Intermission II: Concerning Origins

Chapter Forty-Two: Arrival

The monastery was a small one, even by Buddhist standards. A tiny collection of dwellings, nestled up on a nearly inaccessible ridge in the Himalaya Mountains. It had no name; and if it ever had, there was no one alive today who remembered it.

Technically, the monastery was located in Himachal Pradesh—the northernmost state of India—not far from the Chinese border. But all of the monks were Tibetan; the mountains were almost a country of their own.

There was a temple; the small, round building where the monks spent most of their time, meditating, praying, practicing their crafts, and—if only for a short part of their daily lives—sleeping. The temple was built on higher ground than the rest of the buildings, giving it the illusion of being larger than the rest of the monastery. There was also a small, shed-like building that was used to store the monastery's supplies—the monks only ate one meal per day, before noon, so they did not have to make supply runs very often.

The other buildings were tiny huts, for the monks to dwell in when they desired total isolation. As of now, they were all empty.

The monk's name was Gyo Shin, and he was seventy-two years old. Of the eleven monks who resided within the monastery, he was the youngest. He preferred to spend more time outside than his fellow bhikkhus, finding more peace and clarity in the mountains and sky than he did inside the temple.

In the spring, Gyo Shin would always plant a modest garden of mountain flowers and vegetables around the temple, and he would spent the entire summer tending to it, collecting the seeds by autumn and starting again the following spring. Now, however, it was winter, and the ridge was covered in snow. But that did not stop the monk from spending the greater part of his day outside—he found the snow and the cold, crisp chill of winter just as beautiful and inspiring as the warmer seasons.

And so, when the comet fell from the heavens to the Himalayas, Gyo Shin was the only one to see it.

The old monk had walked out to the edge of the ridge and was looking out over the valley below. Down towards the valley floor was a much larger, much more well-known monastery called Ki Gompa. It was home to over two-hundred monks and served as a 'training grounds' of sorts for initiates. Sometimes one of the monks from Ki Gompa, or an initiate on rare occasion, would make the arduous journey up into the mountains to temporarily dwell in the unnamed monastery. They would do this when they wished for a period of isolation from the rest of the world.

No one made the journey in the winter, however. That would be asking for certain death.

Today was the thirteenth consecutive day Gyo Shin had walked to the edge of the ridge and watched the valley below. He was not looking at anything in particular; he was taking in the entire landscape, leaving nothing out. And someday in the near future, when he felt he was ready, he would retire to one of the huts with a canvas and some paints he had acquired in the valley last summer, and he would paint the valley from memory.

It was growing late when Gyo Shin rose from the boulder upon which he sat to retire for evening prayers and discussion with the other monks. He stood up and took a moment to stretch, easing the kinks from his cramped leg muscles. Then, as he started to turn away, a ball of flame roared through the clouds over the valley, falling towards the earth.

Gyo Shin was enraptured, his jaw hanging slack as he watched the fiery object. It almost looked like it was heading straight for the monastery, but fortunately it was not. The comet-like object passed almost directly over the monastery and slammed into the upper slopes of the mountain above with a sound that reminded the monk of a clap of thunder. The sound of the impact was echoed many times from mountain to mountain.

The old bhikkhu murmured a word in his native tongue, which translated to 'meteorite'. Though they did not see the meteorite fall to the earth, the other monks had heard it, and they came rushing out of the temple, squinting as their eyes adjusted to the daylight. Gyo Shin hurried over to his fellow bhikkhus and told them of what had just happened.

The meteorite became the sole subject for the monks' debate session that they had every evening before they retired. Most of the monks were against any form of investigation into the meteorite. Gyo Shin, who had been born a Hindu, was brought up on the belief that meteorites represented messengers from the gods. It had been a long time since he had turned from such views, and he no longer put any stock into the existence of gods, but still… A childhood's worth of teachings may be disregarded, but they will never leave the mind.

So Gyo Shin understood why the other monks would not want to trifle with a meteorite. It was the same reason why a superstitious man might hesitate to wear red in a lightning storm. Sure, he knows that lightning is not attracted to color, and therefore if he were struck by lightning it would have happened no matter what colors he was wearing…but at the same time, why purposefully tempt fate?

