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T’S A LAUGHABLE LOCK—ONE that you would use
only to guard a graveyard. Not that anyone would
trouble themselves invading a timber hut in a mangrove forest farther away from
the Bay of Bengal. Still, how can someone live with a lock like that? Made of
ancient iron, reeking of rust. It would need a primordial key to be twisted and
turned, going through several moments of mechanical trouble until the old lock
opens. Good luck if you can do that without breaking the key. Oh! The key … Well, the
owner of the hut has left the key right beside the lock, including
instructions. The Monk, Yuan Yagmur—revealing his muscled arms from under his
wide, dark shawl—takes the note (the one with instructions): Please, scan your CRAB first
before touching the key. For your own safety. From what, you ask? It’s a surprise.
Enter without scanning if you
want to find out. —Mee-Hae Ra Scan? Or not scan? The Monk wonders, but soon, he
decides to follow the instruction. He takes his CRAB to the scanner as any
modest monk would do. Though, it itches him to find out what trap that woman
has set in such a shabby cottage. Could even be some prehistoric tricks with
wooden logs flying like pendulums or spikes under the moving floor. Perhaps a
net—used to catch monkeys? With those sorts of
traps, the cottage would break for sure. But who knows? For a woman, who once
was a yearning of the Mesmerizer, anything is possible. When he finishes scanning
the CRAB in his wrist, a text appears in old-style, green fonts: YOU’RE ‘STILL’ WELCOME! The Monk takes the key
and inserts it into the lock carefully, hoping neither the key nor the lock
will break. Of course, he does the methodical twists and turns with mechanical
precision, winning through the rust until he opens the almost broken door like
the gentle monk he is. The door shrieks. How does she live here
alone? He
wonders, forgetting that he, too, used to live in such a hut once, until a
certain mesmerizer designed an entire mansion for him. However, Mee-Hae Ra
isn’t a monk. She’s never been one. The Monk enters the
wooden house. His geta sandals tapping the floor: Pit-pat … pit-pat … The lights glow, sensing
a human presence. “Welcome home!” a high-pitched, familiar female voice says
from a speaker made with old-fashioned magnetic functions instead of a quantum
sound-wave carrier. The inside of the house isn’t as shabby as the outside. If
his first impression weren’t ninety percent pre-constructed by the entrance, he
would think that it was a nice, comfortable place to live in. A place deep
inside a forest where Royal Bengal Tigers have increased their numbers after
the Apocalypse befell humans. The Monk senses no human
prana anywhere. No one is home.
To think she’s living so close to that man, right near the south of
Alpha, while he has been exploring the entire earth, searching for her just the
last week. Not everyone has flawless intuition, do they? He glances around.
Things look familiar: the high shelves full of books, jars of green tea, dried flowers—also
for tea, big rocks, and crystals that emit strong prana and light. The light
trapped inside the crystals makes them brighter, stunning against the dark
background of the wooden floor and ceiling. A splendid collection of tea and
rocks and books by a seventy-year-old archaeologist, yes, but that sofa is a literary hell! Books open, socks
unwashed, cornflakes and chips scattered, undergarments with 34D tags faded—no,
they are not washed either. Standing seven feet away, the Monk, with his evolved
nose, smells what a woman should smell like around the breastbone that protects
a woman’s heart. Before the unwashed,
pink and grey briefs can reveal any signs of masturbation, Yuan Yagmur looks
away like the perfect, gentle monk who hasn’t touched a woman, at least, not in
that way. And, no. He’s not blushing. What monk would blush, witnessing
something so human, something as normal as eating or shitting? So, he looks
around, as indifferent as he is to most things. The largest wall in the
living room is full of framed photos, depicting stories of war, peace,
friendship, and love—everything in the last six decades displayed on a single
wall. He feels a tiny spark of emotion, seeing his own photo here, right in the
middle of the war and the friendship zone—if there’s any zoning at all among
the chaotically placed frames, that is. And there rests him—the
Mesmerizer, frozen in one of his rarest smiles, right beside Mee-Hae. His hair
is a darker shade of blond in the photos, as it was back then, and his eyes blue
like the clearest sky. His never-aging arm is wrapped around Mee-Hae’s waist
until his palm touches her swollen belly. The Monk remembers taking this shot
himself. Sometimes, he wonders if it’s his fault that that man lost
his last threads of humanity. The Monk turns towards
the entrance of the hut. Something approaches from the forest. Footsteps. They
stiffen a little, tense and alert. Whoever is coming has sensed his
presence. It’s her. She’s closer now, climbing the wooden stairs cautiously
one by one and releasing her tension as she checks the entry log. The door screams open. “Yuan?” calls one of the
most influential archaeologists of the planet and also the owner of this half-broken
hut. Mee-Hae Ra. Pointy face, angled
eyes; skin warmed after years of living in the south; blue T-shirt, jean shorts,
and CRAB in her left wrist. Nothing has changed, except the short, dark-red
hair—it was black during the war. “Nice hair, Ra,” the Monk mutters. Approaching, Mee-Hae
stops a foot away from him, who is wrapped in his decades-old, dark shawl that
should be torn and faded by now, but it isn’t, thanks to the technology that
repairs one molecule at a time (if you have the budget for it). Mee-Hae finally jumps to
him, wrapping her arms around his neck; her feet leave the floor. “Your shawl
smells the same.” “And you don’t feel
well.” The Monk touches her shoulder, tracing her body with his palm. It rests
at the back of her waist. “Stop scanning me.”
