Fist-Fighting and Fine Dining

“Punch that rock.” Zenzu said 

Carl looked at the old man blankly. “Uh, no.” 

“Punch the rock, Carl. Only then will I know if you’re worthy of my teaching.” 

“You ask my family to send me all the way up here. I spend 3 harrowing nights trudging along only to be told to punch a rock when I arrive?” 

“Appears that way, yes.” Zenzu nodded.

“How are you going to teach me the way of the…of the fiery…fist? What’s it called again?” 

“Way of the flaming knuckles,” Zenzu corrected 

“Yes that. How can you teach me if my hands are broken from punching a rock?” 

Zenzu smiled. “I have my methods.” 

Carl looked at the boulder resting nicely in the middle of the grass circle. The wind at the top of the mountain was sinking into his bones and he preferred not to be outside any longer.

“Fine,” Carl said. He walked up to the rock and gave it a light tap with a barely held-together fist. “You happy?” 

Zenzu carefully rubbed at his long thin beard. It was clear Carl was too hesitant, afraid of pain. He would need some encouragement. “I’ll cook up 5 dumplings, all for you. Only if you really hit the thing.” 

Carl’s eyes lit up. His stomach growled, yelling out to him “You better hit that damn thing!” The stomach said.

That was all the motivation the kid needed. With a scream, Carl charged and punched the living crap out of that rock. Like goddamn, he really gave it his all. Didn’t make a scratch on it, of course. But he sure gave it an effort. 

Zensu watched as Carl writhed on the ground in pain, clutching his mangled up fist. So many curses were spewed at the top of the mountain that even the trees and the grass hoped their mothers weren’t listening. 

Zenzu stared intently at the rock. 

Carl drew in deep breaths. “Am I…worthy?”

It took a few moments for him to answer, “No clue.” 

About the same amount of curses spewed once again. 

“Calm down will you?” Zenzu pointed at the rock. “If it’s going to happen, it’ll happen now.” 

Carl had tears streaming down his face. “If what will happen?” 

Now both looked at the rock. Nothing too crazy was going on. Just a slight rumbling from the boulder. Wait, that shouldn’t be happening at all, even if it was slight, Carl realized. The sight made him forget the pain for a moment. Steam began shooting from the surface and soon it grew red hot. 

“I’d step away from the boulder if you could.” Said Zenzu 

Carl didn’t need to be asked twice and crawled away from it. Good thing he did. The whole thing exploded shortly after into rubble. It flew in all directions, even hitting Zenzu. He was used to it.

“Holy shit.” Carl said. “Did I do that?”

Zensu bent down and picked up a still steaming hunk of rock from the ground. Then dropped it and shook his hand from the heat, he should’ve expected that. “Yup, all you. Now, lesson number one: No cursing on my mountain. I’ll have no more of it. With that, I suppose I’ll start on those dumplings.” Zenzu turned towards the direction of his chambers.

“What about my hand?” Carl held up the limb in question, a few bones poked their way out, a dribble of blood flowed down.

“Hmm.” Zenzu didn’t think Carl would use so much force as to completely shatter it to oblivion. But he shrugged and went on his way. Dumplings were at hand, there can be no distractions. 

Carl was now left alone, and in pain. He knew Zensu would be of no help with his hand, so he explored the area, tears still streaming down his face.

For how spacious Zenzu’s temple was, there weren’t many folk mucking about. A few gardeners here and there. A homeless man taking refuge, named Gaston, who had a terrible case of gangrene. And one known only as the “Rock Man”, whose sole purpose was to gather more rocks for punching. None of which were students or the medically trained. 

It was the homeless man who helped wrap Carl’s hand and set the bones properly. After which, Carl went to check on the dumplings, his stomach wouldn’t let him do anything else. It was the lovely smells that guided his way.

“Are they ready?” Carl said, peeking his head into the kitchen. 

Zenzu looked up from his duties. “Who wrapped your hand?” He said, ignoring the prior question. 

