Read Online The SONG of SHIVA by Michael Caulfield - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michael Caulfield
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lamp-lit entrance, removed his shoes and, placing them beside the doorway, entered the temple. One of the many descriptors embedded in Bangkok’s paragraph-long “official” name, usually shortened to the pronounceable Krung Thep , was: “The Grand Capitol of the World, Endowed with the Nine Precious Gems.” This wat was home to one of them. While the Emerald Buddha of Wat Phra Keo may have been more famous, it had never beckoned Lyköan from a distance.
But Wat Tee Pueng Sut Taai , with its equally sacred Sapphire Buddha, carved from a single block of gem-quality lapis, had. That had been more than four years ago. Initially entering as a desperate fugitive, the authorities in hot pursuit of Khmer artifacts they would never confiscate, Lyköan had, even then, felt summoned. In the years that followed he had returned often, finding here, and only here, a refuge, safe from the otherwise ever-roiling tumult. Exactly why it had happed as it had remained one of his life’s central mysteries.
The interior of the temple was shadow-filled, joss smoke rising in the flicker of votive candles. Moving cautiously, Lyköan walked in stoop-shouldered humility down the long dark kutis or monks’ quarters hallway, cell-like doorways stretching the full length of the corridor to his right and left. While the wat housed more than two dozen monks, he encountered none as he made his way in nearly total darkness. Reaching the end of the passageway, he paused briefly before passing through the final doorway into a modest, candle-lit alcove, hoping he would find the chao awat ― the abbot of this temple – at home.
“Ah, my son, you have come again,” a voice murmured out of the shadows, the small, dark figure peering up from what might have been meditation, or slumber.
“Good evening, Father,” Lyköan replied, waiing deeply.
“You were lucky to find me in,” the abbot announced, his eyes two embers in the reflected candlelight. “As you know, we abbots are a very busy breed. Many responsibilities. Places to go. People to see.”
An attempt at humor? One could never be sure with the masters.
“What brings you this evening, my son? Please, please, have a seat.” The old man motioned to a spot beside the slightly elevated stone dais where he himself was seated upon his heels.
Silently, Lyköan knelt upon the packed earth as directed, being careful not to cross his legs or point his feet towards the master. Either posture would have expressed intentional disrespect. Once comfortable, he answered, “I have come to learn the meaning of life, Father.”
The timbre of his voice had not wavered. He had not given the game away. But under the abbot’s withering glare the crack of a smile, beginning at one corner of his mouth, slowly spread into a broad grin. He had made his contribution ― strict religious convention had been honored.
“Is something on your mind, Egan, or have you just dropped by to assure yourself I’m not out supplementing my alms bowl by turning winning lottery numbers on the black market?”
The sarcasm echoed hollowly in the tiny chamber. Lyköan wasn’t offended, recognizing after years of similar meetings with the wily old monk that this was only the feint. The abbot was probing, waiting for just the right word or phrase to initiate tonight’s discussion. “As the sun and rain open the petals of the lotus blossom,” the abbot would insist, and append the comment with a devilish wink.
Their roles had been fixed from that first meeting years before: the master and his acolyte. Lyköan understood that much. It worked for him. He might remain unconvinced that a karmic bond ― centuries old and passing through multiple deaths and rebirths ― had really brought them together, but that did not make the relationship any less compelling. From Lyköan’s perspective, a simple wrinkle in the fabric of random chance seemed far more likely to have been responsible. The abbot would then argue that there was
But Wat Tee Pueng Sut Taai , with its equally sacred Sapphire Buddha, carved from a single block of gem-quality lapis, had. That had been more than four years ago. Initially entering as a desperate fugitive, the authorities in hot pursuit of Khmer artifacts they would never confiscate, Lyköan had, even then, felt summoned. In the years that followed he had returned often, finding here, and only here, a refuge, safe from the otherwise ever-roiling tumult. Exactly why it had happed as it had remained one of his life’s central mysteries.
The interior of the temple was shadow-filled, joss smoke rising in the flicker of votive candles. Moving cautiously, Lyköan walked in stoop-shouldered humility down the long dark kutis or monks’ quarters hallway, cell-like doorways stretching the full length of the corridor to his right and left. While the wat housed more than two dozen monks, he encountered none as he made his way in nearly total darkness. Reaching the end of the passageway, he paused briefly before passing through the final doorway into a modest, candle-lit alcove, hoping he would find the chao awat ― the abbot of this temple – at home.
“Ah, my son, you have come again,” a voice murmured out of the shadows, the small, dark figure peering up from what might have been meditation, or slumber.
“Good evening, Father,” Lyköan replied, waiing deeply.
“You were lucky to find me in,” the abbot announced, his eyes two embers in the reflected candlelight. “As you know, we abbots are a very busy breed. Many responsibilities. Places to go. People to see.”
An attempt at humor? One could never be sure with the masters.
“What brings you this evening, my son? Please, please, have a seat.” The old man motioned to a spot beside the slightly elevated stone dais where he himself was seated upon his heels.
Silently, Lyköan knelt upon the packed earth as directed, being careful not to cross his legs or point his feet towards the master. Either posture would have expressed intentional disrespect. Once comfortable, he answered, “I have come to learn the meaning of life, Father.”
The timbre of his voice had not wavered. He had not given the game away. But under the abbot’s withering glare the crack of a smile, beginning at one corner of his mouth, slowly spread into a broad grin. He had made his contribution ― strict religious convention had been honored.
“Is something on your mind, Egan, or have you just dropped by to assure yourself I’m not out supplementing my alms bowl by turning winning lottery numbers on the black market?”
The sarcasm echoed hollowly in the tiny chamber. Lyköan wasn’t offended, recognizing after years of similar meetings with the wily old monk that this was only the feint. The abbot was probing, waiting for just the right word or phrase to initiate tonight’s discussion. “As the sun and rain open the petals of the lotus blossom,” the abbot would insist, and append the comment with a devilish wink.
Their roles had been fixed from that first meeting years before: the master and his acolyte. Lyköan understood that much. It worked for him. He might remain unconvinced that a karmic bond ― centuries old and passing through multiple deaths and rebirths ― had really brought them together, but that did not make the relationship any less compelling. From Lyköan’s perspective, a simple wrinkle in the fabric of random chance seemed far more likely to have been responsible. The abbot would then argue that there was
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