Abruptly, the monk made a gesture as if he had suddenly remembered something. Then he drew forth from the folds of his velvet robes a small, shining orange. This he held out to Min La, saying, “Take it. You must have seen my brothers’ orange groves.”
Min La nodded his thanks and took the orange with both hands and a small bow.
“Please, eat,” the monk urged when Min La merely held it in his lap.
With another small bow, he began to peel it obediently.
“I must confess, I’m a little tired of oranges. We have them all the time here. My brothers sell most of them, of course. But Énan is fond of their orchards1, I think, and so our stores swell quite beyond reason. It’s all we can do to see them all accounted for every year. It never seems to end.”
The orange was ripe and sweet. It had been years since Min La had bit into the bright, juicy flesh of anything as precious as an orange. Even yesterday’s apple had been a pleasant treat. As he pulled apart sections — orange juice running down his fingers and onto his lap — he began to think that the old monk was, perhaps, suggesting that he stay here in the temple and become a monk.
As if he had read his thoughts, the monk asked, “What is it you wish to do?”
Eager to avoid any talk of joining the temple, Min La asked, “You mean with the silver?”
He moved his shoulders, a strangely solemn shrug.
“I’m going south,” Min La answered.
“That is indeed a good plan. How far south?”
“Lun Bay.”
The monk raised his eyebrows. “And across it?”
He nodded.
“And then into Srenléth, I expect.” Looking at the floor, he pursed his lips contemplatively as if he wanted to say something else. At last, he said, “Tell me. When did you decide to go south?”
Min La ate a piece of the orange and thought for a moment. Time was a bit difficult to reckon in his situation. So he tended to think of things in terms of winters. Days and weeks and months were challenging, but winters were easy enough to keep track of. It had been seven winters since he’d been beaten nearly to death and robbed in Binva, to the east. It had been six winters since he’d learned how to pick a pocket without being caught. It had been five winters since he’d decided that the only way he’d ever have a chance at making a life for himself was if he went south.
He answered, “Five years ago.”
“And you haven’t succeeded yet?” His tone was strange. Not quite mocking, but like a teacher attempting to gently point out an error.
Min La didn’t look at him. The topic made him a little angry, if only because it made his own uncertainty and self-doubt flare in his mind. The same self-doubt that had driven him to nearly let go and abandon his silver. It was a terribly dangerous thing, self-doubt.
The old monk laughed lightly and added, “I can see that you’re one of those stubborn ones, aren’t you? You also seem like a well-spoken young man. You must have been educated?”
He said nothing, thinking it unwise to confirm any speculation regarding his past, even if it was true. Even something as benign as his education could tell a person too much. Having finished the orange, he arranged the peel in a neat little pile next to his tea cup and used a crisp white towel to wipe his hands. He tried to avoid meeting the monk’s keen gaze.
“I can assume, then, that you know something of Héothenin and his mosaics.” And he paused, waiting for his reply. Min La felt the need to be especially careful. Most Houses favored a particular Ădol. Some Houses had branches that favored one and other branches that favored another. Most who kept track of the various Houses and their complex workings knew information like that. Often a member of a House could be identified based on little more than the devotions he kept.
Finally, he said, “I know of the Ădol.” It was the only safe answer he could think of, and it was all he was willing to offer.
The monk studied him for a moment. Then said, “Let me tell you, then. Héothenin, I’m sure you know this much at least, is the lord of all the Ădol, and he sees all. But his sight is not limited to what is happening, or even what will happen. He also sees the infinite array of possibility. He saw the path you would take if you hadn’t stolen the purse from the child. He saw the path you would have taken if the child himself had never stolen the purse. Perhaps there was a path in which you were the purse’s original thief. Or one in which you had never come to Rensoth. Or,” the monk’s eyes shone, “one in which you were not Houseless. In any event, as the great infinite array of paths unfolds before the sight of Héothenin, he cuts the many millions of tiles that make up human existence and places them upon the walls of his mountain caverns, charting with his infinite mosaics every possible future. But, and this is crucial, he does not set all the stones in place. But why does he not? Does he not chart our paths to our fate? No, my son, it is not so simple.”
Min La found himself smiling privately. It was clear that this old monk was accustomed to teaching the younger monks of this temple, and had likely been doing so longer than Min La had been alive. This was a familiar lesson to the old man, and one he seemed to enjoy teaching.
“You and I and every person in existence are each but one stone on Héothenin’s walls. But then, extending beyond each of our stones is a path. On Héothenin’s wall each person’s stone has an almost limitless array of possible paths, but only one of those paths can be fixed in place. In time, all other possible paths fall away. Each stone Héothenin cuts represents a possibility, a future that has not yet been decided. Once the tile is fixed in the wall, your path is sealed. No choice can be undone, because the choices you make build your path. The path leads to your fate.”
