A Final Battle
by Donna Morgan

The old warrior sat by the still water, his eyes closed, his hand on the sword that had carried him through countless battles, his Holy Book clutched to his heart. The sweet perfume of cherry blossoms settled on him like incense in a temple. Indeed, the mountain that stood at his back reached toward the heavens, more majestic and noble than any temple made by man’s hand. The warm spring breeze whispered around him, touching his skin like balm for his aching bones, and in the slight wind, he heard his constant companion sigh to him that it was time to go. The path they had walked together had been long and all that was left was this final battle. The old man had no fear of taking his companion’s hand and moving on. He held his sword tip down, point resting on the earth. He had no wish to combat the death shadow that whispered into his ear. On the hilt of the sword, his hand laid ready to touch his companion’s so they could raise the weapon together and enter Heaven in triumph.

His path had not always been so clear. As he meditated by the water, remnants of his life passed through his memory, reminding him of the full and long journey he had traveled. He had not always known the shadow warrior that stood with him, day and night—this death that stayed constant at his left shoulder. In his younger years, he denied death, believing he was beyond its touch and declaring mortality an enemy he would fight forever. When he began his training for the path of the warrior, he felt the strength and agility of his growing body and imagined himself invincible. His teacher recognized this misguided spirit in him and sent him to visit with men who looked ancient to his young eyes and who introduced him to the shadow warrior he denied.

“Recognizing your most formidable enemy and befriending him is an important step in the warrior’s path, Lan-Teng,” his teacher advised as he sent the boy to visit with men who had been in the world for an age.

In voices as coarse as crying crows, the old men had harangued the boy for his boastful ways. “Age passes over no person,” one of the old ones admonished him. “Age touches our flesh and bones with hands of iron and leaves us as bent and beaten as the wind-blown tree on a cliff top. There is no shelter from this pain and passage, not for us, not for you, not even for the great stone mountain that is worn down to dust by time.”

The old man lifted a hand that showed fingers bent and gnarled and waved it in front of the boy to illustrate the point that denying time and impending death was pointless. He indicated the other old men with hunched backs and shuffling feet, and Lan-Teng looked around him and saw people ready to take death’s hand and step off the warrior’s path from this world and into another. And the young man became very afraid. He was not ready to give in to the shadow warrior and now that his denial was stripped from him, he felt vulnerable, even with his young strong body. He imagined that someday, when he least expected it, death might step from his left side and block his path, and he would walk into the cold darkness and cease to exist.

When he returned to his Sensei, his fear shifted to anger and he demanded to know what use it was to send him to talk with dying men. “They have allowed themselves to become walking corpses!” he hotly contested. “I will not await death in my old age this way. I will go out fighting.”

His teacher answered sharply, “The men you saw are fighting their final battle with dignity and honor. Unlike you, they do not deny the burden that is placed upon all people. They learn to accept the inevitability of death, and until you learn to do so, you will never be a true warrior. You should be honored that they offered to share their hard-earned lessons with you and ashamed that you throw these lessons by the wayside.”

The young warrior carried his teacher’s words with him like a burden. As the months moved into years, he struggled to lose his fear of death but the anxiety weighed on him and held his feet from moving down the path he wished to take. As he learned to use staff and sword, he pictured death waiting at his shoulder like an opportunist, watching for him to fall victim to an enemy, ready to close a cold hand on his throat and take his life’s breath away. Although Wan-Teng faced no tangible enemy in his training, he feared injury and death and his fear slowed his hands and his mind.

Finally, as the young warrior reached his fifteenth year, six years into his training, he realized that his dark companion could rise in a crisis and compel him to succeed in battle. Lan-Teng was traveling to a neighboring town when he met a group of bandits on the road. The five men surrounded him and demanded that he empty the small pack he carried. The young man looked at each of their faces and read desperation in their eyes, a sign of truly dangerous men. He pulled bread and cheese and fruit from his bag and held the food before them.

