That night, sitting on the floor of her apartment on an orange plush pillow, she gazed at the small golden statue of the Buddha which sat on the coffee table in front of her. Fingering the smooth jade and opal beads on the bracelet on her wrist and twisting the silver rings on her fingers, she closed her eyes and took a few moments to reflect on her next moves. She opened them, at peace and content with her decision. It would set them both on even ground and she could find out what he wanted.
And how much he knew.
* * * * *
12 years earlier:
Location: TAR People's Hospital, Lingkhor Bei Lu northeast of Potala, Tibet
“Mr. & Mrs. Goldman, I’m Dr. Shamar Chen. I’m sorry, but there’s nothing more we can do for her. When you return to The States, I’m afraid she’ll need to be institutionalized. It’s the only humane thing to be done.”
Mrs. Goldman sobbed quietly into a tissue. Wiping her eyes, she shook her head and held her husband’s hand. “No, I can’t do that to her. She’ll come live with us. I’m qualified to take care of her.”
The doctor shook his head. “She’s been brutally traumatized and has been completely unresponsive for nearly two weeks. I’m not sure she will ever recover. She’ll require extensive care.”
Mr. Goldman spoke up, his voice soft. “Ever? No, we’re her Godparents and her parents…” He couldn’t finish and leaned over, placing his face in his hands. His wife squeezed his shoulders, giving him strength. Mr. Goldman sighed heavily and looked back at the doctor. “Even if she doesn’t recover, we’ll be there for her. It’s what her mother and father would have wanted. Please have her released to our care.”
“As you wish. I’ll sign the papers and you’ll be free to take her home within the hour,” he said. He stood up and left the room.
The Goldmans turned to look upon the young child lying in the bed. The bright eyed, precocious little girl they’d known since infancy was now a former shadow of herself--so small, so pale, and so very still. Her big blue eyes stared unblinking at the ceiling from below a dressing wrapped around her forehead. With both her arms and one of her legs broken, she was a mass of bandages and casts. The only things that moved were her fingers, up and down, up and down, making a continuous wave with the digits, fluttering over and over.
“What is she doing, Claire?”
“I don’t know, Martin. I just don’t know.” They watched the child and her ceaseless movements, wondering how they were ever going to bring her back to reality, to heal from the horror she had experienced. How they were ever going to make her well.
Martin leaned over and placed his hands over the girl’s fingers and they stilled. “Come back to us, angel.” He released her hands, but within seconds, the dance continued.
It didn’t stop.
Chapter 3
THE ENCOUNTER
The noise in the museum that evening was tumultuous, like a thousand voices caught in a maelstrom. Laughter and dialogue competed with each other as their echoes bounced through the corridors emanating within the cavernous space. The museum lights cast an exotic glow, making it both eerie and exceptional and throwing mammoth, distorted shadows along the pink marble floors and walkways. An impressive amount of illuminated treasures lined the walls.
Several exhibits were installed, markers discretely posted on free standing displays at the front of each corridor, but Kelsey had eyes for one thing only. She made her way through various galleries until she stood within the Tibetan exhibit. The room itself had been transformed. Decorated with hanging cloths and colorful silk sheets, it gave the room the appearance of the ancient gher tents Buddhist monks used for their traveling temples. Delicate Thangka scrolls adorned the walls along with numerous presentation posts. Some of the picture panels were embroidered and covered with silk, while others were ornately painted. All the scrolls had images of the Buddha, bodhisattvas or other deities on them. Kelsey stared around the room, recognizing the overwhelming theme of “The Wheel of Life,” which was the Buddha’s teachings of enlightenment. It was something near and dear to her heart and she felt comforted by simply standing in the room.
Her gaze strayed to the far wall where a ten foot copper statue of the Buddha, borrowed from a monastery in Mongolia, had been placed. Kelsey closed her eyes and took a moment to collect her thoughts. She breathed deeply and smiled.
