by JC Ryan
If Digger was anxious, it meant he’d driven too long without a rest stop. Fortunately, there was a park in the next block. He pulled over.
“Go on, then,” he said.
Digger pressed down on the lever that opened the door and pushed out. He hopped to the ground and ran off, soon disappearing from Rex’s sight. Rex wasn’t worried. Digger wouldn’t run out on him. Rex knew he was marking every tree on the way to wherever he deigned to relieve his discomfort.
Rex took one of the plastic bags he had been collecting for this purpose out of a box, got out of the car and pushed the bag into his pocket. In a while, when Digger was done, he’d slip it over his left hand. Left, because that was the proper way to handle this sort of thing in India. In his opinion, it was futile. There were plenty of feral dogs around. No one was picking up after them, he’d noticed. And that wasn’t even the worst of it. Monkeys were overrunning India. They didn’t have the politest of bathroom habits, either. But Rex had decided he and Digger were not going to contribute to the existing mess.
Rex looked at his watch. He didn’t need to. His stomach was telling him it was lunch time. They might as well take care of that while they were stopped. Digger, who also seemed to always know what time it was too, especially when it came to mealtimes, would probably insist.
“Digger!” Rex shouted.
The big, black Dutch shepherd woofed in response and Rex jerked his head in the direction of the sound. There he was, bounding out from behind a bush yards away. Rex grumbled something along the lines of becoming a dog shit chaser and collector while he wrapped the plastic bag around his left hand. He started in Digger’s direction, and the dog lay down, waiting to show him the spot. Rex grinned. Digger messed with him, he’d mess with Digger.
He slowed his pace and ambled toward the dog in a deceptive zigzag pattern. Each time he veered off course even a degree or two, Digger would woof again. It was a game they’d played before, jockeying for alpha position ever since Digger’s former handler, the former Australian SAS operator, Trevor Madigan, had died. Digger had made it perfectly clear he didn’t think Rex was competent to lead their pack of two. Lately, however, Rex was equally clear that if Digger wanted to eat, he needed to concede who was boss. They’d settled into a pattern of push and pull that was sometimes fun, often annoying, but always a game.
Digger knew Rex was the alpha. However, it seemed as if he just didn’t want to let Rex get too big a head about it.
When he finally got to Digger’s location, Rex said, “Show me.” The dog jumped up in that efficient move that got him up and turned in one twist and ran off behind the bush again. Rex followed but deliberately slowed his pace down even further. Digger returned and gently took Rex’s wrist in his mouth. Not too long ago Rex would have been in mortal fear if any dog, no matter its size, would even attempt to do that to him. He would probably not even have allowed a dog to get that close to him in any event and would’ve drawn his pistol and shot the animal for that. But since he’d made a solemn promise on that fateful night, to the dying Trevor that he would take care of Digger, Rex had learned Digger meant no harm and just wanted to lead him.
Behind the bush was the offending artifact. Rex used his plastic-covered left hand to pick it up, walked over to a nearby rubbish bin, and disposed of it.
“What do you say, boy? Shall we eat?”
Digger turned his head up and gave him that dog-grin that meant happiness, agreement, and a few other things depending on context. In this case, Rex took it to mean, “Hell yes. What are we waiting for?” Digger confirmed his guess by quickening his pace to a trot. It was these trivial things that let Rex know he still wasn’t in total control. He lengthened his stride to keep up.
When they got to the van, Rex opened the rear doors, took out one of the plastic bottles with water and washed his hands, then began to prepare the lunch he’d purchased that morning when they’d left the hotel. In a small Coleman cooler, he had his own lunch of chicken, naan, and an orange. He’d tossed in some bottled water to chill it. Beside the cooler, he’d packed a large bag of dry dog food, the kind the vet in New Delhi had said would be best for a dog of Digger’s weight and breed.
He took out Digger’s bowls and filled one with cool water and the other with the dog food. Digger drank some of the water and then looked with disinterest at the other bowl. Rex was just wrapping the chunks of cut-up chicken in the Indian flatbread, his favorite garlic naan, when Digger fixed him with an accusatory stare.
“This is my food. You eat yours,” Rex said, pointing with his left hand at the bowl of dry food. Digger looked at it, and then swung his head back to stare at Rex’s right hand, which was full of delicious-looking naan wrapped around some juicy chicken.
Woof
“No, this is mine.”
Woof
Rex proceeded to repeat the argument they’d had every day since he’d bought the dog food. “Just because you like human food better, doesn’t mean it’s good for you.” He went on to explain the difference between canine’s and homo sapiens’ digestive tracts, which he’d read about over the past few weeks.
Digger just sat there, apparently listening but with his head tilted – that pose Rex had come to understand meant “what are you doing?” Or in this case probably “what are you on about?”
Rex was still busy with this lecture when he was interrupted. Well, not so much interrupted as becoming aware something had changed.
