Blood on the Threshold

by Karin Richmond

“Come on, I want to show you something special,” Ming-Ma whispered furtively, not to alert the other trekkers in our group. We began to descend into a leafy, forested area. The rock steps were obscured with fallen leaves and branches, so the going was slow. At least for Nicole and me. Village kids had followed us and were squealing with delight. They knew where we were going! Smiles reached ear to ear.

  Nicole touched my arm, “Did you see him?” pointing to a child hopping in front of us leading our way. The light was dissipating. “Not really, what’s up?” “He only has one leg.”

  Ming-Ma was leading us down a path to a small Buddhist shrine obscured by the forest. Walls were crumbling on one side, but we could smell the aroma of incense burning. The low angular light gilded the brass prayer rolls and incense burners. Colorful prayer flags hung listlessly on lines around the temple. Our troupe instinctively became quiet in respectful reverence for the site, but not too much. The gaggle of kids with the three of us gathered to sit on a nearby fallen log. After the jostling little bodies found their places, I pulled out the wooden flute I had bought in Kathmandu, for a moment just like this. Our makeshift three-part vocal harmonies filled the little clearing and the kids were wide-eyed and enthralled. Nicole noticed this first.

  “Let’s teach them a song, I bet we can, don’t you, Ming-Ma?” Nicole looked at me expectantly. I had the flute, after all.

  “Okay, sure, but do you have any song suggestions? Is there possibly a song we, who only speak English, could teach kids who only speak Nepalese?” I replied with a tiny hint of sarcasm.

  Ming-Ma had already translated our idea. The children were excited. They nodded enthusiastically in the universal sign for “Yes, yes!”

  I rolled my eyes at Nicole. “Oh brother, now you really put me on the spot.”

  “Think, think, think,” she urged.

  “I got it.” Nicole and Ming-Ma both looked eagerly toward me. “‘Kumbaya.’ It’s perfect. Even though it’s African, it’s perfect for this temple site. It’s perfectly easy to teach because the words are easy enough to sound out and I can play the melody.”

  Ming-Ma shushed the kids and told them what we were thinking and motioned the group—now about fifteen strong—to come closer around the log. I drew a breath and played the melody once through. The tone of the flute flitted around the foliage. The shadows were more striking now. One by one, then two by two, then all the children’s voices grew to one choir. Over and over, we sang the words we knew. We were singing for the sheer joy of the noise we were making. My flute became a conductor’s wand and I made eye contact with every boy and girl to encourage them all to sing.

  The chant was beautiful, extraordinary. Ming-Ma, our erstwhile troubadour, started experimenting with creating a round within the choir, like he did for our “Do Re Mi” rendition. A few kids took his lead. Others stayed firmly on note. We must have sung for twenty minutes, none of us wanting to stop. But the light deepened and I conducted the kids to a finish using my improvised baton. The kids hushed their voices on cue and the music hung in the stillness of our unintended worship. Nicole started to get up, but I held her by the arm. “Be still, my friend. Savor this moment as this is a magical moment, one you will never experience again in your lifetime.”

  We scrambled up in the gathering darkness to our campsite, the kids to their homes, and tucked ourselves into our sleeping bags. The next morning, something equally awesome happened.

  Dawn was just breaking and Nicole and I were just beginning to groan ourselves awake. We heard shuffling feet outside our tent and children’s urgent whispers. We lifted our heads up slightly and shared quizzical looks. “Is there someone out there?” I whispered. At that moment, a small voice, then two, then many joined in singing “Kumbaya” to us that morning. This time the song was exuberant and joyful! The kids had found our tent, and gave us back some of the love we shared with them. I know the child with one leg was still leading the way.

  Have you ever been presented with a gift so precious and selfless that the giving of the gift takes your breath away? As the strains of “Kumbaya” left us for memories, another gift was just over the next ridge.

