Two riders threaded their way through the snow-laden branches of the pine forest. The leading rider, on a brown horse, was a grand-looking man with a red fur-lined hat and cloak. Following him seated on a grey horse that was certainly too large for him was a boy dressed in a dark blue hat and cloak. Occasionally, the boy would lift an arm to shield himself from the whiplash of pine branches.

“How many schools was that, Mao? What number are we up to?” said the man with an evenness that belied his absolute disappointment.

Mao focused on his father, his daydream shattered.

“How many schools have I had to pull you from now?”

Mao shrugged, “Don’t know, don’t care.”

“Of course you don’t, little boy! Little boys never care in the slightest! That was the fifth school in the last three years that has failed to impart the slightest bit of care into your head!” Aramond bit his lip to prevent himself saying any more until the fury had subsided.

“Are you treating my words like earside breeze again? Do you know how much trouble I’ve gone through on your behalf?” Aramond said, after they had gone another mile.

“I was perfectly happy staying at home, father,” said Mao.

“Oh, fine! Terrific. And what will become of you then? You are the son of a warlord. How do you expect to carry yourself in my world if you do not learn a decent amount of martial art?”

“Granddad doesn’t make a big deal of it,” Mao said quietly.

“Pah! That old fool always makes a big deal of the inconsequential, and never enough of what is truly important.”

“That is a matter of opinion, father.”

