"Why haven't you found him yet?" The Master's voice cracked through the halls like a thunderstorm breaking over a calm sea.
Once serene as a mountain lake, so tranquil that even time dared not disturb him, he now raged with the ferocity of a War God. His chamber, long regarded as a sacred sanctuary untouched by worldly chaos, had never seen him cross its threshold.
Until now.
Lightning seemed to flicker behind his eyes as he tore through the monastery grounds, overturning stones, pushing aside screens, peering beneath every bush and bridge. He was no longer the old sage of years past; he resembled a mischievous kid who had lost his dearest toy.
As for the monks… They had never searched out of loyalty. They were simply curious. They had tolerated the tramp only because the Master had smiled upon him.
The tramp? A tea-brewer, Go-opponent, scribbler of cryptic characters had been nothing more than a servant in their eyes. A servant they envied.
And when he vanished?
They secretly rejoiced. At last, they thought, they might claim the Master's favour for themselves.
They were wrong.
Day One Tramp's Absence.
The Master's fury remained caged behind his doors. Scrolls flew like sharp-edged birds at any monk who dared enter with food or letters.
Day Two Tramp's Absence.
He sat atop the porch, eyes fixed on the path. When no one brought news, he hurled shoes, stones, and anything within reach, each projectile a punctuation mark of despair.
Day Three Tramp's Absence.
The monastery quaked under his wrath. The Master stormed room to room, berating, kicking, slapping, striking with a strength that belied his frail form. His blows were those of a seasoned warrior, and the monks suffered and prayed for the tramp's return, for only he had ever soothed this strange and unpredictable being.
Day Four Tramp's Absence.
Evening.
In a comical show of desperation and to avoid further bruises the monks waded knee-deep into the pond with pitchforks and sticks. No one truly believed they would find anything; the pond was simply the last unexplored corner of their misery.
"Ribbon! The tramp's ribbon!" The sudden cry ripped through the dusk.
A gust of wind stirred, and in the blink of an eye, the Master stood by the pond's edge. A monk held up a small, filthy scrap of cloth.
To anyone else it was nothing.
To the Master, it was everything.
"Give it to me!" his voice sounded tighter than a bowstring.
He took the ribbon with trembling hands, unfolding it as though it were a sacred scroll, that might reveal a memory he feared to lose.
"Search the entire pond," he commanded cradling the dirty fabric. "Drain it, if you must."
The monks exchanged silent looks. Drain the pond? Absurd! Ridiculous! Impossible!…
But they held their tongues and continued. They had seen the Master's fury. They preferred drowning to another slap.
As for the Master…
This impossible demand was not madness. It was hope.
Fragile, but hope nonetheless.
Because to him, the tramp had never been a mere servant. He had been the quiet piece that kept the Master from falling apart, the only piece that had ever made the world feel whole.
*Thx for reading.