part0014

Luong knew that it was time to die. Perhaps if he were not a monk, it would be something he approached with apprehension or fear. Perhaps he would not approach it at all. Men of the ordinary world did not embrace death–they ran away from it. The tiniest whiff of it, and they would use chemicals and treatments to put it off, shove it into the future, so they would no longer have to think about dying.

There were people, far closer to death than Luong, who clung to every last second with all their determination…but not Luong. He neither ran toward, nor fled from death. He accepted it as the natural ending to his life cycle and said, “I am ready. I do not fear. This is as it should be.”

Luong was not ill. He just knew he was fading. He could feel his body slipping away, and he knew he should allow it to do so. It was the True Way.

Mastery over the mind was one thing, but even more difficult was mastery over the body, for that involved more than just meditation and prayer.

Luong lit incense, took a carved spoon, and sprinkled oil and water over the altar, as was the tradition of his Order. He moved very slowly. Soon he would not be able to sprinkle at all, and he would know it was time to go to the vault. But for the moment he would continue his tasks, although each movement was made with incredible pain.

After completing the simple task, Luong looked down at his hands. His skin was a yellow-brown. The skin was what bound a person to their body, and as such, it was affected first. It was not easy to give up. He had pictured himself shedding like a snake, wiggling out of his skin easily and dropping it to the ground on his way to meet the Winged Ones in the sky.

The reality was far from this airborne fancy. To give up the skin, one must allow it to slowly dry, and instead of shedding, the skin would bind one down. Though Luong had grown lighter, his skin felt heavier as it hardened.

Luong prayed to the gods and the Winged Ones. He would never lose faith, no matter what pain he had to endure.

Some believe that a monk is beyond pain, that the gods protect him, or that meditation allows one to not feel. This couldn’t be further from the truth. There are not many monks who could do what Luong set out to do.

Luong was acutely aware of every change to his body. As a monk, he was a man of fine sensitivities and had an alert mind. He had trained to be able to focus on each part of his body separately and as a whole. Each tiny pinprick or tingle, he told himself, is proof of the Higher Being’s presence. When he meditated, he would often focus on a small part of his body, allowing himself to feel tiny sensations, until those feelings took him over.

But now that he had undergone the ritual, he was only eating certain nuts and seeds, drinking a special tea, and avoiding too much light. Very soon he would lock himself in the vault and undergo the final stage.

He knew the process: Sit in the lotus position with his only access to the rest of the world being an air tube and a bell to ring. Stay there until his body solidified. Once done, the other monks would entomb him.

Only cowardice would cause a monk to shudder at the thought of displaying the greatest devotion, he knew, so he began to pray.

He could feel the effects of the tea on his flesh, the pain in his arms, his legs, and his neck, as his skin shrivelled around him like bandages being wound tight.

Though he could not rid himself of the pain, he could still control his mind. It’s this discipline that shows the man over the beast, the monk over the man. Luong refused to allow himself to stop his rituals simply because of the pain. He would not give up his faith, even as he felt his stomach being slashed apart from the tea.

I am leaving this shell of a body, but my spirit will fly, and despite all the pain, all the temptation to break my rituals, I must not, for only the most pure, most disciplined, most noble of spirits will fly so high .

He retched constantly. Mucus poured from the sides of his eyes. His lips crackled in dryness such that blood ran from them. Still, Luong smiled.

Luong went into the vault, closed the door, and rang the bell.

He knew the other monks would look into the vault with awe and trepidation. His carcass would be preserved for a long time, and many monks would pray by it, hoping that some of Luong’s extraordinary character would be passed onto them, helping them find their True Way.

Eventually, the bell stopped ringing.

“What a perfectly wonderful story!” Brother Tristan cast a broad smile. Luong’s story always got a great response, no matter what class he recited it to. It was one of his favourites to tell. A part of him felt stronger after repeating the tale, and another part of him despaired that he could never be as great a monk as Luong.