The duke cast a baleful eye at his son, and lapsed into stony silence. When they got to his castle, he enclosed himself in his rooms, and did not come out again until he had thought of the perfect solution. He could not force his son to learn the art, but there were certain people who just might be able to persuade him. And Granddaddy, the eternal pacifist, could hardly disapprove …

~~~

The grey-robed monk led the two arrivals through the vast, rambling grounds of the temple. When he got to Seiskein Monk’s room, he knocked and waited by the side. Silos Seiskein opened the door. He was an imposing man dressed in red and gold robes. His white beard flowed, and his bald head shone.

“Two newcomers to see you, master,” said the grey-robe.

Seiskein frowned upon the two boys.

Mao stepped forward, and bowed. “Master, I am Mao Aramond, and I was sent here by my father, Duke Aramond, Warden of the North. Here is a letter.”

Seiskein took the envelope and removed the letter. Shaking it open, he scanned it.

Seiskein looked at the other boy, who was dressed in clothes that looked like they once belonged to a scarecrow. He had on his shoulders a bulky canvas knapsack.

“This is my servant –”

“There are no boy servants here,” said the tall monk. “All disciples are required to serve themselves. You must send him back.”

“I can’t do that, master,” said Mao. “My father got him to be my peer companion.”

“Really? If he’s a peer, why is he in rags?”

“That’s because he’s really a commoner. My father bought him off this old couple a few days ago … and … um –”

“Ah-huh –”

“Yes. He thought if I had a peer companion, it would motivate me to learn better.”

“There will be no need for such here,” said Seiskein Monk. “Send him back.”

“I can’t do that! If I send him back, then father will most likely have him returned to his old grandparents and they have five little ones to look after, as well as a sick one. They will have to pay father back the first sum, and lose the wage he sends them.”

“I see,” said the tall monk, his dark eyes hooded and glittery. He came to a decision. “Well then, I shall take him to see Greson Monk. He will no doubt find him something useful to do while you train with us. Come along.”

Seiskein strode away so fast that the two boys had some trouble keeping up.

They stopped at one of the smaller courtyards. A pile of firewood and a chopping block with an embedded axe took up half of it. There was a door from which steam billowed, and the aromatic smells of ginger and herbs and spices wafted.

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“Come along, little boy,” the tall monk said to the ragged child. He led him into the vast room filled with stone stoves, steaming pots, tables of vegetables, all attended to by servants dressed in the simple brown jackets and black trousers which made up their uniforms. A large monk bustled towards them, dressed in the usual yellow over which he had a large brown apron to mark his rank as kitchen taskmaster.

“Greson, I have a little worker for you.”

“What?”

“This is Mao’s servant.”

“So?”

“Find him something useful to do.”

The big taskmaster picked up the boy’s thin arm. “What am I supposed to do with him? How can I expect him to do a man’s job?”

“I will leave him with you then.” Seiskein stalked off without giving Greson a chance for further protest.

The scarecrow-kitted boy looked up with hard-eyed fearlessness at the big monk who rubbed his shiny head thoughtfully. His impressive black beard bristled as he muttered to himself.

“Well, I hope you are stronger than you look, little boy. What is your name?”

“Keiham Lam, master.”

“Well, Keihan, let’s go and see about getting you some suitable clothes.”

They left the steamy kitchen with its crowd of hot-faced servants. Greson was large and bluff, but he was not unkind. The hour he was supposed to spend making sure the vegetables were cut to the right size and the water hot enough before they were put in, he spent finding something suitable for the little chap to wear. Everything was too large – he selected the smallest jacket and trousers. He would just have to grow into it! He cut a strip of material to tie around the little boy’s waist and decided that would have to do. Then he cut his hair into a more manageable length.

“Hungry?” The taskmaster took him to where the servants ate, and left him with a big bowl of soup and rice buns. A short while later, a troupe of servants came to set the tables for the junior disciples’ evening meal. After Greson had sorted them out, he went to Keihan and said, “I won’t ask you to do anything today, but report to me tomorrow morning at the first stroke of the bell. I will have thought of something for you to do then. Now, let me show you where the servants sleep.”

He led the boy to the room behind the kitchen. It was a large room. Pallets lined the floor and bunks were built into the stone halfway up the walls.

“Oh dear, I haven’t thought this through. There doesn’t appear to be room for you here. Tell you what, if you don’t object and your little master doesn’t object, I see no harm in you sleeping outside his room.”

He picked up one of the pallets from the floor with one arm and tucked a pile of blankets under the other, and led the way. After some enquiry he found Mao’s room in the junior residential courtyards and left Keihan there after reminding him to report at the first stroke of the morning bell.

The room was very small. There was a bed, a desk, a chair and a small chest for clothes. There was just about enough room to store the pallet under the bed. The windows and doors of the rooms in this part of the temple were bare wooden frames with paperless slats, unlike those of the senior residential hall and the monks’ quarters.

Keihan dumped the canvas knapsack he’d been lugging around onto the desk. After a while, he thought he’d make himself useful by emptying the contents onto the desk and ordering them. The few clothes and personal items he stowed away in the chest, and the rest were books which he put into a neat pile. He recognised some of the titles from home, and so making himself comfortable in the furthest corner of the room (hidden from casual passers-by), he occupied himself with one until Mao finally showed up.

“All’s well?” said Mao.

Keihan nodded.

“Settled in, have you?”

“I feel right at home.”

Mao laughed. “We shall see. Anyway, the main thing is, you are inside Shaolin, not outside.”

Again, Keihan nodded. “Thanks.”

“No need to thank me,” said Mao waving his hand dismissively. “That monk sure can talk. I thought he’d never get to the end of his sermonising. Anyhow, I better get a start with my sleep. The first bell is at some godforsaken hour! Hey, where are you going?”

“I sleep outside this room.”

“You can’t do that! I’ll have a word with Seiskein.”

“I sort of got used to sleeping on floors and outside,” said Keihan. “Really, it’s no trouble.”

“You did? Well, it makes me uncomfortable.”

“It’s a better option than the servant’s dormitory between the kitchen and the latrines.”

“You can’t sleep outside. What if it gets really windy and cold, as it does this high up –”

“It’s no trouble –”

“All right, enough already,” said Mao. “Here’s what we do – compromise – how about – you don’t sleep on the outside, but on the inside, and I don’t go to Silos Seiskein this very minute and demand they give you the emperor’s guest suite?”

“Sure,” Keihan laughed. He pushed the desk and chair as far back as they could go, and rolled out his bed and blankets. The two boys settled themselves and went to sleep for the first night in Shaolin.

~~~

In his room, Seiskein Monk finished his work for the day, and tidied the papers on his desk. He picked up Duke Aramond’s letter and read it again:

Honoured and Venerable Masters of Shaolin,

I am a man of blunt words so I shall speak my desire straightforwardly. This is my son Mao Aramond. I have sent him to several excellent schools of martial art but in each one he has failed to grasp even the most simple of Forms. I know my son well and this is not due to lack of ability. Given a choice, he would rather spend his days with a book in his hand and be like his grandfather. However, it is my determination that as a scion of his lineage, he ought to have some proficiency in martial art. Shaolin kungfu is of the highest order, and although you have a tradition of not allowing it to be used for warfare, nonetheless, it is highly desirable for defending oneself against enemies. My son does not realise it yet, but by his birth alone he has many enemies and should be taught to defend himself. So, here is the deal: you impress on him the importance of this, and train him in your art, then, when he becomes a man, if he so chooses it, he may receive ordination with my blessings and my worldly goods. He is my only son and heir.

Humbly and respectfully yours,

Dao Aramond, Warden of the North