Chapter Sixteen

No One Is Born Houseless

The child dropped the knife instantly, shock and terror blanching his thin little face. He seemed to have only realized in that moment what he had been about to do. The knife clattered to the floor and Min La gasped a breath of relief.

Turning, he saw that the room was now filled by the imposing figure of an elderly monk and two of his attendants. Monks of Énan typically wore red or orange, but this man was wrapped in heavy robes of deep brown velvet. Like all monks, his head and chin were shaved clean. He was tall but bent a little by age. His pale skin was dotted with freckles and wrinkled heavily especially around his small eyes, which were flashing brightly.

“What is this?” he said, still shocked by what he had found in the room. “Avo So?¹”

He directed this question to the boys’ leader, who fell to his knees before the monk with a grim expression.

“He came in here and stole from us,” he declared, pointing at Min La who couldn’t help but scoff.

The other boys had arranged themselves behind their leader, also kneeling. They panted heavily from the struggle and the one who had been wielding the knife still looked stricken. Another was holding a red welt on his forehead, probably the one Min La had kicked to free his ankles. Min La, who had collapsed onto his heels after the knife had fallen, now sat breathing heavily, the bag still held tightly with both arms.

“And so you intended to kill him?” the monk cried. The others who had come with him, both younger and dressed similarly, looked at him with concern. One touched his elbow and suggested softly that he calm himself. But the old monk swatted his hand away.

“We didn’t…” Avo So began, but ultimately he had no defense.

So one of his comrades broke in, “But we couldn’t let him take it! We need it!”

“Silence!” the monk yelled. The child shrunk timidly into himself.

It was then that a section of the thin wall to the left swung open. Min La watched as a small young woman emerged. The boys stared at her, alarmed. He heard one say “sister.” As she approached them, Min La saw that she was just a child herself, no older than fifteen. She wore a long, thick white golt of heavy wool tied loosely at her waist. Her feet were bare. She was impossibly thin, so much so that her ankles and wrists seemed in danger of snapping. Using the wall to hold herself upright, she tried to make her way into the room. One of the younger monks rushed to her side, supporting her arm.

Stepping into the daylight that poured through the open doors, Min La saw that her fine, thin features were so pale that she appeared gray. Her long, thin hair hung limply over one shoulder.

“Please,” she said, her voice weak but gently commanding. “These children are my responsibility. Whatever they have done, please don’t punish them. It is my fault for not teaching them properly.”

“Child,” the old monk said, his demeanor noticeably calmer. “Do you understand what these children have done?”

“They are driven by desperation. It has made them foolish.”

“Sister, he stole the silver we—” one of the boys began earnestly.

“Hush,” she snapped with surprising force, considering her frail state.

Min La was now reasonably sure he understood what was going on here. This child, these boys’ sister, whether by blood or some other bond, was plainly seriously ill. And an illness like hers, he knew, was costly to treat. He could not help feeling admiration for the boys’ devotion.

She went on, “Did you not first steal it from him?”

The children bowed their heads in shame. Avo So said, his head still bowed, “But he did steal from us first. Yesterday afternoon.”

“He stole from you?” She glanced over at Min La. “What did he steal?”

“Our silver!” Avo So declared, emboldened suddenly by the sense that she might be coming over to their side.

“Your silver?” she asked, her tired eyes sparkling. “And where, might I ask, did you get silver?”

Another one of the boys answered, rather proud of himself, “We st—” but he was sharply cut off by an elbow to the ribs from one of the others.

She sighed. “That’s what you were doing when you told me you were begging? Stealing in the market?”

“But sister—!” they cried. But she waved her hand to quiet them.

“I’ve changed my mind,” she said to the old monk. Then bowed and added, “Please punish them however you see fit.”

He had a small smile and a sparkle in his eye when he directed the other young monk to gather the children. “I think a day scrubbing the temple floors would be a good start.”

They groaned in protest, but obediently followed the young monk outside.

Abruptly, Min La found that he was alone in the room with the remaining monks and the young girl. Suddenly very tired, her legs gave out a little and she collapsed against the monk who supported her. With the utmost gentleness, he began to guide her back to the room where she had been resting. But she stopped him.

Turning to Min La, she put her hands together at her waist and bowed as deeply as she could, her thin hair almost touching the floor. “I am sorry,” she said. “My boys have stolen from you and harmed you. Please do not hold it against them. I am responsible for them. Their poor behavior is my fault. If you are angry, please direct your anger at me.”

