enough to know that there are unexplainable things in this world. He also saw the age of the man and decided this was an easier path to discovering all he wished to know. So he stood up, put his cushion under his arm and walked down the road with the man.

By day they travelled the land, meeting people, eating on the generosity of others. The old man was known in many of the towns and mothers, upon hearing of his arrival, would bring their children out to be blessed. The man laid hands upon the children and even the most fierce or chaotic of children would fall silent at his touch. The boy watched all of this and was filled with awe.

Each night the boy built a fire and cooked rice while the old man told him a story. He told of the dog that lived with pigs and believed himself a pig; of cities long forgotten even by the oldest gods; of a place so sacred that to step on the ground was to know truth. The boy heard all of these stories and was filled with wonder.

Many times the old man would ask, “Have I yet told you the story of the wild woman of the wood?” The boy would say no, though that wasn’t true. The old man had told him the story many times and the boy knew that. So did the old man. But the boy liked to hear it, and took something from the fact that his previous telling was the only thing the old man ever forgot. And so the old man would hunch forward towards the fire, leaning on his walking stick and squatting, the way people did many things in this time and place.

“There was once a woman. A fine woman by any regards. She had a trade that she was good at, cooking for children, and a home that kept the rain off of her head. Still, she was miserable. The gods had blessed her with many good things. She was fast, strong, her body trustworthy. Though not in some ways, her mind was sharp, instinctual.

“The gods, however, rarely give all their gifts to one person and from her, outward physical beauty was withheld. Not horrid in anyway, she was simply not beautiful. To look upon her would not give you pain, yet she never once in her life attracted a man.

“Men had always been a source of pain for this woman. Never had she brought a man into her bed or been invited into his. While the other girls were becoming women, this girl sat alone. As she grew she was not, as some people are, a late bloomer. She never bloomed.

“Can you imagine that? A life of not color, of no variety. Each day the same because there is no love coming in, no compassion.”

The story stopped here, as it usually did. The old man would look into the fire. Nothing else, just looking, but with an intensity that scared even the boy, who had seen much in his life.

It was a momentary pause, but one that felt to the boy to be completely without time. It stretched an eternity.

“When she was of age she began working as a cook. There were two men already trained that she worked with. One was tall, cunning, with malicious eyes. The other was short, dark and, at that time, wonderfully handsome. He was a slower boy, happy to play his part in the partnership that was he and his friend.

“It did not take long for the woman to notice the shorter cook, attracted to his handsome and quiet nature, he seemed at least a friend in this place. The taller cook scared her. She could not place it, but it was in his eyes.

“Time passed and she developed into a talented cook, despite the tall boys best efforts. It was not uncommon for him to extinguish her cooking fire with his urine and would quite regularly spill them over just to see the distress on her face. It was a different time then and he was her superior. She could do nothing but start over. In the middle of the night she would lie crying.

“All hope was not lost though, because it seemed that the handsome cook felt towards her as she did towards him. The days were spent laughing, small flirtations and touches unseen by anyone else. She had never felt like this and told him so. He smiled and asked her to meet him that very night. He told her to go to a hill outside the town at midnight wearing nothing at all. He would be waiting for her. Then he kissed her on the lips. It was a brief, almost friendly kiss, but it was her first and she felt her whole body jump.

“This is not a happy tale, I should tell you now. The handsome chef was playing his side of the coin. The other side, or perhaps the hand spinning the coin, was his friend. The entire scenario had been planned by his friend to humiliate this woman. He succeeded, but I shall tell you how the evening played out:

“The woman climbed the hill wearing what she wore the day she came into this world. She shivered from the cold and from the excitement, the nerves. As she approached the top of the hill, there stood the two chefs, fully clothed with handfuls of old and rotting food. Behind them stood a handful of their other friends holding similar filth.

“They laughed and as they covered her in food. Then they ran, leaving her naked and alone. As he turned to leave, the handsome boy caught her eye and she knew she saw regret. She did not cry, standing on the hill stinking. She did not shake, did not wretch. From the moment she saw the boys standing all around, she had stopped feeling. Now all she did was plan.

“The next day two of the cook’s friends were found in the town square. Their stomachs were slit from hip to hip and their entrails were displayed. They lay in a way two men rarely lay in public. The day after that another boy from the hill was found strung to a windmill sail, tied hands and feet together, the better part of his head missing. Soon only the two cooks remained to tell the tale. The woman had not been seen since.

