Monkey (Page 16)

Malao dunked the long sticks in the stream. He would use them as roasting skewers, and he didn’t want them to burn. Sticks freshly broken off a living tree would have been better because they wouldn’t burn as easily, but he didn’t see a need to damage a perfectly good tree just to make his life a little easier.

When the sticks were sufficiently wet, Malao stuck one end of each in the bank and began separating the large mushroom caps from their stems. He rinsed each cap in the stream before sliding it onto a skewer. The stems he tossed into the flowing current.

In no time, the mushrooms were roasting over the open flames, filling the air with an irresistible aroma. So irresistible, in fact, that Malao soon found he had a visitor. The white monkey.

Malao saw the monkey high in a nearby tree. It was staring at him with its single eye. A clump of matted hair and dried blood was stuck to one side of its head.

Malao did his best to ignore the creature, but it kept staring. He knew monkeys normally ate mushrooms, so he assumed it was hungry. It was probably in pain, too. When Malao was down to his last two mushroom caps, he spoke to the monkey.

“Would you like some?” Malao asked. He stepped away from the fire and held out the stick. To his surprise, the white monkey scurried down from the tree and cautiously approached him.

Malao stood perfectly still, his arm outstretched. He had seen firsthand what kind of damage the monkey could do when it wanted to take a stick from someone.

The monkey gently took the far end of the long mushroom skewer and slowly pulled it from Malao’s hand. Malao expected the monkey to race off into the trees, but it didn’t. It sat down and began to eat the remaining mushrooms.

Unsure of what to do next, Malao just stood there. When the white monkey finished, it politely handed the skewer back to Malao. Malao couldn’t believe it.

He had an even harder time believing what happened next.

The white monkey moved closer to him and rose up on its hind legs, its right hand extended. Malao reached out, too, and the monkey grabbed his hand. The monkey pulled Malao’s hand to its nose and took a deep breath.

Malao kept his eyes fixed on the monkey’s mouth. He knew what lay behind those lips. The monkey’s mouth began to part, and Malao fought the urge to yank his hand away. Something deep inside him told him to leave his hand right where it was. He was glad he did.

The white monkey planted a kiss on the back of Malao’s hand, then released it and raced back up into the tree. A moment later, the monkey returned with the decorated stick from Cangzhen in its teeth. It dropped the weapon at Malao’s feet and scurried off into the treetops.

Night had settled in, and Malao found himself still on the ground near the stream. He was too tired to try to locate a suitable tree to spend the night in, so he curled up at the base of a small willow. The low-hanging branches made him feel safer. He’d waited and waited for the white monkey to return, but it hadn’t. He was disappointed. He thought he had made a new friend.

Malao began to wonder what it would be like to go through life without any friends. He decided it might be a lot like going through life without any family. What a horrible thought.

Malao twitched. He suddenly realized he might go through life without family or friends. After all, he was completely on his own now. Grandmaster was dead and his four brothers were scattered without any sort of plan to get back together.

What if something happened to me right now? Malao wondered. Would anyone ever know? Would anyone even care?

A story drifted into Malao’s mind. A tale from the famous Shaolin Temple, whose former members had founded Cangzhen Temple more than a thousand years earlier.

The monks at Shaolin had a long history of building pagodas to honor the remains of people important to them. It is said there was a special pagoda at Shaolin much smaller than the rest, built to honor a small boy. Legend had it the boy was helping the cook one day, but he failed to show up for the evening meal. During dinner one of the monks found a strange bone in his soup, and the monks realized what had happened. The boy had fallen into the enormous pot they used to cook the soup. The monks were so upset they built a pagoda to honor the boy.

Malao used to think that was the funniest story he had ever heard, and he used to retell it all the time. But none of his brothers ever laughed. He was beginning to understand why.

Something else Malao used to joke about no longer seemed funny. It was the Forgotten Pagoda, which was located within the Cangzhen walls near the front of the compound. Malao used to think it was hilarious that somebody had taken the time and energy to build it hundreds and hundreds of years ago but today no one remembered who was buried inside it. That wasn’t funny, Malao now realized. That was sad.

I should have helped Hok bury Grandmaster in the tree, Malao thought. A living pagoda—that’s what Hok had called it.