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Chapter 42: Silver Fox Meditation
🕑 Added 2023-07-22 07:00:03 +0000 UTCMarkens had been unusually quiet in the week since their meeting with Mupali’katana, which was to say, he was silent. The only exception being their meeting with command where he delivered their report. Since then, it was all hand signs. Not even a grunt or a chuckle.
Thunk
Ren’s arrow hit true, deep into the edge of the bullseye. He was finally getting used to the new bow. He pulled it free and joined his mentor by the fire. Tomorrow he would be the one hunting.
Markens looked up but said nothing, turning to stare at the fire once more and gave the coals under the cook-pot a poke with his little stick.
“Are they that bad?” Ren asked. “The Black Claw Wolves?”
The silence that followed dragged on so long that he gave up on the hope of conversation.
“I suppose you don’t know much about Aether Beasts, eh?” Markens’ wisp of a voice could almost have been the crackling hiss of moisture in the damp firewood. “Normal Aether Beasts, while bound to their natures, become wiser as they draw closer to Awakening. They are clever, and can be cruel, but they have a certain nobility, and tend to find balance with the natural world, if not with the human world. They draw power from that connection, and while they can feed on the power of other lifeforms, they take only what is on the surface. Black Claw Beasts follow a demonic path. They will feed and feed till nothing is left. They take not just from the body–it is said they feed on the soul as well. They can awaken too, but their wild nature is made only more cruel and more cunning. They hunger endlessly, it is said. And where they settle, the land slowly rots and twists, like an infection.”
Markens ripped off a mouthful of smoked meat and looked up to the first stars as they shimmered into the sky. “They are a threat to us all. Legends have it, before the first rifts opened, the only cities that had walls were the strategic ones. Back then, the walls were for other humans, more than beasts. The great work of the Red Dragon Empress was to reclaim the dominion of humanity across the known world. Along the spice road, most demonic beasts are dealt with by the contractor’s guild. Ardus, in all our wisdom, limits the presence of contractors, so that duty falls to the military most of the time. They are dangerous, Ren. Truth is, if you weren’t our key to cooperating with Mupali’katana, I wouldn’t let you come at all.”
Silence reigned as they finished cooking and watching darkness swallow the sky. It continued as they ate, as they cleaned the cook-wear, as they set up their bivvy’s, camouflaged their campsite and set a few noise making traps.
Once they were bundled up in their sleep gear, Markens spoke again. “It’s a good opportunity, now that I think about it. If you get assigned to a patrol unit, you’ll want to be able to read the signs to steer your unit away and report to Command. Usually, that stuff waits till you’re in a unit working under a lead forester or scout, but you’re ready.”
“You really think so?”
“Ready to start learning, at least. Your precision could use some work. The chances of you breaking through an Aether Beast’s hide is slim. Once you hit the very center of the bullseye every time, you can aim reliably for their weak points.”
“Like the eye?”
“The eye. Ya, that’ll work on most beasts, but not all.” He stroked his stubble. “But it isn’t our job usually. There are special units for those kinds of hunts. That’s half the reason they offer cultivation resources for merit points. And when it’s really bad they call in the Asbar or the Irregulars.”
“That reminds me,” Ren said, now sitting up with rapt interest, “what is the deal with General Malik?”
“Huh?”
“You know, isn’t he seventy years old or something?”
“Oh, that.” Markens cracked his first smile in over a week. “Ya, he used to be an Asbar. One of their leaders. They say when he fought he was equal to a hundred trained soldiers. A properly ranked Paragon.”
“So he’s a cultivator?”
“Yup.”
“What about Captain Lurron?” Ren leaned forward.
“Not as such. From what I’ve heard, he’s a True Master with his big ol’ blade. But no cultivation, as far as I know. He’s only in his mid forties and he looks to be in his fifties to my eyes.”
“So, how strong is he?”
Markens scratched his stubbled shin. “I don’t really know. I’d say, he could beat some cultivators in a one on one fight. Depends on the match up. But when you get that attuned to your weapon, your Will joins the Great River in battle. I’ve heard he can cleave a cultivator’s techniques open with the edge of his blade. It’s good to watch this kind of stuff. The more you read a human’s strengths and weaknesses, the more you start seeing the world that way. If you ever stumble on an Aether Beast, being able to read its movements and presence could save your life. Alright, that’s enough. You take first watch, and don’t get too deep in your books.” He winked and lay down, bundling up in his bivvy.
Ren sat with that for a while. He’d never imagined he’d meet anybody that powerful besides his uncle. Though now that he thought about it, he had no idea what the limits of Irah’s powers had been. He’d always used them for pranks and showy tricks, or to emphasize a story by causing the wind to slam a shutter at the most dramatic moment.
What would it be like to slice open a wall of fire with nothing but a sword?
Then Marken’s advice echoed in his mind. Strengths and weaknesses. He’d pretty much given up on the Silver Fox Meditation at this point. But he hadn’t spent too much time reflecting on Mupali’katana’s words. Maybe the secret was somewhere in there?
Ren started forcing his Qi along his pathways, as the scroll instructed. At this point he had the sequence memorized, he just couldn’t hold it together long enough to complete even one full cycle. He backed off. Maybe forcing it was the issue.
He was a part of the forest—an image of the surrounding lands filled his mind. Trees stretching out for leagues in every direction. Rotting logs, bushes, flowers folded up for the night, critters scurrying, water running, branches swaying. His ears opened to another layer of sound, of the world around him. The patter of tiny footpads on bare earth, the singing coo of an owl in the distance, the tinkle of snow particles flying with the breeze. The slow rise and fall of Marken’s chest. His own breathing. It all joined together. Just like music. All one song. It was like when he did his Wind Tickles the Leaves Meditation while he played the ney. It was all one thing. He breathed out and the trees breathed in, each savoring the breath of the other, an unbroken circle. The moon rose as he meditated, and Ren used the light to read the phrases on the scroll.
