My God, why are you silent?
Have you forgotten your lost sheep?

The Fire & The Silence

Before he bore no name, he bore too many. Husband. Hunter. Storm.

In the shadowed woods where Finland kisses Sweden, before the cross stood watch on any hill, there lived a man with fire in his marrow. His voice silenced halls. His fury silenced hearts. His wife, a healer of earth and moon, loved him as the wind loves the flame—but knew when winds rose too high, the flame devoured all. After a night of words that cut like blades, and fists that struck the air like thunder, she spoke: “Take your wolves. Take your fire. Return only when your silence can speak more wisely than your wrath.”

So he walked into the pine-deep world, with Geri and Freki at his sides—named for gods he no longer served, yet whose echoes still haunted his breath. The gods, forgotten but not gone, watched. Days passed, then blood found them. In a clearing tainted by rust and pain, Freki, the she-wolf, met her end in a trap not meant for her kind. She died as Geri tore at steel, and the man did not roar. He knelt, laid hand upon her stillness, and wept like the sky after battle.

That night, beside the crackling fire, the flames whispered snow peaks and rising suns. He followed the vision across frostbitten lands, beyond the edge of maps, to a mountain veiled in mist—where bells sang, not war horns. The monks there, robes sweeping stone like waves on shore, called him the Nordic Priest. He never gave them truer words.

Years later, at the sanctuary fire, memory came not in words but in stillness. His thoughts returned to the glade, the trap, the silence. Behind him, the monk spoke, as if hearing his heart: “The silence you feared was your guide. It did not abandon you. It brought you home.”

The Sea of Storms

But before mountains, there was ocean. And before stillness, the storm.

After Freki’s death, the Wanderer sought a path east, buying passage with silence alone. In a village of salt and cold wind, he found a ship. A wolf at his heel, a storm in his eyes. The sailors did not ask his name.

For six days, the sea held its breath. On the seventh, it screamed. Lightning cracked the sky like old runes breaking, and waves rose to challenge gods. The crew, full of fear and old tales, blamed him—the lone stranger, the cursed wolf. Come morning, only wreckage remained. The sea had claimed all but the man and his beast.

He awoke among palms and green heat, Geri wounded but alive. He did not know this land, yet it did not cast him out. It watched. It whispered.

From the canopy above, two ravens came—black as forgotten skies, keen as memory. They followed him, unafraid. He fed them, spoke to them, as he once did to the old gods. They stayed. He called them Huginn and Muninn—Thought and Memory—not from faith, but from respect. Not from worship, but remembrance.

The wolf guarded his steps. The ravens soared as scouts. Earth and sky walked with him. And for the first time, the Wanderer did not seek gods. He listened to the wind instead.

Guided by wing and instinct, he journeyed inland. Mists gathered. Mountains loomed. There, wrapped in silence and bells, stood the temple. And as he approached, the silence did not scare him. It welcomed him.

The Garden Beyond the Bridge

The silence within him grew roots, but silence alone could not feed the fire that still smoldered in his marrow.

Deeper into the jungle he walked, where the trees tangled like braided hair and the light fell in broken strands. There was no path, only suggestion—only the memory of where others may have stepped before. Yet his feet found the way, led not by vision, but by something older than sight: a pull beneath the ribs, a hunger unnamed.

At the edge of a ravine where river mist clung to the air like breath, he came upon a bridge. A simple thing of woven rope and stubborn planks, swaying with each step as though uncertain of its own strength. He crossed without fear, though the wind sang warnings in his ear. On the far side, the trees parted just enough to reveal a clearing—and within it, a statue of bronze, weathered and wide.

It was a man—or something like one—round of belly and draped in robes, mouth wide in laughter eternal. The Wanderer stopped. The silence within him twisted. This figure, foreign and still, seemed to know him. To mock him. To grin at the very soul he had worked to quiet.

“What are you?” he muttered, eyes narrowed. “Why do you laugh?” But the statue gave no answer, only mirrored his stare with joy that knew no shame. He felt his fists clench, old fire rising. It had been seasons since his wrath had stirred—but here, before this idol of peace and fat-bellied mirth, he felt mocked. Belittled.

That was when he saw her.

