The scent was absolutely indescribable. It was as if they had taken the blackest earth, fresh and moist with clean rainwater, and laced it with the essences of cinnamon and vanilla. It traveled on smoky tendrils, like the whiskers of some ethereal dragon and met the nose in the most visceral way. Its true soul was beyond the comprehension of the simple senses, in its own dimension it came in to this one just long enough to give brief glimpses of its full majesty. By the time it reached the nose it was diluted a million times into miniscule parts invisible to the naked eye, but even that was powerful enough to soothe the tide within a troubled mind.
Pythagoras, over 2700 years ago, said that all was numbers. There were ten parts to the whole. Four types of oils, Three types of resin, Two types of spices, and One binder, sandalwood dust to pull them all together. Only such a combination could ever yield a creation so sublime and pure. To the Pythagoreans, the number ten was considered a perfect number, if you added 1 + 2 + 3 + 4, the first four integers, it equaled ten. If you lined the aforementioned numbers up in dot notation, the result was a perfect triangle. It was no wonder that the Pythagoreans looked upon this number so highly. It was the secret to the incense that filled the dome with its exotic aroma.
High atop a mountain with no name, in a place without a sovereign, there laid a monastery nestled comfortably between the jagged rocks, one which at a time housed a great order of Buddhist monks. Now, it was the nest of an order that held many of the same ideals and adhered to a great many similar practices, though for a different reason. No one knew how long this place had been inhabited by them, as is often the case with places of high esteem the line between history and myth had been blurred by the current abbot and those before him. It was not out of malice or manipulation, but rather out of a sense of need. Groups so very young often needed the venerable appearance of age and experience to flourish, even if their methods were effective.
The temple, named Mugen-Ji, had become a source of legend to the people of the lowlands. And a great many travelers found themselves journeying through small villages entertained by lavish tales of the foreboding monastery and the spooky and secretive group which called it home. In truth there was nothing ‘spooky’ or ‘secretive’ about them, it was simply a hell of a hike to make a polite visit to one’s nearest neighbor. Nonetheless, many foreigners and locals alike made their way up the mountain, some died near the bottom, some died near the middle, some plummeted down from the summit, senses dulled by the thin air, and a very small minority actually made it to the top. Oddly enough, once or twice people had committed suicide having found themselves at the summit of the wrong mountain, with a clear view of the temple several peaks away.
Making it to the top was an impressive feat indeed, but it certainly wasn’t a guarantee that one would be allowed to stay. A great number of potential applicants had been turned away from the massive wooden gates, while others, thinking themselves willing to prove their ‘devotion’ had frozen to death on the steps of the massive building. The monks left them there as a warning to potential candidates, ‘squat at your own risk.’
On this crisp, particular morning, as one of the monks sat pondering the aforementioned sweet scent of the incense, a massive rumble shook the antechamber of the temple. It was either an earthquake or a visitor. With the second sharp, succinct rap on the knocker the former option was eliminated. The monk, once known as y908 jumped up and ran toward the door, it was his duty to turn away the inquisitive today. The monastery was not accepting any new members.
The massive door swung open with a creak revealing the windswept hallways of the outer sanctum. A young man with thick black hair disheveled and caked with dirt stood before the bald monk. The visitor had a long and unkempt beard which seemed to be crawling with wildlife, and a smile that bordered on empty, but his eyes, which flared with unknown malice, brought a chill to the soul of any who ventured too deeply into them. He was an intriguing character, but the abbot had been quite clear about how visitors were to be treated. From the monk there came only silence, the young man broke the ice,
“v505, nice to meet ya.” Only the wind replied.
“… what is this place?” more of the same.
“Who are you?”
The monk did not speak, but only looked at the visitor with inquisitive eyes. The young man looked back with a grimace on his face. Then, without warning and with all of his force he stomped down on the monk’s bare foot. At which the monk let out a great scream and toppled back. The visitor entered, uninvited, and was soon face to face with the scurrying abbot and a handful of monks. They stopped in their tracks and observed the intruder, and their brother who was just now beginning to get up off the floor.
“What businesses have you here?” Demanded the abbot,
“The same as yours.” He replied, with a tone of respectful deference.
“And just what do you perceive our business here to be young man?” At this, the brash man laughed,
“Yours is the business of freedom, nothing more and nothing less.”
“Freedom from what?”
“Freedom from the shackles of that which oppresses me.”
“And what oppresses you?” The stranger did not reply right away, and thought it wisest to at least seem sincere in his ponderings, eventually he replied,
“Time.” Then he said nothing more. The abbot and the monks turned to each other and spoke in hushed whispers.
“Spend the night outside, considering what you have done to this poor man.” As the traveler turned around to go, the abbot threw something at the back of his head with particular force, it was a cube with multi-colored squares, and it smarted like all hell. “And figure this out while you are out there.”
These ‘Rubik’s Cubes’ were a toy of the 20th century. It was a set of smaller cubes with six different colored stickers arranged randomly on 54 cube sides. The object was to line all the cube sides up, so that each side of the larger cube was the same color. A mere toy, a trinket, a novelty. But it spawned small clubs and societies worldwide that debated the mathematics behind it and yearned to solve the puzzle in fewer and fewer steps in search of the holy grail of “God’s Algorithm” The amount of moves it would take a omnipotent and omniscient being to solve the puzzle. In the majority of cases, it was a gift given to most every child of the late 20’th century. Most simply bored themselves within days and relegated it to the status of ‘closet fodder’. Math was not exactly ‘cool’, even then.
505 was an interesting man, a child of wealth and fortune who had secured a place in fame for his exploits and adventures. He was fond of taking great risks, and foundering huge amounts of money on risky ventures. A bit of a warlord, a bit of a thrill-seeker, his wry smile and wit earned him media superstar status. But this quest was different… In the past, he had BASE jumped off the tallest of buildings, ridden across the Sahara on a dirt bike, gone into space… Anything his wealth could afford him he did, and typically a media blitz followed him wherever he went. But this time there was nothing, and he bore no fancy accoutrements or jewels. He was a chairman, and chairmen typically didn’t gallivant through rugged terrain with no protection or aid.
He had come to this remote mountaintop to attain freedom, to unburden himself. And though the reasons seemed selfish, he did not fault himself. Within, he held a deep belief that the voyage is most of the lesson, and he had simply done what needed doing. It is the very reason he sat in the cold, with a frozen beard and a lump on the back of his head, holding a child’s toy in his hands, which for some reason was considered important.
