The monk cupped the little light in his hand protectively and peered across the threshold of the dilapidated temple. It was pitch-black inside, as the worn roof was still guarding against the intrusion of moonlight. He had come often enough that he could possibly make it to the far end entirely blind... but only possibly. Better that he should have enough light to at least be able to see his feet; if he could keep an eye on them, they could handle the smooth stone and the loose tiles beyond. At the same time, too much light would never do; it would be a disaster to wake it right now.
Cautiously, the monk took his first step inside. He waited a few terrifying moments... and then breathed out, a gentle sigh. His mind remained clear. So far, so good.
On padded feet, he crept down the center aisle of the temple. Until he reached the altar, he didn't dare let himself lose focus. The important thing at this stage was not to be mistaken for a parishioner, a pilgrim or some sort of sanctuary-seeker. It was, after all, largely their footsteps that had worn the stone perfectly smooth. Comparatively, the few priests of the temple would have barely traveled the aisle at all, versus the hundreds of worshippers making their way up and down the wide passage over hundreds of years.
The temple was a little ways from the site of the old village. A proper temple had to be ensconced in wilderness, everyone knew that. The magic worked better out there, away from the heart of commerce, the material and the mundane. It was important that a visit to the temple involved a little bit of a trek. It gave the visitor a chance to prepare themselves, so that they entered that sacred place with a sincere heart and undistracted head. And this had been a proper temple, once upon a time.
The village was gone now. It was a not unfamiliar story, sadly lacking in meaningful distinction. The mine which lent the village its prosperity had petered out right as the region had experienced several dry seasons in a row. With no gold to trade and fallow fields, the people had simply left, abandoning the temple to the wilderness.
Well, that had been the plan, at least. But temples have long memories, and this one proved to be resistant to the sudden change. Years had passed before anyone realized it wouldn't turn over on its own.
Which is when they called in the monk.
He was nearly to the altar now. Once there, he could begin his work. Once he arrived at the altar, the temple could be fed.
It was a difficult task, but satisfying. In any event, what was the alternative? Attempting to ignore the temple would starve it. That would make it angry. And an angry temple, everyone knew, was a problem. A problem that would be resolved by a team of very large, fearless men (not to be mistaken for brave men, thought the monk), who would dismantle the temple stone-by-stone and leave behind not even a ruin. The result would be a blighted spot on the land; a wound in the soil that the woods would be forced to grow around, forever.
No, that would never do. The monk had taken up the task immediately. This would be his eighth such task, and, he was reasonably confident, his seventh success. His first assignment had gone so smoothly that he entered brashly into his second. His presumptuous approach had caused things to... fall apart, were the only words he could assign to those miserable events. He had lived the next few years of his life as a recluse, burdened by the shame of his failure.
It's unclear how long he might have hidden himself away. Perhaps, he sometimes worried, he would have let himself remain burdened by guilt for the rest of his life.. He was saved by the arrival of an assignment that no one else was free to take on. It was up to him, or else let the temple be consumed by neglect. His hand forced by the circumstances, he found the audacity to return to his work.
That had been nearly a decade ago. He had been forging that trail through his life ever since, and ended up here.
He had arrived at the altar. With one hand, he reached into his pocket, grasped the contents, and placed them in the awaiting bowl.
A few coins and the monk's own loop of meditation beads. These simple items landed in the bowl with a pleasant ringing sound. (The pleasant ringing sound was very important.) He added on top a fallen flower, spotted while he took his breakfast outside, that he thought looked especially lovely.
The air inside the temple shifted. The monk allowed himself a simple smile. The offering had been received.
The temple had recognized the act as that of a priest, having traveled to the village to collect offerings from those too infirm or busy to make the journey themselves. In other cases, the bowl would have been passed from hand-to-hand, across the rows and down the alley, shared by all those gathered there.
The offerings themselves weren't important, and never were: craftsmen offered tokens of their trade, scholars would offer literal scraps of wisdom, children would offer shiny stones or folded paper animals. The material value was meaningless -- it was the act of offering that mattered. When the monk left at the end of the night, he would sweep the bowl clean once more, ready for the next round tomorrow.
It wasn't the original bowl. The original bowl had been crafted of gold and richly-textured, easily the most ostentatious object allowed inside the temple's walls. The head priest had only accepted it because it was crafted from the first carthaul from the village's mine, and thus was just barely richer in symbolism than it was in actual material value.
When the village's fortunes had failed, the bowl had been sold for charity's sake. The monk had replaced it with an inexpensive tin imitation. (The temple hadn't cared. If anything, the crisp tones made by the tin were far more sonorous, more resonant than that silly yellow one had ever produced.)