One of the men scoffed at the meager contents of the pack and struck the food from the warrior’s grasp. The thief’s touch set off a raging fire in the Lan-Teng and his hand went immediately to the sword that hung concealed under his travel robe. His will to survive against the marauders quenched any mercy he might otherwise have felt, and he realized then that the knowledge of death at his side provided a source of power and the ability to overcome anything that threatened to end his life before its time. He spun like a whirlwind and two of the men lay on the road, their hands clutching mortal wounds. The other three had backed away with a new look of desperation in their eyes—a fear of this young warrior who stood before them with burning eyes and a sword like lightning.

More years passed and Lan-Teng felt he had harnessed death to do his bidding. No longer did he deny that death traveled with him on his path. Instead, he welcomed the power that sprang like a fountain of lava, burning away anything blocking his path to survival. He thought nothing of handing over his enemies to their own death companions, and many times he heard the last breaths rattle in throats clamped tight in death’s hands. The warrior became known throughout the land for his bold approach to fighting and the swift retribution he dealt out to those who crossed him. He recalled his childhood fears of death and decay as nothing more than meaningless nightmares. The old men in the temple, bent with age, became ghostly figments of his imagination.

During this time, the young warrior requested that his Sensei let him strike out in the world. He was surprised when the teacher agreed. His confidence bloomed and he moved about the countryside in great bold strides, challenging all who confronted him. People gave him food, drink and shelter, afraid to look him in the eye as he took the best meats and sake, and Lan-Teng felt more powerful than ever before in his life. As his fame spread, he traveled to the coast of his island home and stayed for a season, watching the ships come and go. As autumn approached, the warrior looked across the rolling sea and felt the distant mainland pull at his heart. He could see the distant shores in his mind’s eye and imagined a place where he might gain further renown for his skill with the sword. The young man stood under a great oak tree and as dying, red-brown leaves drifted to the earth around him, he laid his hand on the hilt of his sword, feeling the energy there, and decided to journey to the land across the sea to seek adventure and fame. His heart swelled with the prospects that lay ahead.

A breeze brushed a falling cherry blossom by the old man’s face and brought him back to present time. He opened his eyes and looked out for a moment across the placid lake, relishing the blue sky and still water, so different than the choppy, white-capped sea that had attracted him in younger days. An old man’s joy is changed from that of a young man, he thought contentedly—the joy of seeing another spring, breathing in the fresh air, witnessing the blossoms open to the warm sun. Along his path, he realized that the power he felt as a young man was false. While death had become a useful companion, it also proved to be a cruel acquaintance. The old warrior closed his eyes again and remembered how he learned a lesson he had felt was unbearable in his younger years.

Days on a ship brought Lan-Teng to the shores of the mainland and he traveled through a new world throughout the autumn. The young warrior prided himself on standing alone, independent of others and able to walk away from a fight triumphant and with no regrets. He reveled in the respect he received as word of his prowess spread from village to village in this new land. He walked among the local people and brandished his sword like a trophy.

As winter rolled across the land with icy breath, Lan-Teng traveled to the west, where he met a small band of horse herders on the high steppes. The nomads were camped on the high grassy plain, their tents surrounded by the sturdy horses that defined their lives as they migrated across the land in search of grazing and water. The warrior came upon the people on a particularly cold day, and they welcomed him to their tents, preparing him hot tea with mare’s milk. He sat with the men of the camp and shared tales of his travels and the battles he had fought, and he felt at home as they laughed and talked.

Late in the evening, he walked with the leader of the group and looked at the horses cropping the short winter grass. As the men passed, the horses raised their heads and quietly watched, blowing steamy breath into the cold air. Behind the herd, the warrior saw a movement in the twilight, and a young woman walked toward the herd, leading a mare and foal. The grey mare limped slightly and kept her head close to the woman’s shoulder while her black foal walked close behind. The young woman carried herself with confidence and, as the men passed, she turned to look at them with dark, piercing eyes. Turning back to the mare, she laid her hand on the animal’s neck for a moment then turned her loose into the herd. With that, the woman turned away and faded into the twilight, walking toward one of the tents.