Tinkering with it was a tough thing, and every spin seemed to complicate matters further. The colors spread further and further from the realm of reason, and his turns did nothing but make the situation worse. He fooled around with it for a few hours before going to sleep rather than continue frustrating himself with the accursed puzzle.
Come morning, the abbot himself opened the door to find the disheveled 505 asleep on the doorstep, with the unfinished puzzle lying beside him. He gave the traveler a healthy kick in the ribs before shutting the door on his puzzled, still-rousing face. It angered him, being woken at the crack of dawn just to have the door closed as he rose. There was no going back to sleep now, the old monk had struck him either very hard, or in just the right place. It burned, it physically burned. He picked up the cube, resolute that he would solve it that very morning. Yet when evening came, he was no closer to a solution; rather it seemed to him that he was infinitely further than that which he first began with.
There is a realization that sets in during moments of extreme urgency. It is a human defense mechanism that takes control when ‘flight’ is no longer an option, and all that remains is to fight. It is the pinnacle of human creativity, and has been the cause of many of the bravest, wisest, and craftiest of actions. As 505 accepted the fact he might die from exposure if forced to endure another night, he set about figuring out a method for his salvation. And as humans often do, faced with no other choice, he followed the path of dishonesty.
He carefully undid the stickers, making sure to quickly place them on the slick cover of a notebook he carried in his meager pack. Wanting the glue to stay as fresh as possible, and not freeze itself once exposed to the air. He did not do this without thought, and to his credit he mapped out which sides had most colors, and made a few adjustments that even his limited wisdom could decipher in order to make his arduous task less prone to failure. His sticker job was excellent, and he even crotched the cube, holding it tight to his body, in a clandestine attempt to heat the glue and help it set better. When it was satisfactory, 505 knocked once more upon the heavy door and found himself face to face once more with the monk whom he had stepped on. The bald headed adept looked upon him with no fear, and spoke not a word. 505, instead of pleasantly introducing himself, simply handed the finished cube to him and silently sat down. The monk closed the door without a word. As it clunked shut, 505 muttered “Fucker…” under his breath. Saints are not born overnight.
He sat there, for what seemed an eternity, but in actuality were only four or five hours. The heavy doors were opened for him, and upon entering the massive foyer, he saw no one. The two monks whom had opened the doors closed them, and scuttled off before he had the chance to get a word in edgewise. So he sat, in an empty foyer, upon the hard stone floor, but he was at least afford the comfort of a roaring fire, near which he took refuge, having been assaulted by the cold for far too long, and nestled by the fire, even if upon a floor of stone, he found sleep easily.
The peace was shattered by the ringing of a massive bell, and the hurried footsteps of innumerable adepts rushing someplace or the other. He was far too groggy and confused to run with them, preferring instead to yawn and stretch himself awake. In less then a moment’s time, the monastery was once more silent. Ignorant to the bell’s significance, 505 went right back to sleep once the shock wore off. There was much lost rest to catch up on, frigid nights do not lend themselves well to sound sleep without the comforts of a bed sheet or warm body upon you, and the fire was as close to either as this man could get. He eventually woke of his own will, with no prompting or alarm, and found next to him a sealed envelope that read, in an antiquated language, “Πτολεμαῖος”
Tucking the letter into his back pocket, he scoured the bottom level of the temple for the kitchen, eventually finding it… completely empty.
505 had learned the first lesson of Mugen-Ji, there’s a reason everyone runs when a bell rings. There wasn’t a soul to be found anywhere, and he gave up in frustration after his third hour of wandering the endless corridors of the temple’s lower level. He sat upon the stone floor, near the fire, and tore open the envelope which had been left for him. Within it a simple parchment, a single page, painstakingly hand-written, it read;
“Πτολεμαῖος the great who envisioned the world,
The center of all, the point of creation,
Mercury, Venus, Mars, Saturn,
Jupiter. Patriarch, Lord Immolation.
Who hides as a spy among progeny,
That ignorant of him, fear not, and wont run.
At least not away, circles they trace,
Paths unseen on this universe’ face.
Seeking no fame, Solar Diogenes.
Spheres of crystal, musical harmonies,
If a quadrilateral, now be inscribed,
Within a circle, then the sum,
of the products, its two pairs come,
of opposite sides it is only rational,
to yield the product of its diagonals.
Geographike… hyphegesis,
Guiding Columbus
Here and beyond, over and under,
Let no man this covenant now tear asunder
One for the spark, two for the flame,
Three for the smoldering, four for the blaze
The Tetrahedron, symbol of heat,
First desert to cross, first taste of defeat.
Are the first rays of sun, which blind all among us,
the shameful bastard offspring of old Πτολεμαῖος??”
Scratching his head, annoyed at not being able to read the first word, he sensed that without it, the rest would make no sense. The language was Greek, and the word was ‘Ptolemaeus’. It wasn’t a word really, it was a name, and of no significance, meant only to throw off the bumbling candidate. This was an order of the highest numerical ideals, and names had no significance to them… The Greek alphabet however, did. Writing names in Greek was a way to smooth the transition into the studies of the order, as most neophytes ran straight for the Greek Dictionary as soon as they saw the similarities in the lettering. It was almost sad that humans could be manipulated so easily. In vain, he read and re-read the cryptic verse. It didn’t make any sense, and if written words make no sense, one tosses them aside as trash. Rarely does one place the blame where it belongs.
Another loud bell rang… It reverberated through the ancient building, as if it had been made to act as little more than a tuning fork for the massive brass alarm. At once, the sound of bare feet running on stone and wood filled every corner of the temple with its cacophonous resonance. This time he jumped to his feet and ran to the commissary. Upon arriving, he found his entrance blocked by a bald-headed wall of a man.
“Only initiates may dine here. Begone!”
“But I am an…”
With these words, the heavy oak doors were slammed in his face. Starving, 505 made his way through the halls seeking some sort of food or drink. Everywhere he searched locked doors met his curiosity. This frustrated him to no end. He quickly realized the reason everyone ran upon hearing the bell was due to the fact that no food was to be found elsewhere. The winding hallways of the monastery eventually led him back to the doors of the dining hall, how, he knew not. Sitting outside the door was a bald-headed monk with a sad look upon his face. 505, thrilled to find another human being walked up to the monk and held out his hand. The monk simply looked up at him and seemed temporarily relieved by something, 505 had a feeling the monk was smiling at his expense, and forsooth he was, it was the very same monk whom he had assaulted.