Beyond the statue, kneeling in a sun-dappled patch of earth, a woman bent low to the soil. Her hands worked the roots of rice and sweet ginger, her fingers quick as birds, her presence calm as dusk. An elder, though the lines on her face spoke of time as friend, not burden. Her hair was bound in silver braids. Her eyes, when she looked up, held a knowing that cracked his defenses like ice on spring rivers.

“The statue does not laugh at you,” she said without rising. Her voice was smoke and cedar, cool and old. “It laughs at pain. It laughs because even sorrow fears being forgotten.”

The Wanderer stared, caught between confusion and reverence. “Are you a spirit?”

“No,” she said, smiling. “Just a woman who remembers how to speak to them.”

She patted the earth beside her. “Come. You have journeyed far. You do not need answers yet. Only rest. And ears willing to hear.”

And so he sat. And so began a new fire—not of wrath, but of rebirth. For though his body had crossed river and sea, his soul had just reached the true threshold. And beyond it waited wisdom with dirt under her nails and a laugh like falling leaves.

Laughter Beneath the Rice Stalks

The old woman chuckled, not cruelly, but with the belly-deep mirth of one who has outlived many wars—and many warriors.

She studied him as he knelt awkwardly near the garden’s edge, his short frame dwarfed by the myths he carried on his back. To her, he looked like a bear cub trying to wear the skin of a lion. It was not the sight of him that made her laugh, but the way his fury and confusion swirled beneath the surface, obvious to anyone who knew the taste of fire.

“You wear your rage like armor,” she said, still smiling, her voice seasoned like old tea. “But even armor rusts, child. You remind me of men I’ve known before. Northern ones—tall as bamboo and just as brittle when the storm came.”

The Wanderer blinked, unsure if he was being insulted or blessed.

“You are welcome in our village,” she continued. “For as long as you’re willing to stay. We have rice, stories, and silence in equal measure. You’ll need all three.”

She reached out her hand slowly, not to him, but to Geri, the wolfhound who had followed the Wanderer without question across mountain and sea. The beast bristled at first, then cautiously sniffed the old woman’s weathered fingers. After a moment, she gave him a pat between the ears that melted his guard. The same gesture would follow for the man, though with far more hesitation.

“Come,” she said, “Let me tell you a story. Not from your homeland, but one you need nonetheless.”

She turned back to the soil, her voice soft as wind in pine trees.

“There once was a fire spirit born in the heart of a mountain. He was proud and wild and bright, and believed it his destiny to blaze across the earth. Wherever he went, he burned—forests, rivers, even villages with sleeping children. All was fuel to him. ‘I am freedom,’ he cried. ‘I am truth!’

But soon, he found himself alone. Even the wind refused to visit him, and the rain wept only out of fear. One day, he tried to warm himself, but found no kindling left to burn. Not even his own reflection remained, for the lakes had boiled dry. His flame flickered in the ash of his own making.

A passing spirit, cloaked in snow, said to him: ‘Fire without purpose consumes itself. True warmth is found when you choose what to spare.’”

Grandmother let the silence settle like falling petals.

“You burn hot, Wanderer. But that does not make you strong. It makes you lonely.” Her eyes met his, and they were kind, not condemning. “Stay here. Learn which fires deserve your breath.”

Geri let out a low, contented rumble, pressing into her hand again. And for the first time in a long while, the Wanderer did not feel mocked by laughter. He felt invited by it—called not to battle, but to belonging.

The Ashes We Carry

The path to the village wound gently through ferns and trees shaped by wind and time. Grandmother walked ahead with quiet certainty, her wide-brimmed hat bobbing like a small boat on a calm river. The Wanderer followed, his steps slower, each one stirring old ghosts from the undergrowth.

“May I speak now?” he asked, his voice unusually small.

“Of course,” she said, without turning. “This trail is long. Best we fill it with something other than silence.”

He took a breath.

“There was a woman,” he began. “Sharp-witted. Sharper than me, really. And stubborn. We built a life together once. Or we tried. But my anger… it grew like ivy around every word we spoke. Our home became a battlefield of glances and silence.”

Grandmother nodded. “Love and fire don’t always cook the same rice.”

