Petals from the Sky by Mingmei Yip Read Free Book Online Page A

He lifted the child through the window and swiftly came back. Then, to my utter shock and surprise, he scooped me up, and before I could protest, he’d already carried me through the broken glass.
    “You OK?” he asked in English after putting me down on the floor, unaware of the emotion simmering inside me. I’d never been touched by a man, let alone cuddled in his arms. I was sure now my cheeks were as hot and red as the fire. The child pulled my robe and I stooped to hold him.
    Fuller spoke again, his eyes concerned. “Do you think you can take him to the front yard? I need to go in to help other people out.”
    “I’m fine,” I finally said, my lips trembling. “Go ahead.”
    He stepped back inside and used the microphone to smash more of the glass panes while calling to the people, “Come out through the windows!”
    Limping, I led the child to the front yard. In the open air, I could see the fire coming from behind the Meditation Hall. The lapping flames, like hungry ghosts, greedily licked the wooden walls and roofs. I wiped away tears and coughed. The boy next to me cried, “Mama! Mama!” I put my arm around him.
    Most people were already outside when two screaming fire engines appeared and halted with squealing tires. Firemen radiated down from the trucks, set up their hoses, and started dousing water onto the leaping fire. Then an ambulance arrived and spat out white-clad men and stretchers. Gray-robed monks and nuns were running around trying to help. Children flooded out from the adjacent orphanage to watch, refusing to be pushed back by two young nuns. The kids’ jaws dropped and their eyes shone with a hungry luster, as if watching a Hollywood film. Their curious, innocent faces shone red in the glaring fire.
    Now, from a safe distance, my fear gone, I, too, watched with horrified fascination. I knew it was wicked to find the fire beautiful amidst this disaster, but I did. Its rapid motion, intense color, and strong smell reminded me of a vigorous Zen painting, where the artist splashed ink across the paper to bleed his soul and free his spirit. I wished I had my painting tools with me, so I could capture this intense moment. The fire both appalled and appealed. It was like Yi Kong—powerful, alive, and full of energy. It leaped and coiled, flapped and seethed like the Queen of Dance. Buddhism says “To die in order to live.” Did this fire carry the same mission? To burn away our ego, desire, attachment, and self-centered thinking?
    Yes. But there was more to its beauty. It was passion, pure yang energy. Even its crackling sound seemed voluptuous. Suddenly I noticed the sensuous shape of the stupa, a tower, in the distance and thought of a woman’s curves. How on earth could something be so destructive and yet so powerful in its appeal to the senses? The fire awakened something in me that I couldn’t yet name.
    In the glaring flame, the stifling heat, the flying cinders, and the choking smoke, my heart became aroused by the splendor of destruction and rebirth. Then I saw that the Sutra Storing Pavilion was right next to the Meditation Hall, and my mood sobered, seeing it being destroyed.

    In less than an hour, the fire was under control and had become smoldering ashes. People milled about or sat on the front courtyard’s pavement smelling of smoke, their hair unkempt, eyes dazed, faces streaked with tears and soot, slacks ripped, black Buddhist robes torn. They looked as if their souls had been snatched away by some dark, evil force. The deportment of some of the women embarrassed me—legs spread apart, mouths agape, robes still pulled high, exposing bare legs and underpants.
    Suddenly I remembered the child. How could I have neglected him while he was right next to me, frightened and helpless? I pulled him close and asked very gently, “Little friend, are you all right?”
    To my surprise, he responded by thrusting his tiny body into my arms and rubbing his head hard on my chest.