“Only initiates may dine here.” Said the monk smiling.
“Then why are you outside?”
“Because someone stomped on my foot, and I move with a slight limp now, and our rule here, is that the last man in, is the first man out if you understand my inflection.” V505 felt guilt now. At the time, his action had made sense, but the results he hadn’t expected.
“I’m sorry… I knew no other way in…” The monk, sensing some sincerity behind the apology stood and clasped him on the shoulder.
“Come with me.
They found their way to a massive set of bronzed doors, upon which all manner of Greek letters and numbers were etched painstakingly. The monk handed 505 a key.
“This is the key to the library. It is the first key you are given upon acceptance.”
“Acceptance by whom?”
“By me…” Said the monk flatly before continuing, “Within, you will find the collected knowledge of our order, it will be of no use to you right now, concentrate your efforts on the tome named ‘Principia Tetrabiblos’ best of luck. You will need it.”
With that, the monk made his departure, leaving 505 to open the doors and discover the majesty within on his own.
The doors creaked open; actually, it was quite an effort to part them, taking all of 505’s strength. What met his eyes was a sight indescribable, even to a rich man such as himself with all the means one could ask for. The grand ceiling, domed, was of crystal and the sun shone through it mercilessly, creating an imposing pillar of light in the center of the room. The architecture was such that no books would be harmed by the focused light, all being located on adjacent walls, far from the gaze of the celestial bodies. Oh and the books, thousands upon thousands upon tens of thousands of tomes. Some yellowed and ancient, some new and untainted, no doubt the work of scribes within the temple. He knew not where to begin his search possessing no concept of the Dewey-decimal system, which would have been of no use to him, as it was not known here either.
He did however notice a tome which lay open upon a table, marked by a red ribbon. It stood out only because everything else was so neat and organized that this particular book seemed out of place. 505 had a hunch that this wasn’t the sort of place one left things disorganized. He made his way to it, and read that which had been marked.
“Take three and square it twice,
Sum the two,
square that twice.
then twice the twice,
and twice again.
Then square the root
Then two more times,
Decimal in the center,
lodgings you’ll find.”
“Another riddle? Come on!” His complaint landed on deaf ears.
This place seemed ruled by riddles, but 505, being a child of affluence had studied, at the very least, many ways to count his wealth. Roots and squares were little to him, and with the help of a conveniently placed parchment and pen, he calculated his room location to be “104.976” Now, what that meant was anyone’s guess. He did not bother to seek the book. Realizing this was his first step.
Running outside, he looked left, right, and forward. Rather than set off like a hungry rat down a maze, he took a few minutes to examine his surroundings. Right away, he noticed there was a hidden numerical system dictating position within the labyrinthine hallway. On the floor, on the left hand side of the massive doors he spied a small plaque that read “1004”, following the hallways, the next door which was nowhere near as impressive read “1005”, and quickly turning around he set off at a gallop in the opposite direction, eventually coming to “976”
Finding “104” was simple; it was a matter of doing the same thing at the crossroad. He arrived, and found the door wide open. The austere room had a wooden floor with a quilt thrown over it, a small wooden desk with basic supplies, a stool, and a bucket in the far corner. He sighed, and dropped his now empty pack onto the floor, thinking to use it as a pillow later that night, whenever night was, actually he had seen no windows in the entire place, save the giant dome in the library. Walking over to the desk, he saw, closed upon it, a copy of “Principia Tetrabiblos” There also, he found a pitcher, an apple and a loaf of brown bread. He opted for survival and ate greedily, drinking the pitcher of water next to it almost completely.
He opened the Principia and began to read,
“…The nature of Mars is chiefly to dry and to burn…
…Jupiter has a temperate active force because his movement takes place between the cooling influence of Saturn and the burning power of Mars…
…Venus has the same powers and tempered nature as Jupiter, but acts in the opposite way; for she warms moderately because of her nearness to the sun…
…Mercury in general is found at certain times alike to be drying and absorptive of moisture, because he never is far removed in longitude from the heat of the sun…”
…It is Saturn's quality chiefly to cool and, mode. rarely, to dry, probably because he is furthest removed both from the sun's heat and the moist exhalations about the earth…”
He laughed, this seemed absolutely ridiculous to him! The concepts of this ancient hocus pocus, and actually having to read them. He began to feel these riddles were just as stupid as the work of this old Egyptian thinker. Reading
“They turned me away again!” v505 exclaimed, the monk grinned and pointed at his own bald head. “Ok, where are the razor and the funny robe?”
“Only the master can bestow those upon you. See him after breakfast.”
“How?”
“Go to the most Liberal place in the temple.”
The coy double-entendre was lost, there were only two rooms he had access to, the library and the bedroom. Lib-rary… It didn’t have a chance of fooling him. And off he ran, hoping to arrive before breakfast let out and everyone went about their business. Eventually the commissary door opened and all shuffled out, lastly the master, who stopped and asked,
“Where did he go?”
“The Library…”
“Idiot.” With that, he went off to the main foyer, in case the brash man figured things out. It was liberal, it was free, for even the library had been locked upon his arrival, only the front door was he able to enter without a key. The humbling would be punishment enough, with that the monk shuffled slowly off to the library for a ‘chance meeting’ with v505.
“Hey! Have you seen the master? Is he on his way?”
“No.”
“What? Why not? You said to go to the library!”
“No, I never said to go to the library…”
“You said, go to the most liberal place in the temple!”
“Yes, in the temple… Not in the library…” At that, 505 ran outside and made a dash for the main foyer, twice getting lost in the labyrinthine passageways. He finally stumbled awkwardly into the stony hall to find the master waiting, back to him, hands clasped firmly behind his back.
“It was that bald headed gimp who told you where to come…”
“No, it wasn’t, I swear I figured it out.”
“So you were just sitting there, and all of a sudden you had a realization?”
“Well… no. I saw him walk by and figured I would ask if he’d seen you. I sort of figured out the rest.”
“Why does Mars chiefly dry and burn?”
