Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction 3 2018 | Page 57

For The Greater Good
German Swiss International School, Li, Mohan - 11
I
trudged along the snowy path, as the wind surrounded me like a pack of wolves would surround a stag.
I could feel the icy shards around me as it tore at my last hopes and gnawed away at my soul. The smell
of rotting carcasses shoved itself through my nostrils like a hand and groped for my brain, as my callused
hands fumbled for my sachet. I couldn’t remember the last time I had tasted the cool and sweet drops of
water on my ripped and torn lips. My boots were streaked with mud and torn in places as my filthy cloak
billowed in the wind, clinging to my gaunt skin. My eyes were red rimmed, veins bulging across my eyes as
I let the harsh gale surround me, enveloping me in a shield of flaky white snow. I didn’t even recognise
myself.
I had been a fool going on this journey, promising my apprentices this futile image of redemption
and dragging them on this quest to the so called “holy land”. No monk was sane enough to help me, so I
recruited three mystic creatures as apprentices and snuck out the monastery. I was young, foolish and angry
back then, agitated at the conflicting preachings of Buddhism in China. As if I could have done anything.
Slowly, as the journey passed on, they had left their corpses on this desolate road. First was the loyal friar Sha
He Shang, then it was Zhu Ba Jie, the pig warrior. Each of these brave apprentices had travelled with me on
this holy journey believing they could be “redeemed”, only to die for my stupid cause. I had begged the
Buddha for forgiveness, kneeling by his shrine and pleading with everything that was left of my heart. The
Buddha had one last crucible for me however and it would utterly destroy me.
Wukong, the monkey king had been my trusted companion for years. He was the last pillar
holding up the tattered roof I was, under the continuous pressure from the rain of grief. He had always been
strong and by my side. Strong even in his last moments. I remembered that a small conversation I had with
him about Buddhism had escalated into a full blown argument, with both of us taking jabs at each other. I
had stormed off fuming and blind to my anger, walking for another few minutes before realising my fatal
error. I turned to dash back down the path but it had been too late; bandits had charged out together from
all sides and pinned me down against the rocky path, pressing my face against the uneven path with dirt
clawing into my eyes, as they scoured my bags. Realising I had no valuables, they had dragged me up, my
mutilated face a watercolour painting of red. I had begged them for mercy. Then, one of them had drawn
an uneven dirk, almost like a wolf’s tooth and shoved it against my throat.
“Here is your mercy,” he had barked, his harsh voice like the clattering of swords. Suddenly,
Wukong had burst out from behind, and flung him across the path. Like an enraged lion he let himself loose
onto the rest of the bandits. He elegantly ducked and parried the blows of the bandits, then to strike in a
flurry of savage blows with his staff. Eventually, most of the bandits lay dying on the uneven terrain, like the
victims of a storm of death. Wukong faced off the last one, as he swirled the staff around his head, and with
a swift strike, disarmed him.
Wukong turned back to me, when red started suddenly blossoming down his throat, gushing onto
his breastplate. He had fallen to his knees as a wounded bandit pulled the knife sticking out Wukong’s
throat, leaving a sticky smear of blood. His body flopped forward like a rag doll as he choked on his own
blood, but I could make out a word on his bloody lips.
“Run,” he gasped, as he gagged on his blood. It took me a few seconds to comprehend what
happened, before I dashed off, my brain frozen with grief. I ran and stumbled for about another 2 hours,
before collapsing head-first across the ragged path like a wounded deer. I saw my dirty robes, remembering
how Wukong would’ve laughed at me for the dirt smears all across my robes, when I always scolded him for
hygiene. Then, the hammer of grief hit me, when I realised that Wukong would never say anything again. I
had let the tears flow as I buried my head into my robes. This was the day I had given up, when my morale
died.