Tai (*in english, 28 illustration)

“Agni?”

“Yes. I forgot the Russian word for it. Ah! Incarnation. That’s it.”

Taking a closer look at the boy, the monk saw his burns and dried blood on his tee. “Do you have a place to go?”

“N-no. Not really,” Tai mumbled as his eye was caught by another group of monks approaching the crossroads, followed by a crowd carrying bodies on stretchers. But it was not the bodies that got his attention; it was a snake-like dragon on one monk’s head. A white, wingless dragon.

“A dragon. It’s white,” the boy blurted.

“Mangr Khav,” the monk said. “You’re right. It’s the animal spirit of the Wat Chalong temple’s abbot. His family totem.”

“Totem? I want a totem, too. A Mangr Khav. How can I get one?”

The monk smiled. “Farangs don’t have dragons. You have your northern totems. Just as strong as ours.”

Tai knew that farang was the Thai word for white tourists. “Ours? Like Zmei Gorynich?” he guessed.

“Zmei Gorynich,” the monk said with effort, struggling over the unfamiliar words. “What does that mean?”

“A dragon with three heads.”

“Three heads? I know you Russians have a double-headed eagle. But a three-headed dragon? Why?”

“I don’t know. And… and what’s your name?” It was not until then that Tai realized he didn’t know it. Why was he even talking to a stranger? His parents would’ve told him off.

Would have. Not would.

“Oh, I totally forgot my manners. Kho thod1[1]. My name’s Dalai Tisein.” He made a wai.

Tai gave a hasty nod—and winced at the tee collar cutting into his neck. The monk frowned at the brown spots all over the fabric and shook his head. “Bad. You need a doctor. Have you been to the hospital?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you leave it?”

Tai looked away. “It was too busy. Too crowded.”

“A disaster. South Thailand. Many died. We need time. Big, big grief.” The monk spoke slowly, struggling for words. He probably hadn’t practiced Russian in a long while—or maybe he never knew more than a few words. But at least he knew them, and he understood whatever Tai said. That made him the best company Tai could possibly find here.

“No time helps that!” Tai cried out. “My parents are dead. And my sister. And I’m officially nuts.”

The monk probably didn’t get the idiom. He just continued to listen, paying no heed to the scream, despite the Tai people’s strong dislike for open display of emotion.

The tears welling in the boy’s eyes said more than words.

“I’m crazy. You understand?” Tai said in English just in case.

“All we can do now is pray,” Dalai Tisein said with compassion and took Tai by hand—the only part of his body that wasn’t sunburnt.

“What are you doing?” Tai protested, preparing to break free and run away before the man would pull him somewhere.

“Feeling your pulse,” the monk replied serenely. “It’s racing. You’re excited. Please calm down.”

“I’m fine.”

“Really?” Dalai Tisein made a small move of shoulders, as though to show off his blue flames. “You’re not crazy. Come with me.”

“Come where? Why?”

“Food. Water. Treatment. A temple where Buddha can hear you. A relief to your pain.”

“I can’t go with you. I don’t know you,” Tai said in both Russian and English, but still followed the monk.

“You do,” the man objected. “I’m Dalai Tisein. A monk.”

His eyes had compassion. And patient wisdom. He inspired trust. Tai’s body followed him as though at its own accord.

The boy was surprised to see what the monk brought him to: an old Japanese motorbike that stood in the shadow, leaning against a building in a line of other bikes. An old shabby helmet was dangling from the handlebar. The transport was probably unattractive for the local crooks; or maybe they feared the wrath of Buddha.

“Come, Tai.” The monk jumped on easier than could be expected from someone of his age. He started the engine—and handed Tai the helmet.

He could accept it. Or run away. He pondered over this choice for a few seconds.

The monk’s age was hard to tell. He could equally well be in his forties, fifties, or sixties. A lean man, smiling with a full row of obviously false teeth, shaved-headed, he had the eyes of someone who’d seen the world. That was all Tai could tell from his appearance. But this old man wasn’t scary. His presence—and this steady blue light coming from him—was calming.

“Where are we going?” Tai asked, taking the helmet.