“I do not know… I did not read that in the book, and I assure you I read through all of it. That was in the first chapter. Yet no reason was given.” The monk shuffled slowly behind him and slapped him hard on the back of the head.
“Idiot, if the answer were in the book, I would not be asking you…”
“I… I do not know.”
“Well figure it out then.” With that, the old man turned to go.
“Hey wait!” yelled v, “Can you shave my head and give me a dress so I can eat?”
“No. Enjoy your apple.” He laughed all the way out, as 505 stood in place, seething with rage. He was worth more than this entire place, and usually enjoyed the ministrations of women and the finest of food when he so desired it, yet here this bald old man in a tattered bathrobe held dominion over dinner? He was beginning to wonder if he really wanted to stay here… He hadn’t bathed in days, his clothes reeked of offal, and his beard was beginning to grow itchy. Still, it was too far to turn back. Resigning himself to the obscure Principia, he dedicated to memory the passages about Mars,
The nature of Mars is chiefly to dry and to burn, in conformity with his fiery colour and by reason of his nearness to the sun, for the sun's sphere lies just below him.
“The sun’s sphere lies just below him… How did I miss that the first time? Still, that’s too easy, it doesn’t make any sense… actually it makes too much sense, this place is full of contradictions and if I tell the old man that answer, he will likely hit me with something… I have to think…” He was talking to himself, audibly. It took him some time and a few conceptual drawings, but eventually 505 felt confident with the explanation he had created. The next morning after breakfast let out, he waited in the foyer for the master, who came in his due time, shuffling at a leisurely pace. There were no pleasantries, the old man simply blurted out,
“Why does Mars chiefly dry and burn?”
“It dries and burns because its opposite, and its mate, Venus, humidifies. And in their need for one another, it is only common sense that they should have opposing yet complementary forces. Mars is hot, but so is Venus, as she also gains from the light of the sun, it is in this that they are complementary. Yet in their opposition, they provide that which the other most needs humidity or dryness, balance. That is why Mars chiefly dries and burns.”
The master remained silent for a few minutes, and 505 could hardly breathe.
“Wrong, idiot! It is because the sun lies just below him!”
“But you said it wasn’t in the book!” cried 505 flustered,
“Yes! And you were dumb enough to believe it!” With this he shuffled off again cackling, as he had the day before. Off to do who knows what, who knows where.
505 continued his studies of the Ptolemaic scriptures and as the days turned to weeks, his respect for the material began to increase. Rather than viewing it as an inconvenience, he became enthralled by the complexities of these celestial theories. He had been to college, he had earned advanced degrees, but never had he studied the esoteric works of the ancient masters. They had been struck from curricula due to the conception that they were worthless. The pervasive opinion of the time was one of ignorance, and that people knew much more now than they had in the past.
The master continued to question him, confuse him, berate him, and physically assault him when warranted. As he did, 505 became stronger. In the same way a sapling develops a thick bark to shield it from the battering wind, the disciple grew into a man possessing a duck’s ability to let rain glide off its feathers.
One night the old monk ran into his room and roused him with the mighty blast of an air horn. 505 jumped up and without complaint or surprise addressed his master silently. The old man shouted,
“Why is Saturn lonely?” without hesitating, v505 responded
“It isn’t.”
“Excuse me?”
“Saturn is neither burdened by the overwhelming warmth of the sun, nor the clinging moisture of the earth. Its position has attracted the attention of many moons, who with no prompting, orbit and provide company and protection!”
The second part, about the moons, was the ‘right’ answer. Technically, there were no correct answers. The master simply wished to see his pupil expressing the ability to think beyond the pages of the book. The talk about its position was superfluous nonsense gleaned from the surface of a brew, a mix of human passion and logic. The monk wished to eliminate the first half of that cocktail. In truth, the ‘company and protection’ part was laying it on a bit thick, but certain things could be forgiven of a novitiate. He threw a musty burlap robe at v505, who greedily clutched at it.
“Come with me, we will take care of your hair in the center…”
He followed the old monk without a word, mostly due to the embarrassing reality that he knew not how to address him properly. They travelled through a door into the center of the temple, which housed an impressive open air courtyard. There wasn’t a whole lot of light inside, so v505 found himself shielding his vision from the bright sunshine. He felt a bit like a mole coming out of its burrow for the first time in a long time, nearly blind and stunned by the bright, fiery warmth of the sun. This was done purposely, to impart a feeling of weakness in the initiate.
There was no elaborate ceremony, simply a chair and a washbasin full of water. He was instructed to sit and did so.
“By shearing your head and face you are renouncing the trappings and trivialities of the base, physical world. Your acceptance into the novitiate is by no means a promise of the freedom you seek, or of the benefits and wisdom the order affords some of its members. All that this means is that you get to eat with the others.”
This was as close to heartfelt welcome or congratulations as he would receive. The master began the shaving with an expertly honed straight razor. It had a bone handle on one side and an onyx handle on the other side, meant to convey something or other. As he deftly executed the grooming technique that few alive possessed the dexterity and experience to perform, he continued speaking:
“When we came here so many years ago, we in the royal sense, as I was not yet born, we found the books of the order that had once called this monastery home. In some of the volumes they discussed the virtues of a shorn head. Theirs was an austere existence and one whose ultimate aim was liberation of all beings from the cycle of life and death. We aspire to no such heights, but have adopted some of their practices as our own.”
505 stayed silent for two reasons. First, he felt there was more to this lecture, and second, he feared that flapping his lips might cause the abbot to slip and cut him, whether sincere mistake or malicious lesson.
“They called their community the ‘Sangha’ and one of their aims was the renunciation of earthly desires and wants. By shaving themselves clean, they were free of the need to groom their hair and entertaining either worries or boastful feelings about how they looked. Their beliefs included the concept that attachment was the source of worldly pain, and only by detaching completely and renouncing the manifest could they be free of the cycle of rebirth.”
The master cleaned the blade off and put it away. v505 felt the coolness of the mountain air tickling his head for the first time ever and curiously ran his fingers across the smooth, round dome.
“But if they hang on to these practices and codified beliefs, how can they ever be free of the cycle?” The old man smiled proudly,
“Ah, well, that is one of the reasons we only adopt some of their practices!” with that, he put his arm around v505’s shoulder and nudged him back toward the temple. This was the first tender gesture he had received in all his time there. It gave him the courage to ask the foolish question he had been entertaining,
“What should I call you?”
