A well-respected farmer who raised hogs and grew the valley's richest tea had reported a man-cat crossing his fields, a giant as lithe as the mountain cat his bronze skin resembled. An up-river fisherman had reported a huge, hairy ape on the riverbank, undoubtedly a descendent of the valley's ancient Great Apes. But a far-ranging, practical-minded hunter discredited these and other reports, having on several occasions sighted a black-haired westerner skulking in and about the Teak Wood. Of course, folk disregarded the hunter's reports in favor of more fanciful ones, particularly those of the women who worked the rice paddies above Po--young women who had somehow acquired the most detailed information.

They claimed he was a bear changed into a man (or was it a man changed into a bear?) by the magic of the Temple Masters, and giggled mischievously as they took turns describing his height and reach, the breadth of his shoulders, his well-defined musculature; especially his matted chest hair--a feature uncharacteristic of their own men which, when later repeated, resulted in no end to whisperings and gigglings as they waded the fields, planting their crop. To pass time, they made up adventures for him and, when questioned further by the infuriated men, became strangely silent and distant. Male discomfort delighted them profoundly.

The Bear-man stories grew in popularity through summer months of inactivity between planting and harvesting, eclipsing all other speculation and rumor. In time, the Bear-man might have attained the immortality of a legend, had it not been for the deathblow struck against it by the jealousy of men.

At summer's end, as was their custom, the valley-people gathered in the village of Po for market day and the Harvest Celebration. This year, of course, they spent more time gossiping about the mysterious Bear-man than conducting necessary business or performing religious observances.

But the irate husbands and betrothed of the mysteriously knowledgeable women gathered at the wine-seller's stall, watering their anger with rice-wine.

"This Bear-man makes fools of us all!"

"Our women make fools of us!"

"But, what if it is a skin-changer among our women?" The ancient beliefs dwelt close to the surface.

"What if it's a man? Among our women!"

"It is a man, I tell you," said Jun, (the betrothed of Tass, the loveliest, and now most distant, of rice-paddy maidens).

"You mimic your uncle well," said his rival, Dax.

"Superstitious fools!" Jun retorted.

"Very well," said Dax. The others laughed. "Our disbelieving hunter has a shadow who speaks."

More laughter.

"Listen to me, all of you," said Jun. "Can you imagine Tass and her sisters holding audience with a skin-changer?"

"They would run home, shrieking like owls," said Dax, inadvertently supporting his opponent's argument.

"Would they?" asked a young husband. "Daemons can be convincingly human in appearance."

"And most beguiling," said the wine-seller. "Why I remember once as a boy . . . "

From respect for his advanced years, they were forced to hear his tale out politely, though it only disturbed them the more, and solved nothing.

They drank rice-wine, shook their heads, and muttered oaths. Clearly something had to be done!

"We must go to the elders."

"This is no matter for the elders."

"True. Broaching the subject in village council would only disgrace our women."

"They have already disgraced themselves."

"And us!"

"Or been beguiled!"

They drank more rice-wine.

"This creature must be tracked and slain."

"My uncle," said Jun.

The hunter. Who better? Man or daemon, his arrows would serve.

As villages were not to his liking, crowded ones still less, they found the hunter at the crossroads just outside Po's gate, sitting on the pedestal of a once powerful god--Ogg, Po's defender, fallen into large chunks of marble, vine-covered and worn. The hunter oiled his bow and watched their approach, his unsold pelts spread at his feet.

They bowed in greeting and his nephew spoke for them. The hunter listened patiently till Jun finished.

"Are each of you certain you wish to know the truth?" he demanded. "What ever it might require?"

They earnestly assured him that they did.

"Then, first, we must establish his identity."

"And his nature," said one of the husbands.

"They are the same."

"And then we will track and slay him?" asked another eagerly.

The hunter smiled grimly. "We?"

"But who can name him?" asked another.

"They whose creature he is," said the hunter. Their perplexed faces made him laugh. "He haunts Old Man Mountain."

"Not the temple masters!" someone realized.

"Their servants," said the hunter.

"B-but, question the servants of the Jiijanni?"

"They will have our heads on spikes!"