The nomad chief anticipated the young warrior’s question. “She follows the herd with the lame mare each time we move. I tell her the horse will not heal, but the girl clings stubbornly to the thought of healing her. The mare and foal are all that is left of her family, and our horses are of great value to us, so I will not force her to leave the animal.”

Lan-Teng stayed with the horse herders for the remainder of the winter, enjoying the company of the people and the animals. From a distance, he watched the young woman work with the lame horse and he marveled at her patience and perseverance. Each day she walked the mare and treated the hoof and leg with a liniment of herbs. As the days passed, the mare showed some improvement and occasionally she ran with her foal, flagging her tail high and snorting as if to challenge the wind that swept across the steppe.

Early one morning, as the sun rose over a distant mountain and touched the frosted ground, making it sparkle with silver, the young warrior met the woman and her mare in the fields.

“I am glad to see your horse is improving,” he said in greeting to her.

“Yes, she is getting stronger, but she longs to run too soon,” the woman responded, keeping her eye on the gray mare as she cantered across the field, tossing her head and nickering to her dark foal. Then she sighed and added, “I cannot keep her tied all the time or her desire to run simply grows stronger.”

She turned and looked at the young man. “I have heard your stories by the fire, warrior. I have seen such eagerness that is absent understanding, and it consumed my family. You are as impatient to run as my horse and you have as little thought of the repercussions of your actions. The mare would feel her power and overuse it to the point of hurting herself. Be careful that you do not do the same.”

The woman’s words stung the warrior, but he had no chance to respond as she strode away, leaving small dark footprints in the frosty grass. He did not speak to her again until the day he left the nomads and found himself once again fleeing the power granted by the death shadow at his shoulder.

Winter broke and the grass began to green as water flowed from snow melting in the distant mountains. Lan-Teng began to wander from the camp, sleeping among the trees of the forest or in the fields and sliding into his lone way. The spring winds warmed his blood and the desire for adventure sent his thoughts across the grassy plains toward the mountains. Word of unrest in the villages had reached the nomad camps. The harsh winter left many villagers cold and hungry, desperate for respite from dark days that had brought disease upon people. Groups of men from the village began roaming the hills in search of game or wild plants to stave off the starvation that threatened their families.

Lan-Teng wandered the steppe with his eyes to the distant mountains, returning to the nomad tents less and less often. The woman’s words of warning echoed in his thoughts, but he shoved them down, yearning to feel power again. He had continued to watch the woman with the mare, and the horse had lost most of its limp and now joined the herd as it galloped across the grassy land. The warrior often found himself following the herd, enjoying the energy he felt when their hooves shook the earth and raised dust that swirled behind them like a spirit rising to heaven.

As he watched the horses this day, the animals raised their heads from grazing and looked at the hills in the distance. They heard the four men approaching long before Lan-Teng did, and they tensed their bodies, tight as springs, poised to flee the intruders. But the men slowed their progress and approached the horses carefully and quietly. The men wore the clothing of poor villagers, threadbare pants and coats with many patches. Under hoods that hid most of their features, gaunt faces peered out showing little emotion beyond grim determination. As they crept toward the herd, they did not see the warrior under a tree at the edge of the field. One of the men approached a bay horse and stroked its nose then slipped a noose over its head. Next, a younger man, barely older than a boy, reached for the gray mare and held a rope for her.

The young warrior sprang out of the grass, raising his sword and was upon the startled men before they could react. The sword flashed in the sunlight and severed the boy’s hand from the rope he held at the mare’s nose then flickered against the boy’s chest, cutting through his shabby coat and exposing his thin, white torso. As he fell to the ground screaming, one of the other men rushed toward Lan-Teng, his eyes wild with fear and rage. The warrior stepped deftly aside and his sword found the back of the man’s neck and the man dropped to his knees and fell forward without a sound. The others in the raiding party had already begun running toward the hills, and the horses thundered toward the nomad camp.

