“Koumyou-sama! Koumyou-sama!”
Ahh, they always find him in the end. Every nook and cranny, corner, cove, and crevice – none remain sacred for long. Of course, he has his favourite haunts, like the grotto near the koi ponds with its shaded, rough arches that are perfect for cooling off in the summertime. Or beneath the wavering tallow trees leading into the forest, that wind and dip on the ridge of the mountain; they are good for shade or watching wildlife.
“It seems I'll have to find myself a new smoking spot,” Koumyou says to Shunyuan, the young monk who comes barrelling along the path toward him. But what he really means is hiding spot and he's sure Shunyuan realises this. Shunyuan skids to a halt in front of Koumyou, his sandals kicking up dust and a few deep green leaves that have been scattered by the sweet breeze. Koumyou smiles at him. “Don't tell me the cook has run out of dumplings before Obon.”
“Uh, no, Koumyou-sama–”
“Oh, good. I'm rather partial to those.” Koumyou continues to smile at the flush-faced youngster. Really, the youth of today get riled up so easily. To be adolescent again, thinks Koumyou with a hint of nostalgia, then decides all the sweating and pimples aren't really something he'd like to relive. “What, then,” he continues, raising an eyebrow, “could possibly have you so flustered that you would run all this way to find me?”
Hands on his thighs now, Shunyuan pants in and out, his shorn head shining with moisture under the rays of the sun. He shakes his head as if to indicate talking after running is a problem he hadn't considered. “K-Kouryuu,” he puffs, and it seems that is all he's capable of getting out.
For the first time that day, Koumyou's smile wavers. “Is he all right?” Pushing himself off the pillar he's been reclining against, Koumyou upends his pipe and tips flecks of ash and strings of tobacco onto the ground. “Where is Kouryuu?”
The monk points to the temple. “P-prayer hall.”
Striding down the winding path, Koumyou doesn't pause to appreciate the chaffinches nesting in the woodshed eaves, as he's done every day so far that week. He barely notices his surroundings at all, but he keeps his pace steady – if he hurries, he might stumble. On his heels, Shunyuan skips along, trying to keep up. The poor boy should spend more time in martial art classes building up his stamina, rather than badgering the kitchen staff for leftovers after mealtimes. Koumyou does not voice this thought.
“It's difficult finding a babysitter,” Koumyou says conversationally, as he crosses the cobbled courtyard and heads up the temple steps. “I had assumed Zemin would be able to keep the boy occupied for thirty short minutes. Although, I must concede Kouryuu can cover a surprising amount of distance on those small legs of his.”
Shunyan does not respond to this, possibly so as not to express agreement in the matter of the inadequacy of his fellow monk's child minding skills. How diplomatic, especially for one of his age competing with his peers. Fierce competition isn't encouraged, but boys will be boys and it's near impossible to keep it out of their training and studies.
There is a small congregation of red-robed men standing outside the prayer hall. Their hurried chatter hushes as Koumyou approaches, all eyes turning to him.
“Ah, Koumyou-sama,” says Zemin, bowing quickly and stepping aside when he realises Koumyou has no intention of breaking pace. “He's... well. You'd better take a look.” The large oak doors are opened for him and now Koumyou stops, turns to address the monks.
“You closed him in? Children should be set free, at least until they're grown and the troubles of life and the world begin to weigh them down.”
“We didn't know what to do, master. Forgive us, Koumyou-sama.” Another bow from Zemin, then the rest of the monks follow suit in varying degrees of humbleness.
“He's four years old,” Koumyou informs them, and leaves it at that. The shamed and slightly awkward looks that rise on their faces tells him they caught his incredulity. He enters the hall.
At first, he cannot locate his charge among the tributes and statues and idols and the various shrines dotted about the prayer hall. Koumyou inches in, pauses to listen.
There's a scratching noise, coming from the region of the room's centrepiece – a high, and extremely wide statue of Buddha in painted gold and jade at the front. The noise ceases. Then moments later it picks up again, just a soft scritch-scrape-scratch. Pause. Shuffle-scrape-scritch.
Koumyou approaches Buddha, but his real focus is much thinner in the belly, although demands no less of Koumyou's attention and time.