“Gaston.” 

“Who?”

“The homeless guy.” 

“Never heard of him.” Zenzu picked up a plate full of steaming dumplings and handed them to Carl. “Done indeed. Not my best work, though I apologize.” 

At this point, Carl was so hungry he would’ve eaten the dirt and grime off the floor. He wasn’t expecting much of the cooking abilities of a man who teaches others how to punch things. But when that first dumpling entered his mouth, his taste buds erupted with delight. 

Another tear rolled down Carl’s face. Though this one was not of pain, but of those experiencing a spiritual awakening. “Zenzu, where did you learn to cook?” 

“Is it that bad?” The teacher asked. “I knew the water to flour ratio was off!”

“Are you joking? This is…” He couldn’t finish. He hastily finished the remaining dumplings and wiped his mouth before continuing. “You should be teaching cooking lessons instead of…whatever it is you’re doing now.”

Zenzu waved the comment away. “Lesson number two: Flattery will get you nowhere. Now go rest. Do nothing for the rest of the day. Your hand will improve by morning.”

Carl raised an eyebrow. “Were we looking at the same hand? I don’t think the bone poking out of the skin is going to magically mend by morning.” 

“You’d be surprised.” 

WIth that, Carl did as asked. He got some much needed rest. After three days of climbing a mountain and sleeping on moss, a proper bed knocked Carl out the moment his head hit the bed. His sleep was so sound, he didn’t notice the yelling of Zensu in the morning telling him to get up. It took many pillow slaps to the face before Carl’s eyelids creaked open. 

“I thought you might’ve been dead if it wasn’t for your snoring.” Zenzu said, out of breath. “It's nearly midday.” 

Zenzu went in for another pillow slap to the face. Carl was alert enough to block it with his hand.

“Alright, I’m up!” Carl rubbed both of his eyes. When he opened them, Zenzu was smiling, almost laughing. “What’s so funny?” 

“You haven’t even noticed yet. A distracted pupil is a bad pupil.” 

“Noticed what?” It took a few moments of stillness before realizing the immense pain he felt earlier in the day had ceased. Completely. He rubbed at his bandaged hand and felt no pain, no bones out of place. 

“Many gods.” Carl uttered under his breath. 

“No gods, just dumplings. Now get up, we have much to do today.” Zenzu left Carl’s room.

To Carl, this was more surprising than the fact that he blew up a rock with one punch. Everyone within his realm had heard of the mythical warriors who defeated entire armies with their bare fists. Those who could topple fortress walls single handedly. Not once had Carl heard of dumplings that could heal the gravely injured within a matter of hours. That was more useful to the average Joe than anything explosive. 

Out in the open patch of grass Zenzu was sitting cross legged, meditating in the breeze. Carl approached and awkwardly stood there, not sure what to do. 

“Should I sit too?”

“No, I want you to jump off the mountain.” Zenzu replied sarcastically. “Yes, sit. Lesson number four: Don’t be dumb.” 

“Seems a rather odd lesson.” Carl sat closeby to Zenzu. “Wait, did we skip lesson three?” 

Zenzu sighed. “Lesson number three: A distracted pupil is a bad pupil.”

“See, you should’ve said ‘lesson number three’ before saying it. That was the issue.” 

Zenzu began his day of lessons, which involved no physical training this early on. Zenzu attempted to get Carl to feel within himself the power which lay dormant. It was a power that needed the utmost control and could not be taken lightly. They practiced breathing, for the breath was a third of the key. 

“Lesson forty six: Breathe out.” Zenzu instructed and demonstrated. 

Carl did it, but he wasn’t happy about it. Not at all. It should not have taken forty-six lessons to get to an action that the body did automatically without thought. He should’ve been focused on nothing but the breath, but all Carl could think about was how horseshit Zenzu’s teaching style was. 

Zenzu opened his eyes and got up. “I think this calls for a break. Lesson forty-seven: Breaks are always good, once work has been done.” 