Brother Tristan saw himself as a very ordinary monk, but he liked to tell stories about the great ones. There were inspirational monks, daring monks, heroic monks, and Brother Tristan admired them all. He contemplated all of them while remaining in the safety of his classroom.

“The story shows the greatness that some monks could achieve,” said Brother Tristan. “It is a life we give ourselves to–discipline and devotion–really, boys!”

The giggling and nudging in the back of the group subsided when the students seemed to realise Brother Tristan’s eyes rested on them.

“Discipline,” said Brother Tristan. “Some have mastered how to overcome the most primal desires and urgent calls of the body in their show of discipline to the Higher Being. And you boys cannot even pull yourselves together for an hour of a lesson!” He sighed. “Now, have we any comments on today’s story?”

“Brother Tristan,” said one student. “Is the mummified monk real ?”

Brother Tristan was known for his indulgence in storytelling, not lying exactly, rather lessons through fables and metaphors. None of the students seemed to like Brother Tristan’s explanations about metaphors. They wanted real pots of gold, real flying horses, real lions that died, and most of all real mummified monks.

“Of course the mummified monk is real,” said Brother Tristan. “Sokushinbutsu was a practice taken up in some areas of Japan and Tibet. It was uncommon, but of course that is what made it so admirable. Not everyone could do that. We admire men who can do great things, don’t we? That is why we tell stories about them.”

A murmur rippled through the group.

“Have you ever seen a mummified monk?”

Brother Tristan shook his head. “No, I have not. But I would like to. It is a great part of our history. There are still monks enshrined in some of the monasteries. Perhaps one day we will visit one.” Brother Tristan smiled. “There are many good stories about the powers of the mummified monk. His body brings good luck to the monastery in which he resides. Those who worship him have their minds cleared and see the True Way with absolute clarity. Just seeing him makes many a better monk! While he was in the vault, waiting for the final stage before his soul departed for the Winged Ones, it is said he saw much and learned much, and his soul reached a stage that many of ours never will. Unfortunately, he could never pass it on to us in life. Instead, he passes on some good through death, through his earthbound body.”

“It sounds sick,” said one student. “Drinking poison tea and throwing up till you die!”

“It is beautiful,” said another student, Olaf, quietly. “You didn’t get the point of the story at all.”

“Beautiful! What are you, a girl?” jeered the others. But Olaf ignored their taunts.

At the end of class, Olaf waited behind. “Brother Tristan, do you believe in the powers of the mummified monk?”

“I believe, Olaf,” answered Brother Tristan.

“I’d like to see a mummified monk one day,” said Olaf.

“I hope that you will. I hope that his great powers will touch you. Now get ready for your next class.”

Olaf was the most promising of Brother Tristan’s students. There were a great number who did not make it past the first year. Then there were those who simply went through the motions of being a monk because their family had pushed them into it.

Olaf was different. He was one of the top students, sincere about his lessons. While it wasn’t right to play favourites, Brother Tristan could not help but devote more time to this group of boys. It is as the Higher Being would want it , Brother Tristan thought. We must nurture those closest to the True Way .

Was it right to refer to the group as a clique? They were, in Brother Tristan’s mind, a group separate from the others; they were the better students. But they did not band together. They seemed hardly aware they were special. They were intelligent boys; monks of such calibre were generally not stupid, but they didn’t use their intelligence to observe each other.

Perhaps that is what makes me so ordinary, Brother Tristan thought. I spend too much time weighing other monks, and I am not focused on higher thoughts like these boys are.

He had resigned himself long ago that being a mentor was his talent, even if it did not mean being a great monk. Being so close with his students allowed him to see when things were unwell, and it was obvious to him that Olaf looked ill. He had a suspicion as to why and confronted him.

“Olaf,” said Brother Tristan.

“I wish to speak to you. I can see that you have not been eating well. You look pale.”

“It is nothing, Brother.”

“I think it is something. It has to do with the pilgrimage you took to Japan, doesn’t it? You haven’t looked well since you came back.”

Olaf’s eyes filled with tears. “It’s not right to cry, Brother. But…but….”