The offering having been made, the monk was ready to begin the work of a priest. He made his way around to the other side of the altar, then to a small alcove tucked away in the back of the temple. From it, he produced a broom, and started sweeping the floors. It was a kind of a dream, tending to that quiet, cool place, pretending to sweep away the dust brought in by the day's worshippers.
It was funny how many neophytes assumed that the important thing to do to assume the role of a priest would be to stand at the head of the temple and deliver an impassioned speech. To whom, the monk wondered, should he deliver such a speech to? An empty room? It was an easy mistake to make; it was when the priest appeared to be most powerful, after all.
So few truly appreciated the nature of power. There were many kinds of influence, and one allowed themself to be fixated by the most prominent ones at their own peril.
The monk understood... or at least understood better, he corrected himself. And so he'd sweep, even if all that got in these days was a light dusting of pollen. He'd wipe down each of the candle-holders, even if none had seen a candle in so many years. He'd do all the little things that the priests would do when no one was watching. When no human was watching, at least. These were the rituals, performed daily, that gave the temple its strength.
It was during his sweeping that he discovered the wonderful sign: a sapling! It was coming up through the tiles, near a spot where the wall was weak. It was young, but looked healthy, and that meant everything. The woods were finding a way in. The wilderness was returning.
For months now, the temple had been resisting. Every leaf that blew into the temple wilted immediately. The wind itself could barely make headway, becoming stifled and subdued immediately. Any animal that dared to cross the temple's grounds would find itself sick and disoriented, retreating as quickly as it could.
There were sects that referred to such a phenomenon as a "curse." The monk found that kind of ignorance absolutely disgraceful. It never failed to bring the bile to his throat, thinking of those who would spread that misunderstanding so blithely.
He focused on the sapling. He ran his hand along his trunk, still flexible but already strong. He would make caring for it part of his routine. Bringing it into the ritual would let the healing truly begin.
A "curse." As if the temple were simply angry, and punishing anything it could bring its influence to bear upon. How absurd. How thoughtless!
Humans. The temple was used to humans. It understood human minds, human patterns. And so, when it had been hungry and desperate, it had attempted to force the patterns it knew upon anything that entered. There was no malevolence to be found here, none at all, even as the temple attempted to enforce these patterns upon those that could not receive them.
Human patterns would simply be too complex, in most cases. Even a healthy, secure human was intricate to a degree that served no real purpose. Indeed, one of the services offered by his order was to help those who sought simplicity. Not only was this one of the most critical kinds of help they offered, but it was also their best source of recruitment, as those that had been helped now turned to help others.
But many who came to the temple held some hurt inside them. And even when they had built a life twisting around that hurt -- crafting loops and roundabouts to contain it, knotting it tightly within themselves to make it their own -- the temple served as a place where they could express themselves, truly and utterly. The booming speeches were the pretense; it was the quiet words, passed from priest to parishioner and from parishioner to parishioner, words of vulnerability and comfort that let the healing begin.
This was the power of the temple. This is what it understood.
Few animals could truly conform to human patterns. Dogs were exceptional at it, of course, having practically domesticated themselves. Cats were masters at bending a human's pattern to their own, which is why they could offer a unique kind of comfort, and why they made the most powerful guardian spirits. And then you had curious cases like squirrels, which were a kind of rat which had taught humans to regard them as adorable, while their brethren suffered under the categorization of "vermin". Those were some of the most obvious exceptions.
Try to turn a deer into a parishioner, though -- try to inflict that state of being upon them -- and all you'd have is a complicated way of giving an animal a headache.
But now things were growing here again. The temple had accepted the sapling for what it was. There was hope.
The monk finished his rounds with a warm glow in his heart. Then, the maintenance of the temple having been finished, he retreated to a tiny chamber hidden in the back. This had been the head priest's study, and the monk had learned that the head priest had spent many nighttime hours here. There were the finances to keep in order, careful attendance of the annual schedule, sermons and speeches to prepare, and so on and so forth.
The chamber was now bereft of paper, all the scrolls and holy scriptures having been taken away in the end, so the monk brought his own and engaged in some idle scribbling. It was a pleasant sound, the gentle scritching of quill on parchment, and so the monk took the opportunity to meditate. The pen making marks on paper was the only sound in the temple; the simple pleasure of making those marks was the only thought in his mind.
Once he had filled out a sheet of paper, front and back, the monk drew a canteen of cold tea from an inner pocket of his robe. The tea was brewed from the flavorful herbs of the surrounding forest, and tasted especially delightful tonight. And so he sat back, and drank contentedly.
Life was returning. Another few months, and his task would be complete.
He took his time drinking his tea, making sure to drain every last drop from the canteen. It was only then that he rose and exited the little cell. His work for the night was complete; he could leave in peace now.
