by Eric Flint
From somewhere down the block a dog barked halfheartedly. Tom looked around, checking to see if anyone responded. Up the block the lights of the nursing home shone steadily. Best of all, there was nothing to indicate anyone there knew one of the inmates had escaped.
"Okay, girl. Let's see if I can get my old carcass into the saddle one more time." With only a couple of unsteady moves Tom managed to scramble into the saddle. Once there a sense of peace came over him. The mare stood still and rock steady, only her breathing indicating she wasn't a statue. Tom sat still, feeling the warmth of China Doll under him, enjoying her strength, and wondering again at the willingness of horses to carry people. A faint gray on the horizon told him it was later, far later, than he'd thought.
Looking down, Tom realized he had dropped his canes. "No matter. I don't need them when I've got you, Doll." With a slight squeeze of his legs he set China Doll walking out and up the street. Together in companionable silence, the pair clopped up the streets and through the sleeping town. China Doll seemed to know where Tom wanted to go; any cues he was giving her were unconscious. Up they went, up old familiar trails they hadn't been along for years.
Finally, at the cemetery gate China Doll hesitated. She turned her head back as if to ask where Tom wanted to go. "Yes, girl. Clever, clever Doll. This time we go in. Mary Jane's here, waiting. The rest of the family is, too, girl. Grandpa Sam would have loved you, Doll. He's the one who taught me about horses. He's waiting here. So's my little sister, Lizzie. She loved horses and ponies. Always had an apple or sugar cube in her pocket. She would have loved to pet you and feed you pieces of her apple. The diphtheria got her, Doll, when little Elizabeth was just ten. Here we are, Doll. That's Mary Jane's place there and here, next to her is my place."
Tom sat looking over the gravestones marking his relatives' graves. Some were old and badly worn, the lettering hard to make out. Others were still clear. Clearest and sharpest of all was Mary Jane Stull Musgrove. The sky was light enough to read the markers if Tom had needed to. He knew these graves, knew which belonged to Grandpa Samuel Edward Musgrove, to his great aunt Edna Catherine Musgrove, and that the little one under the tree was marked "Elizabeth Edna Musgrove." All his relatives were gathered here in this little corner of a West Virginia graveyard.
Tom knew where every grave was and who was buried in it. He knew what relation they were to him and he knew their stories. He knew which relatives were missing. Uncle Vern and Great Uncle Ed had been killed in WWI and buried in France. Cousins Bobby Joe and Johnny were also buried in France, killed in the Normandy Invasion. His older brother Steve wasn't there, either. He had been shot down somewhere in the Pacific. Farther back there were a couple of others that hadn't come back from Cuba, or the Philippines. Several graves were missing for those who had died in the Civil War.
China Doll shifted under Tom and her movement brought him out of his thoughts. "Sorry, girl. Didn't mean to keep you waiting around in the cold like this." Groaning, Tom managed to dismount without falling. He patted the mare on her neck, enjoying her warmth and the feel of her muscles under the white hide. "Time for you to go, Doll. You'll have to hustle to be back in time for school." He pushed her head away and slapped her on the shoulder. "Go on, Doll. Get!"
The mare trotted off a few steps and stopped. She turned around and eyed him questioningly. "Go, Doll. You got me here, that's all you have to do." Tom wheezed. His lungs rasped wetly and he began to cough. Stepping back he leaned against his grandfather's gravestone. "Go home, Doll. I've done what I meant to," he managed to get out before more coughs claimed his attention.
China Doll paced slowly forward until she stood beside Tom. She stood patiently by his side until the coughs subsided. "Go home, Doll. It's cold out here. Your breakfast is back in your nice warm barn," Tom protested to the silent pony. "Oh, Doll. Your part is done. You've helped me escape that God-awful place with its people poking and prodding me. They won't leave a man alone there. Won't let him die in peace and dignity. Hell, Doll, They put diapers on me 'cause I move too slow to get to the pot." He wheezed a bit and continued his plea to the mare. "I've always lived free. Figure I should be able to die free, too. Let 'em keep what little real medicines they have for the young folk who still have lives to live."
Tom took hold of China Doll's saddle and pulled himself beside her. Clutching the cantle he managed to move his feet until he was standing next to his wife's grave. Using the stirrup leathers he lowered himself down until he was seated next to Mary Jane. A feeling of peace eased his heart and he found himself able to cross his legs without pain. A chuckle escaped him. "We beat 'em, Doll. We beat 'em."
* * *
By the time the sun rose fully the police found both the missing nursing home resident and the stolen pony. As the cruiser turned in the gateway the white mare lifted her head and nickered. The man seated on the ground didn't move.
"How the heck do you figure he managed this?" The older cop mused. "I mean, from the description we got, old man Musgrove was too sick and crippled up to get out of bed. He must have had a powerful reason. "
"Man, it's cold out here," commented the younger cop. "Call it in. With any luck the funeral home will send somebody quick. I don't want to stand around all day. Graveyards always give me the creeps."