“Wat Ko Sirey. Temple of Buddha. Treatment. Food. Shadow. Sleep. Rest.”

Tai climbed on behind the monk, squeaking at how hot the seat was. Even in the shade, the motorcycle couldn’t escape the scorching sun. Thailand had over three hundred sunny days in a year; and each such day was as tropical as it could get.

“Put up with that. It will cool down.”

Tai clasped the helmet. The motorcycle took off at a leisurely pace, entering the heavy traffic on Chalermprakiat Road, unusually crowded as people were making their way to the hospital: to get their wounds treated, to recognize the dead, or to offer their help as volunteers.

Dalai Tisein often had to ride on the sidewalk to bypass the jams. Left-hand traffic was one of the things Tai still hadn’t got used to in this country, but the monk seemed to know what he was doing. The motorcycle was slipping deftly through the jams formed by the vehicles making way for ambulances and military trucks.

Soon Tai’s head began to swim—on top of the itching skin, dry mouth, and nausea he already had. In fear of falling off, he tightened his grip around the monk’s waist and closed his eyes, no longer watching the road or thinking about their destination.

Chapter 4 – Old Temple, New Life

Dalai Tisein took Tai to a temple that looked abandoned and shabby. Not a tourist attraction, it was mainly used by local people. The temple stood on a separate island, Ko Sirey, connected to Phuket by a pedestrian-only wooden bridge.

The two of them had to leave the bike to cross it on foot. Spotting a parking lot next to the bridge, Tai guessed no vehicles were allowed onto the smaller island. Not even two-wheelers.

The walking distance of about a mile drained much of Tai’s strength. But that was not the final ordeal. The temple stood on a hill, clearly visible from a distance. To reach the main entrance, the boy had to climb a crazy lot of stairs, each broad enough for two riders to pass by each other without touching. No real riders or horses there, though; only stray dogs sleeping on the stairs that would often turn left or right, following the shape of a stone dragon’s snake-like back. The dragon’s head greeted the boy at the beginning of his climb, while its once-splendid tail was topping the stairs. Now the giant statue was a puny shadow of its former glory; not painted in a long while and losing pieces of plasterwork.

Ascending the stairs, the boy felt like he was about to drop dead from exhaustion. Dalai Tisein was not even puffing, as if he’d soared to the top like a bird. “Easy, boy, easy,” he said, giving Tai an encouraging clap on the shoulder. “You’ll get used. Breathe. Just breathe.”

He showed Tai the example of proper breathing: inhale through your nose and exhale through your mouth, working your lower belly.

Tai looked around. The temple entrance was guarded by once-gilded, almost life-size human statues. A long time ago, these things probably used to look like golden Buddhas warding evil spirits off this place, but all gold had been eaten away by rains, winds, and lack of maintenance, exposing the grayish-white stone beneath.

Nonetheless, Tai could see a faint glow come from the figures. As if they were night lamps.

“They… they’re glowing,” he said, startled.

The monk smiled. “Oh, really? Good. It means they’re still working.”

“I thought only people had glow.”

“No. Some… some things have it, too. They acquire it through rituals and prayers.”

Tai looked up at the monk. “What things? Dragons? Totems? Why are they here?”

“Just guards. Nothing more. When we have enough money, we’ll put a warrior statue between them. And perform proper rituals to give this place the power of healing and protection.”

“Protection? From whom?”

“From evil. This world has a lot of evil that never sleeps, unlike the good that must be awakened. That’s why we need a warrior.”

“A warrior, wow. That’ll be cool.”

“Why mind the statues?” Dalai Tisein dismissed. “Real dragons live inside humans.”

“Inside? How do they even fit in?”

“Later, Tai,” the monk said, smiling. “Now have rest.”

While climbing the stairs, Tai was surprised by the complete absence of tourists in the temple area. The place seemed abandoned by everyone but the stray dogs sprawling in the shadows cast by mangroves and palm trees, and on the benches. Why is this place so unpopular? Because the way’s so long and hard? Not that it really matters. No tourists will be coming any time soon, anywhere.

There was no one but an elderly sexton meeting Tai and the monk on top of the stairs. The sexton was selling the sacred lotus flowers—a proper sacrifice for Buddha. Like in many Thai temples, you didn’t have to pay to enter the building, but you could buy lotus petals or incense sticks to offer them as a sacrifice if you wished.

