“I assumed they had stopped because H was having difficulty with his ankle, but they had actually stopped because they couldn’t decide which was the proper way to pass the cairn.”
“‘Proper way?’“ Galen asked. “I would’ve though ‘as fast as possible’ would be the proper way.”
“As did I—but H had an unusual respect for other cultures, which was the crux of the argument. Hammurabi was Muslim, and thought that a religious monument should be traversed on the left, while H was convinced that it was Buddhist, and ought to be traversed on the right.”
“Good grief,” said Michael. “Lack of oxygen, that’s the problem. How was it resolved?”
“In typical H fashion. He proposed that they each go around the monument in their chosen direction, but backwards—which was a form of obeisance—and then, circling, cross paths. That way, both options would be covered, and done in as humble a fashion as possible. So, I sat on a rock and watched these two thin, starved, respectful idiots walk—in H’s case, hobble—around this Buddhist cairn when I was suddenly struck from behind.”
“Mmm,” Galen sounded. “Raiders, I expect.”
“Actually, it was an old peasant woman who was carrying a sackful of something over one shoulder, and in the other hand a walking stick, which I can attest was quite sturdy.”
“Had she been hiding in the grass, perhaps, or behind the cairn?” Michael asked.
“No. The grass was only inches high, and both of my companions were tripping over themselves going around the monument. She simply appeared—one moment she wasn’t there, the next moment, she was.”
“A Zen Illusionist,” Galen said with a touch of sarcasm. “Is that where you learned it?”
“Yes.”
Neither of the men expected that answer, particularly Galen, who had only been joking—and Jude’s steady gaze and the simple honesty of his answer implied that he wasn’t.
“She struck me again with the stick, then turned and stalked off. Ham and H hurried over to me, curious as to where she had come from, and why she was hitting me. I had hardly begun to answer when she turned and brusquely asked if we were going to follow her, or if we intended to just sit out in the open air like yak dung.
“Of course we followed her—she obviously was going somewhere, and wherever that was would likely have heat, shelter, food, or all three—and after several miles, it became obvious that we were again gaining altitude. We crossed through a narrow valley, passing by several more monuments—all far enough away to avoid the clockwise/counterclockwise argument—and eventually saw our destination: a tall, snow-encrusted peak just beyond several striated peaks which ringed the valley.
“I was about to dash ahead and ask the beggar woman—who was moving with greater speed and agility than any of us, I’m embarrassed to say—when exactly we might hope to reach a settlement, when she stopped at a massive boulder that was lodged into the rising valley floor ahead. She muttered curses and rolled her eyes waiting for us to catch up, as if we were wasting her day by stumbling along behind her. As we approached the boulder, she instructed us—in flawless English, I should mention—to scale the rock. I thought it pointless, but considering that she was at the time our only breadcrumb on a trail already far too long, I wasn’t about to blanch at the request. Ham and I climbed up first, then pulled up H, and finally, the beggar woman.
“On top, just to the left of the rock’s center, was an indentation about ten inches long, much like a footprint set in cement. She told each of us to remove a shoe, and to place our feet one by one in the depression. We acquiesced, figuring it was some obscure religious rite or similar nonsense. I went first, hoping to get on her good side, and got for my troubles a cold foot and a whack across the ear. Hammurabi was next, and didn’t fare much better, but was apparently properly reverential, as he got no thwack. Then H, steadying himself on our shoulders, put his right foot in the indentation, and her expression went from a sullen scowl to slack-jawed astonishment, as a moment later, did ours. H’s foot fit the space to a fraction, and I wouldn’t have believed what happened next if I hadn’t been touching him when the current flowed upwards.”
“What kind of current?” Michael asked.
“I don’t know—I just know that something passed through him; something unusual, something magic, because when his foot came into contact with that stone, his ankle healed—instantly.”
“Are you sure it hadn’t merely improved as you walked? A sprain can heal over that many days,” offered Galen.