The Dalai Lama's Electric Buddha
by Victor Klimov
"Respectful greetings from His Majesty Gegen Setsen Khan to Your Holiness, Kundün," said the emissary. It was not really warm in the library, but the atmosphere felt warm and friendly. "Let me present you this surprise from the Western lands."
Dalai Lama V Ngawang Lobsang Gyatso, who—in another universe—would later be called "The Great Fifth," respectfully put his hands together to greet the image of the Victorious One. The little statue looked unusual. It was made from material like ivory but was obviously much lighter and it was pink in color. The Victorious One was meditating.
"If I press this knob . . ."
The image lit up with a steady internal light. It looked a little bit like a colored lantern, but the light was not flickering. The emissary pressed the knob again and the light disappeared.
"Thank His Majesty Gegen Setsen Khan and thank you, Dr. Luvsan," said Dalai Lama and accepted the holy image. Ngawang Lobsang was fascinated. The statue was light, but not so light as it looked. The weight seemed concentrated in the base under the lotus seat. The texture of the surface felt smooth, somewhat like smooth wood but not quite.
Dalai Lama pressed the knob. The statue lit up. He looked at the emissary, lifting an eyebrow. "What causes this?"
"Kundün, as far as we know there seems to be a kind of prana energy concentrated in the base of the statue. . . ."
"Ah. That's why it feels heavy there."
"Probably, Kundün. And the trader it was bought from warned that the prana in the statue should somehow be replenished after a while. But it seemed he did not know how. He said that if it were used sparingly it should last a couple of years."
Dalai Lama switched the light off. He looked at the statue, then at the emissary. "What do your yogis say?"
"They feel the prana but they are not sure whether they succeeded in replenishing it."
"Very well." The Dalai Lama nodded slowly. "We'll try here, too. But tell me please the history of the statue. How did His Majesty acquire it? You said it came from the West?"
The emissary nodded. "Yes, Kundün. The Khan of Dörvn Öörd [Kalmyk]
sent it to His Majesty. The Khan bought it from a trader from Phe-rang [Europe] for one hundred horses. The trader said that the holy statue miraculously appeared in the center of a great circular Mandala, which also contained a whole town."
Dr. Luvsan moved his hand in a graceful gesture in the direction of hundreds of volumes wrapped in brocades and silks. "Naturally, the trader did not know the relevant terminology. What I'm telling now is what the Khan's advisers were able to get out of the trader. He didn't see himself the holy mandala. He only heard about it fr
om the person who sold him the relic. His description of the town in the mandala corresponds somewhat with descriptions in the Kalachakra tantra.
"It appears very probable that the town came from another dimension. The trader was very sure that nobody has ever seen anything like this before. And the people of the town appear to be mighty warriors. The trader was sure about that. And they also ride iron horses. I don't know if one could believe that."
"Hmm . . ." The Dalai Lama stared into space for some time. "Why would a Shambhala town manifest in Phe-rang? Well . . . One never knows. The compassion of the Victorious One is infinite. We must investigate this story. We must find out whether there was indeed a mandala manifestation. And also we should find out how to replenish the light producing prana." Dalai Lama smiled.
"Yes, Kundün."
Afterword:
Kundün: an honorific referring specifically to the Dalai Lama.
Prana: in yoga, the breath seen as one of the life-giving energies or forces of the universe.
Dörvn Öörd—"The Allied Four" also referred to as Oyirad or Kalmyk people. They were the dominant group from Turkey to the Gobi Desert from the 13th through to the eighteenth century.
A mandala graphically depicts a landscape of the Buddha land or the enlightened vision of a Buddha. Mandalas are commonly used by Hindu and Buddhist monks as an aid to meditation.
Kalachakra is a term used in tantric Buddhism that means "time-wheel" or "time-cycles." The Kalachakra tradition, which is described in the Kalachakra Tantra (which is a book, a collection of Buddhist writings), revolves around the concept of time and cycles: from the cycles of the planets, to the cycles of our breath and the practice of controlling the most subtle energies within one's body on the path to enlightenment. The Kalachakra deity represents a Buddha and thus omniscience. Everything is under the influence of time, he is time and therefore knows all. Similarly, the wheel is beginningless and endless.
A kalachakra mandala is pictured at
http://www.exoticindiaart.com/product/TF75/
In Tibetan Buddhist tradition, Shambhala (or Shambala) is a mystical kingdom hidden somewhere beyond the snow peaks of the Himalayas. It is mentioned in various ancient texts including the Kalachakra and the ancient texts of the Zhang Zhung culture which pre-dated Tibetan Buddhism in western Tibet. The Bon scriptures speak of a closely-related land called Olmolungring.
The Kalachakra indicates that when the world declines into war and greed, and all is lost, a King of Shambhala will emerge from the secret city with a huge army to conquer evil and herald the Golden Age. Some suggest this king may be Kalki, a similar figure.
The myths of Shambala were part of the inspiration for the tale of Shangri-La told in the popular book Lost Horizon, and thus some people even refer to Shambala improperly as if it were a Shangri-La. Shambala's location and nature remains a subject of much dispute, and several traditions have arisen as to where it is, or will be, including those that emphasize it as a nonphysical realm that one can approach only through the mind.