Having said this, she remained in her bow. Min La scrambled to his feet, looping the bag over his shoulder. Then he returned her bow, but could think of nothing to say in reply.

The monk helped the girl back to her room, where she began again to cough with such violence that Min La did not know how her thin, frail body could endure it. The monk set about getting water and a basin for her as her coughs became a fit of vomiting. Min La watched, a knot in his chest.

The old monk held out a hand to Min La, his aged face smiling gently. It took him a moment to realize what he meant. But then, hesitating greatly, Min La handed him the bag.

Taking it, the monk gestured to the room’s open front door. “Come,” he said. “We’ll let her rest.”

The monk led Min La out of the room and down one of the many looping pathways that had been etched into the grassy grounds. They traveled some distance, with the aged monk showing no signs of tiring. Min La followed more for the bag than anything else, and he kept his eyes fixed on it as the monk draped it casually over his shoulder, as if it were little more than a sack of vegetables. He feared what he might have to do in order to get it back. Perhaps the old monk would require chores of him, or would even claim all the silver as stolen. In that moment, Min La began to wonder how difficult it would be to steal his silver back from the temple if he had to. He wondered if he was willing to wrestle the bag away from this old monk. If he had to.

Their path led them through a small grove of orange trees which were being tended by several monks wearing red. Their clean-shaven heads shone in the morning sun. A few cawing crows observed their labor with interest. Min La noted with amusement that one of the monks seemed to be engaged in some kind of argument with a few of the crows. As they passed, the laboring monks paused and bowed — all but the crows, who seemed defiant of all authority — and the aged monk responded with a nod of his head.

At last they reached a small stone residence adjacent to the dark gray temple. A young monk, no older than twelve, was sweeping its wooden porch. Several orange and yellow glass lanterns hung from the porch’s eaves. He bowed deeply when he saw them coming. The old monk laughed and patted the child’s shining bald head.

“Have them prepare a pilgrim’s meal,” he ordered.

The little monk bowed again and pronounced, “Yes, Father!” and hurried off to obey.

Min La looked with amazement at the aged monk. All those who shaved their heads and became monks also renounced their House bond and their Housenames. Thus the temple became a monk’s House. And the head of a temple served a position not unlike a Housemaster. Though known as temple masters, such a head was called “father” rather than “master” by the monks in his care, as all monks recognized only the Ădol as their masters. Min La had certainly not expected, when he scaled the temple’s walls, to find himself in such elevated company.

The old monk invited him inside his residence with a warm smile. He waited patiently while Min La removed his shoes, exposing his stained and aged cotton socks. Then he, too, removed his shoes and both went inside. The monk left the door open wide, and even opened another on the other side of the small room in which they found themselves. A swirling, cool breeze filled the little space, along with the fragrance of herbs, roses, and eucalyptus from the garden behind the temple master’s residence.

The residence’s main room was a receiving room. To the right and left were private quarters divided from the rest by hanging silk screens embroidered all over in patterns that mimicked mosaics. One was likely the monk’s study, and the other his bedroom.

In the center of the room sat a round red stove made of ceramic tile. The tiles were mosaic, of course, and marked a winding path around the low square heft of the stove up to the place were it joined with the ceiling. The tile extended there, Min La saw staring up at it, and continued the paths of stone all along the dark stained wooden ceiling.

The fragrant cool breeze filled the room and chilled Min La, but the stove glowed with a hot fire. The monk put a clay kettle on it and then motioned Min La to a low cushioned seat on one side of a low wooden table. He still carried Min La’s bag, though he also had now a small glass jar.

“You must forgive me,” the old monk said. “They will not let me have coffee anymore so we will have to make do with tea.”

Min La did not know what to say. So he said nothing.

He set about preparing a small copper-colored pot, sprinkling ground powder from the glass jar into it. Then he paused, and sprinkled a little more. “I know little about tea,” he said. Then, as explanation: “I am from Luntov. This is very spicy, however. So it makes me forget coffee for a few moments. We all have our sufferings, I suppose.”

Presently the clay pot on the stove began to sputter and steam and the monk retrieved it. With hands that trembled slightly he poured the water into the pot and placed the lid on top. “Now we wait,” he said with a smile.