Opening her eyes, she moved past the guards, the heels of her black boots clacking loudly on the marble floor. Many of the guards turned to her and she noted there were definitely more in attendance than normal, but you couldn’t blame the museum for being overly cautious. Everything had to go perfectly for tomorrow’s event.
She strolled towards the middle of the room where a set of monks worked on a five foot diameter sand mandala of incomparable beauty and complexity.
Two weeks earlier the museum began this exhibit, inviting Tibetan monks from the Wat Jokhang-Ling Monastery in the Catskills to work on this multifaceted masterpiece. They painstakingly laid millions of grains of colored sand, shaping them into hundreds of deities and a vision of the Buddha; a healing mandala to help the masses of people suffering in the world at this time. They were expecting to complete it by the next day and there would be a ceremony given by the Dalai Lama himself, who was traveling from India to New York City to lead a series of seminars on “The Art of Happiness.” He’d be the one conducting the destruction of the mandala at the end of the ceremony.
Kelsey stood before the monks, their facial masks locked in place so a wayward breath wouldn’t disrupt their creation. She was fascinated as she watched them use small tubes, funnels and scrapers to create their masterpiece. Their patience to the craft stunned her. Patience was not one of her strongest virtues. She couldn’t imagine dropping grains of colored sand one granule at a time for hours and hours upon end. Only during meditation could she let herself relax completely and even then she couldn’t do it for too long before her mind started its incessant whirl of crazy thoughts.
Visitors milled all around her, sometimes turning to stare in her direction and not at the display. She ignored them. People always stared at her and she was used to it. She twirled her dark brown braid in her fingers, turning her head this way and that, as if she were deep in thought, but she was really waiting for the stranger who had been stalking her the past two days.
A figure soon appeared at her side. Ah, there you are. About time. She felt his presence in a way that told her this wasn’t just a random encounter.
“Did you know,” the man began casually, “these monks had to undergo five years of training before they were even allowed to become sand mandala artists? Not to mention they had to learn all the rituals and all the oral texts. It’s considered quite an honor to be chosen to create a mandala of this complexity.”
Kelsey glanced over her shoulder at the man, craning her neck upwards to see his face. Yes, it was him, though he was taller than she’d originally thought, pegging him to be about six feet two. He was also significantly broader and more handsome, too, with what looked like a three-day growth of beard creating a dark shadow on his jaw. His full lips were posed in a quirky smile making him appear youthful. She couldn’t fixate on his age, but she estimated him to be in his early thirties. She glanced at his unruly mop of brown hair, but it was his remarkable eyes that drew her in. They were a blue-green, with flecks of yellow dotting through them, making them appear to shine and sparkle.
With an effort, she pulled her gaze away and back to the artists.
Her stalker spoke again. “They say mandalas contain instructions by the Buddha himself for attaining enlightenment. That his very essence is in each painting and it’s why dismantling it requires such a detailed ceremony. The media coverage is going to be relentless tomorrow for the procession to the East River where they’ll scatter the sand into the water, releasing the mandala’s healing powers back to nature.”
Is he trying to impress me? Sure, of course he is. She couldn’t stifle an amused grin and buoy
ed, he continued. “You know, each color and symbol has a deep meaning. See the blue thunderbolt?” He pointed, leaning towards her.
She caught a whiff of his cologne. It was an intoxicating, woodsy scent with exotic hints of patchouli and sandalwood. She’d never smelled anything like it before. Man, that’s nice, too. This is weird.
He continued. “That represents compassion. The peaches on the upper corner symbolize taste and the band of lotus flowers signify purity.” He glanced at a curtained section of the room where a guard checked the I.D. of visitors, confirming they were above eighteen years of age. “I’m surprised they convinced the museum board to add a display on tantric art for this exhibit. It’s amazing how lenient the benefactors of the MET have become, isn’t it?” He smiled and Kelsey remarked on how the right side tilted up more than the other, creating a dimple on his cheek.