He smiled bitterly, then continued. “When it ended, I left with nothing but the clothes on my back and two wolves who refused to leave my side. Geri and Freki—named after the gods’ own. We wandered west to east, searching for nothing, really. Just moving. That’s when I lost her.”

His voice cracked.

“Freki found something in the woods near a village. I didn’t see the trap until it snapped. A hunter’s cruelty—steel teeth hidden in leaves. The spring snapped her spine. I… I tried to free her. Even as her eyes dimmed, she licked my hand. That was her last breath.”

Grandmother stopped walking. She laid a hand gently on his arm.

“You buried her?” she asked.

“I did,” he whispered. “Built a cairn and lit incense from a broken shrine nearby. I don’t even know what gods that place belonged to. I just prayed… for her sake, not mine.”

They resumed walking.

“After that,” he continued, “I made it to the docks of a crumbling port town. Found a ship heading east. They didn’t want gold—they needed hands. So I worked. Tied knots, lifted sail, shoveled filth. Every task reminded me of what I’d lost, of who I used to be. And I hated it. I hated them. Every man I met seemed too loud, too soft, too weak.”

“And your anger?” Grandmother asked softly.

“It became my anchor,” he said. “When the storm hit, and the ship shattered like brittle bones, only a few of us survived. I blamed them. Their choices. Their cowardice. I shouted when I should have helped. I struck when I should’ve prayed.”

They reached a break in the trees where the distant outline of the village came into view—roofs like turtle shells, fires burning low in the dusk.

“You lost more than a wolf,” Grandmother said gently. “You lost your mourning.”

He stopped walking, eyes fixed on the village. “How do I get it back?”

She smiled, brushing aside a low-hanging vine. “One step at a time. And by listening more than you speak.”

Geri nudged his master’s hand, as if urging him forward. For the first time, the Wanderer followed without resistance.

The Mud Teaches All

The village was alive with dusk-song. Children chased chickens, and women with woven hats chuckled over baskets of peppers and root vegetables. Grandmother stood at the heart of it all, her presence as steady as a mountain.

“This is the one I spoke of,” she said to the villagers. “He’s got fire in him. Dangerous, yes. But fire also cooks the rice, if you know how to use it.”

The Wanderer bowed slightly, not out of respect—yet—but out of uncertainty. These people didn’t look like soldiers. No one flinched at his presence. That unsettled him more than if they had.

“You’re not ready for the monks,” Grandmother said bluntly, folding her arms. “But you can work. The land needs hands. You may tend the gardens… or wrestle with the livestock.”

His eyes narrowed at the mention of livestock. “Livestock?”

“Water buffalo,” she replied with a grin. “Meaner than sin and twice as proud.”

That, at least, was familiar. Animals with attitude. He nodded and walked toward the pens, Geri following with cautious enthusiasm.

What greeted him looked like oversized, mud-drenched demons with horns that curved like river snakes. The buffalo stared at him, unblinking, snorting through wide nostrils.

“You’ve done this before,” he muttered to himself. “Just rope the neck, tug the snout, and—”

He stepped into the pen with the swagger of a man who once bested wolves with bare hands. The rope went over the horn. The buffalo blinked slowly. For one glorious second, he thought he had it.

Then came the chaos.

The buffalo jerked like a possessed spirit, lifting him clean off the ground and tossing him back-first into a rice bog. The splash sent frogs fleeing and villagers into peals of laughter. Even Grandmother let out a full-throated cackle, slapping her knees with delight.

“The land teaches faster than I do!” she called out.

Covered in muck, sputtering rice shoots from his mouth, the Wanderer sat up. Geri tilted his head, trying very hard not to look amused.

The buffalo stomped once, proud and unbothered, then resumed chewing a clump of reeds.

The Wanderer stood, dripping, his fists clenched—but only for a moment. Something in the ridiculousness of it all, in the sheer absurdity, broke through. He exhaled. Then, with a snort of his own, he began to laugh.

It was a jagged, unsure laugh, like a man trying out a forgotten language. The villagers laughed with him, not at him. And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel like fighting.

Grandmother approached, offering a clean rag for his hands. “The buffalo are stubborn. But they do not hate. They only test.”

