at almost telling the truth while excluding a fair segment of it, Prasert glared at his calm sibling.
Preecha sighed and walked away. It would be too much to ask Prasert or his mother to ever tell a complete truth. They appeared to only attain a state of near enlightenment if part of the truth was withheld or warped in some way.
A second novice rubbed a stele that a small crew of wasps also sanded and polished. Prasert barely paused to inspect the stone marker, concentrating solely on Preecha. He realized that he needed a stronger argument to make a convincing effort to recruit Preecha. Clearly, his younger brother was near entrenched in his emotional citadel. On the hillside ahead, the top of a cave mouth peeked above the roof of the novices hut.
âPerhaps another monk can be assigned to ensure the care of such a sacred site,â Prasert observed in a crisp tone.
A smile twitched the corners of Preechaâs lips. He wondered whether a miracle cure or a marvelous engineering feat had been promised by Prasert and to whom it had been promised. He opted to ignore his older brother and continue with plans for the dayâs work. Perhaps before his study time, they would both have reached a required decision.
âLetâs wind the dragonfly for a test run,â Preecha said to the young boy that worked with his head averted. He was rewarded with a round eyed smile. With fervent devotion, the pair had not left the clearing for a full month. The sacred place would remain clean and holy.
Almost as big as the boy, the dragonfly was hooked by its feet to the side of a papaya tree at the edge of the clearing. A sense of peace flowed through preacher as his fingers caressed the carved piece. Held together with the tensile sinews of bamboo fiber, this exotic tool weighed about the same as his arm. He and the novice arranged it on the stele, seeking a balance point. Prasert shuffled impatiently behind them as they murmured together.
With a legs anchored, the pair wound the body, each turn rising in pitch until it was almost too stiff to turn yet facing its target. Prasert blew his nose loudly, rocked from heel to toe and clenched a fist in a pocket.
âReady?â asked Preecha, looking at the eagerly grinning face of the novice.
Released, the dragonflyâs wings thundered, the clear silk fabric a tight tympanum that beat the air. As the stele lifted clear of the ground, one leg slipped. The novice wailed in anguish as the load swung. Preecha grabbed his arm and pulled him back, wondering what material would hold the rock more securely.
Prasertâs lips were pressed as thin as he could make them. Never would he admit his fascination with Preechaâs creations. He stood defiantly still. On the path at the edge of the clearing, torn between two worlds, his servants cautiously awaited his wishes.
A second leg broke free and the dragonfly wobbled again, the weight pulling it nearly backwards. Prasert stood defiantly before he started to duck, but the stone marker clipped him and sent him sliding down the bare rock, his pith helmet going past them all the way down to the net of vegetation.
Stunned, he lay in a muddy hollow. Laments of the novices rose to a keen that drowned the dwindling rumble of the landing dragonfly. Prasertâs starched white shirt was now a gritty red, and his hands were scraped with most of his nails broken. Murmured requests from Preecha reduced the wails to whimpers and then silence.
A gust of wind shook the leaves of the Bodhi tree, swaying it back and forth as if laughing gales from deep in its spirit belly. It was as if the Lord Buddha himself was shaking in laughter at Prasertâs predicament.
Terrified by the cries of the novices and the shaking Bodhi tree, the two servants at the bottom of the clearing tripped and fell over each other going back down in the trail. For days, weeks even, they would not be able to look at their master.
Slowly, Prasert rose to his knees
Preecha sighed and walked away. It would be too much to ask Prasert or his mother to ever tell a complete truth. They appeared to only attain a state of near enlightenment if part of the truth was withheld or warped in some way.
A second novice rubbed a stele that a small crew of wasps also sanded and polished. Prasert barely paused to inspect the stone marker, concentrating solely on Preecha. He realized that he needed a stronger argument to make a convincing effort to recruit Preecha. Clearly, his younger brother was near entrenched in his emotional citadel. On the hillside ahead, the top of a cave mouth peeked above the roof of the novices hut.
âPerhaps another monk can be assigned to ensure the care of such a sacred site,â Prasert observed in a crisp tone.
A smile twitched the corners of Preechaâs lips. He wondered whether a miracle cure or a marvelous engineering feat had been promised by Prasert and to whom it had been promised. He opted to ignore his older brother and continue with plans for the dayâs work. Perhaps before his study time, they would both have reached a required decision.
âLetâs wind the dragonfly for a test run,â Preecha said to the young boy that worked with his head averted. He was rewarded with a round eyed smile. With fervent devotion, the pair had not left the clearing for a full month. The sacred place would remain clean and holy.
Almost as big as the boy, the dragonfly was hooked by its feet to the side of a papaya tree at the edge of the clearing. A sense of peace flowed through preacher as his fingers caressed the carved piece. Held together with the tensile sinews of bamboo fiber, this exotic tool weighed about the same as his arm. He and the novice arranged it on the stele, seeking a balance point. Prasert shuffled impatiently behind them as they murmured together.
With a legs anchored, the pair wound the body, each turn rising in pitch until it was almost too stiff to turn yet facing its target. Prasert blew his nose loudly, rocked from heel to toe and clenched a fist in a pocket.
âReady?â asked Preecha, looking at the eagerly grinning face of the novice.
Released, the dragonflyâs wings thundered, the clear silk fabric a tight tympanum that beat the air. As the stele lifted clear of the ground, one leg slipped. The novice wailed in anguish as the load swung. Preecha grabbed his arm and pulled him back, wondering what material would hold the rock more securely.
Prasertâs lips were pressed as thin as he could make them. Never would he admit his fascination with Preechaâs creations. He stood defiantly still. On the path at the edge of the clearing, torn between two worlds, his servants cautiously awaited his wishes.
A second leg broke free and the dragonfly wobbled again, the weight pulling it nearly backwards. Prasert stood defiantly before he started to duck, but the stone marker clipped him and sent him sliding down the bare rock, his pith helmet going past them all the way down to the net of vegetation.
Stunned, he lay in a muddy hollow. Laments of the novices rose to a keen that drowned the dwindling rumble of the landing dragonfly. Prasertâs starched white shirt was now a gritty red, and his hands were scraped with most of his nails broken. Murmured requests from Preecha reduced the wails to whimpers and then silence.
A gust of wind shook the leaves of the Bodhi tree, swaying it back and forth as if laughing gales from deep in its spirit belly. It was as if the Lord Buddha himself was shaking in laughter at Prasertâs predicament.
Terrified by the cries of the novices and the shaking Bodhi tree, the two servants at the bottom of the clearing tripped and fell over each other going back down in the trail. For days, weeks even, they would not be able to look at their master.
Slowly, Prasert rose to his knees
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