I ran up the stairs to the terracotta temple, skipping the steps. The monk was there, but he was receiving guests. The courtyard was crowded with tourists – while some gazed at the Golden Stupa, where the relics of Buddha rested, others tied ribbons to the spirit tree or bought bricks to write their names on and donate to the temple.

For a few coins, anyone could get a paper with prediction from a fortune-telling machine, and for a larger fee, the monk would personally sprinkle holy water on the visitors and tie rope bracelets on their hands. Tourists were not stingy and willingly exchanged cash for spiritual souvenirs. However, there was a “but”: since monks are not allowed to touch money, the banknotes were placed in the offering box or handed to the cult servant on a stick.

The locals made offerings to the spirits – they placed bunches of bananas at the feet of the clay gods, burned incense and prayed fervently for health, good fortune in business and family life. From time to time some elderly Thai women would approach the spirit houses. They would kneel down and touch the ground with their foreheads and mutter something. Then they started to clean up. They swept away sand with a broom, put rotten fruit, wilted flower garlands, and candle ends into sacks, removed the Fanta from the shelves, that the spirits had left unfinished, and made room for new gifts. Judging by they diligence, the women cleaned the sanctuary willingly and happily.

In the shade of a huge banyan tree in the center of the courtyard, the Buddha was sitting in the lotus posture. I walked around him and approached the tall stupa again – in its niches stood Buddha figures glistening in the sunlight. You could buy a petal of gold leaf and stick it on the part of the sculpture where you were in pain. Judging by the thickness of the patches, tourists and local parishioners were most often afflicted with heart and eye ailments. Noses, lips, cheekbones and below the waist were less densely but thoroughly covered.

I also bought a piece of gold and stuck it on the sage’s shining chest, right on his heart.

The monk came up to me and spread his hands as if to say: “I would like to receive you, but you see I am busy with tourists.”

I decided to wait until he was free, and went downstairs. In the cemetery I found a familiar turret with the picture I had noticed last time and sat down beside it. I wondered if the monk himself had ever been here. What would it be like to know that the body of the person you were has turned to ashes? And how would I feel if I were him?

Unfortunately, I don’t know where my grave is, maybe I was cremated too.

I also thought that if people knew the date of their end, they would probably live differently. Isn’t that why this information is kept from us? It’s easy to act without looking back, when the Grim Reaper is right behind you. But if there is no one around to drive you with a stopwatch, what is the point of changing yourself or changing anything – when the illusion of eternity lies ahead…

No, I don’t want to spur my horses all the time, but I also don’t want to rely on immortality. Otherwise that “someday” you’ve been dreaming about all your life might never come. Look at me: I even managed to die while I was planning to become a writer. But after I died, did I write much on the Island? Not a single line!

I leaned over to the monk’s tombstone and pointed my index finger at the glass:

“Because no one fucking needs it!”

The crows flew from the branches overhanging the cemetery and cawed, awakened by my scream.

“No more excuses!” I heard the voice. “You need it first and foremost!”

I shuddered and nearly split my eyebrow on the ledge of the mirror turret.

The voice came from downstairs in secluded gazebo where Austin had been sitting all along.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you, but you look so much like Hamlet, I couldn’t help myself.”

He came over and sat down across from me.

“Are you seriously hoping for the monk’s blessing? Or are you waiting for him to write you a check so you can finally get to work?”

“I’m not waiting for anything,” I muttered.

“You are,” he patted my shoulder. “And for nothing. Any fool would write a book with that kind of support, but no one needs it.”

“Why are you telling me this?” I frowned.

“How about writing selflessly, not for money or fame, but to know yourself better, to understand who you are, what you really want, where you’re going and why – aren’t you interested in that?”

“What if I have no idea about any of this?”

“You’ll find out.”

“Yeah, but what if I find out that I don’t want anything and I’m not going anywhere, because my motto is: ‘All this is a waste of time’?”

“Well, that’s also possible. But you can’t know that in advance, you said it yourself. I told you many times – the main thing is to start. Yes, it’s not easy; I’ve been through it myself, but it’s better than deluding yourself that you’re already good and only circumstances prevent you from reaching your full potential. Open yourself to the new, be honest with yourself, when you change, the world around you changes. That’s why you came here, right?”

If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

“Oh, you hit the nail on the head as, usual!” I snapped at him.

I’m so tired of this kind of talk! There is nothing worse than hearing from others what you already know, even if these “gurus” are right a thousand times and wish you the best.

“So, what did you want to hear from him?” The artist nodded at the portrait. “That your yet-to-be-written book is nonsense, so don’t sweat it and keep burning people’s brains in the club? Or ‘oh yeah, buddy, you’re a real genius! Your expeditor will read it and burst into tears, when he realizes what a scumbag he is...”

