Even Half-Moons Smile

"Gather round, children, gather round," called the older woman, her voice a surprising melody of youth, contrasting with her wrinkled skin. Her eyes, alight with mirth, shimmered in the firelight, and her smile, youthful and wide, adorned her face. Moments before, the festival buzzed with activity, but now, a hush fell over the crowd as they encircled her. A sense of eager anticipation hung in the air, punctuated by hushed murmurs, as the audience settled down for her annual storytelling. A soothing summer breeze caressed the gathering, the night sky gradually deepening to a velvety darkness, stars beginning to twinkle like distant, flickering candles. The grass, cool and soft beneath their feet, invited many to slip off their shoes for comfort.

With a mischievous glint in her eye, she plucked a pinch of sparkling powder from a pouch at her waist, flinging it into the fire. The flames responded with a burst of billowing white smoke, mushrooming into a spectacular dome. A fragrance of pine and cinnamon wafted through the air, stirring a chorus of awed gasps and delighted shrieks from the children.

"Now that I have your attention," she announced, her tone brimming with cheer, "let's begin!" With a flourish, she sprinkled various powders into the smoke, which gradually morphed into a kaleidoscope of colors. They swirled and danced, unfolding into a mesmerizing tableau of magic.

Book One

Maikoh

In the early evening, before the light began to fade into dusk, snowflakes descended, covering the ancient Shaolin temple in a blanket of peace. It was a hush that resonated deeply with Maikoh, the young monk whose world had always been devoid of sound. A born savant in both mind and body. His eight years of life had been a journey in quietude, his deafness shaping a world that spoke in motions and expressions rather than words.

Maikoh's skin held a light tan from hours spent under the sun, practicing his forms and meditations. His short, wavy dark brown hair often moved with the wind, giving him a playful, almost mischievous look. But it was his eyes, deep and brown, that held stories untold, a wisdom that seemed to reach beyond his years. The temple, an ancient structure of stone and wood, stood resilient against the imposing mountains that cradled it. These mountains, clothed in eternal green, stretched upwards, their peaks tickling the heavens, often shrouded in a veil of clouds.

He was the youngest monk in the temple, his presence subtle in the corridors of discipline and tradition. Maikoh communicated with a graceful movement of hands, his fingers painting words in the air. His teacher, Hikaru, watched with a mute vigilance that spoke volumes of hushed pride. Their communication was a ballet of gestures, an implicit understanding flowing between them.

The snow-covered courtyard was where Maikoh practiced. His movements were fluid as he moved with the snowflakes that swirled around him. Each kick and punch sliced through the chilly air; his breath visible in small clouds that dissipated quickly.

Alvaro, a recent addition to the temple and two years Maikoh's senior, watched from a distance. His shy gaze often lingered on Maikoh with a mix of curiosity and something akin to envy. While Maikoh moved with a precision and grace that could match the most skilled monks, Alvaro's movements were typically slow, exaggerated, or inept. The monks told him he would master them in time and that patience was an essential part of learning, but he still felt ham-fisted whenever Maikoh was around.

As Maikoh paused, catching a snowflake on his palm, the world seemed to hold its breath. The snowflake, a delicate star, melted against his warm skin, its brief existence leaving a small, wet imprint. It was moments like these that Maikoh often pondered over the transient beauty of life.

Turning towards Hikaru, he had a profound contemplation reflected in his youthful gaze, seeming so out of place on a child's face, he signed, "Why do snowflakes melt so quickly?" Maikoh asked.