Min La considered that. It was not unlike what he had learned as a child, with a few differences. Cautiously, he asked, “Does Héothenin not decide the fates of all?”
“Héothenin decides nothing. But he does see all. He sees every possibility, every path that proceeds from every choice. And then every additional path from every choice after that, an astounding, dizzying array of possibilities that only he could possibly comprehend. He sees all.
“Within a single day, countless choices pass before you. Most make very little difference, it is true. Turn left instead of right. Cross the road or don’t. But some, some can prove significant. Steal the purse or leave it. Chase the children or let them go. Stay in Láokoth, or leave for Srenléth. With each choice you make, Héothenin sets a tile. With each new tile a path emerges, fixed in sections along the way to your fate. With each new choice you make, a dozen — even a hundred — other possible paths fall away. And a dozen, or even a hundred, other fates fall away, too. Choice, my child, is the most profound gift ever given to us by the Ădol. Because when all is said and done, the fate at which we arrive at the end of our path is due only to the choices we have made along the way.”
Min La had begun to see what this monk was trying to say, in his own circuitous way. And so he shook his head. “I am not choosing to go south. I have nowhere else to go. I have no choice.”
“Do you not? Did you not chose to come here?” The monk pointed to the floor under them, indicating the temple. “You chose to chase the children, to chase the silver, to chase your path south. And yet you still haven’t made it south. You have not even left Sona Gen. How many times has Héothenin knocked the tile away from you only for you to scramble after it again? How long will you pursue this path?”
“You said we choose our own paths.”
“Indeed.”
“But you’re also saying that there could be wrong paths and right paths.”
“There are many right paths and some wrong paths. The wrong paths lead your soul to ruin and blacken your character over time. But even this path can be corrected with the right choice at the right time. Most choices and most paths are not good or bad. They are simply one of many possibilities. Sometimes a good choice made today could lead to a bad choice farther down the path. But sometimes, just sometimes mind you, Héothenin will put the right path, the right choice before us. And we, in our infinite ignorance, must humbly accept.”
“You’re saying Héothenin doesn’t want me to go south?”
“I’m saying, child, that perhaps south is not your true path.”
“But if I don’t go south, I’ll die.”
“What makes you so sure of that? Will you not have dozens, even hundreds of other options before you between now and then? Who are you to know what fate awaits you at the end of your path? We all have choices. It is only a coward who claims not to have choices. Sometimes, however, we have to accept that the choice we want to make is not the choice we should make. There are times when it is better to let Héothenin guide our steps to our right path.”
“But if I give up my plan to go south, if I do as you say, will I not be abandoning the free will the Ădol gave us? Can a person choose not to choose?”
“Choosing not to choose is also a choice.”
“What if that choice opens a path to disaster?”
“What if it does? What if going south leads to disaster? I think even you must see that your current path is a dead end, and has been for five years. You have struggled long enough. Perhaps it’s time to try something different.”
Min La was aware of a growing chill, and thought at first that it must be the breeze through the open doors. But then he realized that it was the monk’s words. They had set a cold fire of fear in him that he had not felt in a long time.
The old monk seemed to detect the rising uncertainty in his young guest and said gently, “What if you walked through the front gate of this temple and the first thing you saw led you to a different path? A better path? What if you let go and let Héothenin guide your feet to exactly the place you need to be?”
“It can’t be that simple.”
He scoffed and gave Min La a crooked smile. “Who says anything about that is simple?”
At that moment three monks strode soundlessly through the front door of the temple’s residence, the young boy from before and two older monks both wearing the red of Énan. The boy was carrying a wooden tray covered with a square wooden lid. He seemed to struggle under its weight.
“Ah!” the old monk declared and gestured for the boy to bring the tray. “This is what we typically make for pilgrims. It is humble fare, but it’s warm and it will fill your belly.”
The boy set the tray on the low table — he had to kneel to do so, which seemed to be the protocol anyway — then he bowed to Min La and took the wooden lid off the tray. A great wave of steam emerged and filled the air with the fragrance of roasted meat and herbs. There was a plate of chicken covered in a shining syrup, a bowl of clear broth that smelled sweet and almost medicinal. In addition to these main dishes, several small plates held generous portions of steamed and pickled vegetables. Min La recognized peppers, zucchinis, and a kind of wild mushroom that seemed almost purple. He spent several long minutes staring at it all dumbly. How long had it been since he had had this much food placed before him? Had he gone to temples in the past he might have been able to eat like this almost every day. But then he remembered that there was a reason he had never risked going to temples.