“Call me Roshi.” The old man replied.
“Well, Roshi, this robe itches…” The old man laughed at this,
“It isn’t a Robe, it’s a potato sack.” This time they both laughed, 505 because he hadn’t heard a joke in a while; the master because it wasn’t a joke at all.
Upon returning to his quarters, he found his copy of the Tetrabiblios missing. In its place was another sealed envelope. Within, it contained another cryptic verse:
Point,
Ray,
Line,
Start.
A point is that which has no parts.
A line is that without a start.
At the end of a line, points impart.
A line that is straight is in its home,
And a surface is length and breadth alone,
Its extremities, lines, this set in stone.
A plane lies evenly with itself,
Its plane angle sign of its contoured health,
Euclid, father geometric,
Imparting numerical dialectic,
Oh, wrong man, mistaken, hectic!
An octahedron has 8 sides,
Its truest nature it must hide,
If you say you know, you have lied
Or perhaps been taken for a ride!
It’s inner nature, that of air,
Element so light and fair,
Wisping heavenly through hair,
Stony mountains it can wear.
Down to nubs and simple rocks,
Endless supply it needs no stocks,
Carries the cries of the bantam cocks,
No door secure, no ample locks.
v505 sighed and crumpled the page out of frustration. He quickly rescinded and tried to smooth the sheet back out as best he could. This place was onion-like, it revealed itself in layers, and had the ability to bring one to tears. His stomach hurt, but there was no food in sight. The bell never rang, and that night he was serenaded by the deep rumble of an empty stomach.
The bell rang early the next morning and he ran as fast as his feet would take him, tying his potato sack to his body as he charged barefoot across the cold stone floor. As he saw his goal in sight, he pushed several others out of the way in order to assure himself a place at the table. He remembered the monk’s warning. Last in, first out.
The dining hall was immense, and the scent of food wafting through the air excited and confused him all at once. The scents were exotic, like the incense and the potato sacks, and the air in the courtyard before them, the mix of spices mingled in the air to create a perfume that smelled like nothing he’d ever experienced. He realized that life in city didn’t have any of these smells. He dreamed of the delicious roasted meats and scented rice dishes that surely awaited him. He dreamed of them, until he was handed a plate of Lentils with some sort of steamed millet. Without thinking, he inquired of the monk serving him,
“Is the meat course brought to the table?” The monk looked at him, and without hesitation replied flatly,
“Yes.”
505 sat down at one of the long rows of benches and looked around. He didn’t know anybody, and it struck him that even had he known someone, it would have been difficult to tell them apart in a place like this. Nobody spoke during the meal. There was an eerie silence. He waited all of two minutes for the ‘meat course’ before he realized that everyone around him was eating. He had been had by the straight faced monk… The lentils were as good as they smelled. Hot peppers mixed with turmeric and coriander, cardamom and other spices. These flavors contained not a hint of preservative or excessive amounts of hydrogenated oils as the food of the fast-paced did, and the feeling of exuberance and consequent clearing of nasal passages as he bit into some sort of fiery seed or the other caused 505 to question everything he had ever labeled as delicious.
As quickly as the meal began, it ended, and all of the silent monks stood and with purpose and predetermined destination made off for their day’s labor, leaving v505 alone in the dining hall. After a moment, he stood up and made his way to the door, but his exit was barred by an obstinate monk who pointed at the kitchen, and with a waving motion extended the range to the entire dining room and said simply; “Clean.”, before closing the door. He set out to do what he was ordered to do and didn’t complain, for no other reason than that he knew it wouldn’t do any good anyway. The good thing, he noted, was that these monks didn’t leave a scrap of food on the plate.
Finishing his task, he opened the door expecting to see the grim face of the monk before him. Finding him, thankfully, gone he continued about his business, that being the pontification upon of a certain letter.
This began a week long love affair with the works of Euclid. He had searched the library all of two days for the book, but because nothing was categorized, this exercise was a frustrating one. He eventually found what he was looking for, a tome labeled simply; “Elements”, and another by a different Euclid, Euclides of Megara. This tome was of special interest, as his six dialogs had been thought lost to the world since ancient times, this was one of the few existing copies no one knew about. He grabbed both volumes and hid them within the folds of his potato sack for later reading.
He poured over these volumes attempting to glean some diamond of wisdom from them, but came up with nothing. He could not figure out so much as what he was looking for in these tomes. It was not hard to realize that the first few lines of the message made reference to several of his early problems in the book. Euclid was no stranger to your average student of the time, although much had been lost, the 47th problem of Euclid, otherwise known by the name “Pythagorean Theorem” was still a mainstay of math classes everywhere.
The second book was similarly confusing. He was trying to figure out the connection between Euclid and Euclides. He couldn’t figure out what dialectic had to do with any of this, nor what any of this had to do with anything else! By week’s end v505 was frustrated and demanded an audience with the Roshi, whom he had not spoken to for some time. His request was granted, and though he marched all the way up to the abbot’s office with the intention of giving him a firm talking to, all his resolve faded when he saw the master sitting in meditation. The look of serenity and razor sharp focus disturbed him some. It was as if this man was looking into his soul and through him in the same instant, and his belly fire was instantly brought to a humble lick of flame on the tip of a candle.
The old man did not speak, and after a few awkward minutes v505 broke the silence,
“I do not know what to make of this Roshi…”
“To make of what?” Asked the old man patiently.
“This letter, this poem about Euclid and the Elements and Air and the Octahedron and…” He cut 505 off with a gentle hushing sound, and smiled genuinely and with much compassion in his heart;
“Well… this path is not for everyone, perhaps you are not yet ready.”
“But master…” He protested, feeling a mix of shame and anger, realizing that the master was right. He had put everything, all of his supposed intelligence into deciphering this puzzle, into cracking the tough shell surrounding the nut of wisdom and had failed to so much as scratch it.
“Do I have to go now that I have failed?” 505 asked dejectedly. The old man laughed deep from his belly and grinned ear to ear. Then, rising from his cushion, he lovingly put his arm around v505’s shoulder and once more nudged him gently in the direction he wished him to go, like a skilled animal trainer whose charges find joy in obeying.
“Come with me child, I will give you a job to do.”
