by Sean Ellis
Mira didn’t have an explanation; only a feeling.
“Don’t move,” she repeated, peering into the darkness that surrounded them. “If you move…if you take one wrong step….”
“What? What will happen?”
“Look around you. Where are the lights? The crowds? What happened to the noise of the city?”
Booker’s brows drew together in a frown. He turned his head slowly, careful not to move from the place where he stood. Finally, his eyes came back to her. “I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore.”
“But this isn’t Oz. I think we’re in Shambala.”
“The ancient city is in the palace square?”
She nodded, understanding slowly dawning. “Shambala and Lhasa are one and the same, occupying the same space, but in different....”
“Dimensions?” Booker said when she was unable to finish.
“I guess that’s one word for it. I think Shambala is out of phase with our universe.”
“How is that possible?”
“Remember how Collier was able to freeze time? I think the Trinity did this. Back when they abandoned the city, they hid Shambala in a sort of pocket universe and locked the door behind them. This path is like the combination lock to open that door. Walking it synchronized us with the city. Partially at least. I don’t think we’ve completed the journey.”
“So which way do we go now?”
“Up there.” She nodded in the direction of Potala Palace, or rather something that resembled a bleached-out paper effigy of the palace, wrapped in smoke. “But we have to find the path again.”
“One wrong step will cause us to desynchronize? Put us back in the palace square?”
“Or somewhere even worse.” She stared harder into the darkness, looking for some trace of a path. She knew it had to be there. Tarrant had figured this out seventy years earlier, had entered Shambala and walked out with the first piece of the Trinity. But that had been a different time, before the Chinese had broken the power of Potala Palace and exiled the Dalai Lama. Perhaps then, the path of enlightenment had been more clearly distinguished by the trail of red robed monks making the pilgrimage to the mystic plane where Shambala had stood for ten millennia. Now, there was only Mira’s intuition to guide them. She took a deep breath. “Stay close. Walk exactly where I walk.”
With her eyes closed, she lifted a foot and extended it forward into the darkness. Sensing no danger, she put the foot down and prepared to take another step. In this way, she continued forward, moving in the direction of the ghostly palace on the hill high above. After about twenty steps, she felt compelled to make a turn and did so, changing course so that she was moving parallel to the palace.
With each step, she grew more confident in her ability to blaze a trail through this surreal maze. Her eyes were open now, taking in the bleak monochromatic landscape, but she did not allow herself to be deceived by what she saw. The path of enlightenment, the path that would take them where they needed to go, was not something that could be seen; it had to be felt.
“There,” Booker shouted from behind her. She followed his pointing finger and saw a chorten rising up before them like a gigantic haystack.
The Tibetan name for the shrine loosely translated as “heap” and it was an appropriate description for the mound-like structure, but as they drew closer, it became evident that this was no mere cairn of stones. Instead, the chorten was a smooth, dome-like protrusion, rising nearly twenty feet above them. The base of the structure was adorned with dozens of small niches, and several of these contained plates of fresh fruit, loaves of bread, and even bottles of Coca-Cola, water and other beverages.
“How do you suppose that stuff got here?” Booker asked.
“Offerings left by pilgrims. Maybe the shrine is some kind of portal connecting this plane with our world.”
Booker acknowledged the explanation with a grunt. “No sense in letting it go to waste.”
Mira’s stomach growled in anticipation of a snack, but she held up a restraining hand. “Leave it alone.”
“Why?”
“It’s a test. Enlightenment comes only when we put aside the desires of the flesh.”
Booker snorted. “If they really wanted to test me, they should have put out a six-pack of Sam Adams.”
Mira didn’t respond, but continued forward, circling around the chorten in the prescribed clock-wise fashion. As she got within arm’s reach of the shrine, she felt her stomach rumble again. A few more steps, and she found that her mouth was so dry she could barely swallow.
What harm could one sip of water do?
“Power of suggestion,” she said, barely able to croak the words out. “Ignore it. Fight it.”
The exhortation was as much for her own ears as Booker’s. As she neared the end of the loop, the impulse was so overpowering that she found herself reaching out for a piece of fruit in the nearest niche. She might have taken hold of it too, if Booker had not slapped her hand away. Then, with the same abruptness as their arrival, the hunger and thirst relented.
“Okay,” Booker admitted. “That was pretty intense.”
“Something tells me that’s just the first of many tests we’ll have to get past.”
“Think so? Will we have to face more ‘desires of the flesh’? Maybe Miss January will be waiting at the next one.”
Mira let that comment pass as well, but it was entirely possible that particular desire would be tested. If so, she wondered what shape the test would take. She couldn’t deny that she was attracted to Booker and unless she was reading the signals completely wrong, he felt the same way toward her. She didn’t want to think about what might happen if the next chorten stimulated that smoldering ember of infatuation into something hotter.
“I think we’re supposed to go this way,” she said, pointing toward the palace on the hill, which seemed to have grown more solid. Before they had gone fifty steps, another shrine rose up before them.
This chorten was more angular, with a broad square base supporting an obelisk-like spire. Mira could make out several misshapen bundles strewn about the platform, and her immediate sense was of sleeping figures.