“I noticed,” he said, wiping his face.

“You passed,” she said.

“I got thrown into the mud.”

“Yes,” she nodded. “Without throwing a single punch. That’s progress.”

The Strength of Gentle Hands

The mud began to dry on his skin, crusting over like cracked armor. The Wanderer sat on a low stone, watching the water buffalo from a safer distance. He had wrestled beasts, led men into battle, and broken wild horses—but nothing had prepared him for being humbled by a swamp cow.

Something about the animal’s calm after the storm gnawed at him. It was not stubborn in the way bulls back home had been. No, this beast had not resisted out of fear or fury. It had refused him. Judged him unworthy.

“You wish to try again?” came a low voice beside him.

The Wanderer looked up to see a man taller than him by a hand, bare-chested and broad-shouldered, his frame built by seasons of labor. His black hair was tied back with a strip of hemp, and his eyes were the color of cool, dark soil.

“I’d rather not be tossed again,” the Wanderer grunted, standing. “You’ve done this before?”

The man nodded once. “My name is Takeshi. I tend them every day.”

“Then show me. I need to know what I did wrong.”

Takeshi smiled—patiently, gently—and walked past him. Instead of grabbing the rope, he approached one of the buffalo with slow, deliberate steps. He said nothing at first, only bowed his head slightly, then spoke to the creature in soft, rhythmic tones, like one might speak to a child at bedtime.

“What are you doing?” the Wanderer asked, brows furrowed. “That doesn’t work. You need leverage. Authority.”

Takeshi didn’t answer. He extended one hand, open and calm. The buffalo, previously restless, gave a slow blink, then snorted and stepped toward him. Not away—toward.

The animal’s large snout met Takeshi’s palm, and he gently stroked its forehead, whispering all the while. Then, with a grace that seemed absurd for such a creature, the buffalo turned and followed him. No rope. No tugging. Just words and touch.

The Wanderer stood motionless, watching the two move to a new patch of grass. The buffalo lowered its head and began grazing, utterly unbothered.

“You didn’t even control it,” he muttered.

“I didn’t need to,” Takeshi replied, returning. “Buffalo are not horses. You cannot break them. You can only earn them.”

The words hit like a hidden blade. Earn them.

“Is that how you treat all beasts here?” the Wanderer asked, the challenge barely veiled.

Takeshi smiled again. “Beasts. Children. Even fire. If you shout, they run. If you hit, they strike back. But if you learn their rhythm…” He tapped his chest gently, “...you speak to them with more than words.”

The Wanderer nodded slowly, folding his arms. It wasn’t anger that rose in his chest this time—but curiosity. And beneath that, something deeper. Something primal.

“Teach me,” he said, not as a warrior, but as a man who knew his strength had failed him.

“Tomorrow,” Takeshi said, bowing. “Tonight, eat. Wash. You smell like swamp rice and failure.”

The Wanderer laughed, despite himself.

Nightfall by the Spring

The light of the setting sun danced on the steaming surface of the hot spring near the river’s bend, where smooth stones cradled the warmth like an offering to the heavens. Tuomas Veri stood waist-deep in the water, steam curling around his shoulders, washing away the filth of the buffalo and the burden of travel.

He exhaled, long and slow. The silence of the forest pressed in gently—not like the void of his homeland, but like a lullaby sung by trees and insects and wind. It was the first moment in many months he wasn’t shivering with cold or shaking with fury.

On the bank, neatly folded, lay a set of clean clothes: a light, weathered tunic and loose-fitting trousers of indigo-dyed cotton. Takeshi had returned quickly to the village, rummaged through the trunks of items left behind by those who had come before, and found what he called “Northlander clothing, almost certainly.”

The moment Tuomas stepped into them, he paused. They fit—not perfectly, but close. Familiar. A subtle stitch pattern across the chest hinted at his own people’s symbols. The gods must have a cruel sense of humor, he thought, to clothe a man like him in the skin of memory.

Dressed and still warm from the springs, Tuomas made his way back along the lantern-lit path to the village, where Grandmother and Takeshi were seated by a small fire, a pot of tea hanging over it. The stars blinked above them like quiet eyes.

