By Kevin Kaumans, Entertainment Editor
In the land between Na’gurta and the Lake of Gold, a monk lives by himself in a lair older than himself.
He wakes up before the water turns to a golden hue. There is a garden a mile long and ten quarters wide that he tends to.
From five-to-two, he pulls out weeds; from three-to-four, he waters all the Cedar plants, and from five-to eleven, he trims the vines of the Evon trees.
When asked his name, he will tell you that he has none. It is said that the garden is his womb-mother, though he will not confirm nor deny that.
He is thought to be older than most humans alive today, but his true age he will never say.
For he has taken a vow of silence, and thus will forever remain unknown.
The nearby village from his land will deny knowing who he was before.
They will tell you that he has been tending to the garden before any of them were born.
In this village, the men and women respect the monk. Yet they also find him unnerving.
When the monk goes to bed at night, it is said that he dreams in an endless world.
In this world, no borders —physical, scientific, or otherwise— exist.
The skies are a gray brown, with lime-green stars and air that tastes like sweet-flavored candy. Within this world, he is blameless.
He has no friends, no enemies.
It is in this world that he is neither king nor peasant, just an observer.
He is like a child wondering through a midnight forest, having no idea where he’ll end up.
It is in this form of imagination that the monk is at peace. He owns few, yet is the pre-decided master of this world.
Do not ask him about it, for he will tell you nothing.