Mee-Hae releases him. “Your hair is greying. Is it a new fashion? And what’s
with the laugh lines?” “Pico says I look
younger than last month,” the Monk mutters, averting his gaze from the wall of
photos, not wanting to talk about a particular mesmerizer. “I’m guessing something happened?”
Mee-Hae says, busying herself with make-the-sofa-sittable and
turn-the-room-walkable for a sudden guest. The Monk avoids the
question. He brings out a small package of tea—procured from the Himalayas with
difficulty. He puts it on the desk that Mee-Hae has just cleaned. “You talked
about some stones you found a while ago,” he says. “Three years.” Mee-Hae
quickly turns around to face him, holding her unwashed panties. From this
close, they smell prominently feminine to the Monk’s highly evolved nose.
Mee-Hae Ra throws them with her faultless aim to a basket twenty feet away;
she’ll have to wash them in the river later. “Your a while ago is actually
three years,” she says. “You didn’t pay attention then. I wonder what happened?
You even brought the rarest tea on the planet!” She throws a piercing gaze at
him. Her pouty lips make her look angry. Abandoning her cleaning, she approaches
the balcony, holding the tea package. “It looks
hand-procured,” she mutters. “By any chance, did you pluck it yourself?” She
looks at the Monk and already gets the answer that a modest monk won’t provide. The Monk follows and
breathes in the green mangrove forest. The balcony entrance is open from the
outside. “You keep an ancient lock with a scanner while the balcony is open?” he
asks. “Who will steal from an
archeologist who gets no gold and camps temporarily in a forest?” Mee-Hae
replies. “Ten years doesn’t sound
temporary.” “Ten years is a blink
for a seventy-year-old High Grade,” Mee-Hae says. “But you’re avoiding my
question, Yagmur. Don’t think I didn’t notice.” She rolls her eyes as she says
the Monk’s last name. The Monk looks warmly at
her. “I wasn’t interested in it then.” “Now you’re interested? After
three years? No wonder you even found me here!” says Mee-Hae. “I’m sure
I was harder to find than the tea I’m holding.” The Monk smiles in
response. “You’re after secrets,
aren’t you? Just like him,” Mee-Hae says. “Why do you have his
photos?” the Monk finally asks, even though he wanted to avoid talking about
the Mesmerizer, at least, with her, yet he asks, more out of worry than
curiosity. “I thought a Monk with
no emotions would understand.” “No emotions? That
hurt!” The Monk widens his eyes. “That proves I do have emotions, just
not the unnecessary ones.” “What’s unnecessary? A partner
on bed?” Mee-Hae now looks at his face, probably to find out if he’s still a
loner in his Lotus Lodge. It takes only a second to find the answer she seeks.
She shakes her head in denial. “Now, you are
avoiding my question.” The Monk looks into the forest, a few deer with dark spots
peeking through the trees. “I just don’t care
enough, Yuan. Let’s say, throwing away the photos or keeping them means the
same to me. I’m busy with something more meaningful, and I don’t have time to
think about what I should throw out or not,” Mee-Hae says. “You mentioned prehistoric
civilizations in your last … well, three-year-old email.” The Monk changes the
topic. No one cares about the past. To a High Grade who has lived long enough, the
past is just a tiny pixel in a large, high-resolution canvas. “You said they
got destroyed mysteriously,” he says. “It’s not a mystery anymore.
I found proof, and WSI shut down the research. A few Silver Agents came and
took my stones. They didn’t even bring me some tea as a courtesy when they
came,” says Mee-Hae, frowning, probably at the thought of the World Security
Intelligence. Everyone hates them. “What stones?” the Monk
asks while browsing her bookshelf. “Evidence of radioactive
rain destroying a city seventy thousand years ago,” Mee-Hae replies, frowning. “A city? Seventy
thousand years ago, you say?” “Rewrites history, huh?”