Before he left, he paused by the altar, resting a hand upon it. He looked around at the worn and fading illustrations on the temple's walls; at the mighty, lofty beams which supported the roof even still; at the flowing shapes of the pews, their curves so carefully designed you could believe the wood had grown that way.
All at once, he was afflicted by a heaviness in his heart. How many hours had gone into every aspect of this place? How much time and attention had been lavished on each detail, from the grandest decoration to the most invisible facet? He thought of all the craft that had gone into making this a sanctum; how so many had strived so earnestly to ensure that all would always be welcome, received and understood.
And now... it would disappear. There would be no more gatherings. Its faithful would drift apart, inevitably. No pilgrim would ever seek the temple out, ever again. It was nearly empty now; and when he left, it would stay empty forever. Empty. The tragedy was hard for him to bear.
It was then that he felt the temple stir, awakened from slumber. He realized his mistake too late; from previous assignments, he had learned that these were the kind of thoughts to withhold until he returned to his quarters well beyond the temple grounds. The air vibrated around him, causing his ears to hum. He hurriedly clutched at the offerings in the tin bowl in his haste to flee, but he was too slow.
NO, thundered the voice of the temple inside his head. NOT EMPTY. It came from nowhere, yet shook him to his core, like the crashing of a mighty wave against his bones.
In an instant, he was beset by the memories of the temple. He fell to his knees, overwhelmed, as the visions danced before his eyes. He squeezed his eyes shut, threw his hands over his face; but the memories were so potent, they burned through his palms and his eyelids. Each one lasted only an instant, but there were so many, it came as a flood. The visions came, each one shifting into the next, all overlapping, all cacophony, all at once and indistinct, and yet so clear--
--birth announcements, anniversaries and birthdays, new arrivals to the village, news from those abroad, stories from visiting pilgrims, adulthood ceremonies, tales of virtue and generosity, commitment celebrations, the bounty of the harvest, the recognition of departed ones and lives well-lived, the telling and retelling of the stories that defined their communities--
--and the songs, the songs, the songs echoing off the walls, echoing into each other, the songs, sung in a multitude of voices, sung with one voice, sung from the heart, filling his being, rising up through his voice, how profound his desire to join them!, to add his voice, to join them all in song, to truly sing--
The thousandfold vision disappeared, replaced with the voice of the temple. It spoke directly to the monk, and it spoke as a rebuke.
JOY, the temple roared. THIS IS A PLACE OF JOY.
"I know," said the monk outloud, struggling to his feet. He placed his hand on the altar again, pressing his flesh firmly against the unyielding stone. His voice reverberated through the empty space. "I know."
He gathered up his robes and hurried out into the night, abandoning the offerings in their bowl. It was unclear how many weeks of work he had just undone; how much damage he had just wrought.
He felt the temple watching him as he left. It wasn't until he was safely beyond the grounds that he allowed the tears to come.
--
It was several days before the monk could return to the temple. A heavy rain had swept over the region. The rainwaters had taken an unusual course down the mountain, surging over a riverbank and rushing down into the valley of the village. As it happened, the floodwaters had found a portion of the trail between the village ruins where the monk was staying and the temple, and surged along it before turning away to seek the sea. The result was an impassable barrier of rushing water.
While the rain still fell, the passage was certain suicide; even after it subsided, it was several days before the waters receded enough to grant the monk passage. A muddy, treacherous passage it was, but a passage nonetheless.
The monk was making his way down that passage now. It was midday, but he didn't feel he had the luxury to wait until nightfall as usual, not now. As he traversed the flooded route, the mud sucked at his padded sandals. A few times, he had nearly lost his footwear to their devious grip, but the security of his possessions was the farthest thing from his mind.
Anxiety ate at his gut. The storm was no coincidence. There had been a protective grace over the valley preventing any such tempest -- a grace that was gone now, he knew, driven away by his carelessness several nights prior. He could only pray the temple was still standing; he foresaw a sullen rubble awaiting him, a permanent blight upon the world, an enduring mark of his failure.
Let it be standing still, he prayed. As long as it was standing, there was hope. It may not welcome him, but perhaps another could complete his work. Let him contain his failure inside himself; don't let it bleed out into the world, not again...
The clearing was just ahead. He hesitated, fearing the worst, but ultimately plunged ahead. He was not, and would never seek to be a fearless man, but he knew better than to let that fear control him.
He turned, and breathed a half-sigh of relief, releasing a small measure of the tension in his heart. The temple was standing. The stone walls remained. The worst had not yet come to pass. With a little luck (it depended on how long he'd have to spend on the nearest highway waiting for a mail coach to pass), another monk could be out here in the space of a few weeks.
Still. Even knowing the likely result, supremely aware he was risking the temple's rejection, he pressed onward.