“It wasn’t sprained—it was broken,” said Jude. “And if there was any question, his jumping off of the boulder and landing square on the leg he’d been limping on cleared up our doubts very quickly.
“We climbed down and then helped down the beggar woman, who had gone from pissed to an expression I can only describe as relieved. She began to chat with all of us—mostly H—and asked if we would like to have something to eat, and perhaps a warm place to sleep; suggestions which could hardly have been met with more enthusiasm. She motioned for us to follow her, and she began walking to the left, around the massive stone. We followed, and then realized she meant to circle it—which she did, again, and again, and again, thirteen times in all.
“On the last circuit, however, she went around the south face of the stone, and disappeared.
“We stopped, looking at each other in confusion—then an all-too familiar stick struck me across the shins. An opening had appeared at the base of the stone, and she was several steps down, cursing us with a renewed vigor.”
“And hitting,” said Michael.
“And hitting. When she saw she had our attention, she turned and disappeared into the darkness. H leading, we followed.”
* * *
“The walls of the underground passage were made of unmortared stones, which were occasionally shored up by solid wooden beams. The steps were seamless, as if they had formed naturally out of the mountain rock, or had been carved all of a piece.
“We passed several chambers branching off from the main passage, all of a similar prehistoric nature, all unoccupied. We walked for what seemed like hours, and as the steps occasionally undulated upwards, we had no measure by which to gauge the depth of our travels—if we had kept to a reasonably level path, we would still be several hundred feet deep, as we were traveling generally westward, towards the mountain.”
“How did you see?” Michael asked. “You obviously were not walking in darkness.”
“There were tallow candles floating in copper bowls placed every few yards along the stairway,” said Jude. “Although who or what was maintaining them, I’ve no idea.”
“What do you mean, ‘what?’“ Galen asked.
“I was getting to that,” said Jude, a nervous smile twitching.
How odd, thought Michael—what in the world would make Jude nervous? Especially after all the tales he has told? A quick glance at Galen told him that the musician had the same question, and that it was one they had best not ask directly. As it was, they didn’t need to.
“We came onto an opening which had been covered with a heavy wooden door, which our guide was surprised to find standing ajar. She hopped forward and pulled it closed, but not before all three of us had a good, well-lit, unobstructed view inside.
“Arranged along the walls like a procession of dead regents in King Solomon’s mines were several skeletons. Other than their reverential arrangement, there was no ornament, and no sign that they were anything more than human, or the place anything more than a mausoleum. Except …”
“Yes?” Galen pressed.
“The skeletons were arranged in ascending order, and ranged in size from five to almost twenty feet tall.”
Michael shook his head. “You were starved, weary, and in all probability, oxygen-deprived. You were seeing things, that’s all.”
“If you say so,” said Jude. “We weren’t so certain ourselves—not then. Eventually, the tunnel broadened into a wide, cavernous room, which was p
robably the size of a gymnasium. There were fires burning at various points throughout the room, which was divided here and there by long curtains of woven reeds. Near one of the fires was a stack of wooden boxes, and it was here that our guide finally stopped and put down her stick.
“Grateful mostly to be warm, we huddled around the fire and gratefully accepted the offering of rice cakes and bits of dried fish she pulled from one of the crates. Then, as you might expect, we fell asleep on the skins scattered about around the fires.”
“Sheepskins?”
“No,” said Jude. “Bear—large, white, and very shaggy.”
“Oh, that makes perfect sense,” said Galen. “The beast feeding on the mystical Yeti was a humpbacked beggar woman with an attitude.”
“Don’t laugh,” said Jude. “You didn’t see her swing that stick.”
“And H’s foot was still fine?” Michael asked. “Even after all that hiking?”
“Fit nor a fiddle. We couldn’t explain it, but we weren’t going to question it—we were quite content to be out of the elements, and warm, our bellies full. I don’t know how long we slept, but when we awoke, she was sitting at a fire some feet away, deeply absorbed in an old book, which she had been carrying in the bag.