In truth, Gyo Shin was fascinated by the meteorite. Initiates were required to study a few certain subjects during their training, and astronomy had been one of Gyo Shin's favorites. Since childhood, he'd always had an affinity for the cosmos; and a meteorite, being an object directly from the cosmos, having landed on the very same mountain he lived on… Gyo Shin wanted to go and examine the remains of the meteorite, perhaps even bring back a chunk and sculpt a statuette from it. But it was a dream at best; he knew that none of the other monks would want to investigate.

And so, surprise was the main emotion that Gyo Shin felt when the abbot of the temple declared that someone must travel up the mountain and make their way to the place where the meteorite fell, then return to the monastery and report to him what they found. Gyo Shin did not understand what the abbot meant or wanted, but he did not burden himself with such thoughts, instead seeing only the chance to fulfill his desire to see the rock from outer space.

Gyo Shin volunteered to climb the mountain. Because it was night, the monk could not begin until the next morning, so he slept until it was nearly dawn. He woke before dawn, proceeding outside to the storage building and helping himself to a bowl of rice before wrapping himself in his robes and beginning the hike up to the end of the ridge.

It took Gyo Shin several hours to reach the impact site. He was tired and cold, but he had survived many winters on this ridge that had been worse than this. He may have been old, but he was spry, and this climb had not even come close to defeating him. He pushed his way up the mountain on foot, carrying nothing but a gnarled walking stick to support him. At times he had to spear his way through thick snow, and even navigate around sheer rock faces so that he did not have to climb. It took him a short while, but he was able to ascend to the impact site of the meteorite.

There was a shallow crater in the icy rock where the meteorite had landed, and chunks of space rock lay strewn about the area. The meteorite had obviously shattered upon impact, and Gyo Shin could see several chunks of rock that would be suitable for his artistic pursuits. As he moved towards the shallow crater to recover one such rock fragment, his heart nearly gave out when he spotted the baby boy lying in the middle of the impact site.

The boy wasn't wearing any clothes. He was wide awake, too, but he was not crying or making any other sound. He had black hair…and upon closer examination, Gyo Shin was surprised to find that his eyes were red. The Buddhist monk was more than puzzled—the monastery's ridge was the only way onto the mountain from the south, and no one ever ascended past the monastery itself. The only possible way the baby could have ended up here was if he had been on that meteorite.

There was a bleeding cut on the palm of the boy's hand, and some sort of hunting knife lay in the snow next to him. Loathe as Gyo Shin was to handle weapons, he knew that the knife had arrived with the child, and separating the two would not have been wise, so he gingerly picked up the knife as he would a piece of garbage, stowing it away inside his robes.

And if the child only could have come here on the meteorite... That was a completely ridiculous notion; Gyo Shin did not waste any time entertaining it. But he was still perplexed by the presence of this strange infant with odd-colored eyes, lying unharmed in the middle of the crash site of a meteorite. Perhaps even more amazing was the fact that the boy had not frozen to death out here; he must have been remarkably resilient.

Voicing his surprise to himself, Gyo Shin hurried over to the baby boy and picked him up, tearing off part of his robes and wrapping the child within to warm him up. He wondered if the abbot had known that he would find something as strange as this, here…why else would he have allowed Gyo Shin to climb the mountain on a seemingly foolish errand, and then ask him to report back?

When Gyo Shin returned to the monastery, he voiced these questions to the abbot after he presented the baby boy and explained what had happened. A makeshift crib was created for the sky child to sleep in, and the abbot explained himself. Two years ago, when the abbot had been in the valley to receive supplies for the monastery, he had been approached by a stranger. That stranger had told him that one day a meteorite would fall from the sky, and it would land on this very mountain, and that it signified something incredibly important. The stranger then gave the abbot a satellite phone that could only call one number, instructing him to use it if a meteorite landed on the mountain, and if a child was found at the place where it impacted.

And now, that impossible scenario had just happened.

The abbot had actually kept the satellite phone. He never thought he would ever use it, but he still had not seen any harm in taking it. He was a man of great faith, and he knew that the stranger would have had to make a long and difficult journey to reach this place and give him that message, so he decided to honor that stranger's request. He was curious to see if anything came of it. The stranger had spoken English, and luckily the abbot could speak English, so he was the one who used the satellite phone. A woman's voice answered, and when the abbot informed her of what had happened, there was a pause.

