Степан Мазур – Tai (*in english) (страница 6)

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.”

“Teach fighting? That’s cool,” Tai said. “But why are you calling it Muay Boran and not Muay Thai? And… and I see no white tiger by your side.”

Dalai Tisein smiled. “You’re right. My tiger’s not here. It’s asleep. And you don’t want to wake it. And Muay Boran—it does exist. It’s much older and more brutal than Muay Thai. The art of eight limbs is for one-to-one combats, but Muay Boran is for war. For facing many enemies at once. It’s also known as the art of nine weapons.”

“So you can defeat a crowd with it?” Tai was so engrossed in listening that he even chewed at the lemongrass, which he never did before. The herb tasted as something between lemon and onions. “Eight are for the limbs, I see. But what’s the ninth weapon?”

“Your head,” Dalai Tisein explained, pointing at Tai’s forehead but avoiding a touch.

In Thailand, it is generally considered rude to touch a person’s head, even if they are a child. Many Thai people believe it can harm their soul. Although the monk had no bad intention, a touch could speak more than he meant.

“Who would you even fight with your head?” Tai considered what he’d just heard.

“You always fight with your head, first and foremost. Even more so when you deal with Birman invaders,” Dalai Tisein said and stood up. “Let’s take a walk. But first go wash your face. If you see any animals, tell me.” Walking away, he muttered under his breath, “No white tiger by my side, huh. Small wonder you can’t see it. It’s been ages. Better let it lie.”

Tai came out into the yard. The day was breaking, the sun barely showing up from behind the horizon, damp stairs descending into wet grass. It must’ve been raining at night. A novice was sweeping his broom through the puddles, the water tanks full to the point of brimming. The harvested rainwater in those elevated tanks was warmed by the sun and supplied to the monastery by pipes; a way to have hot running water without paying any utility bills. The temple had no electricity either; only candles for light and outdoor fire for cooking. And no land tax for a sacred place. That took the temple’s expenses down to zero, but still the building was a sorry sight. Located far away from tourist routes, it attracted very few visitors. No visitors, no income. The temple only survived on the abbot’s unbridled enthusiasm and resourcefulness.

Running the tap over the outdoor sink, Tai washed his face and took a look around. The stair dragon was still glowing; nothing else to report.

As he turned to look at Dalai Tisein, he saw that the abbot was exercising. Lifting his foot easily over his head and resting it against the wall, he was kneading his inner thigh. Dalai Tisein had taken a walk around the temple while Tai was washing his face; now he stood on the sandy practice ground next to the building.

When Tai approached the ground, Dalai Tisein was already striking the rough wood of a ground-mounted pillar with his bare feet, fists, knees, and elbows.

Wow. He’s hitting with full force.

The pillar would’ve long been destroyed by the impact if it weren’t for the thick, oiled rope coiled all around it to protect the wood underneath.

“Doesn’t it hurt?” Tai asked with surprise. Coming up, he punched at the pillar—and immediately pulled his hand away. The coiled rope was almost as hard as wood. Tempered by oil and sweat, by drenching rains and drying winds, it was long beyond restoration to its former softness.

“Pain has many faces. Many levels. By increasing your pain tolerance, you can stop feeling it at all. The worst pain is that from inside, Tai. Don’t you know it?”

Tai nodded, feeling sad. Like hell I don’t. I lost my parents. That’s real pain. Nothing else matters. He hit on the makiwara. The impact made him wince, but he hit again. And again.

Dalai Tisein watched Tai smash his fists. He only stopped the boy when he swung so broadly the impact would’ve dislocated his wrist. “Don’t hurry. Your knuckles need time to adapt.”

“Why?”

“By hitting a hard thing repeatedly, we make our bones stronger.”

“Make bones stronger?”

“Yes. But it takes months of regular practice before you can try to land a really strong blow. Be patient.”

The lay brother brought oil-soaked bandages. Dalai Tisein wrapped them around Tai’s knuckles and showed him how to strike the pillar without getting his hands bruised. “You can’t see the bone transformation. But getting your flesh blue and swollen can put you off practice. And if the wound gets infected, it will be really, really bad for you.”

“I get it.”

Tai’s legs had always been weak. He strongly preferred video games over running around or playing football. He saw no point in striking at the pillar with these lame sticks as Dalai Tisein called them, when his arms were so much stronger. However, the monk insisted on practicing his kicks as well. With his feet taped, the boy would merely touch the makiwara, watching his breath. Nonetheless, it took only fifty swings to leave him gasping for air.

Dalai Tisein stopped him again. “You have perseverance. A warrior spirit. That’s good. But your body’s still too weak. Never forget to warm up. Your heart and lungs need it to work well. And stretching. You must stretch and warm up before you strike.”

“Warm up? How do I do that?”

“Running. It’s best for you. When you can’t run, do sit-ups.”

“Sit-ups. Okay.”

“Come. Let’s do it on the beach. Air’s better there.”

Dalai Tisein ran off and Tai followed, although his tired feet would barely move. The elderly abbot was a surprisingly fast runner. After him, the two novices dashed off, dropping their brooms, with no one but old Gatun remaining in the temple.

They never left the temple all at once.

“Hey, wait for me!” Tai screamed on the run, the wind whistling in his ears. He ran as fast as he could, on the verge of falling, the impact of his feet hitting the hard wood of the deck shooting through his knees. His muscles were itching, but he made himself run another hundred feet. Then another. And another.

When Tai ran out onto the beach (the rocky dirt road giving place to wet sand), his sandals slipped off, and he stopped to pick them. As he reached the three men, they were in the thick of the fight, striking their limbs at each other as though to kill.

The novices whose names Tai didn’t know were attacking the old monk in turns. One brother was mostly using his feet, and another his hands. The boy nicknamed them Hand and Foot.

Dalai Tisein used elbows to protect his head. When Foot lifted his weapon of choice too high, swinging too broadly, the abbot caught his foot and tossed it up into the air. The novice collapsed and rolled on the sand.

Hand attacked. But White Tiger made no move to defend himself. Instead, he counter-attacked with lightning speed, punching the novice’s chest. Hand sank onto the sand, his face pale as he gasped for air.

“Breath. It’s all about your breath, Tai.” Dalai Tisein walked around his defeated apprentice. “Those who breathe too fast always run out of their time. And for slow breathers, life is hard, for they’re too slow and always come late. Seek a middle ground. Watch your breath. It can decide the outcome of your battle. Attack as you exhale. Defend as you inhale. Relax your muscle for the air to come in freely.”

“Is that why they call you White Tiger?”

“What do you mean?”

“You make your opponents’ faces white.”

Dalai Tisein laughed and hit Hand’s back with three fingers. The novice took a hasty breath as his diaphragm relaxed at the impact.

Dalai Tisein whispered him a few words. Hand made a wai and walked back to the temple, still clutching at his chest. Foot followed him, limping.

A long way to come, both of you.

“You have a quick mind and a good eye for detail. Smart boy. Now repeat after me,” Dalai Tisein told Tai and began to show him the moves.

The abbot stared at the turbid waves rolling over the coast. The tsunami had robbed the Andaman Sea of its transparent azure, mudding the water with sand, seaweed, and silt. Somewhere in Phuket, the steel-gray waves were casting ashore dead bodies, stunned fish, and pieces of furniture. Fortunately, the coast where the Wat Ko Sirey Temple stood wasn’t affected that badly.

“What have you told him?” Tai asked as he repeated the monk’s slow moves. Dalai Tisein now seemed to breathe slowly, barely moving his limbs. That allowed him to show Tai the moves in a slow fashion while practicing them.