  We started at dawn on a thirteen-thousand-foot plateau with sheer drops on two sides. This was a “free day” in which to relax and just be still. There was a village down the path we could see from our vantage point, so after a leisurely breakfast with tea, Nicole and I went down to explore. We were greeted with curious and smiling faces—the villagers had seen trekkers before—and one couple invited us in their very humble home for tea. We had brought some postcards from Texas and little gifts to exchange, so we had a small conversation with the couple, language barriers notwithstanding.

  Sauntering out of the small home, we took the gently sloping path to the center of the village. By now we knew that in the center of each small village was a raised dirt structure supported by rocks that served as a meeting place. Some of these markers were built around trees, like the one we were approaching.

  As in most villages, when the kids saw us, they came out cheering and wanting to see what might be pulled out of the backpacks of trekkers. We did not disappoint and started sharing a bag of large green balloons for the children and a few dozen cardboard emery boards for the women. What a kid magnet; within minutes we were surrounded! “Baalune, baalune” they cried as they jostled up toward us. They knew how to blow up the balloons, but they did not know how to tie the ends, so we took the time to show several of them how to twist the end with their fingers and cinch the knot. They were hysterical!

  Some of the moms had joined in the fray by now, wanting to see what the fuss was about. I whipped out one of the nail files and gently showed the women—using my own fingernail for the demonstration—what it could do. Then I asked for a hand. One woman proffered hers hesitantly, and I touched the end of her fingernail and began filing. She instinctively jerked back, but then extended it again. The lesson did not take long. Big knowing nods communicated their understanding and pleasure. Soon all the boards were in their hands and in feverish use on jagged dirty nails that had never seen a manicure.

  Nicole and I were so pleased with the joy our small gifts brought to the village that afternoon. But there was something else going on. Someone else was observing us in the shadows of the nearby buildings that were across the street. He had been walking back and forth, watching the melee, but not joining in. Just watching and listening. I had seen him. Nicole had too. But he kept his distance and we were having too much fun to pay him much mind.

  After all the treasures from our homeland were gone and the kids had wandered off, Nicole and I took off down the path to the other side of the village, just to see what was there. We stopped and sat on some large rocks to contemplate the truly wondrous view in front of us. The majesty of the mountains, with ridges plummeting straight down to a glinting silver sliver of a river so very far below us, was awesome. Both of us were at a loss for words, it was so amazing, so quiet, so magnificent.

  Then we heard shuffling feet. We both turned around.

  “Do you recognize him?” Nicole asked me.

  “Not sure, do you?”

  Instead of the westernized clothes most of the Nepalese wore, this man wore a plain brown robe, cinched at the waist. His bearing was erect and confident.

  “Was this the guy who was watching us in the village?” she asked me.

  “Hard to say; we didn’t get a close look, but he may very well be the same man.”

  I squinted my eyes to get a better look. He continued to approach us, and when he was closer, we nodded to each other. Yep. But what was it he had on his arm? What was he carrying?

  He came nearer and smiled at us. Then we recognized that a juvenile owl was perched on his arm. There was no tether on its legs. We were both pretty impressed! He pointed back toward the village, as if to say, “I saw you. I saw what you shared with my village.” We smiled back and placed each of our hands together, palm to palm, fingers up, and replied “Namaste.�
�� The robed man came closer now and extended his arm toward us, proffering the owl. He motioned his arm up and down and seemed to tell us, “Take him; take this owl.”

  “Oh no, we have no money,” we communicated by rubbing our pants pockets with outspread palms in yet another universally recognized sign language. He shook his head back and forth and gestured more firmly this time.

  “Is he offering us a gift, do you think?” I asked Nicole without taking my eyes from this man.

  “What in the world do you think we could do with an owl, for cryin’ out loud?”

  “Nicole, listen to me. I think he saw our friendship in his village and he wants to give us something in return. Something really special. This is probably the most precious possession he has. I know we can’t take the owl back with us, but we can’t brush him off either. We must be receptive and gracious toward him and his gift so he doesn’t feel rejected. I think this guy is a leader or a priest in this village. He deserves our respect.”

