Степан Мазур – Tai (*in english) (страница 3)

But after the tsunami, all new buildings on the coast would be much stronger, designed to withstand another attack by the elements. This reinforcement would be mandated by law.

Smaller streets were jammed by abandoned bikes and vehicles, but the main approaches to the hospital were cleared to make way for ambulances and military trucks. When someone left their vehicle in the middle of the street, hurrying to carry their injured to the hospital, it was removed by a tow truck, or even by a group of people who carried it aside. No distinction was made between cheaper and more expensive vehicles, and no concern for possible damage to them; the pass had to remain clear.

He walked down the street with a tongue-twisting name of Chalermprakiat Road: it was written on a plate in English alongside Thai.

He took one step after another without really knowing where he was heading, and why there. But he couldn’t stop; that felt like death. Had he stopped, giving in to his grief and pain, more locals would be taking pity on him, like that woman did.

His father had told him that pity kills. So he wasn’t going to give himself any pity, neither accept it from others.

Slava was dead. The survivor’s name was Tai. He was resilient as hell and totally crazy; he was still seeing animals and rainbow-colored people everywhere he looked.

…but not now. Where are they?

Then he saw a group of Buddhist monks.

Standing at the crossroads in their orange robes, they sang prayers, gave comfort to those who needed it, and burned incenses to keep evil spirits away. There were many candles down on the asphalt, dripping their wax like tears over the scattered photos. The strong wind was blowing the candles out, but the monks would light them again, bowing and praying. Several monks were tapping on drums or ringing small bells. These sounds were probably meant to drive evil spirits away—or to drown the wails of grief from the passing crowds.

Tai was surprised at not seeing a single animal around the monks. The animals seemed to avoid the smoke of incense, or maybe the monks’ chanting and ringing bells. Or maybe they were intimidated by the monks’ appearance? None approached them, whatever the reason.

Then Tai saw blue flames around one man’s head. The boy closed his eyes and touched his forehead. I must be having a fever.

But the burning man wasn’t screaming or trying to put the flames off. He was sitting in lotus on the ground, counting his beads, his eyes closed, his lips moving in a quiet prayer. He was dressed in a monk’s robe, but black, not orange. The other monks pretended he wasn’t there.

“Mister?” Tai called to him. “Are you an outcast?”

The monk opened his eyes.

Chapter 3 – The Monk

Тai had no idea the monks in orange robes were from the Wat Chalong temple located not far away to the south, next to Rawai Beach. And the man in black robe came from a remote and little-known temple: Wat Ko Sirey.

The boy walked over to the solitary monk, squinting at the blue flames dancing over his mourning-black robe. The sight was captivating. And not as scary as wild animals freely walking in public.

Could those flames be his soul?

“Savatdi cap. Hung cheu ar rai?”

Tai understood that the first words were a greeting, but the question escaped him. Was the man asking his name? Guessing that, he made a wai and then punched himself in the chest. “Tai.”

“Tai,” the bald monk smiled and suddenly said in Russian, with a strong accent, “A name I least expected. Just as your hair. But it suits you.”

“You speak Russian? How?” Tai screamed in delight, pulling the cap over to hide his recently grayed hair. It was too long to be hidden completely, but he had no scissors to trim it with.

“It has much in common with Sanskrit. I learned many languages at university. Russian was the most difficult.”

“Yes, English is much easier,” Tai agreed. “Can’t you feel that fire?”

The monk stared at him. “What fire?”

“You look like you’re blazing.”

“Tai, what are you seeing?” the monk asked, his eyes following Tai’s gaze as it slid over his head and shoulders. At times the boy seemed to be staring through the monk’s body; then his eyes focused on something behind his back. It didn’t look like he had impaired sight. This boy knew exactly where to look, and what he was seeing.

“A blue glow around your head. It’s dancing like flames. Like cold fire. Does it hurt? Many people were hurt today.”

“No. It doesn’t. It’s the agni of perfect soul.”

“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.