StarGaze

Soldiers Die, Corpses Walk

The nights in the Himalayas are extremely cold, but the slight warmth of the day is an unexpected blessing. The sunlight falling on the snow makes it shine like a diamond, and among these diamonds walk gems. The monks living on these mountains have made their bodies durable to the harsh conditions and have attained a state of mind that most people in the world can only dream of. 

You see, they have walked through the path of fire and pain to make their bodies immune to any type of torture that nature can inflict upon them. And as strange as it sounds, the pain they have endured gave them an annoying amount of peace and stillness. They spend their time training and meditating in solitude. 

The most prominent monks are the Shaolin monks, who are named after the Shaolin temple. These monks have participated in four major wars across Chinese history and even saved the life of a Chinese emperor. Although they have existed for centuries, they didn't learn to fight much later until the arrival of an Indian saint named buddhi-dharma. He saw the poor health conditions of the monks at the Shaolin temple and hence decided to train them, forging the legacy of the superhero monks. 

But the history of the monks wasn’t always glorious. The sacred temple was invaded several times and burnt down. It has been destroyed and rebuilt countless times, essentially destroying the authenticity. And the tale I am about to tell you takes place in the time when china was a warring nation divided into several clans fighting for dominance. 

Amongst the many tribes, there was a red turban clan. They were smart and extremely aggressive, a deadly combination in the days when there were no guns. They were making their way towards the Shaolin temple, and it made the monks worry about their future. 

Far from the places where these events were happening, there was a small monastery in the snowy mountains of the Himalayas. The monks living there woke up early, cleaned their bodies, and went down the mountain to beg. They accumulated food from the residents of the towns and took it back up to the monastery. They shared the food equally, consuming only two meals per day. The afternoons were spent meditating in silence. They were in bed by seven in the evening. 

On one bright spring day, the monks had walked down to a small town to find that people were gathered outside a tavern. Out of curiosity, the slim saints walked up to the establishment and asked people what the fuss was about. One middle-aged man came forward with tears. 

“He killed my son! My boy...he was only nineteen and he...he killed him.” The man said, trying to speak as much as he could without breaking down. 

Now the monks were peaceful people who only fought in self-defense, but they were also required to help any person in need. And in this case, the need was justice. 

“Where is he?” one of the disciples asked with a plain face. 

“He is still inside. The man is a beast, he has no remorse. He didn’t even run away from his crime!” another man said, holding the father who had just lost his flesh and blood. 

When the monks entered the building, they saw the mess that had been made. The tables were broken and at some places there were fire marks. The place was stinking of liquor, and in a dark corner, there lied a dead body. 

There was no blood surrounding the dead boy. And when they looked closely, the monks observed that the neck was broken. The head was turned all the way to the back, and on that horrifying setup, they spotted the man responsible for doing it. 

He was sitting on a small chair with a bottle in his hand and his foot on the dead boy’s chest. On the table in front of him, there were several empty cups. The man didn’t show the slightest interest in the men who were standing in front of him. He kept on drinking till the bottle was empty. 

The monk in charge stood forward and the disciples took positions around him. The murderer’s face was hidden in the dark, but the master could tell that although he didn’t care about the people around him, he was extremely aware of every movement. 

“Why did you kill the boy?” the master asked in a rather ordinary yet threatening tone. 

“Walk away while you can, or people will be asking the same question about you.” The man said and threw the empty bottle away. 

"You have a troubled mind son. You must have been in the war, and from what I can see, only your body returned. Your mind is still stuck on that battleground, seeking for purpose in the spilling of blood." The master said warmly, trying to win the battle with the arrow of love. 

"Shoot as many arrows in the dark as you want, but I have no interest in talking to you." The man said and lit up a Chunghwa (the Chinese version of a cigarette). 

“What is your name?” the master said and walked up to the man who was clearly not in the mood for talking. 

Suddenly, the stranger decided that it was time to stop talking and do what he did best. He plunged his left hand forward in an arrow-like motion and struck right at the heart of the master. The master flew backward and fell down, unconscious. 

The disciples had not been taught anything about fear, but the feat of strength and speed on a superhuman level made them take a step back. The fatigue and laziness clearly visible in the man were suddenly gone. He sprang up and whooshed his hands around as a threat. 

“Anyone else who wants to know my name?” the man, whose face was clearly visible against the flames from the lantern, threatened. 

His hair was reaching all the way to his back, and the dried mud covering his face made it safe to assume that he hadn't washed for days. 

The master was not moving, and when one of the disciples tried to get him up, he realized that the life force inside the old man was gone. A single sleek blow to the chest had killed the man who had made his body as strong as steel. 

"Take the old man and go back to where you came from. He was a good man and deserves all his pupils around him during the ceremonies. If you still wish to die, come back here afterward." The man said like he wasn't the one who killed the master. The concern in his voice made it seem like he was a real civilized person, maybe a glimpse of who he used to be. He then sat down and started smoking again. 

The disciples knew that revenge wasn’t the way of the monks, so they quietly took the body and walked out of the bar, leaving behind the town folks to deal with the menace that sat inside the tavern. 

The man took a long drag from his Chunghwa and hid his face between his hands. And after a second, the sobbing started. As the smoke from the cigarette reached the brain, the memories flushed into the heart and stung him all over the body like needles. 

And then, like a silent owl, the dart came piercing the air and stuck itself in his neck. The man instantly threw the cigarette away and took out the dart. He looked at the green sting mounted on a wooden stick with feathers in the back. 

“Motherf….." he said as his voice faded and eyes grew blurry. In a matter of seconds, he had lost all control over his body and reached a trance-like state under the influence of the strange drug flowing inside his veins. 

As they carried his body outside the tavern, he felt the chill all of a sudden, and that was when he passed out. This was the first sleep he had had in the past four days since he was sent here, and there was a reason he didn't want to sleep. 

All the shadows came rushing in, closing the distance as he watched helplessly with nothing but a torch to defend himself. He heard the whispers among the spirits and knew that the light wasn’t going to protect him for long. 

As the brightness faded and the darkness crept in, he closed his eyes. The freezing cold touch of the dead hands sent shivers down his spine. The corpses breathed the ice-cold air on his face, and as much of a brave warrior as he was, he wouldn’t dare to open his eyes and face his fears.