Short Stories

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LOST AND FOUND


The frigid, gray clouds hanging low in the watercolor sky finally spit a few snowflakes upon the struggling man beneath them, a tired, half-broken man limping and scooting his feet across the frozen ground, a man more dead than alive. He seemed to walk with a cane or branch, but closer inspection showed it to be a rifle, and, indeed, his clothing was a military uniform, his rank a Gunny Sergeant in the United States Marines. A soldier without an army, alone, injured, in the vast, frozen Korean wilderness. A man on the knife-edge of death.
The Sergeant didn't know where he was, or how long it had taken him to reach this point; all he knew for certain was to put one foot in front of the other and escape the enemy behind. He stopped for a breather, leaning against a frozen sapling to take his weight from his leg. His foot, actually. The bullet had ripped through the toe of his boot and separated the sole from the uppers. What else it may have separated from his foot, the soldier had not had time to ascertain. The fierce pain of his injury had been replaced by the dull ache of frozen flesh, and he decided that gangrene could not attack until it thawed out. An unlikely prospect, he decided, looking at the ice world around him, wisps of snow blown about by the incessant wind. His eyes carefully searched his back-trail, eagerly seeking his pursuit, but it seemed to have fallen behind. Also behind was his patrol, every man dead, though the number of days past he could not remember. The soldier demanded of himself to stay alive, that he might return to claim them.
Satisfied that he was alone, the warrior returned to his stumbling gait and shuffled into the coming darkness. Numbed by the bone-chilling cold, the man did not think, he just concentrated on putting the back foot in front of the other one, he did not count the steps, he just made them, one more step meaning one less, somehow.
How long he had been seeing the flickering glow he did not know, but his brain recognized it now. A fire! It had to be. And how many of the enemy must he kill to get at it? Didn't really matter. Maybe he could pass them in the darkness. With as much stealth as he could muster, he crept close to a snow-covered bush and carefully peered around it. There was a fire all right, and just one man sitting before it, hunched over under a black cloak. The soldier slowly brought his rifle up, checking the action, then to his shoulder, where he placed the front sight blade on the back of his enemy's head. "Piece of cake," he thought as he squeezed the slack from the trigger.
Nothing happened. No explosion, no click, nothing. "Frozen," he thought, but he had checked it and knew it wasn't. A mystic chill went up his neck, a chill much colder than the air around him. The Sergeant had dismissed it and was contemplating his physical ability to sneak up with his bayonet when the figure suddenly stood, turned to face him, and waved a bony white hand, inviting him to the fire. Because the man had turned from the fire and was wearing a hood, the soldier could not see his enemy's face.
Alarm bells should have been going off in the warrior's head, but if they were, he couldn't hear them. Thinking only of the warm fire, the Gunny Sergeant stumbled forward then remembered that he had a chambered round in his crutch that could go off, although it hadn't. He stopped and cleared the action, watching as the shell ejected, in slow motion, firelight flickering from its shiny brass casing. It fell at the feet of his enemy.
Enemy? The soldier felt no fear, only a pacific calm that washed through his body and gave him a peace that he had never known. As he approached the fire he watched his non-enemy remove his cloak, fold it and place it on the ground, a warm place for the soldier to sit. Gunny struggled to see the face of his benefactor now that his hood had been removed, but the pure whiteness of the robe beneath gave forth an aura so bright that the soldier had to squint his eyes against it. He turned his head and shuffled to the offered seat.
The old Korean, for that was what he was, turned to the pot on the fire and filled a bowl from it, and then offered it to the soldier. It smelled wonderful, and the soldier idly wondered how long it had been since he had eaten. He brought the bowl to his lips and drank of the broth, marveling that here, in the middle of nowhere, this man had made such a meal. So occupied with his eating, the soldier did not really notice when the man knelt before him and touched his injured foot. Then he noticed the pain of warming flesh and looked into the face of his companion.
He was old, older than the hills, though no wrinkle showed upon his face. His long hair and moustaches were of the purest white, like his robe, his skin the color of old ivory, his eyes black as obsidian. But it was his face that the soldier would never forget; total peace and serenity made it glow like the moon, as face as old as time and as new as tomorrow. The soldier could not look away. He watched, in total amazement, as the old man's fingers gently touched his injured foot, a touch he could actually feel, unlike the frozen lump of flesh he had walked on for days. The warrior looked again into the face of his benefactor and that was the last thing he remembered.