…
The fox lives in the dark to see what is hidden.
The silver fox is daughter to the moon.
The moon’s shadow tells more than its light.
…
Finally, he began cycling his Qi, not letting go of his internal vision of the forest and its song and his place in it.
The energy flowed smoothly, looping and weaving and circling back to his center and up again, and out to his skin so his hairs stood on end.
His ears opened. It wasn’t that he heard better, but he heard more deeply. The owl was masking a wound–it was clear as filtered rice wine by the slight catch at the end of its coos. The baby bunny was lost, separated and looking for shelter. The snow tinkling off of leaves and trunks was the perfect cover for movement.
His eyes opened and his gaze was soft, focused on nothing. But he saw more. Saw the way the wind was twisting between the trees, blowing the branches of the one on his right one way and the branches of the other tree another way. The way a shadow got even darker as something moved within it. The rabbit he’d heard.
The coals left an acrid stain on the air that nearly blotted out the taste and smell of the forest, but as through a haze, pine and clean air, and the fresh bite of a broken branch.
Even the feel of the wind on his skin and the ground beneath him became novel and informative. And he turned inward, into the sore muscles, and tightness across his left hip. The twinge in his left ankle. The dwindling warmth in his limbs and his dantian. He slowly released the meditation and smiled.
#
The first deer Ren shot twisted his guts even worse than the rabbit had. But this was the only path forward.
After the butchering and stowing was done, Markens took him to the edge of the badger’s territory.
“Look here, Ren,” he said, kneeling over a patch of bare earth. “Some powerful beasts won’t leave signs you know how to read directly.”
He looked closer, seeing nothing more that stirred up mud from the melting of snow. Taking a breath, he cycled, settling into his fox meditation—he’d been practicing all day and now he could successfully enter the state in about half the time. Random twists of drying mud revealed deeper depressions that guided the flow of the wet ground as it refilled its holes. Several different patterns popped out to him, all moving north with haste. One, he was a deer, one was so shallow it had to be a rabbit or rodent, but the other, he couldn’t quite parse out. He followed its direction past the mud to harder frozen ground then finally to a rock with a padded paw print. “Leopard?” he asked.
“Very good. As you can see, we have signs of haste, all moving one direction, even the predator. Take a second to observe the angle of the print on the rock.”
Ren, his Silver Fox Meditation still active, barely had to glance. All the signs he’d seen to this point stuck clearly in his mind, burned in with interconnected significance. “It paused to look back here. It wasn’t chasing, it was fleeing.”
Markens raised an eyebrow and nodded. “At this rate, you’ll be the one doing the teaching soon enough.”
#
They observed more indirect evidence of the interlopers, then set up the usual targets on the trees.
Today, Ren was focused on hitting the very center of the bullseye. If that was his only hope of being useful, he needed to master his precision. His training today was slow and deliberate. pausing to take time to line up his shots.
Thunk
His arrow slammed through the target, into the tree, making the branches shake. Still off to the side. A shot that would have made him proud a month ago was no longer good enough. Anything short of perfect wasn’t good enough when it meant the difference between hitting an eye or bouncing his arrow off a thick skull.
He slowed down. Breathed. Centered himself. A flash of green caught his eye and he looked to find tiny leaf buds emerging from the waving branches. He’d been so focused on tracking and training, he had almost missed the coming of spring.
His dantian was still low on Qi from training his meditation, but he had enough for a moment. Enough for a shot.
He cycled, opened his senses, felt the slight breeze on his skin—the breeze that was pushing his arrows off track, felt the extra pliability in the bow from the warmth of the sun, the elasticity of the string from the airborne moisture of melting snow. He cut off the meditation.
Ren had more insight now, but he couldn’t risk depleting his Qi again. He shivered at the thought. There was no paladin candidate to save him this time if the containment formation broke down.
The wind gusted gently, fluttering his curly hair. He slowed down even more. Breathed in, and exhaled his awareness out, touching the forest, the ground, the trees, the wind, the budding leaves, the early flowers, the bird singing somewhere behind him, the rhythmic grind of Markens’ knife on a whetstone. Wind Tickles the Leaves.
He was a part of the forest. His bow was a part of him, his arrow, the target, even the wind. Ren inhaled and drew his arrow back. Exhaled and projected his intent to the target, his breath a silent whisper to the wind. Then he loosed.
Thunk
He approached the target. Dead center.
The next shot was halfway between the center of the bulls-eye and the rim. Not good enough… but better.
#
Mist blanketed the valley floor, softening the sound and light of morning. Bright green baby leaves drifted in and out of view with each step on soft soil. Winter’s snow had given way.
Ren pulled back on his heavy recurve bow. Slow, controlled, in time with the song of a bird so the creaking of wood and sinew was masked. He extended his awareness to the wind, to his feet, to the straining weapon in his hands, to the biting pressure on his fingertips, to the shrouded outline of a deer—the gap under its foreleg. A shot straight to the heart. He could do it. Breath left him slow and controlled at the top of his draw.
Claws on wood. Leaping bounds echoing.
The deer froze. Ren froze. Then his target ran, and he spun his aim, not to follow the deer but up into the tree where his eyes followed vibrations, lightning quick, to a shadow above.
“Peace, friend,” said Bargan’Atar. “Sett Mother awaits. I shall lead you to our home where we will part ways. She shall accompany you while I remain behind with the little ones. It is time for the hunt.”