He looked over his shoulder and startled at the sight of a very, very skinny, very, very old man, with a wrinkled face and not a single tooth in his mouth. Which was stretched in what could have been a wide grin. His sparkling, almost black eyes danced with mirth as well. He was dressed in a white dhoti, a traditional garment made from a single rectangular length of cloth, wrapped and pleated then belted to form a sort of trouser that could be mistaken for a skirt by a westerner. Over it, a threadbare white shirt billowed around him, suggesting he’d once been more corpulent.
Rex thought he was either hallucinating or he must be slipping. He hadn’t heard the man – if that’s what the apparition was – arrive.
A yogi?
Rex didn’t know what a yogi looked like, or rather what his idea of a yogi was. In fact, what he knew about yogis was very little. As far as he knew, there was a mysticism that surrounded them — flying through the air, levitation, ridiculously long lives, and such. Or were they the guys flying on magic carpets? No, wait those guys on the carpets were from Arabia. Weren’t they? The problem was he’d never paid attention to that stuff before. Now he certainly wished he had.
However, this yogi was sitting flat on the lush grass, on his ass, legs crossed, like in a Buddha pose. Just like Rex imagined a yogi would sit. However, this yogi was not hanging in mid-air.
This guy was not there a few moments ago. So, where did he come from?
He could’ve flown in, like a yogi could have. That was a possibility, or he could’ve walked in, like a normal human would have.
Rex’s next thought was that Digger had given no warning, which could mean either he was aware of the man, didn’t see him as a threat and was too invested in winning the argument about what he wanted for lunch to pay this guy any attention.
Or this guy was a yogi and could materialize out of nowhere so that not even a dog with Digger's skills and inherent motivation to protect, could sense him, maybe not even see him right now. That was a scary thought.
Rex didn’t know which it was but for a moment he was inclined to go with the second notion. Because despite Rex having stopped talking to the dog and started paying all his attention to this strange man, Digger didn’t even look at the man — as if he wasn’t there.
No, wait I don’t believe in that stuff. This man is real. He is right there.
So, what to do now? Follow Digger's example and ignore the man or try to talk to him? Was he even supposed to or allowed to talk to a yogi unless spoken to? He had no idea about yogi protocol.
Once aga
in, he chided himself for not paying more attention to those articles he’d read years ago.
The thing was, this guy said not a word. It looked like he was smiling, but it was impossible to tell, considering he had no teeth in his mouth and all the wrinkles, if he was smiling or not by looking at his face. Which Rex estimated couldn’t be a day younger than a hundred and twenty years, maybe even a few hundred years more. Usually he didn’t have a problem remembering things, but in this case his near eidetic memory failed him miserably. He couldn't remember how long yogis lived. But he thought it could be hundreds of years. This guy certainly looked like he could have been around in George Washington's time.
In the end he decided the man was not a threat, mostly because he had no weapons, remained seated on the grass, and of course Digger had no worries about him.
Therefore, he thought it was probably best to ask this guy if he was a yogi and what the protocol was when a mere mortal wanted to talk to a yogi. Hopefully the yogi, if he was one, would not get his nose out of joint because someone who couldn’t fly without an airplane under his ass would have the audacity to talk to him before being spoken to.
Rex asked. In Hindi.
He got no answer.
Okay so now the yogi is pissed at me.
But hang on he dropped in on me not the other way around. So, if he has something to say, he will probably do so at some point.
If he only wants to sit there and look at me and Digger, well I guess there's nothing I can do to stop him.
It’s a free country.
Rex turned back to Digger, who was waiting for him to continue the argument about his lunch. He continued. In English.
Digger seemed to be actively listening because he responded with yawns, growls, short barks, smiles, and a tilted head. After a few more minutes Rex knew he was losing this argument.
He had one more trick up his sleeve — the kong.
It was an oddly-shaped item, part cylinder, part cone, with indentations that made it look like a hard-plastic snowman, with a hole running through it from top to bottom. The only toy ever known that a Dutch shepherd couldn’t destroy in a few minutes, according to Trevor.
Rex had gone to a lot of trouble in New Delhi to find a pet shop that had kongs. He’d bought five of them — better to have some spares in a country where they were rare. He’d given Digger one right away.
The only regret he had was that he didn’t have his camera handy to make a video clip of Digger's absolute ecstasy when he saw that kong. He’d seen it before, when Trevor was training the dog. The kong was a special treat, reserved for times when Digger had done especially well, and given sparingly. Digger worked for praise, not treats.
So, now Rex was going to try the kong trick. The hole was good for putting food treats in, an even rarer treat.
He retrieved it from the van, palmed a few nuggets of dog food and dropped them in and showed it to Digger, fully believing the dog was going to forget about his lunch and go after the toy. It would give Rex time to quickly finish his lunch.
Rex was sorely mistaken.
Digger sat down and lifted his left front foot. The expression on his face could be interpreted in only one way – in any language including English and Hindi — the canine equivalent of the middle finger.
That’s when the yogi started laughing and startled Rex again.
***
REX ASKED HIM why he was laughing, and the man started talking. He said it was the first time in his life that he saw a man talking to a dog as if it was a human, and what amazed and delighted him was that it looked as if the dog understood and was talking back. He wanted to know how that was possible.
