wind and snow

The wind blows through the meditation hall. Haku shivers as it sneaks through his ragged cotton robe, finding the gaps and chinks that have become exposed since he last tightened and tucked it. In the fading light the figure of the Buddha seems to growl at him, making him feel guilty about nothing in particular, and he bends back to his task of shuffling the broom quickly across the floor. The old master will be returning soon, back from his visit to the town, hopefully carrying some scraps of food to supplement the small amount of rice they have left.

There is the scent of snow in the air. Haku had never considered snow to have much of a smell before moving to this temple. The old buildings seem to catch and amplify the weather as though the rotten timbers know what is coming and reflect it inwards.

Haku sighs with the wind and opens the door, brushing the assembled pile of dust out even as a gust catches it and drives much of it back inside. His stomach grumbles. He heaves the broom onto his shoulder and pulls the door tight. He walks to the cupboard and stows it away, bowing to it with a reflex gratitude that does not disturb his poor mood. Then he picks up his cushion and moves to the side of the room. He sits cross-legged, facing away from the Buddha but aware of his presence, and mumbles a short prayer before beginning his meditation.

The darkness grows deeper and the wind picks up its rattles and punches. Haku tightens his robe in an attempt to close off access for the cold but he does not dare start a fire or light a candle until the master is back. He tries to bring his focus back to his breathing and to ignore the thoughts that bubble up in complaint.

He wakes with a start. The numbness of sitting is compounded with the cold reaching into his limbs. The room is completely black and he can see nothing. The wind has died down to be replaced with the quiet shuffle of snow. He has no idea of the time but he knows that the master should be back by now. He unfolds his legs slowly, massaging blood and warmth back into them as he does, and it is a minute or two before he feels able to stand. He moves to the door, stamping his feet against the wooden floor. Outside thick leaves of snow flutter in the strange half-light of the storm. Haku slips his shoes on and crunches his way to the master's small room. Inside it is dark but there is a delicate warmth after being outside. Shivering, Haku lights a candle and inspects the sparse room. The master is not here and his bed is undisturbed. Frowning he looks around to the desk. There is a piece of paper there, neatly tied with a length of string and with Haku's name written along its length.

Shaking with more than cold Haku places the candle carefully on the desk and picks up the scroll. He slips the string from the end and carefully unwinds the paper. In the flickering light be reads the short message.

"I am dead. The temple is now under your care."

The message is signed and stamped by the master. He must have known before he left that he would not return. Haku slumps into the downwards to the stool. He reads the message again. Tears begin to form in his eyes. The old man had been fractious but he looked after Haku after his parents had died, sparing him the draft in the frequent local wars.

Haku stands up again, quickly, and resolves to head out to find his master's body. He tucks the scroll into his shirt and quickly heads back to the meditation hall. Overhead the flutter of an owl causes snow to tumble from a branch. Haku feels a flash of nervousness but he cannot stop now. Back in the hall he ties on his hat, finds a lantern and, lighting it, hooks it onto a walking staff. Contained by a snow globe of light, chanting the sutra for the dead, he heads out along the path to the town.

Strikes

The sound of water laps gently through the knotted reeds of the platform. The subtle motion rocks Sed as he lies, on duty, looking up at the stars. Then, it happens, a brilliant firework strike of light scorches the sky and flies overhead. With the practised enthusiasm of his young age he jumps up. He knows the importance of getting to a strike quickly. He hauls the little bell up, almost the total of their village's supply of metal, and rings it furiously. The men in the little huts curse and groan as the pull themselves out of bed. Sed has not taken his eyes away from the place where he saw the strike fall, using the stars as a guide to counter the slow twisting of the house boats, made more furious now as the men start untying the ropes binding them together. Torches are lit and their coloured lanterns hauled up higher to indicate their claim.
Jan is standing next to Sed now. His big, muscled frame towering over him with his gruff expression buried in the darkness of his beard. Sed points and Jan nods.
"Quicker, boys. It's not far off where we saw the Kords earlier today. I have no wish to let them get to this strike before us, again."
The Kords had been shadowing them for weeks. Occasionally there had been violence between the clans but the Kord are cowards, scavengers looking to interfere with other's success. They are not the real reason for Jan's concern. He knows that it has been several months since his clan had a major strike, have returned to the harbour with a chunk of metal of a good size for sale, and he is worried about their food and other needs being met before the bitter winter falls over the plateau.
Once the village has separated into its component boats the men start to row hard in the direction of the strike. The diviners have already thrown their lines out into the water, casting for the shrill little signal that will indicate they have found the meteorite. The divers are limbering up, stretching their muscles and practising their breathing exercises. On the horizon they see lights of other houseboats. The patterns identify them as the Kord and another clan, the Pertri, mixed in amongst each other, both working to slow the other one down. A bonus for us, Jan thinks.
After half an hour of effort the rowing teams are swapped. The boy was sure that the strike was close but Jan knows that the dark is always misleading. Then, after another ten minutes, the linesmen's equipment starts buzzing. They have found something. Rocks are cast out as anchors even as the divers are leaping into the water, their chests and arms lit with bioluminescent cream. The lake is not deep, an average of twenty meters or so and ideal for their work. The bed is soft sand, though, and often swallows up strikes and makes them hard to find. The divers sink down, the fragmented glows of their bodies slowly fading as the push themselves deeper.
After a few minutes they are back at the surface, coughing and sucking grateful air into their lungs. As they are doing this Wer, the head of the divers, signals to Jan: A big one. Prepare two cranes, maybe three. Wer is not a man given to exaggeration, Jan allows himself to feel a moment of joy, hidden in the darkness cast by the torches burning at the corners of his platform.

Secret Identity

The man pushes the glasses against the bridge of his nose with his middle finger. It is a practised, unconscious gesture that feels like it began because the man thought there was something attractive in the motion; something seen on TV, or a film with an actor a forgotten ex-girlfriend liked. Or maybe his glasses are just prone to slipping down, I don't know. Sometimes I over-analyse things. I sit and watch the people walking along the street, waiting for the the ones with a minute or two before they need to arrive where ever they are going and can spare the time for a cup of coffee. Then they disappear to buy their shoes, get to the meeting, see their friends, return to the office to get back to work on the presentation that needs to be done before the end of the day. It's all the same to me, especially in this deadzone of time after the early morning rush but before lunch. The only real change is when one of the regulars comes along, bringing a secret sign of complicity as the rare spark of recognition flares. Some of them talk to me but for others it is simply enough to know that we are connected in some human way amongst all the strangers. The man is not a regular. I haven't seen him before. I turn away at the sign of the flashing down the other end of the street. The row of skyscrapers are dull shadow in the mornings. There is a roll of dust and screams moving ahead of a giant, mechanical robot, all twisted metal and improbable arms. I swear as I see the bright yellow of the school bus raised above its insensate head. Perhaps because he is the last human in my mind I turn to where the man with the glasses was standing. He has gone. There is a blur of speed and darkness as something flies through the air towards the robot. The bus is torn from its grasp and I do not see what happens to it (I learn later it was deposited, safely, on a side street away with only minor injuries to the children). It is seconds later when the super returns, smashing his body through the robot's brain in a flaring of brilliant colours. I don't even see his logo to find out which one he is before he is gone, disappeared beyond the abbreviated city horizon, before the attack helicopters can scramble and attempt to bring him down. The robot is still falling, shattered, to the ground. There is grinding and sparks, the shattering of glass and more screams. Then it is over apart from the sirens.