CONTINUING SERIALS
The Doctor Gribbleflotz
Chronicles, Part 1:
Calling Dr. Phil
by Kerryn Offord
Sunday. After Church Lunch, Drahuta Property
Deep in the middle of "Kubiak Country" the extended Kubiak clan had gathered at the home of Belle and Ivan Drahuta for Sunday lunch. Grown men and women were messing about playing touch football in the yard with some of the children. Others congregated around the grill chatting and talking while Ivan and Tommy Barancek attended to burning lunch. Children of all ages were running around underfoot. On the sheltered veranda a group of women lounged comfortably, watching the activities, relaxing after finally getting their assorted babies settled.
Erin Zaleski, one of Ted's cousins, grinned. "How's the military outfitting business going. Tracy?"
Tracy Kubiak dragged her eyes from her husband Ted, who was playing in the yard. "We're still being run off our feet." Tracy looked around the assembled women. They were all, like Ted, direct descendants of Jan and Mary Kubiak, the original owners of the land known locally as "Kubiak Country." "I've got a pile of jackets that need buttonholing if anybody wants a job."
There was a smattering of "I'm in" and "Yes, please" from the other four women. Tracy gloried in the easy camaraderie and supportive nature of the Kubiak women. So different from her own family left up-time in way-off Seattle. "If you come over the road after lunch I'll show you what needs to be done and give you the necessary thread and buttons."
There were murmurings of agreement before the women turned back to watching the activities going on in the yard. Their quiet contemplations were disturbed only when Tasha Kubiak settled a covered tray of steaming biscuits on the table. "Tuck in while they're still warm, girls. After this batch, there are no more."
Mary Rose Onofrio turned away from watching Jana Barancek and a couple of other cousins calling everybody to a couple of food-laden tables set out by the grill. "What do you mean, Tasha?"
"This batch used the last of my baking powder." Tasha replied.
Belle Drahuta waved a hand. "I've still got some if you need it."
"Same here. I haven't had time for much baking lately. I think I've still got an unopened can in the pantry."
"Thanks Belle, Tracy. You'd think there would be a way to get more baking powder wouldn't you?" Tasha shook her head.
Mary Rose snorted. "Get real, Tasha. If it doesn't go boom, none of the guys are interested. I can just imagine going up to Cousin Greg and asking him to please make some baking powder so we can do some baking. He'd laugh his head off."
"You really think Cousin Greg would know how to make baking powder, Mary Rose?" Tasha asked.
"If he can make his boom toys and rockets I don't see why he can't make baking powder. I mean. It can't be that hard. Baking powder has been around I don't know how long. It's probably written up in one of his books somewhere and all he needs to do is look it up."
"But, Mary Rose, that doesn't get us any baking powder."
"No, but it would get us some instructions on how to make it. Maybe Cousin Greg can write out a recipe. Something easy to follow. Then we could make our own baking powder." Mary Rose looked around the table at the other women, an excited look in her eyes. "That would be great wouldn't it? No need to worry about running out of baking powder ever again."
"So when can you ask Cousin Greg for an easy to follow recipe for making baking powder?" asked Belle.
Mary Rose looked from Belle to Tasha. "I was kinda thinking, maybe Tasha might like to ask Amy to ask Cousin Greg. After all, she is a chemistry teacher in training."
Nodding her head, her mouth full of biscuit, Tasha agreed to ask her daughter to pass on the request.
"Michael. How many times have I told you not to feed that dog from your plate." Belle bellowed before launching herself from her chair and making her way to her son.
The ladies watched Belle put a strong restraining hand on her five-year-old son while giving her husband, who should have been watching him, a sharp talking to.
"Situation normal," muttered Erin with a giggle.
* * *
A week later. Sunday lunch, Tasha's place
"Guys, Amy here has come through. Come on, Amy. Show them the recipe," Tasha said pushing her daughter towards the seated mothers. A little self-consciously Amy placed a single sheet of paper on the coffee table in front of the ladies and stood back to let them read it.
"Uh, yuk. Do you see that?" Mary Rose pointed to the first instruction. "Imagine carefully fermenting urine. Does that mean we have to, you know, ask people to fill a bottle? And why add honey? Is that to sweeten it to taste?"
"Ha ha, Mary Rose. Obviously the honey is there to help fermentation," Tasha said, continuing to run her eye down the directions. "How do you cook off limestone?" She looked up at her daughter, a question in her eyes.
With a heavy sigh Amy looked at her mother and her friends. "I th
ink this is going to be a bit like the time Dad tried to do some baking. You remember how he couldn't understand how you got cream from butter and sugar?" Smiling at the memory Tasha nodded her head. "I think you might want to find someone who knows a little chemistry and see if they'll make the stuff for you."
"But we know somebody who knows something about chemistry," Tasha pointed out, giving her daughter a significant look.
In horror Amy took a sudden step back, getting some separation between her and her mother. "No way. Sorry, but no way. I'm much too busy at school." She held her hands out defensively and shook her head. "Really. I think you should find yourselves a friendly alchemist and pay them to make the stuff."