“You clean up well,” Grandmother said with a knowing smirk, stirring the tea with a carved wooden spoon.

“I smell less like the bottom of a pond,” Tuomas grunted. “Thanks to him.” He nodded toward Takeshi, who gave a quiet bow.

“You did well,” Takeshi said. “You asked for help. Most men of your fire do not.”

Grandmother poured the tea into three mismatched cups and passed them around. She inhaled the rising scent—bitter, earthy, grounding.

“Tuomas Veri,” she said softly, more as an acknowledgment than a question. “Fire that consumes without mercy. I have known such fires before. They leave ash… but ash makes the richest soil, if the wind does not scatter it.”

Tuomas took a sip and held the warmth in his mouth. “I lost her in a trap,” he said, voice rough like bark. “My she-wolf. The female half of my soul.”

Grandmother’s eyes flickered, understanding blooming like smoke. “You buried her?”

He nodded. “Dug the grave myself. Sang for her. No words. Just howling pain.”

Takeshi remained quiet, listening as though words were sacred things.

“Then I boarded the eastbound ship,” Tuomas continued. “Worked my way across the sea. Fought the crew. We were shipwrecked. My doing, in part. I held too tightly to rage. It kept me warm. But it made me heavy.”

Grandmother reached over and gently laid her hand on his shoulder, just for a breath’s length of time. “The fire still burns in you,” she said. “But I see smoke rising into the stars.”

They sat there in silence, sipping tea, firelight flickering across their faces. The night whispered around them.

“Tomorrow,” Grandmother finally said, “you will walk with the buffalo again. But not with rope. Not with force.”

Tuomas stared into the flames. “Then how?”

“With rhythm,” Takeshi answered. “With stillness. And with patience.”

For the first time, Tuomas did not argue.

Dreams of Ash

The night crept in gently, blanketing the edge of the village in quiet moonlight and cricket-song. Tuomas lay on a woven mat within the crude hut Takeshi helped him patch together—bamboo, reeds, and soft thatch. It wasn't much, but it kept out the chill, mostly. Geri curled against his feet, silent and still.

Unseen above, two ravens nested in the thatch, black eyes gleaming in the darkness. They took turns keeping watch, shifting and fluttering quietly, ever vigilant. Old souls, those birds—whispers of the gods in feathers and bone. They’d followed Tuomas since the day he buried the she-wolf.

Sleep took him like a tide, pulling him back—not to rest, but to reckoning.

---

The Dream

He stood in the ruins of his village.

Smoke curled upward from charred beams and splintered wood. Snow drifted through broken rooftops, melting on the still-smoldering stones. Blood stained the snow red. And silence… the kind that screams in the bones.

His home—once filled with laughter and arguments and the rhythm of shared life—was gone. Reduced to a memory too painful to hold, yet too vivid to forget. He turned a corner and found the source of the fire: himself.

In the dream, Tuomas stood apart, watching his other self—a shadow of rage—torch his own home, his own hearth, roaring with words of betrayal, fists clenched, eyes wild. His wife stood at the doorway, hands outstretched, trying to reach him, to pull him back. But the shadow-self struck her down—not with hands, but with the weight of his fury, the storm of his silence.

She fell. And in the dream, he fell with her.

The fire consumed everything.

---

Awakening

Tuomas shot upright, breath ragged, drenched in cold sweat. The hut swayed slightly in the breeze. A raven rustled above, let out a low, guttural croak, and settled again. Geri whined softly and pressed his nose against Tuomas’ arm.

He buried his face in his hands, heart pounding like war drums.

“It’s not real,” he muttered to himself. “It’s not real. It’s done. It’s over.”

But part of him knew it was real—if not in form, then in spirit. The fire inside him had cost him more than a home. It had cost him peace. And maybe even love.

A soft wind stirred the leaves, and with it came the faint scent of jasmine from the nearby trees. The world reminded him: you are not there anymore.

He looked out through the open side of the hut toward the village, lights flickering gently in the distance, and the low, steady hum of crickets keeping watch.

In the quiet, Tuomas whispered to the ravens, to Geri, to the stars above: “Teach me. Before it happens again.”