“We hadn’t intended to intrude on her privacy, but when we moved towards her she snapped it shut like it was full of state secrets. H got a good look, though, and confided to myself and Ham that it appeared to be written in French.”
“You said she spoke fluent English,” said Michael. “She was obviously European. What was she doing in a cave in Tibet?”
“That was a story still to come. For the moment, she waved us back to our fire, but before she joined us stacked several crates atop one another and placed the book on the topmost.”
“Why would she do that?” Galen asked in surprise. “It’s not as if you weren’t able to just walk over and take a look at it—placing it a few feet off of the floor certainly wouldn’t safeguard it.”
Pouring himself a fresh glass of absinthe, Michael broke in. “It’s a wholly Tibetan action. Tibet possesses one of the most ancient and respected literary traditions in all of Asia, and they handle books with great reverence. Even if a text doesn’t contain holy scripture, it’s still approached as the verbal body of the Buddha—sort of a provisional foundation of eternal truth. Thus, in Tibet, books are never allowed to be placed in any impure space, which to them means any low-lying surface, or the level of one’s feet.”
“Ah,” said Galen as understanding washed over him. “That makes sense.”
Nodding thanks to Michael for the refreshed glass of the potent drink, Jude continued. “We thought that we ought to start with introductions, and she nodded politely at myself and Hammurabi, but when it was H’s turn, she looked as if she’d been stepped on by an elephant. Flattened. Absolutely flattened. She then introduced herself as A, stood, and hurried from the room.”
“Introduced herself as a what?” Galen said, a beat behind Michael.
“A. A is A, and A was her … she,” said Jude.
“It’s so nice when a long-lost mother and son get together,” Michael said wryly.
“That ended up being closer than you know,” Jude said in all seriousness. “We sat there bewildered, sucking on rice cakes, and wondering what to do next. After a while, H grew restless and decided to wander back up the tunnel to have a look around. Ham and I, still quite exhausted, chose to stay in the main chamber and rest.
“H wasn’t gone ten minutes when he came running back into the room grinning like an idiot. ‘C’mere, you guys,’ he said, breathless, ‘you have got to see this.’
“We put up a mild protest, but in the end were more intrigued by whatever it was that would set him off—keep in mind, this was a fellow whose idea of a normal day was masquerading as a goat to catch the Abominable Snowman. For him to get excited meant he had found the Ark of the Covenant, or the Holy Grail or something similarly spectacular.”
Michael nodded. “He went back to look at the giant skeletons, didn’t he?”
“No,” said Jude. “Although that was probably his original goal. That cave was a long ways back in the tunnel—farther than he could have walked to and returned from in the few minutes he was gone. He had instead popped into the first offshoot he came to, a room about eight feet square, which was a sort of storage locker—their pantry, most likely.”
“More rice cakes?” Galen asked, leaning over to fill his own glass with more absinthe.
“Hardly,” said Jude. “It was full of fish, hanging from the low ceiling. Some were dried, but others were fresh enough that they were still glistening.”
“And this excited him how?” Michael asked. “That’s a pretty common food in Asia.”
“Fish, yes—Coelacanth, not generally.”
“Say again?” Michael said.
“What?” Galen said. “What’s a seelaconth?”
“It’s a fish itself,” said Jude, “but with the exceptions of two caught off the coast of Madagascar in the thirties, a species which hasn’t been seen in around twenty million years—and there were four dozen of them drying in that cave.”
“Amazing,” said Michael. “What did it taste like?”
“Have you ever eaten rattlesnake?” Jude asked.
“Sure.”
“It was a bit like that, but saltier.”
Galen waved his hand and shook his head. “The fish tasted like a snake?”
“It works,” said Michael, turning to explain. “They probably shared a common ancestry in prehistoric reptiles, so they would taste similar.”
