The Open Window and The Saki
The cool Fall breeze blew long strands of thin black hair back and forth across his face. As he entered the small village and neared the apogee of his twelve-day pilgrimage, he passed a small hut.
Just one open window. The others sat shut and in perfect balance. But the one window bothered him. How strange that the owner should leave just one open window.
He lifted his gaze from the dirt and gravel road to glance toward the open window. What he saw took his breath. He slowed the constant pace of the last several hours, and stopped.
There in the window sat a light green bottle capped with a brown cork stopper. To the bottles right, and left, sat identical vials. He felt his legs lengthen, and his heels rise off the ground, as he stretched to look over the open window sill.
Seven or eight bottles sat in a row visible from the road. Now, on tiptoes, he could see row after row of saki at rest. The bottles extended to the left and right, and deep into the hut until they were obscured by darkness.
He lowered himself with ease. He looked first to the left. He lifted his hand, and pulled his long hair out of his face. He turned and looked to the right. Not one villager was present. There was no one around. Although isolation was not a required part of his training, he now found himself practicing the skill and wished the lesson were easier.
A bead of sweat broke on his forehead. He wiped it away. He looked down at the road and took a deep breath. How many villages had he passed through on this rite of passage? He was near the hardest part of the course. Would he fail now? Would his sensei forgive just one minor failure? Was it worth the risk to discover the answer?
The pressure became too great! He dropped his heavy pack. His quarterstaff fell to the ground with a clank and rattle. A rabbit darted off the patch of brown grass it nibbled, and it dove for a bush fire-singed with the season. He yanked the small bottle out of the open window like a drowning man in the ocean reaches for a raft. He uncorked the vessel and put it to his lips. He guzzled the sharp liquid like a man dying of thirst in the desert. 'Oh, the sweet nectar,' his mind sang.
The door of the small hut opened, and out stepped his sensei. "So you have chosen. So you have failed." He walked forward to retrieve the man's discarded pack and staff from the road.
The man looked at him with tears forming in his eyes. Wisps of hair fell across his face. He hesitated a moment, then reached up into the open window for another drink.
THE END