“Unable to sleep one night, the handsome cook went for a walk. He had made it almost to the town edge when he realized someone was behind him. He realized too late, for the woman had already reached out her two hands. One clasped over his mouth, the other held a razor sharp blade against his throat. ‘Walk’ she told him, and they went into the forest.

“’I will not kill you,’ she told the cook. ‘Those weeks we had were special to me, and I am grateful for their memory.’ They walked deeper into the forest, making turns that led them deep into the darkness. He had never been into this part of the woods before and her words of gratitude did little to hold his fear. She led him into a clearing where, laid out before him was the tall cook. He was much taller now, as his legs lay a good bit from the rest of him. He was unconscious but stirring with pains unimaginable.

“The woman walked slowly towards the majority of the taller chef. It was the first time the handsome boy had seen her. She was covered in dirt and mud, a few rags were the only thing that covered her nakedness, her hair a wild mess of tangle. There was blood on her hands. She was more beautiful than he could have ever imagined. She walked over to the tall chef, leaned over, and pressed her knife deep into his chest.

“Then she was gone. Disappeared into the wood without a sound and not seen by human eyes again. Some say she still lives in those forests, as a wild animal. Others swear that she comes to town from time to time to take away unfaithful men. Where she is and what she’s doing does not matter though. Do you know what matters? Why I tell you this story?”

The boy would say no, though he did. He had been told many times before.

“What matters is, she let him live. That a few moments of happiness, lightness, is worth a life. That is what matters.”

The old man would turn over and drift off to an easy sleep while the boy sat up, knowing there was wisdom in what he had heard but unable to grasp it.

The boy liked the stories, and traveling with the man, but time passed and the man grew no weaker. His back was bent towards the earth, but he bent no deeper. Sometimes the boy could swear his teacher was walking straighter, taking longer strides than a man his age (which he did not know exactly) should. The boy felt himself tire while the man had the energy of a much younger traveler.

One night the boy awoke from his dreams. The fire had burned down to embers which glowed red in the moonless night and the old man was standing over the boy, his eyes closed, his lips moving to a silent prayer. The boy had never seen his teacher do such a ritual, not in all of their travels and tried to ask what was happening but his lips would not move. He made to stand up but found no strength in his muscles. The old man completed the chant, smiled a devilish smile, laid down and went back to sleep without noticing the boy had woken. The boy could not sleep, so he thought.

Though not as old as his teacher, the boy was far from a child. He had heard tales of magick both good and evil, white and black. Something in his bones told him that this was not white magick. The old man was powerful, this could not be denied. But behind that power was something dark that the boy did not wish to serve anymore.

The next morning the boy rose before the old man. He took his cushion, a little bit of food and set off down the road. When the campsite was out of view, he felt strength return to his legs. His strides were longer and the sun on his face filled him with energy he had not felt in a very long time. He walked all day and into the night. He rested for a while and continued on. He did not know exactly where he was, and it took him by surprise when he came upon the same tree he had sat under before he had met the old man. The boy knew enough to know that there are no accidents, and so he sat on his cushion in the shade of the tree and let his awareness go to his breath.

Once again, time passed. The boy sat on his cushion and focused on his breath. Thoughts would arise and he would note them as such. He would not give into the powerful allure of the mind. He would not follow the fluid way in which thoughts twist and push through the mind. He would feel pain on occasion, but he would note it as well. He would allow no distractions to the silencing of his mind. That was, he knew, the only way towards the wonders he desired. The old man had taught him a valuable lesson. There is no shorter road than the one we are one.

People would walk past. Some would stop and try to talk to the boy, others kept moving. To both he was indifferent. He noted their coming and going with not attachment and none stayed too long to test that. He knew that those walking past could not bring him what he wanted.

One day when the sun was high and small beads of sweat rolled down his face, the boy had the urge to open his eyes. He thought of the beautiful place he was sitting in and longed to get up and play as he did as a child. What a waste of time, his mind said. You could be laughing and jumping around. Instead you are just sitting on a cushion and getting nowhere. If you but open your eyes, you will see a tree with branches you could climb and swing and play on all day.

