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“Aang,” says Monk Gyatso, and there’s just a hint of disapproval on his face, “Remember the five precepts.”
“I know, I know!” Aang sighs, his hand fumbling the pebble.
Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but a part of him insists if he runs his thumb over the cool surface enough - imprints on it - the pretty stone will become his and not Sonam’s. He recites his teachings, ones he is still too young to fully understand: "Never take a life, refrain from sensual misconduct, refrain from wrongful speech, don’t take intoxicants…” He has trouble pronouncing that last word.
He looks up at Gyatso, eyes wide and glassy. “Uh.”
“Do not take what is not given,” Gyatso finishes gently. He emphasises each word as if they are of equal importance. His voice is still stern, but Aang notices the way his mouth is tilted up in amusement.
He should give the pebble back to Sonam. But he’s still an eight-year-old boy, so he pouts and whines in a high little voice. "But Gyatso, I only took it because Sonam took my custard tart at lunch. He knows I love custard tarts, but he took it anyway!” He pouts, “And it was the last one!”
“And he was wrong for that,” his guardian is ever patient with him, “But revenge is never a good policy, Aang.” He guides Aang closer to the edge of the slope overlooking the visiting devotees. The unique leaves of the Bodhi tree pepper the grass, lush green and lovingly cultivated.
Aang loosens the pebble from his tight grip and lifts it up to look at it. Sonam had found it in one of the pools when he was playing Airball with the older kids. He’d shown it to all of them when they gathered for lunch, and they’d oohed and aahed at his new treasure. Sonam had said he’d give it back to the pool tomorrow. Then he took Aang’s custard tart.
The pebble is round but lumpy, and black in colour. Strips of grey run across it, from the left to the right. Or is it top to bottom? The direction changes as he twists it around.
It weighs in his hand, but his guilt is heavier.
“I’m sorry, Gyatso,” he says sincerely, gripping the older monk’s robe with his other hand, “I’ll return it.”
“And I shall speak to Sonam about those tarts. We’ll work something out, won’t we?” Gyatso winks, and pats his shoulder, “Look, Aang.”
He follows Gyatso’s pointed finger to the shrine below and brightens up immediately. There is a couple with offerings, lighting sticks of incense. The smell reaches him even up to where he is. It’s his favourite smell in the world. Sometimes he airbends it closer to himself when he’s meditating and annoys Tashi.
Clutching their parents’ robes are two dark-haired children, one carrying flowers. “Other kids! Can I ask them to come play?”
“Of course, Aang,” his guardian leads him down. A bison lands nearby, and the ground reverberates with it. Aang thinks he can feel the earth shake from the inside, “But perhaps you should return that stone first.”