“Ah, there you are,” he says, poking his head around the statue's wide body, addressing a mop of fine golden blond hair. The child kneels beside the Buddha, and turns his face up to Koumyou. Koumyou presses his hand to his mouth and fails at stifling a burst of laughter. Massive purple eyes survey him with a coolness uncharacteristic of one so small. “Oh my. You've been busy, I see.”
“Master,” says Kouryuu in his soft tone. It doesn't matter how many times Koumyou refers to himself as father, Kouryuu has chosen master and one thing Koumyou has learned about his boy is that once Kouryuu's mind is made up no force in Shangri-la can dissuade it.
“You've aroused a great deal of interest. Is this your masterpiece?” Koumyou's eyes linger on the black smudge on the end of Kouryuu's nose, the longer, darker smudge on his left cheek, and – well – as for his hands, they are completely covered in the stuff.
Kouryuu nods solemnly. “I'm drawing.”
“I can see that.” Koumyou bites his lower lip to keep back another laugh. Behind him, the monks have entered the hall and are beginning to crowd around, but Koumyou ignores them.
Kouryuu's face may be perpetually serious but his eyes are bright with discovery and a barely repressed pride. Even as he stares up at Koumyou, his hands continue to move in vast swirls and sudden strokes over Buddha's bulbous backside.
Koumyou is grinning openly now. “How wonderful. But tell me, Kouryuu, why did you choose this particular canvas to express yourself?”
Kouryuu shrugs his shoulders, his small hands working relentlessly, as if there is a force inside him driving him to complete his task. Or at least, driving him to completely cover the Buddha's bottom in stripes and strokes of charcoal.
Behind, Koumyou can sense the disapproving looks and hear the scandalised murmurs of the monks. Almost subconsciously, Koumyou moves closer to Kouryuu, shielding the boy from the scowls, not wanting them to ruin his moment of creativity.
“I like this colour,” Kouryuu says, patting Buddha's rump with one charcoal-blackened finger.
“Koumyou-sama,” says Zemin. “We understand the boy needs to be let out now and then–”
“He's not a domestic pet,” says Koumyou. “Although maybe if I put in a two foot flap in my door...”
“But the fact remains,” continues Zemin, obviously not amused. “Defiling the image of Buddha is a sacrilege. The Head Priest has been informed, but...”
“He needs discipline,” someone pipes up from the back. Koumyou's willing to wager if he turns and asks the speaker to step forward and say that to his face, nobody would dare move.
“Fetch water to clean the statue,” Koumyou says, sighing and dropping to his haunches. Sandals shuffle over the floor, the crowd dispersing, but not without more mutters of disapproval.
Kouryuu has stopped drawing and is now staring down at the nub of charcoal in his hand. When Koumyou had handed it to him forty minutes earlier, it had been four times the length and circumference.
“Come on, I'll take you down to the town. We'll find you an easel and some board.” Koumyou holds out his hand, unconcerned about getting black powder on himself. It will wash out. But as Kouryouu takes the offered hand, Koumyou spots a part of the picture that draws his eyebrows down in a curious frown. “Oh, what's this?” He leans in close, aware of the ridiculousness – a grown man with his face but inches from Buddha's wide posterior, like he's engaged in some kind of new wave prayer technique.
In a patch surrounded by random scribbles, Koumyou sees two stick figures. One is taller than the other and seems to have a long braid hanging between his thin, wobbly arms. The other is much shorter, standing beside the first, with a little squiggle drawn below him – three wavering lines like the symbol for a river. The stick people are holding hands, and although they are featureless Koumyou is certain the stick people in Kouryuu's picture are happy.
“Is that us?” he asks the boy.
Colour rises in Kouryuu's cheeks and he shrugs again.
Koumyou inhales, but his breath swells in his chest and makes it hard for him to maintain his composure. He lets out a sigh. The fundamental beauty of the picture before him renders him momentarily lost for words and he realises, with a surge of shimmering pride, that he's looking at Kouryuu's inner world, the world beyond the boy's serious little face. Kouryuu does not pine or require cuddles (although sometimes Koumyou gives them anyway, much to kouryuu's squirming, four-year-old indignation), but here is something far better. An assuredness. Evidence of Kouryuu's faith. Happiness.
That is all Koumyou needs or wants or could ever dream for.
With a squeeze of Kouryuu's grubby hand, Koumyou rises and leads the boy out of the hall.
~Fin~
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