  And with that I gently offered up my arm toward the owl and he gently alighted on me. His little head was bobbing side to side with some perplexity. He was on his way to being wise, but not yet. I held my arm out high and admired the little bird’s courage and smiled at his owner. Then, I gently gave back his owl, his pet, his beloved possession. “Namaste,” I whispered and made a slight bow. He returned our valediction, turned, and then eased back on the path toward his village.

  Suddenly the scenery was only a backdrop to the beauty we had witnessed from this man’s soul.

  Watching him go, I had not a clue that I would be in extreme physical danger within mere hours and survived because of the simple kindnesses of strangers inhabiting this inspiring land.

  Another dawn arrived, but the air smelled of distant rain. Peering out of our tent flap door, we saw that the overcast sky was low and threatening. We could see the line of the storm approaching. Our Sherpas had been muttering during our trek that the monsoons were late that year. “Up in the mountains, monsoons are strong. Winds are dangerous. Rains make rocks slippery. Mudslides can pull us down,” Ming-Ma cautioned.

  Panicked, all of us gathered at the campsite, our belongings in tow. We couldn’t find our rain ponchos, so Nicole and I slipped plastic garbage bags over our heads and followed the Sherpas as well as we could. Soon thereafter, rain was blowing horizontally. Large branches tumbled across our path, nearly striking us. The sky was steely gray. We were leaning hard into the wind just to stay upright.

  “Ming-Ma,” I yelled, “we need to find shelter. Can we knock on someone’s home and ask for help?” The group was so spread out at that point that all I could see were the three of us. He ran ahead and found a hut on the side of the path and banged on the door. The woman of the family answered and beckoned us inside. A simple pot hung suspended from three sticks over a small fire. “Would you like some tea?” translated Ming-Ma. We were extremely grateful and accepted her offer. In turn, we offered up some Snickers candy bars and a pack of Marlboro cigarettes. (The latter, we had found, was a welcomed universal currency!)

  After the storm subsided, we shared our “Namastes” and started walking again. For the next several hours, we trekked nonstop but never did catch up with the rest of the group or the vital camping supplies.

  As the day drew down on our group of three, I began to swoon and falter. My vision was blurry and a sense of vertigo forced me to sit down where I could along the trail. The feeling was like a really bad reaction to something I ate. Nicole was not sick, though, and we had eaten the same things. I could walk eight or nine steps and then would have to rest on a rock. We were clearly getting nowhere fast.

  Nicole took charge. “Ming-Ma, we have to find a place for Mirabelle to lie down and rest. She is too sick to go any further.”

  “But the campsite is beyond the next village. We have to meet up with the rest of the group. We have no supplies,” he replied, clearly concerned with the predicament.

  “We won’t make it there; she won’t make it there. We, no you, have to find a place where we can stay the night in the next village.”

  “There are no hotels in these villages! No place to stay!” he replied in earnest, his eyes darting up the trail for any clues to help him out of this situation.

  “You have to ask. You must find something when we get Mirabelle to the village.” Nicole was adamant.

  The pair shouldered me on the path again, and when we arrived in the next village, they laid me flat on the raised rock marker in the center of this tiny community. Both of them took off in search of a place to stay, and I remained there, still and sick. My strength had vanished. I prayed to the Father and asked for help, or a repayment to be more precise. “God, please let them find me some shelter. For all the times I lodged kids from ‘Up With People’ in my home these past years, let me find a home tonight.”

  And my prayer was answered. Nicole and Ming-Ma came running toward me and exclaimed with wide astonishment, “We found a place!”

  Right on the square was a family that rented out a single room on the rare occasion a traveler sought shelter. There was no sign or outward indication of a “Room to Let,” just word of mouth traveling quickly through the village chatter. My friends shouldered me again and we walked across the dirt square to the house. Once there, they eased me down onto a straw mattress bed. I didn’t care one whit. I was sick, tired, exhausted, and … grateful. I closed my eyes. Nicole took over my care and realized that I had to eat and drink something, but we had no food. Our provisions were two villages farther down the trail.