“I just wanted to know who the monk was,” I tried to avoid the unpleasant subject.

“What difference does it make? He has his way and you have yours. You can’t help him, and he can’t help you.”

“But he helped you.”

“The monk told me exactly what I’m telling you: take care of yourself, don’t look at others, otherwise you’ll be stuck in the same place for the rest of your life, suffering from complexes and doubts.”

“Is that all? Is it really that simple?”

“Simple?” Austin laughed. “Then why do most people do the opposite?”

He got up and walked toward the stone fence that separated the cemetery from the beach, where the children I had watched from the arbor had once swum and squealed with joy, were splashing with a cheerful squeal.

“Where are you going?” I called to him. “Can I come with you?”

“You’d better not,” he replied. “It’s going to rain.”

I looked at the sky – there was not a cloud.

“You can’t go there!” Austin repeated. “Debtors can’t leave their zone.”

He swung over the fence and disappeared into the bushes. I stubbornly followed him, hoping to find out what he meant by “zone”. As I climbed up, I jumped down onto the rocks and at the same second, out of nowhere, a torrent of water fell on me. It was as if a sea wave hit me in the face, knocked me off my feet, spun me around and threw me on the beach, but not the one where the children were frolicking. Spitting up sand, I lay at the edge of the sea where Randy had first found me, and where I had regained consciousness while trying to escape from Samchang.

“Lord!” I pleaded. “Again! I’m so sick of it! To hell with this kind of eternity! I’m a miserable insignificant worm. Make it end soon!”

I was shaking all over, I curled up to keep warm, but it didn’t help. Then I jumped up and, without giving myself time to recover, rushed to the massage parlor where Irene had first “tried me out” and where she claimed the girls had taken a liking to me.

I grabbing the first Thai woman I saw and dragged her up the stairs, tearing off her robe as I went.

“I’m alive!” I repeated over and over, as if in a delirium. “I want you!”

The Asian woman fought back, screaming and shouting. A tough guy came running, put my hand behind my back and started pushing me out into the street, threatening to call the police if I didn’t calm down. I wanted to punch him in the jaw, bit I got a knee under my breath and fell into the grass, bent in half. It was as if all the air had gone out of me, just as it had in the White Room, when The Shadow came after me.

“Vik, what happened?” I heard Irene’s worried voice. “Can you get up?”

She dropped to her knees and tried to look me in the face, but I jerked my shoulder as if to ask her to leave me alone. Naive! It’s not so easy to get rid of a woman, especially one like her.

Irene was gone through, but only for a few minutes, and when she came back she started laughing so infectiously that I rolled over on my back and glared at her angrily.

“Ha-ha!” she laughed, pointing at the sign. “Honey, you were in such a hurry, you got the wrong door. It’s a spa, aha-ha-ha!”

“What do you mean?” I remembered the Thai girl’s indignant face and felt both ashamed and amused. Poor girl! What she thought of me! Did I really mix up the signs? Idiot! I should probably go apologize, but I don’t the massage parlor will be happy to see me again, and before I can get a word in edgewise, this Fury will scratch my eyes out. And a second Muay Thai lesson would be unnecessary. I got up and waddled over to a bench in the shade of a bamboo tree.

After laughing, Irene turned serious:

“I can guess why you did it,” she said.

“Why?” Honestly, I didn’t know it myself.

“You know, there are people who always get sick before an important job interview, twist a leg at the finish line, are late for a date, get on the wrong bus…”

“Here we go again,” I groaned.

“Do you think it’s an accident? No, they just don’t know what to do with their success. “Loser,” “number two forever”, “sucker” – they have many names. My father, as you remember, was a heavy drinker. Whenever he got sober, he promised he’d quit drinking, start a new life, but it was just words. One day when he was in delirium tremens, my mother dragged him to the doctor and the doctor said that my father’s health was in a very bad state, his liver was about to die. So my father quit. He didn’t drink for a month. But then he got bored and realized that without alcohol he would have to change everything. So he chose cirrhosis.

Irene fell silent, waiting for me to answer.

“Are you and Austin in cahoots or something?” I grumbled. “Would you stop preaching? Don’t you have enough problems of your own? I’m not your father, so don’t try to save me. Yes, I was stupid, but I can handle it.”

“Are you sure?” She looked at me in disbelief. “You’re so devastated by this outburst. You should get to some rest. Do you want to come visit me? No, really, Vik, I’ve been to your place, but you haven’t. I’ll tell you about the monk. You’re still interested in him, aren’t you?”

This she-devil knew how to hook me!

To be continued