“Say it, Olaf, and then we can be done with the tears forever. If you do not say it, the tears will be locked inside you, ready to burst forth at any moment like a thunderstorm.”

“I looked for the mummified monk,” said Olaf. “I did my research. You know I always wanted to see him. So I found the temple and I journeyed to it.”

“Aah,” said Brother Tristan. “So you journeyed to the mummified monk and he disappointed you? This happens, Olaf. Perhaps I built it up too much for you. I am sorry. I am an enthusiastic storyteller, but it is not always the best thing.”

“Oh no!” said Olaf. “The mummified monk was everything you said he would be. He changed my life, Brother Tristan. He was amazing. I fell to my knees and I prayed. A feeling of cleansing came over me, Brother Tristan, a feeling…so imposing and unworldly. In front of him, I felt I was right in touch with the Higher Being! I felt the Winged Ones brush against my cheeks. Do you know his corpse does not decompose, even now, so long as they keep him in the dimly lit temple? And I felt he has not been destroyed because he has gone beyond what normal men can. I wish you had been there, Brother Tristan.”

“I wish I had been there too,” he said softly. Olaf’s eyes had changed. He had not taken the last steps to being accepted into the monkhood yet, but to Brother Tristan he was further on the way to enlightenment than any other student. When he spoke of the mummified monk, there had been a shift in his expression. He had unlocked a secret world and returned so much richer. Brother Tristan felt a pang of envy.

My job is to create great students and great monks , he reminded himself. If a monk has found his way, I have done well. Let that be my reward.

Olaf nodded and turned to go.

“But, Olaf,” called Brother Tristan, and the boy turned back. “Why do you look pale and miserable? Surely such a trip should leave you rich and fulfilled?”

“I wanted you to be there,” said Olaf simply. “I felt it was not right that I saw the mummified monk but you did not. Did you know that hardly anyone visits that temple? The great glory of the Higher Being, and hardly anyone is taking it in.”

“That is very thoughtful of you,” said Brother Tristan. “But it is not up to you to feel bad in such situations.”

“I did something you mightn’t approve of,” blurted out Olaf. “I tried to steal the monk. I wanted you to see it so badly, I thought he could do so much good here, and more people would see him! I thought, if I could just push it into a suitcase nobody would know.”

“Olaf,” said Brother Tristan. “Where is it? Where’s the mummified monk?”

“I couldn’t do it,” admitted Olaf. “I tried. I went to the temple and I broke open the tomb where the monk is kept but he was…. His eyes, they were red and shiny. He was…watching me. I almost lost my nerve right then, Brother Tristan. I tried to grab him and it felt wrong. The monk was somehow very cold. I expected him to feel like stone, but he felt like ice. And I thought, perhaps it’s a warning. He scared me. I’m a coward. So I dropped him and I left.”

Brother Tristan hid his disappointment. So he would not see the monk after all. He could not blame the boy, but he forced himself to comfort Olaf. “You did the right thing. The Higher Being gave you a sign, and you knew not to take the monk.”

Olaf nodded. “Thank you, Brother Tristan. You are a good friend and a good monk.” But Olaf’s head drooped, and he did not look content.

And now, neither was Brother Tristan. He lay awake at nights, thinking of Olaf, the mummified monk, and the attempted heist. It was a great story that could be added to Brother Tristan’s collection. He could see the glowing red eyes as Olaf described them, piercing the heart of the valiant in the darkness.

But the more he thought about it, the more Brother Tristan thought about how they almost had the monk and all his powers in their own monastery.

Perhaps, if he were a better monk, he would have been able to push the loss to the side and continue his work with the same vigour as found in past years. But Brother Tristan brooded. He saw the mummified monk in his dreams. It was strange he had told that story for years and it had never affected him so much. Now that Olaf had made his pilgrimage and added his piece, the monk haunted Brother Tristan.

It was illogical to resent Olaf, but he couldn’t help it. Olaf had seen the monk himself, and Brother Tristan had not. Olaf had been so close! He might have brought him the mummified monk, but he had failed!

