The Tall-Children

            The monk walked up to his student, ready to tell him of more, which the student sought to learn. He could not be called a teacher, for that would imply a sense of superiority over the student. The monk instead preferred to be called by his first name, as he called the student, who had traveled many miles to visit and learn from him.

            “I have a story to tell you,” the monk said one day as his student sat down before him, looking at his friend inquisitively. “I do not think I have told you about the tall-children yet.”

            “No, I don’t think you have.”

            “The tall children are an extremely rare type of beings. I cannot say race or group, for that implies that they exist together, which they do not. They may have come in contact with each other across the years, I do not pretend to know. However, that is beside the point.

            “The tall-children are very strange indeed. There are never more than one hundred or so of them at any given point in time. They do not reproduce, so their numbers have never increased significantly.”

            “Could they if they wanted to?”

            The monk smiled at the students curious nature, before responding, “Cannot is an entirely different question, to which I am unsure of the answer. I can however assure you that none has to my knowledge or the knowledge of my grandfather, who first told me of them, ever conceived.

            “Furthermore they are too beautiful to be human. It is not that physically they are beautiful. Physically they are perfectly normal, appearing very plain, though young. You see, the tall-children are like an impressionist painting. Were you to look at any specific detail, it would be perfectly ugly, or at least boring. Yet when you look at all of a tall-child, you are brought to your knees. They are overwhelmingly beautiful.

            “Furthermore, they never age. They do not scar, nor can their bodies be painted. They do not dirty and some say that they are impossible to touch, that their clothes sit a tiny hair off of them at all times.”

            “But are they immortal?” the student asked.

            “No, you see they are more mortal than you or I. They do not reincarnate. They are not like you or I, constantly on the wheel of life until they reach Nirvana. No, instead they are part of the wheel itself, such as the ground or the air that may be destroyed, though it does not die. When they die, they are lost forever, like a piece of the past. And since time does not exist, they have disappeared. Only we can speak of the tall-children, like an idea.

            “And now I assume you are wondering how they are born and how they die?”

            The student nodded, prompting the monk to continue, “How they are born is simple enough; they wash ashore crawling from where streams meet ocean and the salt is purged. How they die is somewhat more complicated. You see, fire, steel, lead, poison are all useless against them in their raw forms. There must be malicious intent for their death. They must be murdered and not just killed. Their lives must be taken with that full intent. One must watch the life leave their eyes and truly understand, they must know exactly what they are doing. Many find this easier to do with weapon in hand, though a mere look would do it. It is still extremely difficult to do.”

            “Amazing,” said the student.

            “Indeed. I once met one myself you know.”

            “What did he say?”

            “Well, I asked him whether he believed in Nirvana, or that he would ever reach it. And he took from his pocket a tiny shell. Do you know what he did with it? He swallowed it!”

            The monk then laughed, loud and high pitched, leaning his head back with joy. “Isn’t life miraculous?”