With the grace of a nobleman but the haste of a drunkard, Kekeng upends the glass of sake and dabs his mouth with a sleeve. He sighs with a smileand stands up from the table. He feels he could give the host some trite remark about how excellent it was, but he doesn't. I've drunk too much sake both good and bad to really tell the difference anymore.
Instead, Kekeng walks over to a spare table apart from the rest of the patrons, spinning his flute in hand with deft, practiced loops as he goes. He sits cross-legged atop the table and brings the instrument to his lips, blowing a soft note through it that quiets the room. He begins to speak, his words punctuated and in-rhythm, helped -- not hindered -- by his intoxication.
"To journeys afar, and to forked roads with one tine traveled more.
To meals shared and nights made frivolous and gregarious.
To the softness of our natural world, yet its jagged moments.
To paths lined with both grave and lake, placid -- and still peaceful.
May the Spirits guide us as we walk, as we breathe, as we live.
May they harry highwaymen, parry predators, carry ourselves to safety."
As he finishes his verse, Kekeng begins to play a melody on his flute. It begins slow and relaxed, and his eyes stay closed in concentration. Over time, the tempo builds and grows and flourishes. His foot slips down over the edge of the table and thumps the planked floor to hold onto the rhythm. With a heated crescendo, the melody reaches a rapid pace and beads of sweat glisten from Kekeng's forehead. Then, as it started, it finishes -- the comforting and low melody returns for a moment before fading out entirely.
"Thank you," the man says with a humble bow from his seated position. He smiles, but he feels the bite of sadness from within. "More sake, if you could?"