The warrior turned back to the boy on the ground, whose cries became weak as he clutched his injured arm to himself. Blood spilled from his arm and chest onto the grass in a reddish-black pool that spread beneath him—like a great dark hole that threatened to swallow him. Lan-Teng could see death reaching for the boy and he felt a twinge of regret for his part in ending a life so young. Now that the boy’s hood and coat were open, the warrior could see that the boy wasn’t much older than he himself had been when his Sensei has sent him to visit the aging warriors who had told him that death bypassed no one. The boy on the ground turned his head and looked at Lan-Teng, and the warrior could see great fear in his eyes. His mouth formed soundless words as his life poured out onto the earth. He stopped moving as his eyes clouded and his lips froze in the midst of his silent plea for mercy. Lan-Teng wiped his sword blade on the jacket of the grown man lying facedown amidst horse tracks and blood. The warrior silently cursed the man. Why had he brought a mere child into a situation that called for battle? “Yes,” he thought, “the boy’s blood is on him, not me.”

As the old man by the water recalled these memories, he shed a tear that rolled down his cheek like a tiny pearl and disappeared. His actions that day had started a chain of events that shattered the clarity his youthful mind had achieved about his role in life as a warrior. Men from the village had returned in the night, seeking vengeance for the deaths the young warrior had caused. In his mind’s eye, the old man could still see the destruction he had brought down on the people who had befriended him for the cold winter season. When Lan-Teng had come to the chief with the story of the horse thieves and his action against them, the leader had not been pleased.

“We have had to deal with these villagers in the past,” he told the young warrior, “and we have decided when there was to be bloodshed. We chose the place and the time to work in our favor. Now you have left us no choice but to fight men who are not being offensive but defensive of one of their own children. The situation is entirely different, and we must be especially concerned that there are soldiers from the north who have stayed in the village for the winter. Now these soldiers have an excuse to attack and take our horses for their own. They have awaited this opportunity. There will be much blood lost tonight.”

The young warrior, the chief and other men from the camp waited in the dark, aware that retribution was sure to come. The warrior placed himself at the outskirts of the camp, so that he might see the first arrival of the enemy and gauge their strength for himself. In his mind, he pictured the women and children huddled in the skin tents, surrounded by the restless horses, and he pictured the woman’s face as she worked with the ghost-like mare in the mist. He tried to regain the sense of confidence he had felt the first time he had fought for his own life amidst bandits on the road, but as he thought of the people he had come to know over the cold winter months, he instead felt vulnerability and the potential for loss.

In the distance he saw torches moving up the hillside, a line of light that seemed to stretch for miles. Clouds had descended from beyond the mountains and blotted out the stars and moon, leaving the spring night as dark as pitch. “They are fools,” he said to himself, “lighting their way with torches and making themselves moving targets.”

Lan-Teng knelt among a thicket of young maple trees, looking out from the closely standing trunks as though through prison bars. Indeed, he felt his earlier acts had backed him into a corner that he would have to fight to escape. Upon hearing a rustling sound at the edge of the field, he turned his head quickly and focused on the dark, willing his eyes to pierce the veil that shrouded the night. Three deer bounded into the field from the brush across the way and ran toward the opposite hill. In a few moments, Lan-Teng saw another black form, moving stealthily through the grass, looking like a massive shadow that blended with the night. Perhaps the soldiers were not so foolish; they had sent scouts ahead! The warrior slowly arose from his knees and moved gently toward the open field. He had no idea how many dark scouts would come, but if he could prevent it, none of them would reach the camp.

Lan-Teng’s sword made the sound of a whispering breeze as he pulled it from the scabbard in an arc that sliced up the scout’s side and back down on his neck and shoulder. He hit the ground with a thud but he had no time to make any other sound. As the young warrior moved back into the trees, the moon broke through the clouds for a moment and sent a shaft of light across the field. Lan-Teng thought perhaps the gods were showing the other warrior he way home. The light disappeared as quickly as it had come and Lan-Teng again focused his eyes and ears on the surrounding darkness. He dispatched two more scouts before the torches drew close enough that he felt he should go warn the nomads. When he found the first circle of men set up to defend the camp, they had already killed two other scouts. Three more had escaped, they said, and the group decided to fall back closer to the tents and horses.