The temple had been a place of worship for the valley-people, abandoned centuries earlier when their revered ancestors turned from worshipping the old gods to worshipping nature. Then came the Jiijanni, swordmaster-magicians who had lived there now for generations, unseen, unvisited; their ultimate purposes unrevealed. It was guessed that they trained soldiers for the Divine Sun-Emperor. Or assassins. Or spies. No one knew for sure. No one wanted to know! The people of the mountain-rimmed valley were simple folk who did not meddle in the business of their subtle and reclusive betters-at least not ordinarily!

"Tch!" said the hunter. "Even the Jiijanni are not above nature's balance, in which our women's honor has no small place."

A middle-aged husband waved his hand urgently. "When I was a boy, my grandfather told me, when he was a boy, they impaled a man for begging alms at their gate."

"Tales to frighten children," the hunter retorted, stiffly. "The old gods are dead. We shall discover how just their progeny may be."

Led by the hunter, they cornered the temple servants who had come down off Old Man Mountain, as they did each fall, to purchase food and supplies for the winter. Who was more nervous, the temple servants or his followers, the hunter could not determine.

Learning more from temple servant silences than temple servant answers, they finally deduced that the so-called Bear-man was (as the hunter had always maintained), a westerner--in fact, an outlander from the northern wastes who had been on the mountain studying the Way of the Sword with the Masters of the Old Temple long before the rumors started.

The observant and insightful hunter refrained from an I-told-you-so! and was, from that day forward, highly regarded in the valley.

The Village Elders, hearing what had happened and fearing reprisal as of old, vigorously chastised the young men for their brashness in thus confronting the temple servants, and denounced the hunter as an instigator.

"So. You will do nothing," said the hunter.

"Nothing?" said the Village Father. "On the contrary, we shall do our utmost to restore harmony between mountain and valley."

And so shall I, said the hunter to himself.

He was seen leaving Po and not returning. A woodcutter spotted him on a path that climbed into the upper valley where Old Man Mountain meditated in the mist.

All day long and into the next, the elders hounded the young men who had acted so hastily and unwisely until, repentant, they sent abject apologies back with the temple servants, and comforted one another by promising, in future, to keep closer watch on their women.

By the close of Harvest Celebration, it was generally decided that, whoever he was, this outlander was clearly a dangerous man, a fool, or both.

The youthful Outlander, bear-like indeed in the muscular physique and beard of early manhood, moved with a mountain cat's sudden grace this morn as he danced the Daijii, practicing the Way of the Sword alone in his retreat, a secluded Teak Wood glade, high in the Mystic Mountains.

He flowed smoothly from stance to stance, soft-footed, knees deeply bent, back straight, centered, relaxed; supple as a Panthian acrobat. His slim, curved longsword whirled about his head, low about his ankles; darted side to side, front to back--everywhere at once in swift, circular, continuous motion.

Sweat soaked his wide-legged trousers and the cloth-bands at his head and wrists. It beaded in the black hair of his beard, shoulders, chest, and forearms. His body glistened as he and his sword danced in the sunlight. And the sun, peeking over Old Man Mountain's bald head, struck sparks from his clean bright steel in such rapid succession that he appeared to be encased in a sphere of glittering stars.

Over the years in Ty Shing he had achieved proficiency in the Jiihai, the Dance of the Sword, far beyond even his wildest childhood imaginings. The longsword, his jiitaana, had become as much a part of him as hand or arm. He danced the Daijii with a degree of power, speed and control previously unseen in one of his years. A youth holding the rank of Ty Warrior? Unheard of!

So what was missing? Why the sense of loss deep inside? Why the prodding at his conscience in the Jiihai of a Far Eastern morn?

Trust in the One!--his father's words out of the past, quoting the Great Book; echoing now, years later, in his mind. Years? Only three. Yet it seemed a lifetime since he sailed out of the North aboard his father's Sea Horse, Emmit Anderson's impetuous young son, Jorgan. Not a nameless outlander! Test the things you are taught! --his father's words resounded in the emptiness.

Empty yourself and reach out, the Jiijanni taught. Reach out and embrace the Cosmos --bae'en'ii. He had tried. Had he at last succeeded? Perhaps. He felt empty.

Was it possible?