Then the woman on the phone instructed the abbot to keep the child there, and that she was on her way immediately. Then the phone went dead.

This time, while all the monks at the monastery would normally have taken the boy down to Ki Gompa, down in the valley, it was winter. There was no way they would be able to make their way down the mountain ridge themselves in the winter, let alone with an infant boy, so it was decided that they would wait until the spring thaw before taking any further action.

Then, just three days after Gyo Shin had brought the infant boy down from the mountain, there was a loud knock at the door of the temple, interrupting the monks' morning prayers. The monks fell into a shocked silence. Someone was at the door…which meant that someone had managed to climb the ridge to the monastery. In the winter. This was unheard of.

The abbot rose from the floor and answered the door, allowing a hooded figure to step inside.

The hooded figure was dressed in a thick jacket, revealed to be a young woman in her late teens when she reached up and pulled back her hood. She was foreign—short black hair, white skin that was more on the pale side.

"Namaste," The young woman touched her palms together and bowed her head in greeting. The abbot of the temple repeated the gesture and greeting. With that over with, the young woman wasted no time in getting down to what she was here for. "My name is Abigail Tarrant; you met me in Ki Gompa two years ago. I gave you the satellite phone. Where is he?"

The abbot was no simpleton; he knew exactly who the stranger was referring to. Beckoning for the woman to follow him, he led her deeper into the temple, to the room where the makeshift crib had been set up.

The young woman walked up to the side of the crib, looking down at the sleeping infant within. The abbot could see the immediate change of emotion in the young woman's eyes and face. "He's beautiful." She smiled as she reached down and gently picked up the infant, lifting him into her arms. "Hey there, lil' bro. Ready to come home?"

The red Ferrari shot down South Broadway Street like a bullet traveling through the barrel of a rifle, speeding through the heart of Yonkers, New York. It was a top-quality car…and it was also the most expensive thing the man driving it owned. Nothing else came close; not even his home.

The driver of the Ferrari was a brown-haired man. He was in his early thirties, not quite middle-aged. He had brown hair that he loosely gelled and combed back, and a closely-trimmed beard and mustache accentuating the lower half of his face. When he went into the city, he would always be mistaken for Bradley Cooper by at least one random person who asked him for an autograph. He did not mind this, however; he would take whatever they gave him and sign his name on it, enjoying their faces when they realized he wasn't who they thought he was. He also wore black aviator sunglasses, which he was rarely ever seen without. He had contacts he always put in when he removed his sunglasses, but he only resorted to that when he absolutely had to. The contacts were uncomfortable, and he had no idea how his son could wear them so easily.

The man turned off the main road and turned into the access lane for Cedar Place Elementary School—the access lane was Cedar Place. The man never knew whether the school had been named after the road it was on, or if it was the other way around. But in the end, he did not give too much of a shit.

He had known this day would come; his son was only in the second grade, but this was the fourth elementary school he'd attended since starting kindergarten…and the man had a feeling that, after today, that number would have to increase to five. It was the third time the principal of this school had asked for the man to come in to retrieve his son, and it was usually on the third time that the jig was up.

The man could only wonder what his son had done this time.

After pulling into a parking spot, the man killed the engine, got out of the Ferrari, and walked into the school. The main office was directly on the other side of the lobby, and the brown-haired man was about to head straight there…when he caught a whiff of something that fascinated him. It smelled like every single kind of cafeteria food, mixed with garbage and spilled drinks.

Though he knew he wasn't supposed to walk through the school without a visitor's ID, the man quickly stole off into the nearest hallway when the front receptionist wasn't looking. He followed the pungent smells around the corner of the hallway, past the auditorium, to its source; the school cafeteria.

The cafeteria looked like a tornado had ripped through it. There was food quite literally everywhere—slices of pizza, hot dogs and hamburgers, salads, tacos; all kinds of whatever slop this cafeteria served. It was all over the floor, the tables, the walls and windows…even the ceiling, in many spots. Members of the custodial staff were busy cleaning the disaster up, all of them looking like they should be on suicide watch.