  “What do you think you could eat, Mirabelle? You have to get something down your stomach that will stay there.” I heard her, but did not open my eyes. The straw tickled my skin. “I think I could eat some chicken.” My voice was a monotone.

  “Okay. Ming-Ma, can you ask the woman of the house for a chicken?” Ming-Ma chattered away and asked Nicole for some money. Nicole handed over $5.00. “Can she use American dollars? Is that all she needs?” The woman understood this and nodded her head affirmatively. She left and my friends went outside. I slipped into a light sleep.

  BBBWWWAAACCCKKKK, BWACK, BWACK! I nearly jumped out of my skin! What was this? Our hostess was beaming. She extended a closed basket toward me with a live, and very nervous, chicken inside! “Oh brother, Nicole! How are we gonna eat that?”

  ”Don’t look at me,” Ming-Ma interjected. “I’m a Buddhist. No kill nothing!”

  Sensing our bewilderment, the hostess—amid the cackling and clatter—went outside with the chicken in the basket. One more BWACK was all we heard. We had our chicken. Now we had to figure out how to pluck it and cook it. We city slickers had to improvise, but chicken was indeed on the menu that evening. And fortunately, I could keep it down.

  Sleep was an easy friend that night, and Ming-Ma had to shake us both awake at first light. “Do you feel better? Can you go with us now? We have to get to the group; they don’t know where we are.” He was anxious, I could tell. I could also tell I was indeed better. After a little tea and bread and a splash on my face, I pulled my backpack on and walked out of the humble hostel, grateful to our hostess and glad to be back walking on my own two feet. We waved good-bye and left the village behind us.

  Later that day as we walked the trail, Ming-Ma told us the story of how we got the chicken. “The lady went to her sister in the village because she had a few chickens. Those were the chickens that laid the eggs for her family, and she sold some eggs in the village. She would never kill one of her chickens even for her own family.”

  Nicole and I shared a glance.

  “She told her sister that she had a sick woman in her house and she showed her the five dollars. The sister pointed to the chicken she could take and told her to keep the money. She offered it back to me, but I told her to keep it.”

  “Are you sure?” we pressed him in unison.

  He shrugged. “That is what I am telling you because that is what she told me. It is true.”

 
Three for three. A choir, a precious owl, and a priceless chicken. These gifts from the hearts of the impoverished and simple Nepalese people—all without an expectation of recompense—began to open up my heart. And I realized I needn’t fear for my safety.

  Later, much later, I realized that life lessons often come from the most unexpected places. I survived through the grace of strangers in a distant exotic land, and in order for my soul to move on spiritually, I would have to start from a place of grace and gratitude for simply being alive.

  25

  PAROLE PROBLEMS

  Nepal’s memories were months behind me. The Texas Lyceum was holding a quarterly conference and as a board member I was expected to attend. I looked forward to the three-hour drive out of town in my smooth XJS Jaguar. Steely Dan tunes soothed me as they came through my sports coupe’s surround sound. The white lines of the interstate were whipping past me like the questions swirling in my mind. “What the hell had gone wrong? Why would he get out after serving just seven years of a ninety-year sentence? Who can stop the prison doors from opening for that bastard?”

  Earlier in the week I had received a form letter from the Parole Board advising me that Leroy Johnson was to be released from prison according to a preliminary decision made by a three-member subcommittee of the state Parole Board. I dropped the letter on my tile floor and nearly collapsed. Once again the primal fear of death wrenched within my gut. Again, I felt the violation I endured rising in my consciousness—a feeling I had deliberately pushed away every day for the last seven years.

  Retrieving the letter, I regained my composure. My first action was to call anyone and everyone I knew to try and stop the parole process. I called friends in high places: reporters, power brokers in the capital city, elected officials. To no avail. The wheels of the parole process kept moving toward that open door. I called the attorneys who represented me in court. The lead attorney would look into it, but she did not hold out much encouragement. She was confused as to what had happened, however, because her office held copies of the document that sent Leroy Johnson to prison for nearly a lifetime.