The party from the village arrived like a swarm of bees, far outnumbering the men who defended the nomad camp. Some of the villagers were armed with roughly made spears and clubs, while others carried pitchforks and knives. Meanwhile the soldiers carried swords and staffs and bows that sent stinging arrows into the night. The invaders lit the nomad’s tents and speared anything that moved. The squeal of horses filled the smoky air, while the burning tents shone like beacon fires in the night and sent the horses fleeing, along with the women and children who found few places to hide in the melee. The men of the camp stood back-to-back, swinging swords, grappling with their hands and fighting with the ferocity of animals. When the fighting was done, the sky was graying in the east and a pale, weak light crept onto the steppe. The soldiers had rounded up many of the horses, just as the chief had said they would and had driven them toward the village. The nomads were too few in number to follow. The warrior walked among bodies of men, women, children and horses and recalled the words of the woman said as she compared the horse and the man, “She would feel her power and overuse it to the point of hurting herself. Be careful that you do not do the same.”

Lan-Teng found the young woman beside her mare. The horse was stretched on the earth, a spear through her chest, her legs curved under her as if she had hit the ground in mid-stride. Her foal walked in circles and nickered softly. As the warrior approached, the woman raised her head, looked him in the eye and said, “Do you now understand what your rash actions can do? A flick of your sword can touch the lives of others long after you are gone. You behave as thoughtlessly as a child! You must learn to stay your hand and decide whether action is necessary. Had you stayed your sword, our chief would have dealt with these villagers in his way and his time. But now death walks among our camp and touches us all. How many lives has your hasty action hurt?” she demanded.

The warrior longed to speak in his defense. He had only been trying to save her mare, but he had failed through his haste to use his sword to settle the matter. He stood silently and watched her kneeling over the dead horse, the ashes from the burning tents falling around them like snow, covering them like a sign of the sorrow he had wrought. He turned and left the camp without looking back, unable to face the grief his swift rage had brought upon these people. The wind caused the ashes that covered his shoulders and hair to drift away behind him and settle on the grass. He wished he could lose as easily this newly discovered awareness of the darkness carried by the power on which he had depended for the last few years. His thoughts turned to his Sensei and he longed for his wisdom. He decided to take the road back to his teacher; he did not know where else to turn with the confusion that filled his heart and mind.

The old man by the water sighed at the memory and as his mind returned to the present, he became award of the hilt of sword that fit as naturally in his hand as if it were part of his own body. Those many years ago, when he had returned to his teacher, he had cried bitter tears for the wrong path he had followed. The words he had exchanged with his Sensei came to his mind as fresh as if the man had uttered them just moments before.

“Sensei,” the young man mourned, “I thought I understood my place as a warrior, but I have made poor decisions. I thought I understood my relationship with the dark companion who travels with us each day, but the power I gained from my awareness of death has betrayed me.”

“My student,” his Sensei responded, “you have formed your relationship with only half of what a warrior should know and understand. You are young and you will not forget the lessons you have gained. Now you must focus on the other half of the warrior’s existence, not death but life. You must find a path that balances light with the dark side of what you must do to survive. You must appreciate and value living more than mere survival.”

Lan-Teng shook his head and looked away from his teacher, feeling he would never gain the knowledge of which this man spoke.

The Sensei understood his thoughts and said gently, “It will take time, Lan-Teng, to understand how to balance our actions. If we all arrived in this world understanding these mysteries, what purpose would we have? You must withdraw from the world and live by yourself to discover who you are and uncover the path of your heart. Meditate on it daily. For it is that path that will lead to the life you are meant to lead. No one can blaze your path for you. A warrior does this alone.”