He stopped in mid-dance. The whirlwind dispelled. Motionless. He had ignored too much here in Ty Shing.

Against all training, the jiitaana dropped from his hands.

He fell to his knees and turned his face to the One in silent prayer.

He had not prayed in a long, long time.

From within the temple, the largest of the gongs sent its deep, elongated note resonating throughout the grounds, heralding noon. Outlander had always imagined the multi-tiered roof, with its familiar copper tiles, green in age, as a huge bell vibrating with sound.

God help him, he loved this place. Must he leave it? Surely the One would prefer His Truth spoken in this place to His servant's flight.

Grand Master Woo Ling Ly sat cross-legged on his mat within the garden's brocaded walls, pruning thorns from his rose bushes as the shadows lengthened across his world.

A light breeze, the first indication of fall, stirred the glass chimes above the garden gate, reminding Outlander sharply of spring-ice crackling in his northern fiord.

"When engaging an opponent, you must be as the wind," the Grand Master commented to no one in particular. He often recited maxims or posed quatzaaks, the Far East's beloved paradoxes, for the edification of his students during leisure time.

"Master, what if your opponent has been trained in like manner?" asked a student. Several had surrounded their teacher that afternoon.

Master Ly quoted, "If you move with the wind it ceases to be wind. For--"

"--you become the wind," Outlander interposed. Had he become Ty Shing? That would not be pleasing to his father, or safe for his soul. Yet he had risen from shunned and resented novice to Ty Warrior. That was a gift of the One, surely. How far might he yet rise if he stayed? Ty Mastery? Outlander drew his jiitaana and placed it on the ground before his teacher. "Grand Master. If the point of this blade were to represent sword-mastery, and the pommel the beginning of one's training, where am I located along its length?"

"You do not know?" asked the Grand Master.

The students drew closer, eager for their aged mentor's wisdom. Questioning one's progress was taboo. The Outlander had always exhibited greater boldness than they when it came to asking questions.

Outlander lowered his head. "I wish to know," he persisted, "and I am ashamed that I do not,"-the form of Far Eastern humility. For some time now he had been able to converse fluently, even think in the Far Eastern tongue of formal patterns and tongue-twisting inflections.

"You feel no shame in this," the Grand Master observed. "Nor should you. The day will come when you shall answer your own question. On that day, you will be closer to the point."

Outlander considered this for a time, lulled by a fountain's lilting music and the sharp-edged snip of the Grand Master's shears. Ty Shing's tranquility should have held him at this point in his development, but his seafarer's restlessness had long since launched his first excursion into the valley in violation of temple law. And then there was dark-haired Tass, met suddenly one night by the rice paddies, drawing him away time and again. But to leave this place forever? Simply walk away after fighting so hard to be admitted, fighting so hard to stay?

The Grand Master laid down his shears and stood the jiitaana on its pommel, point to the open sky. "I have a question for all of you," he said. "Where am I on the sword's length?"

They thought for a moment, suspecting a trap.

"Grand Master Woo Ling Ly is here," ventured a student, touching the sword point.

"I thank you very much," said the Grand Master. "But you are mistaken."

They looked at each other in dismay.

"Master, you are here," said another, confidently indicating a spot in the air, well above the point.

"Ho ho. You compliment me even more. And you are even more mistaken."

"Where are you on the sword, Grand Master?" asked Outlander, tiring of the game.

"I am here," he replied, pointing to a spot slightly above the guard.

Various noises of surprise issued from the student-ring.

Outlander smiled.

"Grand Master," ventured a student, emboldened by Outlander's frankness and Woo Ling Ly's unusual openness to questions. "Since no sword is more advanced than yours in all the Kingdoms of the Sun, how can you ever develop further?"

"Because I see the point," Master Ly replied. He rose and returned Outlander's jiitaana.

"When will we see the point?" asked another.

The Grand Master chuckled. "When indeed!" They grew bolder by the moment. "Enough questions for such a tranquil afternoon's respite." He dismissed them with a wave of his hand.

Outlander tarried as the others dispersed. "There is no point," he said quietly, having grasped the lesson of the day--dangerously toying with words, though he knew he lacked the boldness with which other students credited him.

