Ten monks set off on pilgrimage. Along the way a river crosses their path. There is no question that their quest must cross that torrent. The river is violent, treacherous, ripping in convoluted eddies of white water. Crossing proves to be that, the party scattered & tattered by the current, straggles to cross each in their own way.  Finally those who barely escaped death by drowning in the waters begin to emerge onto the shore.  One man begins to count.  He thinks, ‘O’ Lord, have you delivered us all or were some taken away? ‘

Counting those survivors, he trips along the rocky shore. Counting only nine, he begins to grow desperate. He searches. He calls out for his lost brother, his missing soul-mate. Eventually he falls on his knees in tears.

Then a stranger appears. A man bent & frail comes forward, his face lit w/humor. He breaks out w/a raucous laugh.

“Why do you laugh, foolish old one, cannot you see we have lost a brother?”

The stranger laughs even harder.

“Well now, try counting again” he says.

Monk tried but to no avail.

“Still only nine, you see?”

“You do not.”

“What do you mean?”

“You, you are that tenth man.”