“Thank the gods,” Carl laid on his back. He was only one day into this journey he was involuntarily thrust upon, and yet, he was pretty much sick of it. Even thinking ahead, there wasn’t a whole lot to look forward to. He laid up in the grass to see Zenzu wandering about, stretching his limbs, swinging his arms around. 

“So…” Carl realized he wasn’t sure how to address Zenzu. Were they on a first name basis? Was this a strictly ‘Master’ sort of thing? Perhaps ‘Master Zenzu’ would do. “Master Zenzu, what—”

A hand smacked Carl across the mouth, cutting him off mid-sentence. 

“Gross.” Zenzu said. “Master Zenzu? No one’s ever called me that. Even Mr. Zenzu would be too much.” 

“Is ‘Master’ not the proper term for a teacher in the martial arts?” Carl’s face flushed hotter than what his fists could create.

“I don’t know, nor do I care. I’m creating a new lesson. Lesson six hundred and seventy five: Calling me ‘Master’ is weird.” 

“Dear god, there’s that many lessons?” 

“We’re making good progress so far I think, and in order too.” 

Carl couldn’t bare it any longer. “I don’t think I want to do this.” 

“Ah, they never do.” 

“How many other students have you trained?” 

Zenzu began counting on his fingers. “Successfully? Three.” 

“How many unsuccessfully?” 

He began counting again. “Zero, I guess. They’ve all turned into stellar warriors for the army. I’m sure you’ve heard of them. Magnus the Great, Ferro the Fury, and my personal favorite student, John. Forgot his last name, but he’s the most famous John I assure you. 

Carl actually had heard of John. Cool guy. “So I’m only being trained to fight in wars?” 

“Well, yeah. What else are exploding hands useful for? Maybe working in a quarry, but that’s lame.” 

Carl waited a moment before responding, not sure how Zenzu would respond to his next question. “What if I don’t want to fight in wars?” 

Even Zenzu didn’t know how to respond. He rubbed at his beard once again. “No one’s ever asked that before. I don’t have any lessons for this one. Are you sure you don’t want to fight in wars? It’s quite fun, you know. Punching everything in sight, watching things explode, gaining fame and glory. Being the cause of the death of thousands. Watching your loved ones slowly drift away from you due to your erratic bloodlust. Losing your brothers in arms during the battle, and not being able to do anything to stop it. What’s not to like?”

“Not my cup of tea, I suppose.” Carl shrugged. 

“Those born with the flaming knuckles are very rare, and only come along every so often. I’m sixty three and in my lifetime I’ve trained three people. What else am I going to do with my time if not train you?” 

Carl could see it in Zenzu’s eyes that he was pleading for him to continue. The old man did not have much else going for him. 

In a desperate attempt, Zenzu did what he knew would work. “If you continue to train, you’ll have all the dumplings your heart desires.” 

It was an offer Carl was not going to refuse though he knew he still held all the power in this negotiation. “Instead of five, I want six dumplings tonight.” 

“Done.”

Some more training was had as the day went on. Zenzu attempted to bring some excitement into the mix, by showing Carl how a real expert blows up rocks. Carl had to admit, it was pretty epic, but all his mind really wanted to focus on was how Zenzu made those damn dumplings. It was that night when he got the chance to learn. He paid more attention there than at any point of training. 

The recipe appeared simple enough, including all the basic ingredients. Yet nowhere to be found was anything outright magical to heal ailments.

Once eaten, they were just as good as the night prior. The extra dumpling Carl got, he gave to Gaston, who was somehow sleeping fifteen feet up in a tree. 

“Come down here and try this, Gaston.” Carl said to him. “It's the least I can do after you helped me.” 

Gaston climbed down with struggle. His feet were gnarled up from the infection. It was a wonder why he didn’t just sleep on the ground.

When Gaston got down, he sniffed it with caution, and then devoured it. “Thanks.” He said, before scrambling back up the tree.

At least he said thanks. 

