Silver Capuchin

The minstrel had been following the Northern Wind’s beckoning for two years when he step foot in a deserted village. All that remained of several houses were some fallen tiles and broken wooden beams. A solitary old man was seated, sipping tea, on the porch of a tattered cottage. The winds stopped coursing briefly to reveal a profound silence. The old man turned towards the minstrel,

“Come rest a while from your wandering. It has been so long since someone has passed by. Come share a few words with me.”

The minstrel walked closer to the old man, noticing that his eyes had whitened over.

“The travelers tell me the village crumbles a little with each passing moment. But I can no longer see with my eyes, so I tell them that the village is as beautiful as the day I was born. Where are you from? How far have you traveled?,” the old man asked with a wrinkled smile as he poured the minstrel a cup of tea.

“Home is two years and twenty mountains away. Everywhere I go, I learn the songs the people sing. And in each song, I come to share their happiness, their sorrow and their pain,” the minstrel replied.

“Tell me minstrel – what have you learned to be the most precious thing in the world?” the old man asked. The minstrel ponders briefly before answering,

“It is the happiness that has been lost and the happiness that is just out of reach.” The old man closes his eyes and takes a long sip of tea, He smiles.

“When you come to the end of your wandering, perhaps you will find yourself at this village again. Come tell me your stories before you return home.” The minstrel agrees and bids the old man farewell before following the Northern Wind again.

It would be another three years before the minstrel reached the end of his journey, but he remembered his promise to return to the deserted village. He wondered whether time had not already washed over the village, whether he would be able to find it again. Finally, he arrived at the village, but it had been transformed – as if it had been rebuilt over the years. The walls and stone paths bore no traces of its forlorn state. The minstrel found the old man’s cottage in pristine condition and wondered whether he had mistakenly wandered into a different village altogether.

An old woman stepped out onto the porch with a kettle of hot tea, offering a cup to the minstrel.

“I am looking for Old Shen with the white eyes. Does he still live here? I promised to find him again at the end of my journey” The old woman looked at the minstrel, confused.

“How long have you been wandering, minstrel? Old Shen died over twenty years ago. Most people in this village do not even remember him anymore,” the old woman says with a frown. The minstrel thanked the old woman before continuing on his journey, confused by the revelation. That evening, he followed the river until his feet grew tired and fell asleep under a willow.

The light of the full moon wakes him in the middle of the night. He hears gentle footsteps in the distance and turns to find a silver capuchin on the other side of the river. The full moon reveals his white eyes. The capuchin crouches down as he reaches the river, only to turn his head as if to ponder the moon. Slowly, the capuchin lowers his hands to drink from the river before disappearing back into the forest.

The minstrel wonders whether he has just woken from a dream. He stares at the full moon, but the full moon has no answers. So he kneels down and dips his fingers into the water. The moment is cool to touch. The minstrel finally understands.