to unearthly proportions. She remembered the monk that mother and child had found broken and lifeless, and now witnessed him emerging from the ashes of these sacred ruins like the phoenix of ancient tales.
Mah Lin continued his search of the mountaintop looking for something other than bone or fragment. He chose carefully from the armor parts and weapons strewn about, some still protecting a long perished body part and some still held tightly in the grip of the dead, as the load of humble cart steadily increased. On the eve of the third day, Mah Lin found what he had been seeking. It lay underneath a fallen shield, undisturbed by the passage of time. The monk picked it up and cleaned it off with the sleeve of his tunic.
He called to Selah to show her what he held in the palm of his outstretched hand. She gazed in wonder at the beautiful artifact, small but substantial, lovingly crafted, and timeless. On the dull bronze pentagon lay the raised metallic image of the imperial dragon. A round hollow lay clutched in its five-clawed talon, and within this circular well a delicate needle lay suspended and precisely balanced. As her father offered this dragon to the four corners of the world, the needle moved quickly around to keep its original place.
“Selah, we have new purpose, and now direction,” were the words of the powerful monk, the action of a loving father was an embrace. Only then, within the safety of his protective arms, did her tears fall freely upon his dusty shirt. When the storm of her grief had passed, he stroked her shimmering hair and gently whispered as only a father could, “Selah, we will go now, it is complete.”
So it was that they traveled on, their cart carrying the relics of this consecrated place, and their hearts carrying the remnants of their former peaceful lives. As they descended the path with the well-loaded carriage, the sharp-eyed raven took flight and followed, calling out their progress and championing their renewal. Mah Lin knew that the second pair of eyes that had been watching them secretly would also give voice to their actions.
He understood that information would flow upward from hidden sentry to high commander just as surely as the mountain stream flows down from savage peak to gentle lowland.
By day and by night they traveled, stopping briefly to cook and eat what sustenance their route graciously provided. Moving relentlessly from north to southeast, Mah Lin would consult the spinning needle and study carefully one of the oldest parchment maps saved from the destroyed temple.
Over the course of their steady progress, Mah Lin explained that not all the manuscripts they carried were from his former monastery. Some, like the map they now followed, came from a much older place, and it was to this place, the place of all origins, that they were heading. It was this sanctuary that would provide them with the safety and protection that they needed, and within these walls of security they would once again build life.
Selah was very much like their dependable load-pulling horse. She never complained about the length or severity of their journey, or even questioned its nebulous purpose. She thought sometimes about the life they had left behind, but realized that they were not so much leaving something as moving towards something else. Her heart knew that the steady pace they had set had both direction from the delicately spinning needle, and purpose reflected in the calm and serious expression worn on the face of her father.
Mah Lin spoke of a world in a state of chaos, like the destruction from the heavens that brings the hail, the rain, and the winds. He spoke of it churning slowly and grinding steadily in its natural and unstoppable rotation. He explained that the place they now sought was a place of refuge from this tempest. The ancient of ancient temple site was the calm within this storm, the eye of this ever-expanding hurricane.
The star filled night sky covered the two travelers like a simple beggar’s bowl. As Selah’s eyes grew heavy her father’s grew more vigilant. He had heard the diminutive sounds of snapping twigs and the slight rustle of leaves in the underbrush. Now he sat calmly waiting, while his skilled hands comfortably touched the familiar wooden sword handle.
From the darkness stepped the huddled and half-hidden figure of an old man. Like a moth attracted by the fire’s light he sought to share a morsel, and perhaps some idle nighttime conversation. In truth he desired only the basic warmth of human contact. He was garbed in blackened tattered robes that cried out loudly of neglect, and his head moved coal black eyes from side to side to pierce the darkness. As a skinny arm reached carefully for the hot tea offered, Selah thought about the raven that followed them.
The monk and the beggar shared the fire’s comfort and talked well into the quiet night and long after she had fallen asleep. Their tone was for the most part serious, punctuated in places by honest laughter. He was gone by the time she awoke, so she did not see his parting gesture. The beggar had solemnly dropped a large rock onto the skirt of the dying fire. Neither did she know that the dropping of the rock coincided perfectly with the falling head of a distant sentry who had just finished making his last report.
Within the moon’s half cycle the end of their travels was in sight. They could see from the sparse lowland an oasis of lush green rising up before them in the distance. It stretched for miles untouched and unvisited by the few locals that lived nearby, for often a land long sacred carries within it the power to remain unmolested. The arrival of monk, woman, horse and cart, to holy ground attracted little attention, and needed no explanation.
To Selah this quiet protected area called to them, as if it had always belonged to them and them to it. As they arrived at its hub, she felt its welcoming nature. It hinted once again at security and family, even though her mother was painfully absent and terribly missed. They moved past the outer walls to the great hall, where they unloaded the weapons and armor from the cart of their tired horse.
The site was ancient, but not in tremendous disarray. It was simpler than most temple structures, more home than place of worship. She would start with a good cleaning. Within only a few months her work and womanly touch began to breathe vitality here once again. A small but adequate garden was soon planted and tended. Wild game was abundant, and before long there were cattle grazing and hens nesting or scratching and pecking as they roamed freely around the place.
Her father renewed his vows of priesthood. Martial training occurred daily, as did the study of the ancient manuscripts that had found their resting place within the structures simple library. All daily chores were done in a way that enhanced his strength and fighting skills, and by evening’s lamplight he poured over the written mysteries of age-old documents.
Like her mother before her, it was not long before Selah was collecting and categorizing the medicinal plants growing in this serene location. Also, very much like her mother, she had begun to feed mulberry leaves to the worms, and spin, dye, and weave their silken bounty. Her father meanwhile seemed more focused than ever.
The destroyed ruins of his former monastery hovered high and silent on the distant mountaintop, but its essence lived on within his soul. Day by day he methodically prepared spirit, mind, and body, for a challenge he sensed inevitably drawing closer.
The oldest scrolls were painted more than a thousand years before, from the time of the First Emperor. One particular passage veiled in the prophetic tradition held his attention, and he meditated daily upon its words. He soared with wings of wisdom to places of light and darkness and ascended toward the serenity of understanding, duty, and acceptance.
“From setting sun a man doth come, beaten by the rain,
Drawing sword from stone, he will rise through blood and pain.
From slave to king, to free the beast, that lies beneath the hill,