He had once enjoyed talking to Olaf, but eventually those conversations stopped. Olaf became Brother Olaf, and Brother Tristan merely went through the motions of joining in at the ceremony. He did not offer to play a special role as mentors often did. He began to focus on the younger, newer generation of students and ignored Brother Olaf as much as possible.

Easy enough for Olaf, he thought. He has seen the mummified monk! But what of those of us who have not?

He had let his student mentoring slip, but he did not realise how much until one of the elder monks spoke to him.

“Brother Tristan, you have long been admired for your ability to handle the students and your mentoring abilities,” the elder monk stated. “But your work has come into question of late.”

“You do not seem to be paying attention to the classes or preparing very well,” said the elder monk. “What’s more, several of the more promising students left the monastery some time ago, before they had a chance to ascend to monkhood, and a few more shortly after.”

Brother Tristan was jolted into reality. The elder monk passed him a list of students and junior monks who had left; yes, these were some of the boys that he had thought most highly of. Brother Olaf’s name was not on the list. But he saw Francis and Jaspar and a few others, and he wondered why he did not know that they had left.

“When did they leave?” Brother Tristan asked.

“We’re not sure, exactly,” said the elder. “They did not give notice. Apparently they simply packed their bags and left. We have approximate dates for each. Some left over a year ago, one more than two years ago. It’s adding up, Brother Tristan. You need to pay more attention, especially to our remaining top students.”

Brother Tristan looked over the list again. “I will, I will.”

“Otherwise, I am sorry to say, we will be finding a replacement as a student mentor.”

He had always been the one to look after the boys and tell them stories and see them through to monkhood. Losing that would be losing his life.

The problem was that although he viewed the most promising students as a small group, he was not sure they thought of themselves that way.

Brother Olaf was one of the few from the top group of students who remained. Brother Tristan would ask him what he knew.

Standing there with more on his mind than the mummified monk, Brother Tristan felt a surge of emotion. It was like old times when he used to talk to Brother Olaf, and the mummified monk had not been between them.

Brother Olaf and I used to be able to talk openly. We understood each other .

“They left for a higher reason,” said Brother Olaf.

“So you know where they went? Why they went? Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

“It was a private decision,” said Brother Olaf. “But they will do greater good.”

“What could be greater than being a monk? They were so promising. I always thought they–and you too, Olaf–were my best students.”

“No, Brother Tristan. I am not a great student, nor a great monk. I wanted to be…I tried. I even went on my pilgrimage, but I failed you and I failed this monastery.”

Brother Tristan wanted to say something comforting then, but he could not think of anything.

Brother Olaf shook his head. “I can’t let it go.”

“Don’t blame yourself,” said Brother Tristan. Only a part of him meant it, but that was a start. Stronger and more sincere, he added, “You can still find your True Way.”

“That is all I want,” said Brother Olaf. “I go to sleep at night, and wish I was back in Japan. The mummified monk would surely give me the direction I am seeking.”

“We need to be able to get on without him,” said Brother Tristan. “I was obsessed with him too. But now, I know I need to find out about what happened to my students, so I can fix this. I used to be valued here as a mentor. I cannot let that go. It is not a grand aspiration, but it is for me.”

Brother Olaf smiled. “You are a great monk, Brother Tristan.”

“Do you want to know where the other students went?” asked Brother Olaf.

“Yes, indeed. That’s why I came to ask you.”

“Follow me and I will explain.”

“It is for the Higher Being,” said Brother Olaf’s voice behind him. “Don’t let the stench put you off the work.”

Brother Tristan forced himself to look around the dim room. As his eyes adjusted, he was able to make out the shape of a man sitting in the lotus position, and his skin was a delicate flakiness over a hard frame–the mummified monk.

Brother Tristan had told the story long enough and often enough to know. He had always believed that if he saw a true mummified monk, he would fall to his knees in praise of the Higher Being, the heavens would open, and the Winged Ones would dance in front of his eyes. But now that he had the real thing in front of him, he felt a mixture of awe and wonder, paralysis and revulsion. His knees started to bend. The sight both intimidated him and made him want to vomit.