Tai’s legs gave way. He grabbed at the dragon’s tail to keep balance. Seeing the boy’s exhaustion, Dalai Tisein squatted down to remove his shoes.

“No, please,” Tai protested. “I can do it myself.” He even bowed his head, but it went so dizzy he barely avoided a fall. His fever, physical strain, and the tropical sun were a strength-depleting combo.

“Breathe,” the monk told him, then removed his own shoes.

As they entered the temple, Tai’s eye got caught by a large bell. He couldn’t help but ring it, producing a melodious sound. He turned to the monk hastily, realizing he hadn’t asked for permission, but Dalai Tisein’s face showed approval. “Good. It drives evil spirits away. The sexton’s too old to ring it every hour as he should.”

“Then I can do it.”

“Good idea. But first have rest. You’ll need your strength.”

Once shielded from the scorching sun by the roof, Tai wiped sweat off his forehead. The temple’s inside was pleasantly cool, the mountain wind fanning its walls. He saw many altars with sacrifices. The temple had no crematorium and hence performed no funerals. An occasional visitor would only come here to pray, or to take some nice photos from the height.

“One day,” Dalai Tisein said, “we’ll have many monks here. We’ll drag a big stone up here and cover it with gold to attract tourists.”

“An ice cream tray can serve us better. It’s so hot here.”

The monk smiled. “Yes. We can use that, too. But a temple’s purpose is not to make money. It’s to serve.”

“Serve who?”

“Buddha.”

Half-lying behind the altars was a golden statue of Buddha. Certainly it was not made of pure gold; just painted in that color, and quite a long time ago. The paint was peeling off in places, with deep cracks webbing all over the statue’s heels and toes.

The figure was rather large, and glowing much brighter than the stair dragon, or the statues outside. Tai walked up and down along the Buddha, struggling to fathom where that glow was coming from. He discovered that the figure was about fifteen feet long and nine feet tall, but no source of light hidden behind it.

“This one’s glowing, too. Even stronger,” he told the monk who looked back at him closely and then spoke.

“Objects of prayers have their own auras. Like trees. Like plants. Like animals. Like any living thing. Sacred places, sacred statues, sacred objects. Many things have more life to them than people think they have.”

“Why can I see it?”

“Because you… you’ve come to have more life than other people.”

Dalai Tisein’s accent was almost gone as he said these words that got carved into Tai’s memory, never to be forgotten.

The temple’s inside was full of Thai religious symbols. Elephants. Flowers. Buddhas. Small paintings portraying the glorious deeds of Buddhist heroes. Old, dusty, and webbed, these colorful pictures still reminded Tai of his favorite comic books. But before he could make sense of the story, his contemplation was interrupted.

A young novice approached Dalai Tisein with a tray that had two cups of steaming liquid. Tai knew just too well how different the local tea was from what people drank in Russia. He hated the violet-blue stuff the hotel would try to pass off as their morning tea. The hot liquid in these cups also looked nothing like green or black tea.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“Herbs. Rest. Cool,” Dalai Tisein said slowly as if he struggled to remember the words.

Tai took the cup without arguing. The smell was weird, but he was really, really thirsty, so he gulped the herbal drink down. The hot liquid burned his lips, gums, and the inside of his cheeks, but he didn’t care as long as it quenched his thirst. He felt like his dried body was about to crumble to hot, squeaky sand—if it weren’t for the drink washing it to keep it together.

The novice bowed to the monk and spoke in Thai. The boy could barely make out a handful of familiar words, so he stopped listening.

On the long flight to Thailand, he’d read a magazine article telling that every Thai man had to spent some time—at least several months—at a monastery. Thai people believed this period of solitary reflection and withdrawal from mundane affairs was what made a man.

As he remembered that, it suddenly dawned upon him, What if it’s time for me to become a man? To serve my time. At a monastery, not in the military. At least they have tea and clean clothing here. It’s better than roam the streets in dirty rags and sleep on a bench with dogs.

