The Cult of Loving Kindness by Paul Park, Cory, Catska Ench Read Free Book Online Page B

saw.”
    “I saw the moon reflected in a bowl of water. A moth was sticking to a piece of flypaper. It fell into the bowl and drowned, spreading water on important documents.”
    “And?”
    “I wanted to come home. You told me when I went into the world—you told us we would be hated and condemned. You told us we would find new masters. You told us we would be rejected for our differences—all that was true. You told us to wait patiently. Seven months, and I had other postings before that.”
    The master settled back upon his pillows. His eyes had a new milky cast to them, and his voice was soft and weak. “A moth drowned in a bowl,” he said.
    “Sir,” said Canan Bey. “Perhaps it would be better—”
    “No,” persisted the old man. “You listen to this. It is important.” He was holding the skull loosely in his hands.
    His voice had sunk to a harsh whisper, audible only to the first circle of spectators. Many of the others had grown restless. Many of the children, especially, had become irritable in the heat and the bad smell. Infants had begun to cry; their mothers took them out on the veranda and then down into the town. The master appeared to have dozed off. And as noon approached, more and more of the adults got up to go. Carpenters who had left their hammers balanced on the laddertops, farmers who had planned to dig a certain acreage before the worst heat of the day, housewives who had left a pot of water on the fire—they bowed their heads respectfully and slipped away.
    Cassia sat motionless on Sarnath’s lap, her head upon his thigh. He might have thought she was asleep, only sometimes he saw her nose wrinkle slightly as some new waft of putrefaction reached her from the master’s bed. Honest Toil was kneeling with the tears running down his face. Around them the room had emptied out. Only a scattering of villagers remained. Now a few more bowed their heads and rose to leave, responding to a small gesture from the hand of Canan Bey, dismissing them to do their work.
    The master’s eyes were closed, and he had sunk down deep into his pillows, so that he was almost prone. “My head is full of shadows,” he complained. But then he roused himself. “Stupider,” he said. “Stupider and stupider. You carried this dead piece of bone from Camran Head? If we all carried on our backs the burden of our errors, just to remind ourselves …” His voice sank into nothing.
    Canan Bey leaned forward. “Leave him now,” he whispered. “All of you.”
    He was leaning forward across the master’s body, making a small gesture with his fingers. Then he bent down to wipe some spittle from the master’s lips, but at that moment the old man started awake. His eyes started open and he reached up to grab the student by the ear. “What are you doing?” he demanded.
    “Sir,” said Canan Bey. “I thought you should rest. Perhaps you should rest, and I could change the dressing on your leg.” He tried to pull his head away, but the old man grabbed him tighter. “Please, sir, you’re hurting me.”
    “No!” shouted the old man. Then he let go. He turned instead to Mr. Sarnath, who had begun to rise. “Talk to me!” shouted the master. “Talk to me—you understand. How long were you a prisoner of your own thoughts? You know what it means to wait and wait. Tell me—what did that moth mean to you?”
    “Sir,” murmured Mr. Sarnath. “I took it as a sign.”
    “It was a sign. And this”—here he lifted the skull up in his two hands, so that they could see its strange dead grinning face. “Is this also a sign? A sign for me? My God, my God, my God, my God, my God,” and these words were peculiar, for never before in his whole life had he called upon a deity, or even mentioned the possibility that one existed.
    “No,” he said. “But take this and destroy it. Burn these papers.” Then he muttered something incoherent. Then he died.
     

Part 3:
Brother and Sister
“ T he day the master died,”