“Up the attendance, and the exhibit is considered a success,” Kelsey said. “Money’s a good motivation for many things.” She wondered when he was going to get to the point. She was sure he hadn’t been following her just to discuss Tibetan Art Symbolism. Time to make something happen. “Thanks for the art history lesson. If you’ll excuse me.” She moved off to the right side of the exhibit and skipped behind a partition, wondering if he would follow. A display table was laid out on the other side with appetizers. She picked up a small moma, a Tibetan dumpling, and popped it in her mouth, savoring the taste. She moved along the table and took a sample of some warm buttered tea. They got the food right. This is authentic. As she sipped, she closed her eyes and could almost imagine she was a little girl, back in the gardens of Tibet. She could hear the tinkling of the monks’ porcelain teacups and the yips of the spaniels as they raced throughout the monastery. Oh, how she had loved it there.
A gentle hand touched her shoulder and she sighed inwardly. So much for reminiscing. She turned to her stalker. “Yes?” she asked, innocently.
“I’m sorry, I should have introduced myself sooner. My name is Desmond Gisborne and I’m a New York City Police Detective.” He reached into his suit pocket and flashed his badge.
She feigned surprise and took a hesitant step back. “Is there a problem?”
Desmond shook his head. “No, it’s just I was hoping you could clear something up for me. You see, I’m working on a case and I think you might be able to help me.”
Kelsey raised her eyebrows. “Well, sure, I guess. What can I do for you?”
The cop stared around at the crowd of people. “How about we find somewhere not so busy?”
Kelsey shrugged, threw her paper cup into the trash receptacle, and walked with him through the exhibit. He led her towards the tantric art presentation. That was fine with her.
They moved inside.
* * * * *
The little girl sat on the bed, her legs stretched out before her, her navy blue eyes wide open and staring into nothingness. A thin stream of drool suspended from her mouth and Claire Goldman gently wiped it away with a tissue. Only the child’s fingers moved, fluttering in their ceaseless dance, the beaded jade and opal bracelet her father had given her tied securely with red string on her wrist. It had been a gift meant to bring the child good luck and good health and Kelsey had been wearing it when they found her. Claire cringed at the irony.
They had tended to her for over a month and they couldn’t break her catatonia. Only at night did things change. In the wee hours of the morning, the screaming would begin. Nightmare induced shrieks so hideous the entire house shook from their torment. You could hear the absolute misery in her cries, feel the very torture she must have endured, but no matter what they tried to do, they could never get through to her or wake her up. She would scream and sob for hours, shouting out gibberish words, unintelligible to anyone but her, yet packed with such raw emotion and wretched misery, Claire would just sit outside her room and cry from the sheer heartbreak of listening to it.
It was like nothing she’d ever experienced in her twenty-two years as a child psychologist. She’d never encountered a situation this severe and she was determined to help this little girl. They met with doctor after doctor for consultations over the past few weeks, but not one had a clue as to what to do. “Institutionalization” floated in the air, words like “electric shock therapy” and “vagus nerve stimulation,” but one look from Claire and those lines of thought were quickly abandoned. The only healing she’d been able to accomplish was getting the little girl’s arm and leg casts off. At least her bones had healed well, and she was thankful for that. But how to help the ten year old heal after witnessing the murder of her parents and then being attacked by five men? She didn’t know.
It was late, nearly eleven o’clock and Claire readied to put the little girl down for the evening. She had never met a child who slept so little. The bed creaked as her twelve year old son, Ari, came in and sat down next to her. Claire turned to face him and gave him a tired smile as she wiped a stray strand of hair from his forehead. He was getting so big.
“You should be in bed by now, young man.”
He bit his lip. “Mom, I want to try something. Do you mind?”
Claire peered at him questioningly, but nodded. “Sure, honey.” She didn’t hold out much hope as she slid off the bed.
Ari inched closer to the little girl until their faces were only inches apart. And then he spoke.
“Tedanalee.”
Kelsey sucked in her breath and froze. Her fingers ceased moving.
Shocked, Claire raced to her side, placing her hand on her shoulder. “Kelsey, are you ok? Can you hear us?”