He remembered there was no cap on the time one could live in a monastery. It was up to that person to decide. Not only a Thai man could become a novice, a samanera, but any foreigner as well; there were no ethnic restrictions, only a long-term visa requirement. Many Thai people viewed their monastery time as a rite of passage. Others did that to atone for their sins.

“But what are my sins? Have I done anything wrong?” Tai whispered to the Buddha—and remembered all the dishes he’d leave unwashed in the sink. The mess he’d make of his room. The homework undone. And the math test skipped. And those chocolate candies he’d gobbled down and then smeared some chocolate across baby Alyona’s lips to prove her guilty instead of himself.

The glow around the statue seemed to grow brighter for a moment, scaring Tai. He suddenly remembered Dad’s magazine with naked women; he’d stolen a glance at every single picture before putting it back.

“So… so I have sins to be atoned,” he sighed, realizing he hadn’t lived his short life properly.

Tai looked down at his bare feet, then up at Dalai Tisein. He was itching to confess all his sins to this man and then ask him about becoming a monk. The boy was yet to learn that Dalai Tisein was the abbot of this small temple—and one of its three remaining residents.

But it was beyond him to tell about the magazine. He heaved a sigh.

“I must go home,” Tai said, taking his eyes off the Buddha.

“Do you have any family left?”

“No.”

“Then where’s your home?”

“I… I don’t know. Nowhere?”

“Tai,” the monk mouthed. “You’re lost for this world.”

“Why? How?” the boy protested. He’d just been told he had more life than anyone.

“Don’t think about it. Just breathe.”

“But I… I don’t know what to do.”

“And what would you like to?”

“To put things right.” He would do his chores every time. Obey Mom and Dad, whatever they asked him to do. If only he could reunite with them.

“Our temple is a good place to start doing that.”

Dalai Tisein couldn’t tell whether this prematurely grayed boy would stay at the temple, but one thing he knew for sure: over the coming days and weeks, the adolescent would be developing his astral vision under Tisein’s guidance. No one would come here looking for him; not any time soon. Too many other things to sort out for both governments. Enough time for Tisein to heal the boy’s body and soul, and to nurture his mind.

How can I help someone who lost everything at once? Everything but the light in his heart. A resilient light holding up to the winds.

Any tourist or Thai person deciding to become a samanera at this temple would’ve been told to sleep in a dormitory with two other novices. But not Tai. Dalai Tisein gave the boy his own bed, in a separate bedroom in the main building, and put up a hammock in the corner for himself.

There were two reasons for that. The boy’s sunburned body needed soft bedding, but his soul was in an even greater need for heartwarming conversations. None of that could be provided by the novices; they spoke no other language but Thai, which the boy hardly knew at all.

“Everything we lose is given back to us. Just in a different way,” Dalai Tisein told Tai while rubbing an oil-and-herbal mixture into his skin.

“I lost all my family. I’m alone. And I’m going crazy,” Tai said. His back itched so badly he barely contained an urge to rub it against the old man’s fingers. Why are you barely touching my skin? Scratch it. SCRATCH IT!

“I’m seeing things,” he finished and clenched his teeth before he’d beg the monk to scratch him.

“You’re seeing more than other people because of your pain. It opened a hidden room inside you. Now you have a Gift of Loss.”

“A Gift of Loss?”

“A blow that accelerates your heartbeat, and your whole body, giving you strength. The strength you didn’t know you even had.”

“What do you know about Gift of Loss? Have you… have you lost your family, too?”

“It’s not the first tsunami hitting Thailand,” the abbot said, his voice suddenly painful as if the visions of the past were coming up to torment him. “But this one was the strongest I ever heard of. I hope our people will learn from it.”

“Why? Why did we have to face it? Why did I have?” Tai said, his eyes welling with tears.

The monk gave no answer. As he finished applying the ointment, Tai sat up—and saw the sea taking Dalai Tisein’s family in his sad eyes.

This old man had survived the same grief as himself. He really wanted to help. He could be trusted.

“No pain, no gain,” Dalai Tisein said. “But when you’re not ready, an impact like that can break you. And send you to the next lesson earlier than your soul was planning.”

“Why?”

“What happened to you… happens when you have a special destiny to live up to.”

