Way of the Peaceful Warrior (19 page)

“Give me your money,” he commanded.
 

Not thinking clearly, I stepped toward him, reaching for my wallet, and stumbled forward.
 

He was startled and rushed toward me, slashing with his knife, Socrates, moving faster than I'd ever seen before, caught the man's wrist, whirled around and threw him into the street, just as another thug lunged for me. He never touched me; Socrates had kicked his legs out from under him with a lightning leg sweep. Before the third attacker could even move, Soc was upon him, taking him down with a wrist lock and a sweeping motion of his arm. He sat down on the man and said, “Don't you think you ought to consider nonviolence?”
 

One of the men started to get up when Socrates let out a powerful shout and the man fell backward. By then the leader had picked himself out of the street, found his knife, and was limping furiously toward Socrates. Socrates stood up, lifted the man he'd been sitting on, and threw him toward the knife-man, yelling “Catch!” They tumbled to the concrete; then, in a wild rage, all three came screaming at us in a last desperate assault.
 

The next few minutes were blurred. I remember being pushed by Socrates and falling. Then it was quiet, except for a moan. Socrates stood still, then shook his arms loose, and took a deep breath. He threw the knives into the sewer. Then he turned to me. “You okay?”
 

“Except for my head.”
 

“You get hit?”
 

“Only by alcohol. What happened?”
 

He turned to the three men, stretched out on the pavement, knelt, and felt their pulses. Turning them over, almost tenderly, he gave gentle prodding motions, checking them for injuries. Only then did I realize he was doing his best to heal them! “Call a police ambulance,” he said, turning to me. I ran to a nearby phone booth and called. Then we left and walked quickly to the bus station. I looked at Socrates. There were faint tears in his eyes, and for the first time since I'd known him, he looked pale and very tired.
 

We spoke little on the bus ride home. That was fine with me; talking hurt too much. When the bus stopped at University and  Shattuck, Socrates got off and said, “You're invited to my office next Wednesday, for a few drinks . . .” Smiling at my pained  expression, he continued, “... of herb tea.”
 

I got off the bus a block from home. My head was ready to explode. I felt like we'd lost the fight, and they were still beating on my head. I tried to keep my eyes closed as much as possible, walking the last block to the apartment house. “So this is what it feels like to be a vampire,” I thought. “Sunlight can kill.”
 

Our celebration, steeped in an alcoholic haze, had taught me two things: first, I had needed to loosen up and let loose; second, I was making a responsible choice, no more drinking; it wasn't worth the price. Besides, its pleasure was insignificant compared to what I was beginning to enjoy.
 

Monday's gymnastics workout, the best in many months, made me even more determined that I would again become physically and spiritually whole. My leg was healing better than I'd had any right to expect; I had been taken under the wing of an extraordinary man.
 

Walking home, I was so overwhelmed with gratitude that I knelt outside my apartment and touched the earth. Taking a handful of dirt in my hand, I gazed up through emerald leaves shimmering in the breeze. For a few precious seconds, I seemed to slowly melt into the earth. Then, for the first time since I was a tiny child, I felt a life-giving presence without a name.
 

Then my analytical mind piped in, “Ah, so this is a spontaneous mystical experience,” and the spell was broken. I returned to my earthly predicament--I was an ordinary man again, standing under an elm holding dirt in his hand. I entered my apartment in a relaxed daze, read for awhile, and fell asleep.
 

Tuesday was a day of quiet--the quiet before the storm. Wednesday morning I plunged into the mainstream of classes. My feelings of serenity, which I thought were permanent, soon gave way to subtle anxieties and old urges. After all my disciplined training, I was profoundly disappointed. Then, something new happened:
 

I felt the awakening of a-primitive-wisdom.
 

At first, I thought my mind was playing tricks on me. But it wasn't a thought, it wasn't a voice; it was a feeling-certainty. I felt like Socrates was inside me, a warrior within. This feeling was to remain with me.
 

That evening, I went to the station to tell Socrates about my mind's recent hyperactivity, and about the Feeling. I found him replacing a generator in a battered Mercury. He looked up, greeted  me, and said casually, “Joseph died this morning.” I fell
back against the station wagon behind me, sick at the news of Joseph's death and Soc's callousness.
 

Finally, I was able to speak. “How did he die?”
 

“Oh, very well, I imagine,” Socrates smiled. “He had leukemia, you see. Joseph had been ill for a number of years; he hung in there for a long time. Fine warrior, that one.” He spoke with affection, but almost casually, without a trace of sorrow.
 

“Socrates, aren't you upset, just a little?” He laid the wrench down.
 

“That reminds me of a story I heard a long time ago, about a mother who was overcome with grief by the death of her young son.
 

“I can't bear the pain and sorrow,” she told her sister.
 

“My sister, did you mourn your son before he was born?'
 

“No, of course not,” the despondent woman replied.
 

“Well then, you need not mourn for him now. He has only returned to the same place, his original home, before he was ever born.”
 

“Is that story a comfort to you, Socrates?”
 

“Well, I think it's a good story. Perhaps in time you'll appreciate it,” he replied brightly.
 

“I thought I knew you well, Socrates, but I never knew you could be so heartless.”
 

“There's no cause for unhappiness.”
 

“But, Socrates, he's gone!”
 

Soc laughed softly. “Perhaps he's gone, perhaps not. Maybe he was never here!” His laughter rang through the garage.
 

“I want to understand you, but I can't. How can you be so casual about death? Will you feel the same way if I die?”
 

“Of course!” he laughed. “Dan, there are things you don't understand. For now I can say that is a transformation, perhaps a bit more radical than puberty,” he smiled, “but nothing to get particularly upset about. It's just one of the body's changes. When it happens, it happens. The warrior neither seeks nor flees from death.”
 