After what seemed like 15 minutes navigating through corridors, he was led to another courtyard, though much different than the first. This one contained trees and shrubs in all stages of glorious bloom. He hadn’t expected anything like this at these altitudes and temperatures, but this place was as warm as a summer day and as brightly lit. It was a very intricate greenhouse, but on such a grand scale that aside from the vegetables and fruit trees there could be found large trees, maples and the like, which if given a chance would scrape the roof of heaven in a place like this. Their growth however was controlled, and the trees were wider than they were tall.
They walked to a shed and the master handed 505 a rake, then, grabbing one himself he bade him follow to the shade of a large oak tree.
“Every day, you will come out here and rake the leaves.” This wasn’t what he had been expecting at all, and began to protest, before being cut off.
“If you wish to stay, you must work… This will be your task.” The master cut off conversation by beginning to rake leaves himself. He raked them into neat piles, and as the pile got larger he walked back to the shed and brought a wheelbarrow.
“Fill this with leaves, and then take the leaves to the compost pile by the shed. Every few days, you must mix the compost.” He demonstrated how all was to be done without a word, and leaving the rake by the shed, he left v505 to his toil. As he raked the leaves and disposed of them, day by day, new ones continued to fall. He knew inside that this was a never ending task. And after several weeks of cleaning and composting he once more asked for an audience with the abbot.
“I am working as your gardener in exchange for legumes and a lumpy bed to sleep on. This garment I wear chaps my skin, it burns me, and I am not furthering myself any. I continue to ponder the problems and nothing comes to me.”
“What do you want from me?” Inquired his master.
“I want you to teach me. I am sure all these other people here, none of whom talk, nice touch by the way, the silence, aren’t just hear for the free beans. I want in, on whatever it is, because as it stands I feel like there is a very big, very funny, joke being played on me.”
“And what would you have me teach you exactly?” He calmly asked.
“I want you to teach me how to disable this damned chip in my head! The legend has it that you’ve figured out some way to do it, and judging by your age and the age of some of the other raisin-headed old bald guys in here I would say it’s more than just a legend.” The last part was delivered in a most accusatory tone, the master remained calm.
“If you are so sure of this, then I am sure you won’t mind raking a few more leaves.” Sensing nothing would come of this, v505 stormed out of the room and retired to his room. He seethed with anger, and wanted to know what he was missing. His frustration stemmed from several things, mainly he felt lonely. He had been there for some time now and still had made no friends. He worked, he ate, he worked, he ate, and no one spoke to him. He had to ask to speak to his teacher, actually ask, and he wondered what kind of educator forces his students to come to him, rather than going to teach them. His frustration melted away as he accepted the reality of the master’s words. It was true, if he wanted to know, he would continue to rake leaves… he did.
It was about a month after this that the old monk came out to him while he toiled in the garden. His serene gait portended an encounter and v505 was overjoyed at the attention, though did nothing overtly to show it. The master walked to the edge of the tree’s shade. And he began to walk slowly in a circle around the tree.
“Why do you wish to disable this chip?” It seemed a simple enough question.
“What do you mean why? Why on earth wouldn’t I? It’s a death sentence…” And that it was, the chip was little more than a random number generator on a grand scale, and once you hit the lotto in this game, your jig was up. For something random, lots of people seemed to die in their late twenties or early thirties. As he got older, v505 felt he was running faster and faster while death was effortlessly catching up.
“Do you think you can avoid death? Even if you disable the chip, you will still die. What have you to gain from a few more years?” It bothered him, to be hearing this from an old man who didn’t have to live with that worry anymore.
“I think that is pretty obvious…” He was quickly cut off; nothing was obvious in this place.
“Is it?”
“Why do you answer every question with a question?”
“Why do you not?” Both remained silent after this exchange, the master continued his circuit and v505 followed next to him. He was becoming sort of dizzy from the constant circling.
“The monks who inhabited the monastery also believed in a concept named Samsara, which was their name for the endless cycle of life and death. They did not believe that this life, which has brought you here alongside me to rake leaves and walk circles around a tree, was the first nor will it be the last.”
“What good is a new life if I do not remember the old one?”
“How many people have you lost in your life child? Mother, Father, friends… Would you prefer to carry memories of those losses, of the pain you’ve experienced, with every new beginning? Would you want to remember each death, each of those hundreds of thousands of hundred thousand, deaths, the very death which in your current life you have gone to extraordinary lengths to avoid?” He had to give this some very serious thought and remained silent.
His master continued, “We have walked this circle many times in the last few minutes, can you tell me at which point the circle began?”
“Right there, by that knot in the root of the tree.”
“Can you point out the exact spot where the circle began?”
“No.”
“Such is the cycle of death and rebirth… You shed one skin for the next, and all the while your usefulness or uselessness is irrelevant, if it even is to begin with. How can you tell me where or when, exactly, you were born or will die? Do you remember being birthed? Do you recall when the spark of life first entered you? Was it when your mother’s water broke? When sperm penetrated egg?”
“…I do not know.” It was all he could say to such a profound question.
“Neither do I. There are a great many things I do not know, and likewise a great many things I shall die without finding out!” The master exclaimed jovially.
“Then what is the use of all this? Why do you strive to free yourselves from the chip’s influence if life is transient and unimportant?”
“Things are not always as they appear. Besides, who ever said life is not important. Why would you assume I strive to free myself from some trivial trap? If your supposition that I am ‘free’ were true, wouldn’t I have left from here long ago if that were my aim?”
“Then what is your aim?”
“I aim to wake up. I aim to eat. I aim to sit. I aim to go to sleep. My aims however are not always realized. Often times I am interrupted in some way or the other, so I have learned over the years to aim for these things one at a time.”
“There has to be more to it than that…” The old man put on a very stern and serious face, he seemed deep in thought and eventually replied, “Occasionally, I piss and shit.” This aroused laughter within them both which had been welcome in the midst of all the death talk, which inevitably resumed.
“Well, if I will die only to return, it isn’t final at all. Why should I care about this life any more than the last or the next?”
“I cannot answer that for you, it is a personal matter. The ancient monks’ leader, the sage of the Shakyas, believed that none of it mattered, although that is a gross oversimplification. I, personally, think that each life affords an opportunity for the freedom which you so desire… Come, let us retire for the day, it is late and I can see from your carriage that you are getting dizzy.” 505 wanted to understand, but felt he wasn’t getting the whole story. He felt like someone trying to envision a great wonder of the world being described by someone who had actually been there… a bit envious, and not quite grasping the grandeur of it.
