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Authors: Sarah Zettel
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structure before them. Unlike the other monastery buildings, this one was made of slats of wood and paper screens, in the style they used in the southern provinces of Hung-Tse. What was even more odd, she now saw, was it breached the wall, so that half of it sat in the monastery, and the other half was in the convent. Lamps were lit within, making the white paper glow golden. Smoke rose from a short, squat chimney. Shadows collected on the other side of the translucent walls, and the droning grew louder with each step until Sitara’s skin began to shiver.
Father Thanom slid the paper door open slowly, releasing a shaft of golden light. For a moment, he watched whatever lay within and then beckoned her. Sitara stepped carefully through the low doorway.
Inside was a room lit to the brightness of day by four great brass lanterns that hung in its four corners. In its center sat a ring of monks and nuns whose voices rose and fell in the thrumming, rumbling chant. Through their ring of bodies, Sitara saw a mandala made of sand. Her breath caught in her throat at its shining beauty and she took an involuntary step forward to see it better.
In the lamplight, the mandala blazed like a thousand jewels. All the colors of the rainbow were in that pattern, and all the shades and hues that came when those colors blended together. It was wider across than she was tall and she could not count the rings or comprehend the details and symbols that filled the space between them. At first she thought the rings were separate, concentric circles, but as she looked more closely, she began to see they were subtly connected, one to the other, the first to the last. Each complete and separate, each bound to the other. Her mind blurred. The air before her rippled and her skin shivered in acknowledgment of a power she could feel only at the very edge of her senses. The monks’ droning made the air throb. It sank through her skin and found an answering rhythm in her heart and her breath. All the holy sorcerers save one sat perfectly still, their eyes half-closed in deep concentration as they sang. One young monk held out his fisted hand, letting a slow stream of red sand fall to join the glorious pattern that stretched out between them. It seemed to Sitara that the scarlet grains trickled out in time to the endless chant.
“What is it?” Sitara managed to whisper.
“It is Sindhu,” answered Father Thanom. “It is the past spiraling into the future and the future to the past, for this moment, for it will change. It is changing even now.”
She opened her mouth to say something, about the beauty, the complexity, about the sound and the fall of the sand all woven together, but the abbot shook his head and pointed to the door. They slipped outside into the thickening evening. Behind them, there was no hesitation in the song, no pause in the falling of the sand.
For a moment, Sitara could only stand and gulp down the evening air, dizzy with the brilliance and power of what she had seen. Then, Father Thanom spoke softly. He did not look at her. It was as if he spoke only to the night.
“And the sorcerer came to the Awakened One and said to him, ‘Master, tell us, what is right action for those whose souls are not of the three parts but are single and alone?’
“The Master said, ‘Right action consists of four parts. Compassion. Understanding. Wisdom. Acceptance. Without compassion no action can be good. Without understanding, no action can be right. Without wisdom, all action is slave to ignorance. Without acceptance of consequence, there is no learning, no wisdom, no understanding, and no compassion.
“‘Therefore,’ the Master said to the sorcerer, ‘if you say your soul is alone and apart, seek the right action you desire alone and apart and act not until all four parts of right action are held within your hands.’”
Sitara kept her silence, uncertain of what answer she could make.
“I have spent much time thinking on that last
Father Thanom slid the paper door open slowly, releasing a shaft of golden light. For a moment, he watched whatever lay within and then beckoned her. Sitara stepped carefully through the low doorway.
Inside was a room lit to the brightness of day by four great brass lanterns that hung in its four corners. In its center sat a ring of monks and nuns whose voices rose and fell in the thrumming, rumbling chant. Through their ring of bodies, Sitara saw a mandala made of sand. Her breath caught in her throat at its shining beauty and she took an involuntary step forward to see it better.
In the lamplight, the mandala blazed like a thousand jewels. All the colors of the rainbow were in that pattern, and all the shades and hues that came when those colors blended together. It was wider across than she was tall and she could not count the rings or comprehend the details and symbols that filled the space between them. At first she thought the rings were separate, concentric circles, but as she looked more closely, she began to see they were subtly connected, one to the other, the first to the last. Each complete and separate, each bound to the other. Her mind blurred. The air before her rippled and her skin shivered in acknowledgment of a power she could feel only at the very edge of her senses. The monks’ droning made the air throb. It sank through her skin and found an answering rhythm in her heart and her breath. All the holy sorcerers save one sat perfectly still, their eyes half-closed in deep concentration as they sang. One young monk held out his fisted hand, letting a slow stream of red sand fall to join the glorious pattern that stretched out between them. It seemed to Sitara that the scarlet grains trickled out in time to the endless chant.
“What is it?” Sitara managed to whisper.
“It is Sindhu,” answered Father Thanom. “It is the past spiraling into the future and the future to the past, for this moment, for it will change. It is changing even now.”
She opened her mouth to say something, about the beauty, the complexity, about the sound and the fall of the sand all woven together, but the abbot shook his head and pointed to the door. They slipped outside into the thickening evening. Behind them, there was no hesitation in the song, no pause in the falling of the sand.
For a moment, Sitara could only stand and gulp down the evening air, dizzy with the brilliance and power of what she had seen. Then, Father Thanom spoke softly. He did not look at her. It was as if he spoke only to the night.
“And the sorcerer came to the Awakened One and said to him, ‘Master, tell us, what is right action for those whose souls are not of the three parts but are single and alone?’
“The Master said, ‘Right action consists of four parts. Compassion. Understanding. Wisdom. Acceptance. Without compassion no action can be good. Without understanding, no action can be right. Without wisdom, all action is slave to ignorance. Without acceptance of consequence, there is no learning, no wisdom, no understanding, and no compassion.
“‘Therefore,’ the Master said to the sorcerer, ‘if you say your soul is alone and apart, seek the right action you desire alone and apart and act not until all four parts of right action are held within your hands.’”
Sitara kept her silence, uncertain of what answer she could make.
“I have spent much time thinking on that last
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