And outside, through the open doors and windows on the opposite side of the cafeteria, the brown-haired man could see ambulances. There were unconscious kids who were being loaded onto stretchers. Other kids were being spoken to by the paramedics—flashlights shined into their eyes, being asked basic questions about themselves to see if they had concussions…

The man pursed his lips as he turned away from the cafeteria. Yep, no doubt about it. This had his son's name written all over it. And yet, despite the irritation that the brown-haired man felt…he couldn't help but also feel a twinge of amusement, recalling his own childhood troublemaking days. Of course, he'd never put kids into ambulances, before… No, this time his son had gone too far.

"Mister Caiazzo, please come in," the principal greeted the brown-haired man, rising from his desk to invite him to sit down. He was a plump, sweaty man with a perpetually red face. Mr. Caiazzo wondered if he normally looked like this; after all, the only time he'd ever seen the principal was when he'd been called in to deal with his son's antics—never when the principal was in a good mood. "I am sure you know why you have been asked to come here, today."

"What's he done this time?" Mr. Caiazzo asked in a resigned tone, already knowing the answer as well as what was going to follow it.

Sitting in the second chair in front of the principal's desk was Mr. Caiazzo's son. He was eight years old—thin, but not skinny, somewhat unruly brown hair that had been combed back like his dad's. He was one of the more popular kids in school, despite only being in the second grade. He had a cute face that could not yet be considered attractive—he was much too young for that—but he'd already managed to get kissed by over half the girls in his class, which was quite an achievement at that age. It was almost as if he had some unconscious sort power over their minds.

Mr. Caiazzo's son stared at the floor when his dad walked in, not making eye contact. There was always a mischievous glint in his eyes, and he thought it best his dad did not see it at the moment.

"Your son started a riot in the cafeteria during lunch, today," the principal explained to Mr. Caiazzo.

"That was the food fight I saw in there?" Mr. Caiazzo arched an eyebrow, wondering how much he should feign surprise. "Seems a bit much to be started by a single eight-year-old, don't you think?"

"Food fight does not even begin to encompass the chaos that was raging in that cafeteria," the principal muttered. The principal did not like Mr. Caiazzo very much; the brown-haired man's thick Brooklyn dialect grated on him, and he was irritated by how the other man did not remove his sunglasses while indoors. "I have nearly a dozen injured students being taken to the hospital. One of them even had a severe concussion from being hit by a falling vending machine. Three of them had broken bones! And if that weren't bad enough, one of my teachers suffered a fractured wrist; she was struck in the head by an apple and knocked off-balance. All of the students involved were questioned thoroughly, and it was made clear that your son was the mastermind. All trails led back to him. Several of the faculty on cafeteria duty reported that he was also the one to throw the first item of food."

"Okay, let's get to the point." Mr. Caiazzo already knew what was coming; he wasn't in the mood to drag this out any further. "What's it gonna be, this time? Time-out? Lunch detention?"

The principal had to stop himself from laughing. "You're lucky we don't bring your son up on criminal charges, Mr. Caiazzo. He's clearly learned nothing from his previous suspensions. No, I'm afraid we have no choice. Consider this your formal notice from the Board of Education that your son will be expelled from this school. Of course, you have the right to a hearing, but I can guarantee you that the evidence against your son is quite ironclad."

Mr. Caiazzo discussed a few last things with the principal before saying goodbye, taking his son by the arm, and leaving the main office. Once they were out the front entrance and walking towards the parking lot, the brown-haired man's scowl returned. He glanced down at his son, who was still avoiding eye contact.

"A food fight, Gino?" Mr. Caiazzo arched an eyebrow. "A goddamn food fight? Really? What am I gonna do with you; do you think you're still in fuckin' kindergarten?"

"No," was all Gino said in reply, still trying to make himself scarce.

"Then why're you actin' like you're still in fuckin' kindergarten? 'Cuz, food fights that send your classmates to the hospital? That's fuckin' kindergarten shit; I thought you'd moved past that!" Mr. Caiazzo took a deep breath, calming himself down. In spite of himself and the frustration he was feeling…he couldn't stay angry at his son. Gino looked almost like he was about to cry, and Mr. Caiazzo was a big softie on the inside when that happened.

Mr. Caiazzo spun himself effortlessly over the lip of the car door, landing neatly in the driver's seat. His son performed the exact same move, only in reverse; landing in the passenger seat next to him. Mr. Caiazzo started the Ferrari's engine and pulled out of the parking lot, heading back onto Broadway Street, Route 9, traveling south. This road, if followed south far enough, would eventually take him through Manhattan, all the way down to the Theatre District.