In the morning, Carl was awoken by a pillow hitting his face yet again, except this time it wasn’t Zenzu. It was Gaston. 

“Carl! Holy shit, my feet! The gangrene, it's all gone. I'm healed!” Gaston hugged him tight. Carl realized it wasn’t just the gangrene causing him to smell. 

A voice was heard from outside. “What did I say about cursing in my Temple!” Zenzu walked in. “Oh. Who’s this?” 

“Gaston.” Carl responded. 

“I suppose I didn’t say anything about having lovers while training. Just remember lesson three, no distractions.”

“Zenzu, this is the homeless man who's been living in your temple, remember?”

“Never heard of him.” Said Zenzu. 

“Sir.” Gaston shook Zenzu’s hand rigorously. “It is by your work that I am healed. I will be forever in your debt. I can skip, I can run, I can dance! To the town I must go. To spread the word of your work!” Gaston sprinted away.

Both Carl and Zenzu watched him go before turning to one another. 

“Strange. Anyways, more training today, Carl. Prepare yourself.” 

Carl got out of bed, slightly angered. “Do you not care that your work could be to the benefit of thousands? Think of all the people you could help.” 

“The dumplings? I suppose a few might like them. But aren't exploding fists just so much cooler?” 

“Okay, yeah they’re pretty cool. But think, there’s not even any wars for me to fight in once I finish training. It’ll all be for nought.”

“Hey, it takes a while to get through six hundred and seventy five lessons. Anything can happen.” Zenzu felt the conversation over and walked to his grass circle. 

Without much of a choice, and feeling as though further discussion was futile, Carl spent the next weeks engaging in training without complaint. He even learned a thing or two. More hands were broken as more rocks were blown to smithereens. The Rock Man had his work cut out for him.  

On the third week, in the middle of a mind numbing lesson on emotion control, a rather loud ruckus outside the temple interrupted Zenzu. 

He turned to the commotion. “Probably those gardeners arguing about bushes again.”  

Though it was not the gardeners. The front gates to the temple burst open and a slew of villagers came rushing inside. Leading the charge was none other than Gaston. 

“I’ve brought them.” The homeless man said. “Sick and healthy. They seek one thing.”

“They all want to watch me train Carl?” Zenzu said. 

“No! They want dumplings!” Yelled gaston. 

Zenzu began to sweat. He barely liked cooking for one person, let alone a whole village.

Carl put his hand on Zenzu’s shoulder. “Now’s your chance. Look at all of them. Like that guy there, missing a leg. Imagine what you could do for him.”

“He’d have to eat fifty dumplings to regrow a leg.”

“Then we’ll make fifty. I’ll help you. If there was a point when I wasn’t distracted, it was learning the recipe.” 

Zenzu thought long and hard. He practiced a breathing technique to calm his mind. “For once these hands will cease destroying, and begin healing. I’ll do it.” 

The village pooled together their ingredients. Carl worked as the sous chef, Gaston as the dishwasher, for he couldn’t really do much else. And they cooked. No better cooking was ever done. Some animals even stopped by for a plate. 

Everyone had their fill, a feast fit for the gods. In the morning a parade was held. All those before too sick to walk, who couldn’t see, who were just plain old stupid, had their ailments lifted. 

The sight nearly brought a tear to Zenzu's eye. All this was by his doing, and his pupil’s. 

“What do you think?” Carl asked. “Perhaps a change of profession? Teaching the craft of dumpling making full time? Spreading your wonders around?”

“I’d have to make a whole new list of lessons for all that. Though I hear the international market for dumplings is ripe this time of year.” 

Carl let out a chuckle. “Lesson one: Be not distracted while perfecting the water to flour ratio.” 

Zenzu shook his head. “That's more like lesson thirty three. Lesson one: No cursing on the mountain. I really need to drive that one home. You never know with new students these days.”

“Sounds like you’re agreeing to start teaching.” Carl sensed the growing enthusiasm.

Zenzu gazed up at the drifting clouds, his smile widening. “I believe I am.”