And the teacher walked away, leaving the student to ponder his words. Lan-Teng traveled the countryside again, this time avoiding confrontation, watching and listening and trying to capture a glimpse of the path meant for him. He felt blinded by the conflict between death and life that raged in his heart and mind. He could not find the connection between the light and dark, as images of dying children, the speared dead mare and the tear-stained and accusing face of the mare’s mistress arose in his mind’s eye. He wandered for days, fasting and sleeping under the trees in the woods. He spent hours each day in meditation, but he was unable to find peace.

As spring spread her cloak of flowers and soft green leaves across the land, Lan-Teng came upon a cove surrounded by blossoming cherry trees. He sat at the edge of the lake and looked out across the deep, calm water. Reflected in the water the snow-capped peaks of a great stone mountain shone as clearly as if the mountain were painted on the water. He felt surrounded by a great calm strength as he gazed at the reflected stone and snow and felt the mountain’s presence at his back. The wind stirred and fragile cherry blossoms floated down from the trees, covering the ground in soft pink. They fell slowly like the gray ashes from the burning tents at the nomad’s camp, but in these drifting blossoms the young warrior noticed a difference. He remembered the ashes as a symbol of death and an ending, but these cherry blossoms held a promise of transition to fruitfulness and continued life. The tiny blooms, so delicate and soft, contained more strength than the deadly sword he had wielded all these years, the young man thought with some surprise. They lived and their purpose was clear to them and, in their wisdom, they dedicated and sacrificed themselves to their cause. Rather than clinging closed and tight to the tree where they would be protected, they opened themselves in full glory, taking in the sun and rain and wind that eventually brought them down to the earth. They knew that death stood waiting for them but they did more than survive; they lived! In their living was the greatest strength Lan-Teng had ever witnessed. The blossoms did not dwell on their mortality only on the time they were given to burst forth with fragrance and color that served their heart’s path and carried forward their life’s purpose.

The young warrior picked up a blossom and breathed across it in his hand, causing the petals to dance. He laid it gently on the ground and pulled his sword from the scabbard. He held the blade pointed up and breathed on the metal, the moisture from his breath leaving a bit of fog that slowly faded away. In its place, reflected from behind him, the snow peaked mountain appeared pointing to the heavens along with his blade.

The old man opened his eyes again. The memory of the first time he had found the cove and the mountain overwhelmed him and tears flowed from his weak, tired eyes. Here, he had discovered the long path of his heart. Here, he had picked up his sword again and raised it to the heavens, declaring its purpose to protect life and serve God. Here, he had read and studied God’s word. Here, each spring, he had returned to witness the miracle and strength of the cherry blossoms, willing himself to walk a path as pure and direct as those delicate flowers. The joy in his heart sang, even as he knew he neared the end of his path.

His final enemy had come upon him. Age gripped him in an iron fist and he had come to the cherry tree cove, the place of his awakening, so that it could serve as the place of final rest. He had come to take the hand of his long-time companion. He awaited death’s dark touch with no regret, no fear, for each time he picked up a cherry blossom, he felt he touched a hand of light as well. Knowing God had freed him from a fear of death and allowed him to do more than survive. He had lived, using his sword for light and deliverance of the small and weak, and now he yearned to fall to earth as softly as the cherry blossoms in spring.

The old man looked to the lake again as cherry blossoms rained down on the reflection of the great mountain, breaking the white snowcaps into rippling shards of light that flowed toward the reflection of his sword with his wrinkled, bent hand on the hilt. In the rippling water, the sword shone like a cross, surrounded by the blue sky, cherry blossoms and the great stone mountain. The warrior sighed and closed his eyes. He had seen God in the mountains, the water, the blossoms and he smiled. Gentle as the tip of a feather but sharper than the edge of his blade, he felt a shadow brush his hand that held the hilt of the sword.

As he drew a last soft breath, a breeze danced across the lake and caressed his face with mist, then lifted a flurry of satin pink cherry blossoms that danced toward the great mountain in the rising current. On the still water, a multitude of pink blossoms floated in the fading evening light, small lanterns paying tribute to a life well lived.