“They’ve got the right idea,” she said, and fought back a yawn.
“They who?”
She gestured to the platform, but even as she did, she saw that she had been wrong about them. The shapes were humanoid, but they weren’t sleepers. Protruding from a twist of red cloth was the unmistakable outline of a skeletal hand.
“I guess now we know what happens if we give in to those desires of the flesh,” Booker observed.
Mira veered away from the shrine, keeping it on her right as she began her orbit. With each step, her fatigue increased. Her legs felt leaden. Her vision began to blur, and when she tried to blink it away, she had to fight to get her eyes fully open. Then, she felt something else.
It started with a faint throb at the small of her back. She winced involuntarily, but kept moving. The throb became a dull ache, radiating from her kidneys. Two more steps, and the pain became so intense that she could barely move.
This was more than just the power of suggestion. This was the power of the Trinity.
“What the hell?” Booker gasped.
She looked back and saw him clenching his mid-section, nearly doubled over. “The next test,” she said through clenched teeth. “Weakness, sickness. The suffering of life. This whole path is supposed to simulate samsara, the lifelong cycle of birth, desire, suffering, death and rebirth.”
“Great. So we just have to gut it out.”
Mira was about to answer in the affirmative, but another wave of pain seized her and she would have collapsed if Booker had not caught her.
“Fight it,” he said, the words catching in his throat. “We can get through this.”
She glanced at the platform again, seeing clearly now that the skeletal remains were shrouded in the maroon robes of monks. How had these devotees of the path of enlightenment failed the test when
Tarrant, a mere treasure hunter, had succeeded?
Another step brought a surge of agony that nearly split her head in two. The pain was so intense that, in that moment, she would have welcomed death.
“Keep going,” Booker urged, propelling her forward. She knew he had to be in at least as much pain as she, but he was a SEAL, a military man driven to always accomplish his mission.
The monks….
“No!” She stiffened, resisting his efforts to compel her forward. “It’s samsara. Suffering and death.”
“No shit.”
She shook her head, a reflex of denial that triggered another throb of pain. “Suffering and death lead to rebirth. If we keep fighting it, we’ll lose.”
“So we just give up? End up like those losers?” He made a brusque gesture toward the robed skeletons and Mira caught a glimpse of a skull leering at her.
But she knew the answer now. The fear of death was the ultimate human weakness. The desire to survive at all cost was the greatest obstacle to true enlightenment.
“Yes,” she replied, flatly. “That’s why they’re here. To show us the way.”
She pulled free of his grip and turned to the chorten. Before Booker could say another word, she threw herself onto the platform, curling into a fetal ball as the pain became darkness and darkness overwhelmed her.
35.
Kiong stopped so abruptly that Xu nearly lost his balance. He whirled on her. “Why did you stop?”
She turned slowly, as if scanning the crowd with her dead eyes. “They have left.”
“What? We just saw them.” Xu realized that his agents had converged on his position, the confusion evident in their faces. He turned to them. “Did you see them? Spread out. They must have slipped through the net.”
Kiong shook her head. “You will not find them. They are not in this world any longer.”
Xu stared at her, dumbfounded. “Not in this world?”
Kiong lurched into motion again, veering away from him and heading across the square. Xu ran to catch her. “What are you doing?” That was, he realized, the wrong question, so he clarified, “What do you see?”
“They are there.” Kiong pointed, but her hand angled downward, as if to indicate a spot on the ground just ten feet away.
Xu looked, searching for some trace of the absent Americans. “Are they underground? In a tunnel?”
“No tunnel. They are…no longer in this world.”
Xu felt his breathing quicken. What Kiong was saying challenged everything he believed, and yet he recalled Atlas’ warnings about the Trinity relic and its supernatural properties. Mira Raiden was searching for something integrally bound up with that relic, and if even a fraction of the rumors about it were true, then anything was possible.
He took out his mobile phone and scanned through the contact list until he found the number Atlas had given him. The phone rang twice before a familiar voice spoke in his ear. “Xu? Why are you calling? I hope this means Mira Raiden is dead?”
“You have withheld vital information from me,” Xu growled, ignoring the question. “And it has given our enemies an advantage.”
“So you failed.” Atlas breathed out a quick sigh. “Do you know where she is now?”
“She is in Tibet, and I think you knew that she would come here.”
“Of course I knew.” Atlas voice had become strident with rage. Or was it panic? “Where in Tibet? You must tell me everything.”
Xu saw that he would get nothing more from the man unless he revealed what he knew. Unfortunately, what he knew was precious little. He quickly recounted what had happened and what Kiong had told him.
Atlas was silent for a long time, so long that Xu wondered if the connection had failed. “Then we are too late.”
“Too late for what? You must tell me. What is Mira Raiden doing here? What is it that you fear?”
“She seeks to remake a segment of the Trinity, to replace the part that was destroyed. The only place to do that is Shambala.”
“Shambala? The mythical Buddhist city?”
“It is no myth,” Atlas said. “It is real, occupying the same space as the Potala Palace in Lhasa. You cannot see it or enter it because it is out phase with our world.”