Mr. Caiazzo took in another deep breath and finally relented on his son once they were cruising back towards their apartment. "Well, now that all that shit's done and over with… How the hell'd you manage to get everyone to trash the fuckin' place like that?"

A ghost of a smile started to return to Gino's face. "I asked 'em to," the eight-year-old shrugged. "An' then they all wanted to."

"Really? Just like that?" Mr. Caiazzo sounded dubious. "C'mon, Troublemaker, you can tell me. How'd you persuade 'em? What'd you bribe 'em with?"

"You ain't listenin' to me, I didn't persuade 'em to do shit!" Gino protested, reclining his seat a bit and propping his feet up over the glove compartment. "All I did was fuckin' ask if a few of my friends wanted to do a food fight, an' they said 'sure', an' then I asked a bunch more people if they wanted to join, an' they said 'sure', an' then I start throwin' shit, an' everyone fuckin' joins in, just like that! Then the teachers come in an' try to stop us, so I tell everyone to start throwin' shit at the teachers…an' then they do! They fuckin' plaster the teachers! It was fuckin' awesome!"

"You sent people to the hospital, Gino," Mr. Caiazzo reminded his son firmly. "You went too far, this time…"

Gino's grin faded, and he took his feet down from the glove compartment, staring sullenly down at his shoes. "I'm sorry, dad… I didn't mean for anyone to get hurt…"

"Eh… I'd have had to pull you outta school here, anyway…" Mr. Caiazzo muttered. Maybe it was bad parenting, but he simply hated to see his son feeling down. It made him just want to give Gino a big hug and take him out paintballing. "Remember that job offer from Skaianet? Well they finally called me back this morning, an' they want me to work for 'em as a senior systems analyst. We're movin' outta New York."

The eight-year-old looked back up. "Skaianet actually wants you to work for 'em? They lowerin' their standards, or somethin'?"

"Hardy-fuckin'-har, Troublemaker thinks he's a fuckin' comedian, now," Mr. Caiazzo grumbled, rolling his eyes even though they were still obscured by the aviators. "We're gonna be movin' to Pennsylvania…an' I'll tell you what. You stop gettin' yourself expelled, an' maybe I'll consider givin' your troublemakin' ass an allowance. I'll be able to afford it, with my new job."

"An allowance?" Gino's face lit up. An allowance was something for which he'd been pressing his dad for a while, but Mr. Caiazzo simply didn't have enough money to afford it. But now, with a new job… Skaianet was one of the largest companies out there. Getting a good position with them was no small deal. "For real?"

"For real." Mr. Caiazzo nodded. He then reached into one of the pockets of his leather jacket and produced a smaller pair of aviator sunglasses, identical to his own. He held them out to his son. "Here, Troublemaker. Lil' celebration gift for ya."

"Oh, fuckin' yes," Gino's grin turned into a full smile as he took the sunglasses. He reached into a pocket of his own and pulled out his contacts case. "Fuckin' hate wearin' these contacts all the time…" The eight-year-old touched two fingers to his eyes, plucking out the colored contact lenses that he wore every time he left the apartment, revealing his bright, golden-yellow irises for a moment before he covered them up with his new sunglasses. "Lookin' good?" Gino asked his dad.

"Like a fuckin' champ, little man," Mr. Caiazzo chuckled, giving the Ferrari a little gas, speeding even faster down Broadway Street.

"You not mad, then?" Gino asked hesitantly, sensing the opportune moment to address his earlier behavior had arrived. Parents were much easier to reason with when they were laughing than when they were shouting.

"Naw, little man, I ain't mad…" Mr. Caiazzo sighed. "Just dial it down a bit, okay? No more food fights. An' stop fuckin' swearin' so much… This is a new start, alright?"

"New start, yeah, got it." Gino nodded several times, relaxing back into his chair once again and propping his feet back up. "Soo…does that mean you ain't gonna punish me?"

That was enough to make Mr. Caiazzo almost break down in a fit of laughter. "Oh, you crack me up sometimes… Absolutely not, Troublemaker; your ass is grounded for a month."

Gino gave a snort, rolling his eyes just like his father. "Only a month, this time? That really the best you can do?"

"Grounded for a month…" Mr. Caiazzo's face parted into a grin. "An' no pizza for a week."

"Fuck."