“Marvellous, isn’t he?” asked Brother Olaf. “I believe you, of all people, Brother Tristan, will understand and appreciate. This is why I brought you here.”

“But how did you get him here? You said you left him. You said you could not do it. How did he get here?”

“That is Francis.”

Brother Tristan took in the words slowly. “Francis…?” He looked up at the preserved corpse, and now he saw something different. Not the frame of an esteemed monk from history, but the body of his student looking down at him. His eyes did not shine with the purity of the Winged Ones, but swam with accusations.

This is the most revolting thing a man could put himself through, Brother Tristan thought.

“The process of mummification takes many years,” said Brother Olaf. “I researched it thoroughly during my pilgrimage in Japan. It still does, to do it properly. To reach the enlightenment, the body must take on several years of natural change. I have worked on certain methods to speed up the entire mummification procedure. I believe I’ve made real progress. For instance, I have found chemicals that can be rubbed into the skin to preserve it more quickly, and I refined the herbed tea they drink.”

Brother Tristan’s jaw hung open, but he could not speak. He stepped toward Francis and saw three additional bodies in cages, two sitting upright in lotus position. Each was reed-thin and glistening with oil. None of them seemed to notice Brother Tristan. The body lying down was the skinniest with yellow-brown tinged skin. His hands and legs were locked in metal cuffs and chains.

“In the name of the Higher Being, what are you doing to these men?” gasped Brother Tristan. “They need to be released and treated immediately!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Brother Olaf. “You know what is happening as well as I do. You know the process. You have told me so many times, over and over in class. Though I have refined it, I cannot do what these men are doing. But I can offer some small service to the Higher Being. I have resigned myself to it, Brother Tristan. I may not be a great monk, but I can give great monks to the Higher Being. I have found my True Way.”

“It’s not right,” said Brother Tristan. “These men locked up like this. You’re forcing them, killing them, murdering them….”

“It’s mummification,” said Brother Olaf. “These men all want to serve the Higher Being. They love the mummified monk story. They are good monks. I can tell they are suitable. Brother Tristan, when I explained it to them, they all wanted to serve. It’s just that, well, sometimes the body is not as strong as the mind. That is why the cages, the cuffs. Sometimes we struggle, but we know it is wrong. I facilitate. I help turn these men into great monks.”

“It is barbaric!” Welts grew on their skin, and their bleeding, open sores gleamed with oil. Their undernourished bodies hung from crooked backs.

“It is beautiful,” said Brother Olaf. “Brother Tristan, I am not sure you understand the point of your own story. The mummified monks will bring glory to our monastery.”

Brother Tristan shook his head. “Why did you do this? Why?”

“Everyone remembers the mummified monk,” said Brother Olaf. “From when you first told me that story, Brother Tristan, I knew I would bring a monk to the monastery somehow. I would find that True Way, as you always described it. Truly, Brother Tristan, you have been a good mentor. Look around you and see what you have created! Look around!”

Brother Tristan lost his stomach and fell to the ground, crying.

“Don’t worry,” said Brother Olaf. “Everyone does the same the first time they come down. Jaspar and Leslie did. But it becomes easier. After a while, you don’t feel your body at all. It takes some time, but you’ll barely notice.”

Brother Tristan looked at the cages containing his students, rotting away, and continued crying for his weakness. He did not feel Brother Olaf put his arm around him soothingly, nor the cuffs as they clicked around his legs and wrists. •

Rebecca Fung is a legal editor based in Sydney, Australia. She loves to edit in the light…but writing brings out her dark side. She has previously had her dark fiction published in Midnight Echo , Voluted Tales and Eclecticism magazines and is a regular contributor to the Demonic Visions anthology series. Her work has also been published in a number of other anthologies and her ebook Dead Lucky will be published by Perpetual Motion Machine Publishing in their One Night Stands series in October 2014.