The soldier awoke to a morning sun and a fire that was but ashes. He was wrapped, snug and warm, in the old man's cloak, but its owner was nowhere to be seen. Gunny climbed to his feet and found that he could stand, even walk, but he was afraid to look at his foot, afraid that the slightest element of doubt would change that. It was an unfamiliar feeling for the soldier; up to now he had only believed in himself. He donned the cloak then started to reach for his rifle, then stopped. It didn't work anyway, and wouldn't that be a denial of the miracle? He shook his head. Miracle? When had he started believing in them?
The soldier cast his eyes around, looking for signs of the old man. He found his own footprints coming to the fire, but only another set going away. How had the old man gotten here without leaving footprints? Yet another mystery for which he had no answer. "Never look a gift horse in the mouth," he remembered his father saying. So be it. With no other direction or idea in mind, the soldier started off, following the old man's trail.
The Gunny Sergeant walked on through the bright chilly morning, his footprints treading upon those leading him. Although his foot caused him no pain, he was still weak in the rest of his body, but at least he was warm. The cloak he wore was of a material he had never seen or felt before, and although it was light of weight, it successfully countered the bitter elements. He stopped at the edge of a clearing and examined it more closely; it was unremarkable except for an odd pattern down the front of it, a pattern in gold thread that, to the soldiers untrained eye, looked almost like runes or hieroglyphics. The warrior shrugged. No use trying to explain it, just use its warmth and be glad. He no longer looked behind him for a pursuing enemy, for if he had, he would have noticed another mystery; there was only one set of footprints behind him, his own.
The day wore on and the soldier grew weaker, but he kept following the old man's footprints because he believed that they led somewhere. After all, he should be able to keep up with an old man, even a mystical one. As evening approached the Gunny Sergeant was on his last dregs of energy, but at last he saw his destination, for the footprints seemed to lead to a small compound of buildings less than a half-mile away. The sight of it caused the soldier to redouble his efforts, and as he grew closer, he recognized the building for what it was. He had been in Korea too long not to know a monastery.
This was a very old monastery. Not only did it feel ancient, it looked ancient, although it was in apparent good repair. Was there anyone inside that would give him aid? Or, had his last expenditure of his will brought him to his death? He stumbled forward and pounded on the tall wooden door.
The door creaked open to reveal a group of young monks who faced the soldier without fear. Then their eyes went to the golden symbols on the soldier's borrowed cloak and they broke out in a cacophony of Korean, bowing low and ushering the warrior in. He collapsed into their waiting arms as darkness overcame him at last.
When next the soldier awoke, he found himself in a small but clean room lit by candles and oil lamps. The smell of incense was almost overpowering. A flicker of motion at the corner of his eye drew his attention, but it was only someone leaving the room. A few moments later a large man, an American, entered the room. He was dressed as were the monks, in a plain black robe.
"So, our patient is alive, just sleeping the last seventeen hours," the newcomer announced. "I hope my English is still good, I've not heard it in two years."
"Where am I?" Gunny finally managed to get the words out his mouth.
"I really couldn't tell you, Sergeant, because I don't know myself. Not to worry, though, the monks will get you to safety as soon as you're able to travel."
The soldier gave him a confused look. The tall man continued. "I came here two years ago, just like you, stumbled in, wounded and broken in spirit. I was an Army Medic, a Conscientious Objector, and when I recovered, well, I just stayed. There is a peace here, a feeling I've been looking for all of my life. There's no one in the States to miss me, so I stayed."
Gunny felt a chill and noticed for the first time that his wondrous cloak was gone. The Medic noticed his consternation and commented. "That cloak you were wearing caused quite a stir. The monks believe that it belonged to Zien-Li, the Most Revered, the man who built this monastery." The Medic looked into the soldier's eyes, to gauge his reaction. "Eleven hundred years ago."
Gunny's eyes flew open. "But, I saw him, he fed me, gave me that cloak, led me here!"
The Medic patted his shoulder. "I believe you, Gunny, and they'll believe you too."
Gunny slumped down, lost in his own thoughts.
The Medic gave him a moment, then spoke. "Come, the dinner is ready, and I imagine you could use a good meal. Only, it's not Turkey, as tradition demands."
He saw the lost look on Gunny's face, and then the realization hit him. "You don't know, do you?" The Medic gently asked.
"Know what?"
"Today is Christmas Day."

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