“Will you teach me to sit as you were the other day when I went to see you?” The question caught the old man off guard, but the request wasn’t an odd one at all.
“You wish to learn meditation?”
“Is that what it’s called? If so, yes… I want to learn to be completely still!” the monk slapped him hard on the back of the head and uttered, “Start here.”
He tried, unsuccessfully, to meditate that night. The problem was that v505 did not know what meditation was having only observed his master’s posture, and even then only the surface of it. He ended up with a headache and a neck ache to match. He resolved to go to the abbot’s quarters in the morning and ask him again.
The morning came and with it the breakfast bell. 505 had adjusted naturally to give him enough time to wake, ready his potato vestments, and get to the dining hall. There were no clocks or phones of any kind here, so the time was told the old fashioned way.
He ate quickly and rushed out to avoid kitchen duties and went to the chambers of the elder monk. He was greeted by resistance at the door by his old friend, the limping monk.
“I need to speak to him.” He sounded serious, but it did little good.
“About what?”
“About meditation.” The flatness of his reply was equal in timbre to the monk’s. The saffron-robed initiate limped into the Abbot’s quarters and returned quickly.
“He says to go rake leaves.” He felt hurt, but decided to do as he was told without protest. As he entered the garden, from the cold, dark, stone corridor the light of the world entered him in its entire splendor. The sun bathed every inch of the place, and danced across the sky as day matured to its rosy death each afternoon. He had noticed that many species of flowering plants followed the path of the sun themselves as the days progressed.
He smelled the lush and exotic flora, the gardenia which emitted an intoxicating aroma from its soft, lily white petals. Or the rare blue Peonies which grew in the east end of the garden. He relished the sounds of insects buzzing, bringing loads of pollen to flowers across the way assaulted him, and also of birds, a few of which were kept in the garden. These were the thoughts he had most every day, and the reasons he didn’t mind raking leaves so much anymore.
He ended his day quietly and retired to his room to continue his meditation attempts. They were fruitless; he seemed to be missing something because all he felt was uncomfortable.
The morning came again, and with it another attempt to see the master.
“I need to speak to him.” He asked again,
“About what?”
“About meditation.” And again the monk went into the room, quickly came back out, and told him to go rake leaves.
This continued for all of three weeks, until finally one day he could take no more. Firm upon revisiting a strategy that had worked in the past, he waited until the monk turned to enter the room, lifted his foot to stamp upon the monk’s own, then quickly found himself flat on his back. The monk went into the room, quickly came out, and said;
“He says to go rake leaves.”
He did, and as the time passed, v505 began to feel a certain comfort in the rhythm of things. His was a safe existence, and as long as he raked, he ate. His raking contributed of course, the compost helped the plants grow stronger and yield more fruit. Likewise, collecting the leaves and controlling the composting process itself cut down on certain types of bacteria and disease that might otherwise have run rampant had the garden been left to its own devices. His anger subsided slowly though he fought it every step of the way. He would think about the old man sitting on the floor. Sitting on that damned cushion, doing whatever it is he did in there, and then he would begin to feel fire in his cheeks and a tensing of his jaw. But now, as time passed, this seemed to be happening less and less. There came a point, though he himself lacked the wisdom to realize it, that he no longer thought of the old man, or of meditation.
Throughout the months, 505 had continued his attempts at meditation every evening but had achieved nothing. He had tried all manner of breathing techniques, including holding his breath which didn’t make for a very long attempt at all. He had attempted several postures from several places including the chair, the bed, and hanging upside down against the wall… that attempt didn’t last very long either. But here too, as time passed, his interest began to wane, and his attempts grew fewer and fewer until he had forgotten all about meditation. It was around this time that he received a visit from the master as he worked in the garden.
“How are the leaves?” Roshi asked casually,
“Still dead.” He replied smiling “But I marvel at the way there are always leaves and twigs for me to rake no matter how many fall off.”, answered 505 joyfully. A light, concerned scowl made its way to the old man’s brow. “These are the thoughts that occupy your mind?” he asked with some concern,
“Yes, and a great many like them. I think about the bees a lot.” Roshi smiled softly and bade him follow, “Come with me, let us sit a while.”
“Do you enjoy your work here in the garden?” The question was simple enough.
“I enjoy it immensely Roshi.”
“Did you come here to enjoy the garden child?” He felt a bit of shame at this question, realizing that he had given up on his mission in exchange for the pleasantries of this place and its rigid practices.
“No. But enjoy it I do nonetheless.” The answer was firm, and he believed in it.
“Daruma, one of the great teachers of the order that lived here before ours once said that when mortals are alive, they worry about death; when they're full, they worry about hunger; theirs is the Great Uncertainty. But sages don't consider the past. And they don't worry about the future. Nor do they cling to the present. And from moment to moment they follow the way.” His breath caught in his throat, his heart beat faster at the thought of some small compliment, at the idea that he had done something right, he could barely contain himself, “Is that what I have been doing master?”
“No. You have been idling away with the leaves thinking about how you will always have work to do and marveling at the bees.”
He had been relaxed, but at this accusation, 505’s head and back stood at attention and he looked squarely into his masters eyes.
“Like that!” exclaimed the old man. “Sit just like that!”
He froze, making sure to note every aspect of his current posture. He felt like a puppet whose string was held taught, it was as if there were an invisible wire holding his spine in line with his neck and his head.
“Don’t forget to breathe…” joked the master, noticing v505’s tense energy. “Be a blowfish in the mouth of a shark, fill your belly deep or you will die!” With that, the master stood up and began walking away, 505 snapped out of it and yelled out to the old man as he was nearly out of earshot,
“Now what?” the old man shouted back,
“Don’t think.”
He watched the monk shuffle away until he disappeared into the halls of the monastery; he repeated the two words over and over in his head. Strangely, this man who knew how to do so many things had no idea how not to think. He remained beneath the tree and continued his exercise in no exercise.
His body felt tired after a few minutes, his muscles were straining and his body was beginning to tremble slightly. In spite of his attempts, he thought of this and realized he was thinking. His muscles, probably due to their exhaustion, relaxed over time. As he himself relaxed, breathing came more and more naturally. His eyes were closed, he had observed that his master sat with his eyes open, but he could not help thinking if he saw. Contemplating the breaths themselves he tried to quantify the volume of air somehow, trying to visualize it filling his center, like a blowfish in danger. These too, were thoughts.