But Rex had a few questions of his own first. What’s your name? Where did you come from? How did you get here without anyone of us seeing you? Are you a yogi? How old are you? Can you fly and levitate? A barrage of questions.
In America, he wouldn’t have been so impolite as to ask such personal questions. In India, however, it was not bad manners. It was expected. Soon it would be his turn to answer.
The man held his hand up and started answering, slowly one by one, all the questions. His name was Gyan which meant knowledge or the one having exalted divine knowledge. As for being a yogi, yes, he was, but being a yogi only meant he was someone who practiced yoga and that those stories about levitating and flying were just that, stories, folklore, not real.
Rex was relieved. He hadn’t lost his mind after all.
Gyan told him he was seventy-five.
You could’ve fooled me.
Now Gyan was waiting expectantly, for Rex to reciprocate. Of course, he couldn’t say what he really was, so he went with the tourist story. But the old man stared steadfastly at Digger, clearly more interested in the human-dog connection.
Rex explained that the dog was a service dog and was there to assist him. Gyan looked a bit skeptical about that explanation and asked that Rex demonstrate what the dog could do.
Rex obliged by putting Digger through some of his more commonplace paces. A demonstration of just how intelligent the dog was, and his special skills would have frightened the old man.
After every trick, Gyan clapped his hands in child-like delight.
Rex was charmed.
Soon, with Digger on his belly for a rest, Rex sat facing the old man, hearing about his extended family. He was too old to work, but his sons and their families contributed to his support. He and his wife lived in a humble house not far from the park. She didn’t want him underfoot as she did whatever women do. He shrugged. Who knew what women were up to?
Then he asked Rex where he was going.
“To Kapal Mochan,” Rex replied.
The old man’s wrinkled face took on a concerned expression. “Have you killed a Brahmin?”
Rex raised his eyebrows. What an odd question.
Rex answered with a question of his own. “Is it only those who have killed Brahmins who want or need the power of the lake to wash away their sins?”
Gyan didn’t answer, but his face cleared. “You must know, then, that there is also an ancient site in this place. The ashram of Ved Vyasa. Did you not intend to visit it? The Mahabharata was written here.”
Rex did indeed know of the place where one of the epic tales of Indian history had originated. He’d meant to visit it on the way back from his pilgrimage to Kapal Mochan. He considered how to tell the old man this without offending him, but Gyan became animated. He’d had a thought.
“You must come home with me. I have photographs of my family, and they will want to see your remarkable dog!”
Rex took in the poor garments the man wore, and his heart sank. It would be rude to decline the invitation, but he didn’t want to go. Not specifically because Gyan was poor, but because he knew that guests in India were treated almost like visiting deities. The family would impoverish themselves further by providing a feast for him, and to make matters worse, he couldn’t do anything to repay them or alleviate their sacrifice. Offering them money would be considered an insult.
He said, “But my dog would not be welcome in your house, surely.”
The old man gulped. “My wife may not welcome him, but do not worry. I will tell her she must.”
Now Rex felt even more obligated. He’d offered the only excuse he could, and though he’d been uncomfortable, Gyan had swept it away. There was no choice but to accept.
“Thank you,” he said. “I will come, but Digger will stay outside.”
He knew he’d made the right decision when the old man sighed in relief. Rex had never been married, but he recognized the truth: men only thought they were kings in their own castles. Women made the rules, at least where the household was concerned.
Gyan brightened again. “You must come now! We can play a game of Chaturanga.”
Now Rex was happy he’d accepted. He knew of the ancient game some believed was the predecessor of the game of kings – chess. However, he’d never seen it played and didn’t know the rules. Thi
s visit would be an opportunity to indulge his love of history as much as the visits to the ancient sites would be.
“I’d be honored. But you must teach me,” he said.
Chapter Two
IN AMERICA, IT had been almost a month since Bruce Carson, the former Director of the CIA, had disappeared under mysterious circumstances after retiring abruptly. The media, in yet another case of nine-day-wonder, had it that he’d absconded to Costa Rica after a scandal of some sort was discovered, but Costa Rica claimed he wasn’t there.
Mrs. Carson refused to speak to the reporters. She’d given the investigators plenty, though. Her husband had come home late one night and demanded she move with him to Costa Rica under assumed names. Naturally, she had refused. Her alternative was divorce, and she’d had enough. She knew he was cheating on her. Women know these things, she’d explained when pressed for details. She didn’t know who, or the details they wanted. She only knew it was time to cut ties.
Then the bastard had cleaned out their accounts and left her with nothing. She couldn’t even sell the house for the money, until the divorce was final. It was in his name, but she hoped the divorce decree would fix that.
Eventually, another hot news story took the place of the missing DCIA. America’s hyperactive news cycle had forgotten him, but the CIA hadn’t. It was imperative they catch up with him. He had knowledge of secrets that would be very dangerous in the wrong hands, including the number and positioning of every field operative the US had and considerable information about allied operations. The consequences of a defection to an enemy country were too drastic to talk of. He had to be found, and when he was, the order was to terminate with extreme prejudice. Every spook from every allied country was looking for him.
