The wind whistled past Chanzhu as he sat on his solitary pinnacle of rock. It always did that, though, pulling at his hair and tugging at his clothes. It was jealous of how close he was, jealous of his imminent enlightenment. He ignored it, as he ignored all worldly things. In the blackness behind his closed eyes, he chased a bobbing white light, a sparkling butterfly fluttering just beyond the reach of his fingertips. He knew if he could catch it, he would be forever changed.
The wind also whistled past Jimo as she struggled her way up the narrow, almost non-existent path up the pinnacle. She was carrying a waterskin, and the wind wrenched at it, nearly pulling her from the cliff-face. Gasping, she grabbed for the rough rock wall and remained on the path. Wiping her now-bloody palm on her skirt, she continued, testing each footstep, ignoring the insistent wind, praying that she’d reach the top alive.
Eventually she did, arriving at the place where her husband sat in perfect meditation. Kneeling, she left the waterskin by his feet. It would not do to disturb him.
The way back down the pinnacle was easier and Jimo managed it without mishap. Their hut was small and bleak, tucked into the mountainside under the pinnacle where Chanzhu sat every day. Inside, though, it was neat and tidy, perfectly arranged despite the meagreness of their belongings. Jimo did not have much to do, besides keeping the hut clean.
Once it had been different. Not that long ago they had had a spacious house in the city, with servants to keep it tidy. Not that long ago, Chanzhu had been a wealthy merchant, dealing in exotic cloth and spices, and Jimo had been his loyal wife.
Not that long ago he had loved her.
Jimo didn’t know what had changed. Suddenly Chanzhu stated he was leaving. She couldn't bear to be without him, so she'd followed, up the mountain, to this lonely pinnacle, where every day he went to sit and seek enlightenment. He had been seeking it for a long time, and every day when he came back, he was more like the cold, wind-swept pinnacle upon which he sat, and less like the warm, laughing man she had married twelve years ago.
The butterfly fluttered past his ear, and he stretched out his fingers after it. He had done this so many times, but always the butterfly eluded him. Not so this time, though. To his astonishment, his fingertips brushed its sparkling wings. Light filled him...
Chanzhu’s eyes flashed open and he leapt to his feet. The waterskin was brushed aside like rubbish, bouncing down the rock-face into the chasm below. Its carefully conserved contents spilled over the uncaring rock and into the gleeful wind.
Chanzhu took the mountain track at a break-neck pace, the fervour of the butterfly’s touch still upon him. He burst into the hut, startling Jimo where she sat by the fire, stirring the stew and dreaming of sun-drenched memories. She hurried to fetch a bowl and fill it with stew.
As she turned to take it to her husband, however, it was lifted from her hands. Jimo watched open-mouthed as the bowl floated across the room, seemingly buoyed up by the wind, and into Chanzhu’s hands. No sooner had he grasped the bowl, though, than he dropped it, the oozing stew forgotten as he threw his hands into the air, laughing, crying, dancing.
"Tomorrow!" he declared to the world. "Tomorrow I will catch the butterfly and my enlightenment will be complete!" He hurried into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him.
There was something dead inside Jimo as she crossed the room. She knelt by the broken bowl and started to gather up the stew-stained shards. She cleaned up the stew - the stew he hadn’t needed her to bring. The task completed, she sat at the table, a sheet of pristine parchment before her. She ran a hand caressingly over the surface. It was so smooth. Almost regretfully, she dipped her quill in the ink and began to scratch her message onto the perfect cream. The message was short, and she was soon finished. Folding the parchment, she held it tenderly in her lap, staring into the fire. She sat while the blaze dimmed to embers. She sat as it eventually winking out altogether as the sky lightened to dawn-grey. She sat, oblivious, as Chanzhu hurried from the hut, eager to be in his field of wind, chasing the floating light, the butterfly.
Soon after, Jimo stood and left the hut, shutting and locking the door carefully behing her.
The wind whistled past Jimo as she struggled her way up the narrow, almost non-existent path up the pinnacle. She was carrying the folded parchment, and the wind wrenched at it, trying to tear it from her grasp. She would not allow it, though, gripping the letter as if her life depended on it. Her steps were sure and solid. She would not fall. Not yet.
The wind also whistled past Chanzhu as he sat on his solitary pinnacle of rock. Ignoring it came easier today. The butterfly was not taunting him, fluttering past his head. Rather it was enticing him. Chanzhu knew he would be able to catch it when the time was right.
Jimo reached the top and looked for somewhere to leave her message. If she left it in the open, the wind would claim it for its own. She would not let that happen. Approaching Chanzhu, she slid the parchment under his foot.
In the darkness behind Chanzhu's eyes, something pressed against the void. The butterfly fluttered away in fright. Irritated, Chanzhu struck the distraction away, continuing after the butterfly.
Jimo teetered on the edge of the pinnacle, reeling from the blow. Her balance was precarious, and the wind raged around her, dragging at her. She looked down. Such a long way down. She let the wind take her.
The parchment fluttered in the wind. There was so little holding it to this earth. Eventually, it relented to the wind, whipping away into the sky. Jimo’s words were gone, echoless.
The butterfly approached shyly, settling lightly on Chanzhu’s outstretched palm. Searing light led him into oblivion.