Mee-Hae gazes at him. The sparkles in her eyes are those of an archaeologist
who is living in a forest near her latest discovered underwater civilization. “The
last Ice Age was supposed to be twelve thousand years ago.” “What do you believe,
Ra? I’ll believe whatever you say.” The Monk turns at her, his complete
attention now at her eyes. Mee-Hae doesn’t reply
for a long time. A High Grade’s words have weight; she must now think through
what leaves her lips. “There are signs of war. The radioactive rain wasn’t
natural. I believe they were annihilated.” Mee-Hae utters annihilated so
carefully as if someone might hear, as if it’s a cautiously chosen word and not
spoken as a part of a casual description. The fewer words you say, the more
chance they have of being general, that is, both true and false. After all,
the devil lies in the details. “War?” The Monk frowns—almost,
noticing how vaguely the Archeologist crafted her answer, for he said he’d believe
it blindly. “I know what war looks
like, Yuan.” Mee-Hae gazes into the forest from the balcony. Her palm traces
her lower belly where her womb should be, and her face creases as if she is in
physical pain. “They took my stone
samples,” she says. “They said those were under the jurisdiction of WSI.
Sometimes, I wonder if he is behind it, too. Or maybe I’m thinking too
much.” Her voice drones as her thoughts drift to a certain mesmerizer. “It’s not him,” the Monk
says in a determined voice. “Because he never hides
knowledge?” “Because he’s busy seeking
knowledge,” the Monk says. “Oh, yes, busy was the
word. Always.” Mee-Hae nods. “I remember how much scared he was of not having
enough time for all he wanted to do, for all he wanted to … achieve.” After
several more moments of gazing at nothing in particular into the forest, she
suddenly faces the Monk. “I want answers, Yuan,” she says. “Come to Lotus Lodge.
I’m getting a team together.” “Who else?” Mee-Hae
asks. “You first.” “Let me guess, you want
me to call the others.” “I sent them emails,”
says the Monk. “Just answer a question,
Yuan. Did he put you onto this?” The Monk stares, not
hiding that he wanted to avoid answering this question. “He tried to make me
work. With him,” he says truthfully, just as a war hero, the owner of a strong voice,
should. “You are wrong, Yuan,”
Mee-Hae says, half-worried and half-angry, her voice suddenly quivering. “He
wanted to make you work. With or without him.” “I have to stop him,” the
Monk says. “Am I the bait?” The Monk looks at
Mee-Hae. He never wants to answer it if he doesn’t need to. So, this time, he
visibly avoids her question. “You’re still depending on healing pills?” he says
in questioning tone. And Mee-Hae, like the
perfect, gentle, and understanding woman from contemporary books of the Old
World, lets the Monk avoid her crucial question. The question she should never
have overlooked. The question even the Monk will regret not answering right
now, right here, not only for her sake but also for his own. “Don’t worry about my
pills. It’s common in this era. Thoughts are powerful,” Mee-Hae whispers in
response. “Just cut the negative
ones,” the Monk says, watching her face, the suffering clear in her eyes. He
approaches enough to put his palm on the back of her waist. Her waist is too
warm. He closes his eyes, focusing inside of her, his palm becoming one with
her body. In an instant, her muscles,
her blood, thousands of lymph vessels, including the inner wounds around her
womb, become visible, sensible—not in the way you see with your eyes, but the
way you see the things in a book. The Monk watches
her womb bleeding internally because of her creative mind that is so strong that
it turns her imagination into reality. Even though her strong prana heals it at the same rate, constant
damage and regeneration is happening inside her. And much of her energy gets
drained in cell-building, in self-healing. The Monk focuses his prana, passing it into her body,
making the healing faster a little. “You need to control your thoughts, Ra.” “Don’t heal me, Yuan. I
need to learn to live on my own,” Mee-Hae mutters, but she doesn’t push his
hand away. She hasn’t felt this pain-free for so long … she just wants to enjoy
this for a moment or two longer. “My nightmares are out
of control. The thoughts during my dreams,” Mee-Hae says, leaning against his
chest. The Monk frowns. He
remembers the thirty-seven beasts in his forest that turned stone-hard and
dead. They marked him for something. Some sort of ritual—dark ritual, for no ritual
of the light would involve death. It’s too dangerous for
her to step into this. Is he making a mistake bringing her? What if that
monster harms her? He saw what that man has become in their recent meeting.
Guilt overwhelms him. But Yuan Yagmur soon buries his guilt like a well-trained
monk. Emotions won’t defeat him. Not ever. The key to conquering
emotions isn’t in not feeling them. Rather in catching them the instant they
appear. “Mastering emotions starts with observation,” their master used
to say. Their master, and not his. “But if you are really
looking for it,” Mee-Hae releases him from the light embrace, “will you read
the Devil’s Book?” A herd of deer catches
the Monk’s attention. They are running. He senses the fear in them. Soon, the
largest cat in this forest takes one of them: it runs, grabs a neck, halts, and
mauls; then it kills. A predator wins. Always. The herd of deer accepts
it. Mourning a while, they go back to grazing. Perhaps they even think, this
time too, it wasn’t me. Not yet. The Monk remembers what
he told the Mesmerizer. That he won’t step into the evil. That he won’t read
the Devil’s Book.
He will never let that predator win. Never.
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