When Kelsey didn’t react to her, Claire turned to her son. “What did you just say to her?”
Ignoring his mother, Ari turned back to Kelsey, staring into her unblinking eyes and spoke slowly, enunciating the words. “Tam ne tli Tedanalee.”
Kelsey’s eyes widened and she started shaking. Suddenly she turned her gaze to Ari, focusing so strongly on him that the intensity and lucidity in her expression took Claire aback. “Li, ti tli Tedanalee!” She started screaming, her fingers bunching into fists.
Ari shook his head sadly. “Ne, ne,” he said softly.
Kelsey threw herself forward and violently pushed Ari backwards, throwing him off the bed. “Kalam nenot!” she shrieked. Then she sat back, rocking back and forth so forcibly the bedframe made a loud thump as it rammed against the wall. Her fingers began to move again ceaselessly. Within seconds she calmed, again the same mute child she had been only moments before, the intense clarity in her eyes replaced by the vapid stare they’d come to expect.
Martin Goldman stood in the doorway, where he’d been watching the exchange in shocked silence. He leaned down and helped his son off the floor. “What just happened?”
Ari stood up, took a piece of paper out of his pocket and unfolded it. “When Kelsey first came here and started screaming at night, I didn’t notice anything, except how awful it was. Like someone was torturing her, but it was all senseless, nonsense words. After a few weeks of listening to them over and over, some words started to sound familiar to me, so I started writing them down. I mean, it’s not like you can sleep once she starts.” He showed the paper to his parents. “It’s just like when I was learning Spanish and Hebrew. After a while, the words don’t sound like gibberish all bunched together. Suddenly, you can start separating the words from one another. I started thinking maybe what she was yelling was really another language, but it’s not one I’ve ever heard before. I even googled the words and checked out all these linguistic sites. None of them are popping ;up.”
Martin scanned the sheet. Over twenty distinct words, with possible meanings, were written there in his son’s perfect script. “Tedanalee means ‘the place’, tli means ‘in’,” Martin read. “You know what this list implies if you’re right, Ari?”
“Yeah, it means Kelsey’s been speaking in a new language from a land called Tedanalee. And look here.” He took another piece of paper from his pocket and unfolded it. It was
a drawing of a butterfly, alien and colorful, but with wings curved in a strange, swirly fashion, as if it had come from another world. “When you were bringing over her things last week, I started looking through all the drawings she’d made in Tibet. I mean, she’s like this amazing artist and I thought maybe there would be something in there which could help us. She’s drawn all these crazy animals and plants and there are pictures of places that are definitely not a part of our world. It’s like a fantasy reality.”
Claire sucked in her breath. “Yes! That’s it! She’s escaped to an imaginary internal world. How could I not have seen this? Ari, you’re absolutely brilliant.”
Claire stared at Kelsey with renewed eyes, bright with excitement. “I think I finally have a plan to bring her back.”
Chapter 4
SECRETS
They showed their ID and stepped past the guard and into the exhibit. The artwork was set up on a long, meandering path, to give one the impression you were strolling through a country garden. Sculptures of deities, statues of the Buddha, and large potted flowers dotted the colorful tiled walkway.
On display was an exquisite selection, ranging from Batik paintings on cotton fabric and watercolors on paper, to Thangka paintings. A multitude of sculpted brass displays were prominently displayed between the other artwork.
They moved along the pathway slowly, taking in the breathtaking images. Kelsey smiled in enjoyment as they passed the displays. She had always had an affinity for tantric art. There was something about it that spoke to her deep in her being. Everyone thought it had to only do with sex, but she knew tantric paintings were a celebration of one’s inner soul and energy. They represented the body’s window to the world, allowing the soul to flow anyplace it needed to get nourishment. If it had to do with sex for some, so be it. To Kelsey it was about a person’s emotional response to things and an ability to recognize how one felt and what one needed, spiritually or physically, at any given time.
The Hunt for Xanadu Page 2