“Actually, the Coelacanth was supposed to be the ancestor,” said Jude with a smirk. “‘I am my own grandpa’, taken to the extreme, I suppose. H was over the moon with this find—particularly since we actually got to eat one.
“We went back to the main chamber, still excited by our inexplicable discovery, and found that A had returned—this time in the company of a dozen anchorites.”
“Holy hermits,” Michael explained to Galen.
“They were seated around our fire and arguing in Tibetan. A was deferred to enough that we surmised she was the leader, but a couple of the others were old enough to give her a run for her money. What was interesting was that only four of them seemed to be Tibetan: three men ranging in age from around fifty to who knows how old, and a woman in her seventies or eighties. The fifth and sixth were Indian, a middle-aged man and a woman in her thirties; the seventh was a huge Scandinavian, perhaps fifty; the eighth, ninth, and tenth, dark skinned males, perhaps Egyptian, and of indeterminate age. The eleventh man was distinctly Oriental, obesely fat, and more pleasantly countenanced than anyone else in the cavern. The last, an elderly redheaded European woman, was engaged with A in a heated argument, which, judging from the frequent gestures in our direction, was about us.
“Suddenly, H stepped forward and circled them to the right, then threw himself on the ground in front of them, prostrate. That shut them up. A beamed as if vindicated, and the twelve looked at her, then down at H, who had not moved, then, without a word, stood as one and exited through a doorway at the back of the chamber.
“Prodded by A’s stick, H got up and dusted himself off. Waving Ham and I over to the fire, A indicated that we sit, and, her face cracking like a wrinkled sheet of parchment, smiled in true greeting.
“‘Welcome to Meru,’ she said. ‘I am Alexandra David-Neel, and I have been waiting patiently for you for a very long time.”
***
CHAPTER SIX
The Library of Heaven
Galen leaned forward and slid to the edge of his chair, brow furrowed. “Alexandra David-Neel … That sounds very familiar to me, but I can’t place it.”
“You may have known of her as Alexandra David,” said Jude. “She was an opera singer in France during La Belle Epoque.”
“Of course!” Galen said, snapping his fingers. “Jules Manesset’s Manon. She was a bright if brief light in the
field.”
“You know,” said Michael, “wasn’t Alexandra David-Neel the journalist who was the first European woman to enter the sacred monastery in Lhasa? Were they related, possibly?”
“They were one and the same—and both were the woman seated before us in the cave.”
“Uh, isn’t she, ah, dead?” asked Michael skeptically.
“Are you dead?” Jude asked.
“Why would you ask that when you’re obviously sitting here talking to … uh, I see your point. Go on.”
Jude smiled. “Don’t be embarrassed—lots of people are inaccurately reported as being dead for one reason or another, and her reason was that she wanted to return to Tibet.
“Alexandra, or ‘A’ as she asked us to call her, had won great fame and acclaim early in the twentieth century for her extensive writings on the Tibetan region, and only left when the Japanese incursions during World War Two became too great a danger. She was also at that point a woman in her seventies, and the stresses of such arduous travel was wearing on her mightily.”
“In her seventies,” said Galen, adding in his head. “So she’d be approaching the middle of her second century now—and this is the woman you claim was wandering around in the Himalayas?”
“She wasn’t wandering,” said Jude. “She was walking a Kora, a religious circumambulation around the mountain above, which was a holy place to several religions—Mount Kailas.
“To Hindus, it is the throne of Shiva, and one of the lakes below, a holy font created from the mind of Brahma; to the Buddhists, the Bonpo, and the Jain, it is the soul of the entire region, where for centuries the faithful have traveled for spiritual enlightenment and absolution. To most Westerners, it is, at twenty-two-thousand and some-odd feet, the third highest peak in Tibet. And to several thousand years of believers, it was the physical embodiment of Mount Meru, the great mountain at the center of the universe.”
The Festival of Bones: Mythworld Book One Page 10