Min La’s hands on his knees squeezed into clenched fists. He looked again at the bag. The old monk had taken it off his shoulder and set it in his lap. He followed Min La’s gaze and then patted the round bulk of the bag tenderly, like it was a precious treasure.

“What now?” he asked Min La, his eyes smiling though his lips did not. “Will you take it by force now that we are alone? I am an old man and would offer you little resistance. Take it, if you will.”

Min La dropped his head in shame. The monk had guessed his thoughts. He had been more than tempted to do just that. But instead he shook his head, still without speaking.

“If you stay and talk to an old man for a moment, perhaps I will return it to you.”

He stared at him in open amazement. “Just like that?”

“Well,” the monk smiled and arranged two small clay cups between them. “The silver those little rascals stole — and which you stole from them, and which they then stole back from you—” he laughed to himself, “—will have to be returned to its original owner. I believe I can persuade her to be lenient.”

Min La barely dared to ask, but through a hot throat he said hoarsely, “And the rest?”

“I know nothing of its origins, I’m afraid. So, unless it seems like something about it is wrong in some way, it will be returned to the only rightful owner of which I am aware. Which is you.”

“Wrong?” Min La asked, holding his breath.

“Ah, ‘wrong’ is not the best word. But please, let us just speak together for a moment, my child. Please.”

He exhaled as if he had been holding his breath ever since they had left the children’s room on the other side of the temple grounds. The monk swirled the teapot and then filled the two little cups. Then he gestured to Min La to take one.

He received it gladly, a little relieved that there seemed to be at least a chance that he could walk out of here today with his silver. Though he still felt that there was some hidden purpose to the monk’s bringing him here, and that worried him. But he bowed his head in thanks and he sipped the hot, spicy tea. It tasted strangely of earth and also of fire. Cinnamon, he realized and it occurred to him that this tea was precious, probably a gift from a wealthy pilgrim. The old monk settled back in his chair and sipped his tea with relish, his eyes closed, one hand still resting idly on the bag in his lap.

Min La tried to remember the rules of propriety his mother had taught him. “It is very good tea,” he said at last.

“It will do,” the monk murmured.

The silence that filled the little residence then was unbearably heavy. Min La felt that every breath he took and every time he swallowed could be heard by the old monk. Despite the casual, easy demeanor of the old temple master, Min La had the sense that he was being tested in some way. He sensed, too, that if he failed the test this old man would not return his silver.

To fill the emptiness, he asked, “The girl is ill?”

The monk opened his eyes and swirled the contents of his cup. “She began vomiting blood the night before last. I’m afraid her situation is quite serious.”

“Is there nothing you can do?”

“We can ease her pain with herbs we cultivate here on the grounds. But, no. There is nothing we can do to treat the underlying illness.”

“What will happen to the children? If she…?”

“We will look after them here, of course. We have taken in many homeless orphans over the years.” He motioned to the porch, indicating the boy they had met outside. “But in truth, few stay.”

“Why not?”

“Their only option here is to remain unmarried and become monks. Many believe they can still make a different path. Those boys,” he laughed softly and shook his head. “They will not stay. Though one might return to us eventually when he has nowhere else to go. That is, if their sister does not recover. If she does recover, their fate, naturally will be different. That path, however, has not yet been set.”

Min La glanced at the monk’s shining eyes in surprise, remembering then that monks of Héothenin were said to possess the ability to glimpse the walls of their Ădol master, whereon he charted the paths of all people, past, present, and future.

He also remembered what his father had once said, that it was unwise to ask Héothenin’s monks curious questions. There were many ancient tales of calamity befalling the askers of such careless inquiries.

Eager to avoid any possible trespass into forbidden knowledge, he attempted instead to return the conversation to matters more rooted in the present. “Is there medicine that can help her?”

The monk regarded him for a moment. Then answered, “Perhaps it can help her. Perhaps not.”

“But there is medicine?”

“It is costly.”

Min La nodded, glancing at the bag. “I assumed.” Then he sipped his tea and wondered how this monk intended to test him. Already he was running out of polite conversation.

“How old are you, child?”

“Twenty,” Min La answered. “I think.”

“How long have you been as you are now?”

“Nine years. If my count is right.”

“And what is your name?”

Out of habit, he bowed and put his hand on his chest. “I am Min La.”

“Minla?²” The monk seemed alarmed. It was indeed a somber name as he had misheard it, meaning “sorrow”.