The birds chirped and rustled the leaves, the wood creaked, an insect buzzed by his left ear. He thought of them all. Frustrated he moved to his quarters, hoping there would be fewer distractions. There were not. The walls creaked, doors opened and shut every now and then. Footsteps could be felt more than heard, albeit very lightly, from several halls down. His furniture made sounds as well. These, also, were thoughts.
505 continued his practice in earnest along with his work, but he came no closer to letting go of his thoughts. He had improved his posture and breathing immensely, and had done some reading in the library about this meditation practice. The now ancient Japanese wrote about a place called the Hara in the center of the body, below the navel which was the seat of human power and energy. It was said that meditation, or Zazen as they called it, would strengthen this area. He imagined his Hara becoming full of air and collapsing as he breathed it out, he realized this was also a thought.
One afternoon after he had finished his work, v505 sat in meditation in the garden, under the very tree he had sat beneath the first time he was taught how to sit. His meditation was plagued by thought though to his credit he did not let this upset him, rather, he continued to sit and continued to try. He still kept his eyes closed, and though his senses were keen, he was unable to feel the old man watching him quizzically from the doorway. He slipped out of his sandals and began to glide silently through the grass careful to make no sound until he stood beside his struggling student. He squatted down and whispered into his ear,
“The monkey is reaching for the moon in the water... Until death overtakes him, he'll never give up... If he'd let go the branch and disappear in the deep pool,
the whole world would shine with dazzling pureness.”
the whole world would shine with dazzling pureness.”
His eyes burst open in shock, and his body violently twitched, but he made no sound. Inside his head he felt a sharp pain and his vision began to swim before his eyes. His body was all at once filled with an indescribable heat and his heart pumped erratically. He was aware of everything going on around him and nothing at all and his jaw began shaking as he erupted into shivers. He was struck dumb by his actions, by the understanding of his true actions. With that, the old man stood up, chuckled and shuffled away. 505 sat stunned and paralyzed, body swaying left and right rhythmically, with no idea which direction was up.
The monks had a term for this type of awakening, they called it kensho, a word meaning to perceive nature. Not just any nature, but one’s own true nature. It was far from any sort of enlightenment, but it was something very real to him nonetheless. He was the monkey, grasping a branch that hung over the still surface of the water to steady himself as he reached for the moon’s reflection. He had been trying to grasp an illusion, an idea, but he couldn’t reach it no matter how hard he tried. He was the monkey by the lake, but he was too afraid to fall in.
He felt different the next morning. Not in any way he could describe or any way that would make sense to others, but he certainly felt changed. The burning he had felt in his head had been the chip shorting out; he had guessed as much but found he did not care. His time with them had changed him, and his aim was an altogether loftier one following his experience beneath the tree. After breakfast he sought an audience with the Roshi and to his surprise was admitted without admonition or hesitation. The intoxicating scent of the incense entered his nose and his mind travelled back to the day of his arrival at the monastery, when in his foolishness he thought he was joining a cult of numbers who would help him unlock the Sudoku puzzle that ticked down the seconds of his life. The master noticed him deep in nostalgia’s grip and spoke up, hoping to break his daydream,
“Ah, how reluctantly the bee emerges from deep within the peony…”
505 was becoming a master at deciphering this, and any, old man’s cryptic sayings. He was comparing his stroll down memory lane to a bee, who loaded with nectar and pollen, must leave the comfort of the flower; it was not a compliment about his work ethic. Yesterday, in his own way, v505 had emerged from the Peony, though only somewhat. He did not wish to play word games this morning and spoke,
“Master, what happened to me yesterday?”
“You got your wish little potato-sack man.” He said with a smile.
“How do you know?”
“The smell… and the little wisps of smoke that came out your ears.” That was a joke. The old man did know, he had a sense for these things and this had not been the first young upstart who had made it up the mountain and into the halls of the monastery. He himself had once made a similar trek, albeit for different reasons that he had left behind decades ago.
“I do not feel complete.” 505 admitted with shame in his voice.
“Nor will you ever if you keep trying to complete yourself…” admonished the master, he continued, “What did you realize yesterday? What do you think you realized yesterday?” he thought about this for a minute before responding, but nothing fit. Nothing but the way the master had put it, the words that had opened his eyes.
“I realized that I am the monkey who is grasping at an illusion. But like that monkey, I fear falling into the water because I do not know what lurks beneath it.”
“You are nothing and you are everything. You are the sun and the moon, the fire and the frost, the forest and the plain, the man and the leaf.”
“I do not feel that.”
“You aren’t supposed to feel it. What good is feeling? Why do you put so much trust in your senses?” It was a fair question with a seemingly simple answer;
“Because they are all I have.” The master smiled at him.
“You have the myriad stars in the sky, and all of the knowledge that has ever been known and unknown throughout the ages.”
“Then why do I feel completely helpless and lost?”
“Only because you are counting on your senses; tell me child, when you labor in the garden do you think about your work? I am not asking if you think about the bees and the flowers, I am asking if you think about your work. Do you stop and consider each drag of the rake? Do you stop and count each of the leaves?”
“No. I just do it.” He answered dryly.
“You do it without thinking, without premeditation. If you did stop to think and listen to and smell and taste each leaf you picked up your work would be much less so, would it not?”
“Yes it would.” He understood the master’s logic, it made a lot of sense. But he could not understand how to separate himself from those senses, it didn’t make, well, sense to him. The look in his eyes betrayed his innermost thoughts and the master smiled warmly.
“When you stop trying to find it, you will find it.” There was an uncomfortable silence after this, and hoping to break it and get more out of his teacher he asked, with a touch of embarrassment,
“Must I go now that I have achieved my aim?”
“Only if you must.” With that, he grinned and handed v505 a set of Saffron colored robes. This pleased him greatly, he did not wish to go back to his old life even with the gift of freedom he had earned from their teachings. With this robe he would now be considered a member of the priesthood and no longer a neophyte, with all the privilege that came along with that post. He looked up at the master expectantly and asked of him,
“What do I do now Roshi?”
“Go rake leaves.”
Nothing in his life had ever made so much sense.