The Stillness Within

Morning mist clung low to the jungle floor as the sun filtered weakly through the leaves. Toumas sat by the edge of the stream, his clothing still damp from the night sweat and the early dew. Geri stretched beside him, yawning wide and flicking an ear at the insects buzzing in the soft light.

Footsteps padded softly through the undergrowth—unhurried, balanced. Takeshi appeared, a humble figure with calloused hands and a folded cloth bundle under one arm. He paused, studying Toumas with quiet eyes that missed nothing.

“You saw something in the night,” Takeshi said simply, setting the bundle down.

Toumas nodded. “A fire I made. One I couldn’t stop. In my mind. In my past.”

Takeshi knelt and began unrolling the cloth—two modest straw mats, clean and dry. He gestured gently for Toumas to join him.

“Then it is time,” he said. “To begin the practice. What was passed to me by my father. And to him by his. Warrior and monk alike.”

---

Grounding

Toumas lowered himself onto the mat, unsure, awkward—but willing. Takeshi sat opposite him, legs crossed, hands resting on his knees in an open palm posture.

“This is zazen, the seated meditation of Zen,” Takeshi said. “Not to empty the mind. But to let the thoughts pass like clouds, while you sit like the mountain.”

He nodded toward the stream. “Do you hear the water?”

Toumas closed his eyes and listened. The babble of the stream was soft, rhythmic, patient.

“Good. That is your breath,” Takeshi whispered. “Now follow it. In… and out.”

The morning buzz faded. Even Geri quieted, head resting on his paws. Toumas focused. The breath. The water. The weight of his body on the mat. The soreness in his muscles. The ache in his chest. All real. All passing.

“Let your anger be a visitor,” Takeshi continued gently. “You greet it. But you do not serve it tea.”

Toumas cracked a dry smile. The first in days.

“If your thoughts rise, bow to them. And return to your breath. If your past shouts, bow to it. And return to now.”

They sat in silence. Not the silence of void, but the fullness of presence. Birdsong. The hush of trees. The whisper of peace, tentative but real.

---

Rising Grounded

When they finally opened their eyes, the sun had risen higher. The jungle shimmered with gold and green. Toumas exhaled slowly, a long breath he hadn’t known he was holding.

Takeshi bowed slightly. “You begin today. Tomorrow is another step.”

Toumas returned the bow, feeling oddly humbled. Not by force. But by stillness.

“Thank you,” he said.

Takeshi smiled. “Thank your breath. I only introduced you.”

Farewell, For Now

The sun had fully risen by the time Takeshi handed Toumas a small lacquered bowl, steam curling from it in fragrant wisps. Inside was a simple, nourishing breakfast—miso broth over rice, garnished with fermented vegetables and a soft-poached egg, something entirely foreign to Toumas’ northern sensibilities. Yet the warmth of it settled deeply in his belly, comforting in a way that reminded him of nothing and yet everything.

He ate in silence, Geri curled at his side, ears twitching lazily. Takeshi sat across from him, watching the jungle breathe.

“I’ve been thinking,” Toumas finally said, the spoon pausing halfway to his mouth. “Back home… my name carried too much weight. Too many fires behind it. I don't want to hear it anymore.”

Takeshi regarded him with the faintest of smiles, a breeze passing between them like a shared understanding.

“Then you are not that name,” Takeshi said. “You are simply… the Wanderer.”

Toumas—no, the Wanderer—lowered his gaze. Something inside him released, like a knot finally untied.

“The Wanderer,” he echoed softly. “Yes. That feels… right.”

Grandmother appeared then, as if drawn by the declaration. She stood just beyond the bamboo grove, her shawl catching the wind like wings. Her smile was enigmatic, timeless.

“We shall meet again,” she said, “closer to the Temple gate. But not yet. The path will guide you, if your heart remains open.”

The Wanderer rose, placing a hand on Geri’s broad head. He nodded. No more was needed. Grandmother bowed, slow and low. Takeshi placed a small bundle in his hand—rice, a dried fruit, and a smooth river stone.

“To remind you to sit still, when your thoughts run wild,” he said.

The Wanderer bowed to both, the old warrior’s way, and turned toward the rising path beyond the hills.

The story continues here..

---