The explanation sounded preposterous to Xu, but it fit with what Kiong had told him. “Mira Raiden entered it. You must tell me how to do so as well. It is the only way to stop her.”
“If she is in Shambala, then you are already too late.”
“What will happen if she succeeds in remaking the Trinity?”
Atlas told him.
Xu felt his anger rising like a typhoon. “You should not have kept this from me,” he said, forcing the words past teeth clenched in rage.
“I did not trust you, minister. The power of the Trinity is seductive. You would not have been able to resist.” There was a pause and then Atlas continued. “I will come there immediately. Lhasa is only four hours away. I can be there by midnight. Perhaps I can make her understand why she must not do this.”
“Perhaps? You would risk China’s future on a possibility?”
“There’s nothing else I can do.”
Xu stared at Kiong, watching as her extended finger began to move, tracing an invisible path that led out of the square toward the red and white palace on the hill.
“No,” he said finally, not caring if Atlas understood. “But there is something I can do. Do not bother coming here, Mr. Atlas. By the time you arrive, there will be nothing left of this Shambala.”
He thumbed the ‘end’ button and then immediately placed a call to another number from the contact list. “General Bo. This is Deputy Minister Xu. We have a problem.”
36.
Mira awoke with a start and for a moment, wondered if everything that she had just experienced—the weird shift between universes, the agonizing trial of the chorten—was merely a bad dream.
The stone platform on which she lay was rough against her cheek. If it was a dream, then she was still in it.
She sat up. There was no sign of the skeletal monks that had shared her stone bed. Booker was there, snoring loudly beside her, but the bones and the maroon garments they had been wearing had vanished. Gone too was the intense agony and fatigue that had set in during her circuit. She felt revitalized; even the lingering discomfort of altitude sickness was gone.
That was not the only profound difference. Beyond the chorten, the world had been transformed yet again. The shadowy otherworld where they had walked the path of enlightenment had been replaced by a broad open plain. It was still nighttime, but no trace of modern Lhasa was visible now, not even as ghost images in the mist. The only familiar structure was the palace on the summit of Marpo Ri, but here too there were differences. The palace had changed, albeit in subtle ways. Mira knew that the seventeenth century complex in modern Tibet was merely an imperfect echo of what she now beheld—ancient Shambala, shut away from reality for all the ages.
She gave Booker’s shoulder a shake. “Rise and shine, sleepyhead.”
Booker came awake suddenly, throwing his hands out as if to catch himself before falling.
“It’s okay,” she soothed. “We made it. We passed the test.”
He looked around for several seconds, the panic slowly ebbing from his features. “Wow,” he said finally. “Good call. I never would have thought of giving up.”
“Samsara is a cycle. Death leads to rebirth. Only by surrendering to the inevitable could we make the next step.” She gave him a sincere smile. “But don’t worry. We won’t be making a habit of it.”
“So what now? Was that the last test?”
Mira scooted to the edge of the platform and let her feet dangle above the old stone pavement. She sensed no danger, only a tingling anticipation that seemed to be pulling her, like a magnet, toward the distant mountaintop structure. “I don’t know. I think we’re fully synchronized with Shambala now. What we want is up there.”
He gazed up at it. “It looks just
the way I remember it.”
Mira realized he wasn’t talking about Potala Palace, but Shambala, looking exactly as it had in his vision of the ancient past.
Just to be on the safe side, they circled around the chorten before heading toward the ramp that led up to the city. As they got closer, Mira found her own implanted memories of the place returning. She knew where this road would lead, recalled all the various levels of the city, the various plazas and structures, the maze of staircases, some leading to the lower, subterranean levels of the city, and others to the higher reaches. It was the latter they would have to follow to reach the uppermost level, which had once been the domain of Sham’b’Alla, a ruling member of the Agarthan triumvirate and namesake of the city.
The memories flooded back as they began their ascent. She recalled how Sham’b’Alla and the others had joined the pieces of the Trinity—ring-shaped talismans which they had each worn like a diadem or crown—and used the combined power to utterly silence the psychic abilities of the Ascendant Ones. The memory brought an unexpected pang; the Ascendant Ones had not been so unlike her. Indeed, if Collier was right, they were her true ancestors, victims of a devastating pogrom engineered by the so-called Wise Father and executed by Sham’b’Alla and his brothers.
Sham’b’Alla had paid a price for his part in that atrocity. The man who would one day take the name Marquand Atlas, coveting that extraordinary power, had killed the Trinity bearer and started a war that would unmake the ancient world. Sham’b’Alla had been the first to fall, and his defeat had been the beginning of the end for the triumvirate. Although Atlas had ultimately been defeated, banished for thousands of years, the ancient global superpower had gone into permanent decline, vanishing into the mists of legend. Shambala had survived intact, but its residents had been scattered to the winds. Unlike Atlantis, which men had searched for as a physical location, Shambala had always existed as more of a mystical construct—a state of existence—rather than a real place. Mira wondered how many Buddhist monks had found their way here through the ages, returning with tales of what they believed to be a transcendent spiritual journey rather than a physical one.