That thought broke his stupefied reverie and he bowed to the boy and then again to the old temple master. “Thank you,” he said. He knew from his mother’s lessons when he was a child that he ought to make a show of refusing this meal out of politeness, but he was too hungry to do so, and feared that refusing a pilgrim’s meal would be more rude than failing to follow the usual rules for house guests. This was a temple, maybe the rules were different. None of the monks seemed concerned, however. So he was satisfied he’d done the right thing.
The boy stood and went back to wait behind the other two monks. These bowed to the old temple master. “Father,” one said, “It is time for the rites of midday.”
“So it is,” he answered. Then he turned to Min La. “Please stay and eat as much as you’d like. You are free to leave when you’re done. Of course, you could also stay if you choose.”
As he spoke, he stood and Min La stood as well. His legs were stiff and numb from sitting for so long. Folding his hands, he bowed deeply, face aimed at the polished wooden floor. When he stood, the monk was there before him, a gentle smile on his old face. He held out Min La’s bag.
“Take it,” he said kindly.
Min La hesitated, a little afraid that this was another test, or that he would snatch it away again. But he didn’t. The bag made a slight clink clink from the silver as Min La held it close to his chest.
“I trust you know what of the silver was stolen yesterday.”
“Yes, Father.”
“If you would be so kind as to leave that here upon this table, I would be very grateful. I will take the children this evening to return it to its rightful owner.”
As the old monk turned to leave the room, Min La said, “What if I just took it all? Why would you trust me?”
He turned back and smiled, his eyes sparkling. He said, “When you go, feel free to use the front gate. That would be a great deal easier, I think, than climbing the wall again.”
After the monks left, Min La ate his pilgrim’s meal. The chicken filled him with a lightness, like his mind and his thoughts were suddenly moving with less difficulty. When he drank the soup he indeed tasted medicinal herbs and realized that the purpose of this meal was to nourish the body well enough that the mind could be alert to the guidance of the Ădol. Such were the ways of monks, he knew. All things were driven by the pursuit of virtue. And virtue, of course, was defined as harmony with the Ădol. Whatever the meal’s purpose, he was glad for it. Though he tried to eat slowly, it didn’t take long for him to finish it. When he was done, he sipped hot water and stared into the stove’s low fire, the bag cradled in his lap like a small child.
He had known that a monk of Héothenin was certainly going to try to guide him in some way, all monks seemed bent on such things. What he had been expecting, however, was for the old temple master to attempt to convince him to give his own silver to the children so they could buy medicine for their sister. He was expecting him to urge him down the path of simple selflessness. But in the end, the matter of the boys and their ailing sister had proved to not be the main point in the old monk’s conversation with him. He had felt that the temple master had been testing his character with his questions about the children, but that their personal matters were not, to his mind, relevant to Min La.
As the fire cooled and the temple bells tolled Min La found himself considering the strange notion that Héothenin had, somehow, guided him to this very moment. Questions of fate and the Ădol had been far removed from him ever since survival itself had begun to occupy every waking minute. Indeed, if Min La’s fate had been to die all those years ago with the rest of his family, perhaps every passing day was stolen. This thought had occurred to him before, though he had paid it little mind. The idea that fate itself was within a person’s control, however, was somewhat different from what he had been led to believe in his childhood. Perhaps he had been fighting so hard to go south for no other reason than that he thought the fate he had escaped all those years ago was pursuing him and running as far as he could was the only way to escape it.
But what if there was no such notion as stolen fate? What if his fate was still undecided? What if the future was still uncertain, and some other path was available to him? If he abandoned his own plan, maybe a better road — an easier road — would reveal itself.
In any event, there was no avoiding the fact that his efforts to go south had been completely unsuccessful for five years. At some point continuing in that endeavor would be little more than madness.
And there was no avoiding the fact that he had chased his stolen silver into a temple of Héothenin, itself a rare find in Láokoth. And then had happened upon the temple master himself. Maybe there was something to the old monk’s claim that Héothenin sometimes offered guiding hints.
It was true that he was stubborn. This had always been one of his most difficult traits. The trouble it had caused him in his old life had been endless. All his life he had been certain that he knew better than anyone what was best for himself. On this matter above all others he had fought his father and brother ceaselessly. Even in the end—
Had he listened to them on that day things might have gone differently.
Sitting there staring at the flames Min La could think of no time in his life when his stubbornness had ever helped him.
Maybe it was time to let someone else guide his footsteps.
While he considered all these things, Min La took out his purse of silver and carefully divided yesterday’s stolen addition from it. These new pieces were crisp and shiny, easy to distinguish from the others. He placed them in a small pile on the tray of empty plates and put his own silver back in his bag.