Master Ly nodded. Blind to Outlander's quandary? He missed little. "Development never ends. A point would represent stagnation. My answer was for the understanding level of the others."

He strolled toward the goldfish pool; Outlander followed.

"You are the most promising student I have taught in this life. In time, you might be the finest swordsman in the east. Which would, of course, make you the finest swordsman in the world." He paused and smiled. "Do not let this go to your head."

Better than anyone? Anyone? He had yet to cross swords with Grand Master Ly. How could he leave without ever having the chance?

The Grand Master gazed absently into the goldfish pool. The placid water reflected a clear afternoon sky above smoothly worn stone.

Outlander watched the graceful golden fish swimming their endless circle, and recalled the sea. "When one has achieved this point which is not a point..." he paused, and looked squarely at Master Ly--Western impudence. "...What then?"

"Then?" asked the older man. "Having reached forward to the beginning? Why, then you may reach without reaching."

He should have expected that answer.

"Then you may cease striving altogether and simply be."

"Be what?" asked Outlander.

"Be all that you already are, and be nothing. Give up everything, and receive all. Blend with the Cosmos."

Bae'an'ii-oneness with the Cosmos. That was Master Ly's meaning, his goal for his student as well as himself. Najiihai--the swordless dance. There had been a time (most recently, if he were honest with himself) when Outlander would have accepted the non-answer, when he might have believed that depth of wisdom could be expressed through the vagueness and contradiction of a quatzaak, profoundness of truth revealed by obscure language, bae'an'ii--a godly goal.

But not today! Truth had become clear as the blue of windswept sky after a passing storm. Truth--a dangerous thing to know. Truth forced decisions. Painful ones.

Ly watched him carefully. "Cease striving, Outlander. You stand poised upon the brink of the Cosmos. And you hesitate, for letting go of the past is not easy. Letting go of the physical, more difficult still. Yet the bird that does not release the branch cannot fly. Eternity is yours if only you knew it."

He had once thought Woo Ling Ly worshipped the sword and its martial system, the Dance. He realized now his mistake. The Grand Master considered the sword and its dance merely a tool, a man-made method of achieving bae'an'ii--self-made deity. Orm's oldest lie. "Who then is God?" he asked, subconsciously reverting to trade-tongue.

"God is all," Master Ly replied in trade-tongue, half chanting. "There is nothing that is not God. We are God and God is the bae'an."

"You have answered the wrong question."

The Grand Master turned to him so sharply that, though much smaller, he caused the young Northlander to take half a step back. The Grand Master focused on his pupil with ill-camouflaged astonishment. Never before had Outlander spoken with such liberty.

"I asked who, not what." He could no longer help himself.

"I understand what you are asking." Master Ly's voice remained characteristically passive. "God may be conceptualized as a person until the higher levels of development are reached." From anyone else this would have been an insult, but Outlander knew Woo Ling Ly spoke frankly from heartfelt conviction. There are many paths leading to the same oneness."

Ly could be soothingly persuasive. But-"The cosmos is not God," Jorgan said. "God created the cosmos."

"I speak of the Bae'an, the spiritual universe."

"He created the physical, the spiritual, and anything else there is."

The Grand Master's chin sank to his chest as he turned back to the goldfish in the pool, swimming their endless circle.

Neither spoke for a very long moment--the moment Grand Master Woo Ling Ly had long dreaded, the moment his protégé had long postponed. Remarkable that, over the years, they had never had this conversation. But then, Outlander had always known where it would lead. Perhaps the Grand Master had also. He suddenly felt sorry for the Grand Master, vainly striving to hold his favorite pupil, the Outlander he had hoped to shape.

"He is who He is," said Jorgan Anderson. "There is no compromise." A weight lifted from his shoulders at that moment, and an inexplicable peace filled him like the warm, gentle breeze in a sail.

He turned and walked to his quarters to gather his few belongings for the long journey home to the Northland.

(c) 2002
By G. K. Werner
All Rights Reserved

Mr. Werner is a Christian who teaches eighth grade language arts and college English, as well as history and martial arts. He writes fiction from a Biblical persepective as a hobby. "Testing the Mettle" is a stand-alone story drawn from his currently unpublished novel, The Sword and the Way.