His face grew more somber before he spoke again. “Death is not sad; the sad thing is that most people don't ever really live at all.” Then his eyes filled with tears. We sat, two friends in silence, before I walked home. I had just turned down a side street, when the Feeling came again. “ 'Tragedy' is very different for the warrior and for the fool.” Socrates hadn't been sad because he simply didn't consider Joseph's death a tragedy. I wasn't to realize why that was so until months later, deep within a mountain cave.
 

Still, I couldn't shake the belief that I-- and therefore Socrates--was supposed to be miserable when death struck. With that confusion ringing in my mind, I finally fell asleep.
 

In the morning, I had my answer. Socrates had simply not met my expectations. Instead, he had demonstrated the superiority of happiness. I was filled with a new resolve; I'd seen the futility of trying to live up to the conditioned expectations of others or of my own mind. I would, like the warrior, choose when, where, and how. I would think and act. With that firm decision, I felt I had begun to understand the life of a warrior.
 

That night, I walked into the station office and said to Socrates, “I'm ready. Nothing can stop me now.”
 

His fierce stare undid all my months of training. I quivered. He whispered, yet his voice seemed piercing. “Do not be so flippant!
 

Perhaps you are ready, perhaps not. One thing is certain: you don't have much time left! Each day that passes is one day closer to your death. We are not playing games here, do you understand that?”
 

I thought I heard the wind begin to howl outside. Without warning, I felt his warm fingers touch my temple.
 

I was crouched in the brush. Ten feet away, facing my hiding place, was a swordsman, over seven feet tall. His massive, muscular body reeked of sulfur. His head, even his forehead, was covered by ugly, matted hair; his eyebrows were huge slashes on a hateful, twisted face.
 

He stared malevolently at a young swordsman who faced him. Five identical images of the giant materialized, and encircled the young swordsman. All six of them laughed at once--a groaning, growling laugh, deep in their bellies. I felt sick.
 

The young warrior jerked his head right and left, swinging his sword frantically, whirling, dodging, and cutting through the air. He didn't have a chance.
 

With a roar, all the images leaped toward him. Behind him, the giant's sword cut downward, hacking off his arm. He screamed in pain as the blood spurted, and slashed blindly through the air in a last frenzied effort. The huge sword sliced again, and the young swordsman's head fell from his shoulder and rolled to the earth, a shocked expression on its face.
 

“Ohhh,” I groaned involuntarily, nausea washing over me. The stink of sulfur overwhelmed me. A painful grip on my arm tore me from the bushes and flung me to the ground. When I opened my eyes, the dead eyes of the young swordsman's severed head, inches away from my face, silently warned me of my own impending doom. Then I heard the guttural voice of the giant.
 

“Say farewell to life, young fool!” the magician growled. His taunt enraged me. I dove for the young warrior's sword and rolled to my feet, facing him.
 

“I've been called 'fool' by a far better man than you, you slobbering eunuch!” With a scream I attacked, swinging my sword.
 

The force of his parry knocked me off my feet. Suddenly, there were six of him. I tried to keep my eye on the original as I leaped to my feet, but was no longer sure.
 

They began a chant, deep in their bellies; it became a low pitched, horrible death rattle as they crept slowly toward me.
 

Then the Feeling came to me and I knew what I had to do. “The giant represents the source of all your woes; he is your mind. He is the demon you must cut through. Don't be deluded like the fallen warrior: keep your focus!” Absurdly, my mind commented, “One hell of a time for a lesson.” Then I was back to my immediate predicament, feeling an icy calm.
 

I lay down on my back and closed my eyes, as if surrendering to my fate, the sword in my hands, its blade across my chest and cheek. The illusions could fool my eyes but not my ears. Only the real swordsman would make a sound as he walked. I heard him behind me. He had only two choices--to walk away, or to kill. He chose to kill. I listened
intently. Just as I sensed his sword about to cut downward, I drove my blade upward with all my might and felt it pierce, tearing upward through cloth, flesh, and muscle. A terrible scream, and I heard the thud of his body. Face down, impaled on my sword, was the demon.
 

“You almost didn't come back that time,” said Socrates, his brows were knitted.
 

I ran to the bathroom, where I was immediately, thoroughly sick. When I came out, he had made some chamomile tea with licorice, “for the nerves and the stomach.”
 

I started to tell Socrates about the journey. “I was hiding in the bush behind you, watching the whole thing,” he interrupted. “I nearly sneezed once; sure glad I didn't. I certainly wasn't anxious to tangle with that character. For a moment, I thought I was going to have to, but you handled yourself pretty well, Dan.”
 

“Why thanks, Soc.” I beamed. “I...”
 

“On the other hand, you seemed to have missed the point that nearly cost you your life.”
 

Now it was my turn to interrupt him. “The main point I was concerned with was at the end of that giant's blade,” I joked. “And I didn't miss the point.”
 

“Is that so?”
 

“Soc, I've been battling illusions my whole life, preoccupied with every petty personal problem. I've dedicated my life to self improvement without grasping the one problem that sent me seeking in the first place. While trying to make everything in the world work out for me, I always succumbed to my own mind; always preoccupied with me, me, me. The giant is my only real problem in life--it's my mind. And Socrates,” I said with growing excitement, just realizing what I'd done, “I cut through it!”
 

“There was no doubt about that,” he said.
 

“What would have happened if the giant had won; what then?” “Don't talk of such things,” he said darkly. “I want to know. Would I have really died?”
 

“Very likely,” he said. “At the very least, you would have gone mad.”
 

The tea kettle began to shriek.
 

Socrates poured steaming hot tea into our twin mugs and spoke the first encouraging words I'd heard in many months. “Your survival in the duel is real evidence that you're ready to progress further toward the One Goal.”