his hair in defiance of convention, Amala grew, shaped, and sometimes even painted her fingernails. She was an oddity — a non-presence at most.
“Yes, Amala,” said Woo.
“Amala couldn’t control anyone.”
“You are 15, correct?”
Amit nodded.
“Plenty old enough to know better, then.”
Amit blinked, unable to follow the discussion. As was often the case, Woo was speaking in circles, darting down blind conversational alleys to confuse him. Maybe even that was part of Woo’s control. His words themselves seemed to make little sense. Control was like the slap: something done to him. At the same time, Woo was arguing that Rafi (who apparently controlled Amit) had permission to do what he did. It was a contradiction. Amit could usually follow his teacher’s logic for a while, but ended up with a headache. It was a sly way to win debates — confuse your opponent with riddles until he surrenders in frustration.
“Do you understand?”
Amit felt like an idiot, with a burning need to save face.
“Yes,” he lied. “You are saying that I allow Rafi to do what he does. But the comparison does not follow, because I did not allow you to slap me.”
“Yes. You did. Same as you allow Rafi to insult you. Same as you allow him to raise your temper like a puppeteer at your strings. You are a trained monk. When you are centered, you should be impossible to sneak up on. Yet when you are not, you have no perimeter control whatsoever. You soil your training when your emotions are toyed with. Rafi pokes you because he knows you will react — the attention and twisted breed of respect he demands — and when you allow yourself to give that reaction, you give him control. And when you become confused by my arguments and cannot shake your anger, you give me control. It is all your fault, Amit. The same as it was your fault that you weren’t there when your whore mother’s throat was opened.”
Without thinking, Amit raised a hand. In slow motion, Woo’s forearm slapped into it, his large hand flattened for a third slap. In the same moment, Amit extended his right leg and speared Woo in the side, causing his sensei to flinch and pull back. The entire strike and counterstrike happened in the space of less than a second.
Woo rolled back into place, smiling.
“How did you do that? What did it feel like?”
“I saw you move. It was simple.”
“How simple?”
As they sat together on the grass, Amit realized that he felt perfectly calm, like the surface of a glassy pond. It was amazing, how subtle the switch was to flick. He could feel a peaceful almost-smile on his lips, and found that it felt better than his earlier scowl.
“Beyond simple. Obvious. I felt as if I took several cleansing breaths before striking you.”
“I did not allow you to strike me, Amit. I was prepared. That was impressive.”
“Didn’t you allow it?” said Amit, smirking.
Woo ignored the smirk. “Did I not make you angry?”
“I saw your taunt like an offering on a plate. I did not accept it.”
Woo nodded. “As it should be. Remember, Amit, your anger is like my teaching. You should not dismiss either. There is rage within you, and while the abbot would tell you to meditate until you rise above it, I will not. You must tame your anger. Make it a dangerous animal, able at a moment’s notice to attack on your command. Even the most vicious dog, if properly trained, should never attack its master.”
Amit nodded. Feeling serene, he could pick out the distant noises across the green as he sat in the grass. The breeze was warm, and felt soft on his skin.
“I am in charge,” he repeated.
Woo nodded. “If you can learn that — to retain your rage but to hold it like a weapon, and never use it rashly, but always with forethought and logic — you will be formidable indeed.”
Chapter 13
P RESENT D AY
A LFERO ’ S SOLDIERS OPENED fire. He knew they’d shoot the windows first:
“Yes, Amala,” said Woo.
“Amala couldn’t control anyone.”
“You are 15, correct?”
Amit nodded.
“Plenty old enough to know better, then.”
Amit blinked, unable to follow the discussion. As was often the case, Woo was speaking in circles, darting down blind conversational alleys to confuse him. Maybe even that was part of Woo’s control. His words themselves seemed to make little sense. Control was like the slap: something done to him. At the same time, Woo was arguing that Rafi (who apparently controlled Amit) had permission to do what he did. It was a contradiction. Amit could usually follow his teacher’s logic for a while, but ended up with a headache. It was a sly way to win debates — confuse your opponent with riddles until he surrenders in frustration.
“Do you understand?”
Amit felt like an idiot, with a burning need to save face.
“Yes,” he lied. “You are saying that I allow Rafi to do what he does. But the comparison does not follow, because I did not allow you to slap me.”
“Yes. You did. Same as you allow Rafi to insult you. Same as you allow him to raise your temper like a puppeteer at your strings. You are a trained monk. When you are centered, you should be impossible to sneak up on. Yet when you are not, you have no perimeter control whatsoever. You soil your training when your emotions are toyed with. Rafi pokes you because he knows you will react — the attention and twisted breed of respect he demands — and when you allow yourself to give that reaction, you give him control. And when you become confused by my arguments and cannot shake your anger, you give me control. It is all your fault, Amit. The same as it was your fault that you weren’t there when your whore mother’s throat was opened.”
Without thinking, Amit raised a hand. In slow motion, Woo’s forearm slapped into it, his large hand flattened for a third slap. In the same moment, Amit extended his right leg and speared Woo in the side, causing his sensei to flinch and pull back. The entire strike and counterstrike happened in the space of less than a second.
Woo rolled back into place, smiling.
“How did you do that? What did it feel like?”
“I saw you move. It was simple.”
“How simple?”
As they sat together on the grass, Amit realized that he felt perfectly calm, like the surface of a glassy pond. It was amazing, how subtle the switch was to flick. He could feel a peaceful almost-smile on his lips, and found that it felt better than his earlier scowl.
“Beyond simple. Obvious. I felt as if I took several cleansing breaths before striking you.”
“I did not allow you to strike me, Amit. I was prepared. That was impressive.”
“Didn’t you allow it?” said Amit, smirking.
Woo ignored the smirk. “Did I not make you angry?”
“I saw your taunt like an offering on a plate. I did not accept it.”
Woo nodded. “As it should be. Remember, Amit, your anger is like my teaching. You should not dismiss either. There is rage within you, and while the abbot would tell you to meditate until you rise above it, I will not. You must tame your anger. Make it a dangerous animal, able at a moment’s notice to attack on your command. Even the most vicious dog, if properly trained, should never attack its master.”
Amit nodded. Feeling serene, he could pick out the distant noises across the green as he sat in the grass. The breeze was warm, and felt soft on his skin.
“I am in charge,” he repeated.
Woo nodded. “If you can learn that — to retain your rage but to hold it like a weapon, and never use it rashly, but always with forethought and logic — you will be formidable indeed.”
Chapter 13
P RESENT D AY
A LFERO ’ S SOLDIERS OPENED fire. He knew they’d shoot the windows first:
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