When he stood to leave, he was suddenly overcome with the realization that he knew what he would choose to do — what he must choose to do. Standing in the middle of the room, he looked at the silver on the table and tried very hard to make himself do it. Just then, however, he found himself wavering. Surely, he thought suddenly, he had no choice but to go south.
The words of the monk echoed in his head, “only a coward believes he has no choices.”
And then he remembered his brother: “Do not let doubt stop you from acting. If you must doubt yourself, Little Shadow, do so after the act.”
Min La looked again at the table where he had left the shining, new silver. His heart pounded so hard that his vision swam. Quickly, before he could begin again to doubt himself, he took out his own purse of silver and placed it on the table next to the rest.
Then turning, he all but fled the temple grounds.
The old temple master returned to his residence some time after the midday rites. Midday was said to be the hour of Énan, and so these rites were done publicly here. Though he was not one of Énan’s monks, he was the temple master and so was required to oversee them. His limbs, however, were wearier each day. Soon someone else would be temple master.
A monk of Héothenin, one of the young men in the temple who spent his days studying medicine, accompanied him, supporting his arm. He had made several threats along the way regarding “medication” and “rest” and, worst of all, “a light meal.”
On his way they had passed through the side chambers of the temple and he had observed with satisfaction that the beggar children were indeed adequately miserable in the depths of their punitive chores.
When they arrived at the residence, the young monk set about stoking the fire and closing the doors against the building autumn chill. He started when he heard the temple master let out a small cry.
When he turned he saw the old man gripping a large clinking purse triumphantly. He held it out as if to gloat, giggling all the while. The young monk stood with his hands tucked into his voluminous sleeves and frowned. He often found the temple master’s actions quite strange.
“He has chosen his path,” the old monk said, and for a moment he seemed a little sad. He put the silver on the table and then clasped his hands behind his back.
“The young man?” the monk asked. “That skinny, little beggar?”
“Not a beggar,” the temple master murmured.
The young monk took one hand from his sleeves and picked up the purse of silver. It was thick cotton patched roughly in several places, it was stained and smelled strangely of apples. “He has given up all this silver,” he murmured with wonder.
“In a sense.”
“What do you mean, Father? Does he not intend this for the girl's medicine?”
The temple master didn’t answer. Standing in his doorway, he gazed out at the tranquil temple grounds in which he had confined himself for so many decades. He might not know much of the world outside these walls, but he knew one thing better than anyone else: the hidden heart.
He was pleased that the silver would allow them to buy medicine for the girl. But he was even more pleased at this action of the young man, Min La.
“Little shadow,” he murmured.
The old monk had glimpsed the heart Min La had barricaded behind high stone walls, he had kindness in him and selflessness. In fact, kindness came easily to him; it had been abundantly clear that he would have been capable of killing those children in their room, but he hadn’t done so, not even to retrieve his precious silver. And, in fact, his kindness in that moment had very nearly cost him his life. The temple master knew well enough that if Min La was to survive what was coming, he would need more than kindness. For this reason he had not appealed to the young man’s compassion, though he had a feeling that would have worked. And though it was true that he would need compassion in the future, the rest of it would be far more important. More than anything, the old monk knew, he would need decisiveness and confidence. That child had a habit of hesitating and of doubting himself and he would need to remedy that. Self-doubt and stubbornness were a poisonous combination.
Turning, he looked at the purse of silver in the young monk’s hand. Maybe, just maybe, he had taken the first step.
“He has chosen his path,” he repeated, half to himself.
“Which path did he choose, Father?”
With a sigh he answered, “The hardest one.”
“But was it the right one?”
The temple master waved a hand at the purse of silver. “Take that and get what the girl needs.” Then he added, “I believe we’ll also need medicine for wounds and a few bandages.”
“What for, Father?” the monk asked, bewildered.
“For when he comes back, of course.” Then he paused and added with a sparkle in his eye, “and he won’t be coming alone.”
Énan is the most martial of all the Ădol. He eternally guards the shores of the Young Sea. His House is very solitary and it is said that his mother gifted him a single orange tree to ease his loneliness. Énan cultivated the tree into a vast orchard. In time, attendants came to pledge themselves to the care of his orange grove. These attendants became very dear to Énan. He is said to always look with kindness on those who tend an orange grove.
It is also said that this original orange tree can still be found in the world. There are many who have devoted their lives to looking for it.
“The wrong paths lead your soul to ruin and blacken your character over time.”
I like this sentence. It makes me think of Romans 1:28 with how rejection of God leads to a depraved mind and spiraling wickedness.
This chapter 🥺 (and the following) made me understand better your statements on heroes and morality, I think. Furthermore, the piece of lore here is incredible.