The Guest

by Karen Dales

THE GUEST

  By

  Karen Dales

  This short story is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2011 by Karen Dales

  All rights reserved. No part of this short story may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of Karen Dales, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

   

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  Karen Dales and The Chosen Chronicles

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  Karen Dales’ Award Winning Series “The Chosen Chronicles” includes:

  “Changeling: Prelude to the Chosen Chronicles”

  “Angel of Death: Book One of the Chosen Chronicles”

  “Shadow of Death: Book Two of the Chosen Chronicles”

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  "... dark...compelling ...that will keep readers turning the pages well past bedtime." - Kelley Armstrong, New York Times Best Selling Author

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  THE GUEST

  By

  Karen Dales

  A pall hung over the temple. The white votive candles flickered brightly beneath the statue of the Buddha, but their light could not eliminate the heavy presence of death. Deep resonant voices chorused from the saffron robed monks seated in double rows facing one another before the statue. The sound vibrated the air with their united breathing until it filled the hall, slipping around and between red painted columns that held crimson rafters high above.

  The chant did not have the same energy it usually held. Mindful meditation was threatened by distraction from within. Normally, this would not be tolerated, but forgiveness under the circumstances was necessary, compassion over-riding expectation. Occasional glances at the empty position of the Master belied concentration slips. These too were overlooked by elders resigned to the sadness of their juniors.

  A bell rang. A rustle of cotton and a subtle shift in position allowed the chant to die. The monks appreciated the break, to allow bald pates to lower for private thoughts, glistening dark brown eyes. Some gazed sadly at the empty raised dais at the other side of the temple, across from the votive bright Buddha.

  The bell pierced the oppressive silence to indicate the initiation of new meditative chanting. Heads raised and turned to refocus. Sound pushed against the quiet, holding it back from crushing the monks with grievous sadness.

  A flutter of movement added to the chanting until it revealed a middle aged monk entering the temple from a side entrance. Shuffling cotton and straw sandaled feet whispered from one end of the double row, where the youngest monk sat disrupted. His four year old eyes widened with surprise as an older boy, beside him, placed a hand on the child’s forearm, snapping the boy back to his meditation.

  Up the line the middle aged monk walked, occasionally causing disruptions in the chant’s defence against the silence, until he bent over an elderly monk whose concentration never wavered. The chant stuttered and died, only incomprehensible whispering filled the void.

  The gloom thickened, anxiety coating it, slicking it densely, bowing shoulders under its weight. Groaning, the elderly monk raised his body to stand. His gnarled hand patted the shoulder of the monk who had sat by his side. Without a word the old monk turned away from the doubled line and headed towards another open doorway, the middle aged monk following behind.

  Down the stone hall he walked. His straw slippered feet shushed over grey flagstone until the manmade tunnel opened to the left, revealing a courtyard bathed in full moon light. Halting at the entrance to the garden, the monks stood silent in the sight of the one who had come to their sanctuary decades ago. Awash in blue radiance they watched their long time guest move from one position to another along the precise dictates of one of their higher forms.

  Long white hair flowed in a wind of his own making, his tall slender form clad only in the loose orange pants all the monks wore beneath their robes. The monks stood patiently despite the urgency of their message. Dark brown eyes flashed in awe. In all the years they had lived in the monastery they had never witnessed such precision and grace in the martial forms taught to the youngest among them to the daily practice of the old.

  Moonlight dusted the guest’s pale skin blue as he leapt, spun, kicked and punched. His movements blurring at times until the form came to a close, leaving the Guest standing still in the middle of the courtyard. For any other, heat would have radiated off of exerted flesh, sweat would create rivulets down face and body, and lungs would bellow the chest as the heart raced from exertion. Not so with the Guest. He stood there, as still as a marble statue, with only the slight breeze forming their own patterns in his long white hair.

  The monks stood patiently, each hoping it would not be long before their guest would notice them. They would not interrupt the Guest, but if necessity warranted it, they would. A deep shuddering sigh escaping from the Guest relieved their growing tension and the old monk stepped onto the dew covered grass, its wetness permeating his naturally made slippers.

  “It is time.” The old monk’s voice spread gravel across the silence.

  Pale eyelids fluttered open to reveal irises of blood surrounding a darker pool. No black pupil helped to fix the stare of the Guest, only red. A pinched expression flowed over the Guest’s youthful features and the old monk felt its impact upon his own innards.

  The old monk remembered when the Guest arrived years ago. It had been the old monk’s – then a youth – responsibility to teach the Guest their language and their ways. Despite the transformation the years had applied to the old monk, the Guest had never changed, only their friendship had grown in a triumvirate with the Master. There was no need for the Guest to voice his feelings about what he was called to do, it was written across his face and reflected in each person within the monastery.

  The old monk watched the Guest close his eyes, his face belying the conflict within. When the red piercing stare returned resignation slumped muscular pale shoulders. The monk turned at the shallow nod and walked back into the cloister-garth. He did not need to see if the Guest followed and his ears did not need to hear pale bare feet upon cold stone, he could feel the presence of the Guest behind him as he turned towards the cells where all the monks slept, the younger monk taking up the rear.

  Through the dimly lit halls they walked the well known paths. Not to their own rooms, but past, towards the large suite set aside for the Master of the monastery. The gilded double doors lay open, admitting a view of a bed piled high with finely crafted blankets. Propped up against silk covered pillows of yellow, the Master lay sleeping.

  The old monk stepped into the room and glanced up at the tall Guest, noting the sadness in his eyes. Two monks
who sat on either side of the doors stood and closed them, sealing all within the incensed confines of a room weighted down with death. The resonating boom startled the Guest. The Master did not stir. The two young monks knelt down in their positions amongst the monks that formed a row against the wall, each one in prayer, their nian zhu clicking and shushing through fingers.

  “He’s expecting you,” said the old monk, his voice barely above a whisper.

  The Guest frowned, staring at a spot on the stone floor in front of the bed. “I know.”

  “He spoke of this to you a long time ago.”

  “Yes.” The Guest’s voice sibilant.

  The old monk lifted a gnarled hand and patted the Guest on his cold milk coloured arm. “We’ll be here.”

  The Guest nodded and did not watch the old and middle aged monks sit in line, taking up their own meditation beads in prayer. Instead he stood still against the silhouette of his friend in the bed. Tentative steps brought the Guest to stand beside the supine Master. He gazed down at the one who had opened the monastery to him, providing him a refuge and a place where acceptance was norm rather than the fear and disgust he had come to expect from mortals. What was once a smooth shaven face of a middle aged man filled with love and compassion was now a shrivelled plain crevassed with age. Slack translucent grey skin outlined boney features and eyes that once sparkled in