The derelict temple is solid and rectangular, with a worn red door and white bricks fading to a rusted saffron, the kind that has been passed down from generation to generation. It is a different realm from the world below, untouched by the inevitable advancements of time, where the only sound is the murmur of the wind or the twittering of birds. The pines carry whispers of a woman who lives in the temple, alone. Pine needles muffle the meandering steps of inquisitive tourists who have heard about a forgotten monastery up in the mountains.
The woman’ s eyes are upturned crescent moons; bright and gibbous against sunbeaten, leathery skin. She shuffles silently amongst a field of browns and bleached yellows, though the occasional tuft of verdant grass peeks through the dirt. In her arms she drags a gnarly branch, its accusatory fingers pointing to the sky, and when she reaches a tree stump, she places the branch on it like an offering to her gods. Clumsily carved wooden wind chimes hollowed out by young and earnest hands sway in the summer zephyrs, singing stories of long ago. With a long, curved knife reminiscent of a sword, she begins to hack away at the branch in practised scooping motions, little chips of wood flying in every direction. Thwack. Pause. Thwack.
Despite being alone she seems to bear no weight of regret or loneliness- or perhaps the sharp pinch of abandonment has already faded to a dull ache. She offers glimpses of yellowing teeth( how long has she been here?) in the form of kind smiles at curious hikers and beckons them through the creaky gates with tremulous yet charming hand gestures. Here, where language barriers preside, body language prevails. It is hard not to wonder what her story is, and whether she is alone by choice, or simply forgotten by the modern world.
Emma Ogden
27