He crossed through the opening in the fence (the gate knocked off its hinges, whether by storm or by beast), and felt... nothing, not yet. No rejection. No demands. No enforcement of roles.
That was... unusual. With no one around to prepare an offering, no one around to tend to its grounds, no one around to keep it company... all his experience told him the temple should have reverted to its hungry, demanding state. Without any explanation to guide him, to hold before him like a lantern, he was lost. And yet he proceeded straight ahead, filled with curiosity and dread over what he would find.
He peered cautiously across the threshold. He took a hesitant step inside--
--there was a pleasant ringing sound.
The monk blinked in surprise. He gazed down the length of the aisle, to the altar, at the tin bowl sitting on top. He glanced all around, but saw no one who could be responsible for the lovely noise, still echoing off the stone walls. He looked to the left, then to the right... and then upward, to the roof...
There was a fresh, miniscule crack in the roof, the only evident damage from the storm. The wood there was damp, and as the monk watched over a matter of minutes, a drop of water gradually formed, dangling from an errant fracture in the joist. The drop grew. Once it was properly swollen, it slipped free, plummeting down from the high ceiling... and landing with a perfect splash in the center of the bowl, sending the lovely sound through the temple once more.
The monk gasped with delight.
An offering!
It was impossible, never heard of before. And yet here it was, playing out right before his eyes.
As the ringing of the bowl faded, the monk's ears attenuated to the other sounds coming from the once-silent temple.
There, in the corner, the chitter of a family of wood mice, happily nestled amongst a pile of rainswept leaves and needles.
Up in the rafters, the quiet but urgent chirping of birds, peering down uncertainly upon the newest arrival.
And then the quiet sound of paws, padding across the stone. As he watched, a fox emerged from beneath a pew and took a lazy path around the altar. Its tail wagged behind it contentedly as it paced, errantly sweeping aside foliage as it passed. It took a few revolutions around the altar before the fox found the new quiet spot it sought and curled up in it.
All at once, the mystery was revealed. The storm was brought down to isolate the temple from the outside world, that much was certain. But the animals of the forest hadn't been ready for the downpour, and sought what shelter they could. And that was how the temple had... found a flock of sanctuary-seekers on its doorstep...
Most of the animals would have returned to the forest the moment the rain ended, of course. So the ones that remained... could it be true?
The monk's eyes fell upon the patterns traced in the dirt by the passing of the fox's tail. There, among the accidental loops and whorls left behind... yes, the monk recognized those patterns, having studied the borders of the fading illustrations on the temple's walls for many hours! Indeed, the fox's tail did a fine job of rendering them. What finer broom could a temple hope for?
Yes, that confirmed it. The animals that remained had been adopted as the temple's new priests.
It had taken them in and sheltered them, and this was only the beginning. Families of all sorts would soon occupy every niche and alcove, taking full advantage of the inviting space. Far from empty, this would be a place of birth, of growth, of the flourishing of nature.
The monk's eyes teemed with tears of joy. Composing himself as best he could, the monk stood up straight, and stepped inside. There was quiet once more, as all eyes fell upon the human. He spoke clearly, letting the rich acoustic of the place carry his voice.
"This is a place of joy," he affirmed.
The temple was pleased. He could tell, beyond all doubt. Without fear, he walked reverentially down the center aisle. There was no more need for the act, no more need for the dream. Now, in the daylight, the temple awake and alive, he could be as himself.
He arrived at the altar and bowed before the bowl, just in time for the next drop to fall. As the sound resonated throughout the temple, he regarded his beads at the bottom of the pure, clear pool that had formed. That was fine. He wouldn't be needing them back. They were a fair offering, a fine price to pay for the lesson he had been taught. (They would most likely end up adorning some thieving bird's nest; the idea was satisfying, he had to admit.)
He lifted his head, and looked around. There was an exquisite breeze, complimenting the sun shining just outside. His work here was done, but...
He turned, and looked to the sapling. It stood, silent and proud. It was hard to imagine it fully thriving here... but if the wall it was growing next to were to be opened up, just a little, allowing a little more space to grow, to better invite in the rain and the sun... and certainly, the crack in the ceiling would have to be attended to. The soaked wood would hold for now, but a small meditation device to catch rainwater and deliver it, drop by drop, was already a familiar design to every monk in his order... it would only take a few days to prepare...
"I think," he said to himself. "I might keep up my visits for another week or so." He considered this for a second. "And then perhaps an annual pilgrimage, I should hope." He took a deep breath. "If I am welcome," he concluded.
He heard nothing from the temple. This was no surprise. He would never hear its voice again. It had said everything it needed to say to him.
But once again, he could tell it was pleased. He was welcome here, and this satisfied him completely.
He departed back down the aisle, like so many before him. Life was returning. A new pattern emerged.
Here, there was hope.