Tai didn’t get it, but asked no more questions. He couldn’t come up with any. His head felt empty, his body pleasantly heavy. The itching sensation was gone. His eyes were closing with an overcoming urge to sleep. He was down on his belly, sprawling over the bed, fresh and smelling of aloe vera (the monks used it to disinfect the bedding).

Dalai Tisein dipped the bandages into the healing potion and applied them to Tai’s sunburned back, neck, and shoulders. Then he pulled a blanket over Tai’s body. “It’s a heavy load. But if you can pull it, you get great strength.”

“Strength,” Tai said sleepily, his ribs feeling the hard wooden planks forming the abbot’s bed. The wood was soaked in oil to repel insects, the scent mixing with that of aloe. His ribs were only separated from the planks by a thin layer of strange material feeling like rough felt. But Tai was too exhausted to care.

He dropped off to sleep.

…and saw giant waves in his dream.

Chapter 5 – First Practice

A calm voice reached him, soft, and measured like a whispering surf. “Тai. Tai.”

Had the ocean not been that brutal less than twenty-hours ago, Tai would’ve loved it. But its calm was deceptive, hiding violence underneath. With his serenity supplanted by anxiety, he had to wake.

His eyes wouldn’t open. Feeling his neck badly stiff, he raised his head slightly. He’d slept the whole night in the same pose, face down and pressed into the thing that used to deserve the name of a proper pillow some years ago. Now it was only a finger-thick.

Thai people would not use the tourist-craved silicone-filled pillows themselves, knowing just too well how bad those were for your neck. After being used for a month, such a pillow would become too hard, constricting your veins and causing headache.

“Tai,” the old monk said. “You’ve slept a day and a night. Get up. You need exercise and food.”

“Yeah. I will.”

But his eyes just closed again. It was not until Dalai Tisein began to rip the stuck, crusted bandages off his back that Tai woke up for real.

“Hey! It hurts!”

Tai turned his head to look at the monk who now had a regular orange robe on, not the mourning-black one. He looks like a tangerine. A good one, not old and wrinkled. You can’t tell if it is soft or hard unless you touch it. Looks are deceiving.

Looks?

Tai looked around—and took joy in seeing no animals next to the monk. His lay brothers also had none. The animal spirits were probably scared off by prayers, incenses, or by the bell that Tai made a mental note of ringing every time he passed by.

Dalai Tisein removed the last bandages. Tai clenched his teeth to contain a scream.

“If you feel pain, you’re alive,” the monk said, putting fresh bandages over Tai’s burns. Then he helped the boy put his tee on. After being laundered by the lay brother, it smelled of aloe vera, like the bedsheets. The aloe vera plants were abundant in the location. Having a knife or a pair of scissors, you could easily collect a full basket of leaves. When boiled with water, they killed all harmful bacteria and bad smells.

The lay brother brought in a tray with two soup bowls. The smell told Tai it was tom yum, the traditional Thai hot and sour soup with prawn he’d come to love in this country. He immediately felt starving and, taking the spoon, began to eat. “Tom yum, yeah? Mmmmm. Love it.”

“Tom yum nabe. With coconut milk,” Dalai Tisein said, taking his spoon, too. He sipped his soup unhurriedly, smiling at Tai’s good appetite. “Gatun’s a good cook. But most of the time we just eat boiled rice.”

“Why?”

“We got few gifts this year. And no tourists will come here for the rest of it. We’re in for hard times. But we’ll put our faith in Buddha and brave them.”

Tai said nothing, just slowed down his spoon.

“You see, my lay brothers go to the local villages to collect food and other things. We’re almost wandering monks, although we have a temple. This is the path Buddha meant for us.

“Your lay brothers? Are you… the abbot?”

“Abbot. Philosopher. Professor at the Prince of Songkla University,” Dalai Tisein listed casually, apparently caring about these titles no more than a tortoise cared about sea breeze. “But on Phuket, I used to be mostly known as a martial artist.”

“Muay Thai?”

“No. Muay Boran. I’m White Tiger. Or rather I was. Now I’m just an old monk at a forsaken temple where I can teach my art without too many eyes watching. This is my path.”