But he shook his head. “No. Min La.”

Relieved, the monk nodded. But then he asked, “Is this not a strange name, however? Your parents named you for a little shadow?”

“My given name is Min San. My brother called me Min La.” He paused, then added, “Because I was always following him everywhere.”

“Your Housename?”

“I have no Housename. I am Houseless.”

The monk reached suddenly across the table and touched Min La’s chest with the tip of a finger. Looking down he saw that the silver medallion had come out of his golt, probably during the fight, and now shone dully in the light of the stove’s fire. He put it quickly back under his clothes.

“No one,” the monk said with a gentle smile, “is born Houseless.”

“I am Houseless,” Min La said again. “My House is no more.”

The monk nodded, his smile settling into a look of grim compassion. “So it is for those children.”

“They lost their House? They were not cast out?” Min La had known of Houses who would cast out criminals and their families, stripping them of their Housenames and striking them from the House register. He had assumed that these children were just such a case. Their parents had likely transgressed and then eventually died or abandoned them leading to their current state. A fallen House, however, was so rare that he had not even considered the possibility.

The monk said, “In the old days the fall of a House was rare indeed. These days, however…” and he shook his head, then sipped his tea.

“What happened to their House?”

“It was an old but small House in the Osa Len Mountains. Many of the small Houses in that area are being boldly absorbed by another, more powerful House.”

“That is permitted?”

He smiled and shrugged, his aged face almost comically indifferent. “What do I know of the workings of all these old, powerful Houses? I am just an old monk who cannot even drink coffee if I want it.” He looked at Min La for a time before asking, “Does this alter your opinion of those boys, perhaps?”

“I have no opinion of them.”

“No?”

“I don’t care who they are or how they came to be here. That is my silver in that bag. It doesn’t matter who stole it from me, it matters only that I must retrieve it.”

“And if their need is greater?”

Min La put down the tea cup. If this was the nature of the monk’s test, he would fail. In a contest of sincere selflessness, he would certainly lose. It was true that the boys and their suffering sister pained his heart enough to make him feel almost guilty about trying to steal his silver back. But a deeper pain threatened him. In the stone house this morning he had been tempted to let the silver go. He had been tempted to put an end to his constant, daily war to survive. In truth, he was very, very tired, and giving up the daily struggle was very tempting. No matter who had taken his silver or why, if he didn’t fight to get it back he would have nothing left but those temptations. If that happened, then what would have been the point of all these years of suffering? What would have been the point of surviving in the first place? He could lie, of course, and pretend to agree that the boys needed the silver more than he did, but he also knew that a monk of Héothenin, more so than almost anyone else, would effortlessly see through any lie.

“I do not think greater need can always be determined,” he answered distractedly.

“Oh?” The monk raised an eyebrow.

“Every need is the greatest need to the person who is bound by it.”

“Explain what you mean.”

“Those boys stole my bag — and stole the purse of that woman in the market — because they need to buy medicine for their sister. But I also need that silver in order to go somewhere I can make a life for myself, where I can survive.” Absently, he touched his brother’s medallion through his golt and the monk watched the movements of his hand with interest. “I can’t survive in Láokoth. I don’t think I’ll make it through another winter.”

The monk nodded. “And if their sister dies because she could not get medicine?”

“If I said that their need was greater than mine, that would be a lie. I will die without that silver, to me the need is as great as it can be. To them, of course, nothing is more important than the survival of their sister. I can’t be responsible for their need. It’s all I can do to look after my own.”

“Does compassion not play a role?”

Min La sighed. “I feel compassion.”

“But?” the old monk prompted gently.

“You want me to let the silver go, but I can’t. It’s not that I won’t, but that I can’t. In order to let them take it, I would have to be willing to die. Letting go of it would be, to me, the same thing as slitting my own throat.”

“And you are not willing to die.”

“It isn’t that I’m not willing to die It’s... it’s…” but he couldn’t find quite the right words and so he looked into the fire in the open stove and searched for them.

“It’s that you’re not willing to give up.”

Turning, Min La stared at him. “Exactly.”

“I see.” The monk’s eyes were sparkling when he refilled his teacup. Min La couldn’t tell if it was the reflection of the stove’s fire, but there was an air of amusement around the old temple master that made him uneasy.

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1. Ahv-oh-SOH

2. The monk mispronounced his name MIN-la, instead of min-LA, thus the meaning is different.