Tombs

One of the early spiritual masters of the world, Yindo, took on an apprentice whose reluctance didn’t perturb the old man. The boy, Timan, was troubled. He was ceaselessly resistant to everything. At home, he fought. At school, he fought. Alone, he fought. There was no peace for the boy. He was left in front of the temple by his parents once their patience had fully depleted. When he was brought to Yindo, he swung viciously at the master. He scratched when his arms were too tired to swing. He kicked when his hands were too tired. He bit when his body was drained and he screamed when his energy was low. Once all his aggression was gone, he was silent.

Yindo wiped himself with a cloth to clean off the dirt left by Timan’s nails and the blood from where his skin had been broken. The student sat up on the floor in front of the master, who stood from his chair. Yindo smiled wide and cocked back his arm dramatically. He swung his arm at the boy and smacked Timan across the temple. Timan was stunned - in total disbelief that this ancient monk who was so tranquil and so still when under attack would raise a hand to him, let alone smacking him at full force.

Timan crashed into some wooden rails and crumbled to the floor. He looked up at Yindo, who was back sitting in his chair peacefully. He smiled at the master and sat back where he was before. He wanted to learn the power that restraint gave Yindo.

“You must nourish your inner peace, Timan.” Yindo taught his student over years of training. “Each of us have a fire within. Your actions and reactions grow this flame. The result is chaos and weakness as the flame burns a furious red. Stillness, however, steadies the flame. This keeps it at its hottest, deepest blue. This is power.”

Timan studied the art of meditation. Over many years, he witnessed Yindo teach many other students, but none like himself. He became a master himself and steadied his flame as Yindo had. Timan reflected on his years and felt gratitude that he had been rescued from what could have been a short, unpleasant life.

As Yindo’s body withered, overdue to meet death, Timan was by his side. He waited many days before the master took his last breath.

“Thank you, master Yindo.” Timan bowed his head deeply in solemn appreciation for his dear friend and mentor.

Yindo’s body was carried by four of the other spiritual masters, including Timan, to a humble grave, where he was buried with no adornments. He believed anything too ceremonial was unnecessary.

Timan returned to the temple and sat beside Yindo’s chair and meditated. In his silence, Yindo came and spoke to him.

“I am proud of you, Timan. When you first came to me, I wondered if you would ever let go of your anger. Now that you have, you must teach what you have learned.”

Timan owed everything to Yindo, and accepted the mission he was given with pride. He invited people from all over the world to visit the temple and train under him. Countless students became more enlightened under Timan’s teachings across the years. As he developed his own stillness as well, his body followed suit, aging more slowly over time, just as Yindo had.

Death did not respect the inner peace, however. Though Timan was perfectly healthy and lived a life of self-care, it came for him many times. He grew ill often, which disturbed his peace as his breathing would become difficult, his mind distracted by aches and pains. Even at his enlightened position, the constant return of ailments frustrated Timan.

Late one night, alone in his bare bedroom of the temple, Timan succumbed to a rather serious illness. When his body was buried beside Yindo’s grave, he found himself in the darkness of the afterlife. As often would happen, in the emptiness, Yindo came to him. This time it was more solid, more real.

“Timan, your time has come.” Yindo said.

“It’s too early, master.” Timan replied, still frustrated by death’s relentlessness.

“You’ve lived a long, wonderful life of great achievement. You should be proud of everything you’ve done.” Yindo turned to lead Timan to a bright light. “Now, come, my favorite student. My son. Let’s experience what is next, together.”

Timan stood with tears in his eyes, head down. He readied his legs and plunged an arm forward into the back of Yindo’s body. Timan refused to die. The awakened resistance within him guided his actions to bring him back to the physical realm. The master choked and spat black blood. Timan pulled from his astral form a small blue flame. As he did so, his own flame was extinguished. Yindo  collapsed in the void, now just a useless shell. Timan still held the flame of his master. He looked at the infinity within it and blew on it, causing the blue to give way to red, orange and yellow. Stillness to chaos. The flame illuminated the world around him and allowed him to find his way back into his body.

A corpse stumbled into the temple, grabbed a mace from the armory and sat in Yindo’s chair until morning to store the flame within. The monks awoke and came to the common area to discover an undead master.

“Timan has ascended!” they announced.

“Timan has descended.” Tombs hung his head. “That name no longer suits me. Call me Tombs.”