The mind is a very cunning thing. And the boy opened his eyes. He saw the tree and the branches and he stood up and climbed. All day he climbed and jumped, swam in a river, ran in the meadow and when night fell, he found a broad limb in the tree and drifted off the sleep.

The next day he woke and did many of the same activities in a different order. He also walked about the woods, eating fruits and berries he found along the way. Certainly alone in the wood, he threw his head back and yelled, “Is this not life? Is this not wonderful? What can be learned from sitting doing nothing that the winds and the rains cannot teach me?” With that he resolved never to sit on a cushion again. Instead he would travel the world, live by his wits, eat what the earth provided and be answerable to no one. It will be a fine life, the boy thought.

And for a time it was. The boy saw many things, living and dead. He traveled to forests unseen by man for many years, he made a little money here and there and spent it on beautiful women of all colors and languages. From time to time he would come back to his favorite tree for it gave him a special kind of joy to swing from its branches and run in its fields. He noticed with some hint of longing that his cushion remained untouched in the shade of the sprawling tree.

He spent most of his time playing and running with the animals in the trees and he felt burdened by nothing. Nothing except an indescribable longing, subtle in its nature but pervaded his whole being. He had developed a hunger for a life without limits and yet he knew he was no closer to the power and wonder he had always sought. It was for him a time of adventure and excitement, but as with all things, it too passed.

He walked with confidence for he knew these woods well. He walked with a knowing that at his destination lie yet another journey. It was a journey he was very much ready for. With sure footing he found his way back to the tree under which he had sat twice before and below it was his cushion. It was dusty and worn from years of exposure but there it sat, and the boy took his place upon it.

The boy had learned many things since he first sat upon his cushion. He met many people and fought many battles both with the world and within himself. He had given into lust, and ease, and freedom and found them all wanting. And now he sat for what he knew would be the final time. He could not say how he knew, but in his heart of hearts, in what could be described as his soul, he knew that his journey would not hold him under this tree for long. And so he focused the fullness of his attention on his breath and sat.

For how long he sat there is no record. Travelers would sometimes tell of a man who sat beneath a tree unmoving regardless of their attempts to stir him. No one understood why a man would want to simply sit beneath a tree, but it was a time full of stories and this one was forgotten. But it is certain that he sat for some time. When he was hungry, he would find food in the forest for he knew the plants well. When he was thirsty he drank from a stream. Some nights he would sit in the pale moonlight, but most nights he slept.

He never moved for distractions or curiosities. He did not move when two men approached him, their steps heavy, their breath strained. He did not move when they dropped something very heavy that fell to the earth pregnant with clinking metal. He did not hear the words they spoke and noted with utter detachment when they walked away.

He noted the familiar smell of both childhood and his old teacher. He knew it was the latter and it did not please him or upset him. The old man spoke a while, then placed an egg into the boy’s hand. The boy noted the egg with an unshakeable objectivity. The old man left.

Then one day, the boy knew it was time to open his eyes. He had sat for only part of the morning, but that did not matter. It was time. He opened his eyes to the world and it was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen. Love for every tree, blade of grass and ray of light filled his being. He loved them, and at the same time he knew they were all immaterial, impermanent, and above all would not truly satisfy him. This wisdom did not diminish his love or his joy. The moment was perfect just as it was and could only be for that very moment. But not to fear, he felt, for another one was on its way.

He looked at his hands, his legs, later his reflection in the water and laughed. It was a laugh of pure joy and release because he knew that this body was not him, only a truly temporary vessel. He knew he was nothing and the universe was nothing and everything all at the same time.

A heavy chest was sitting on the ground next to the boy. It was filled, he knew, with his former wife’s fortune. It was a fortune he had never seen but knew that she was gone and this was his. Beside it lay the old man’s egg, the secret of his power and perhaps immortality. It held within it the ability to do many things. Both of these treasures were rightly his for his time on this earth had earned him both. He looked at them and laughed, the way he laughed at the trees and the sun and his own body.

Then he stood up from his cushion. The joy in his heart was a resounding call that he had found the wonders of the world. They were all around him, in him, his entire journey. He sought the wonders and had them in abundance without ever knowing it. He left his cushion, the chest of treasure and egg and walked down the road.

He smiled for the remainder of his days.