“I do, but Lama Dorji will never give his permission, and the Je Khenpo will need to be persuaded.” Kinley rested his fingertips under his chin. “Something I will consider.”
“Would international pressure from academic institutions persuade the Je Khenpo?”
“Possible. It would have to be handled delicately.” The monk turned to Kristin, who was craned over the table studying the writing. “The camera?”
“Oh, yeah.” Kristin glanced to Grant as if she were going to ask, What was so important about Issa that these books deserved to be in a museum? The anticipated question never came. Instead, she unzipped the case from around her Nikon and removed the lens cap.
Kinley closed the wooden cover of the narrow book and lay the silk next to it. Kristin took pictures from several angles using both a flash and the sunlight that splashed across the table from the single window. Using the scarf, Kinley gently turned the pages as she photographed them.
The whole time she photographed what must have been more than a hundred pages of text, Grant shot numerous glances to the closed library door. How much time do we have? His ears were alert for any sound of a person climbing the steps, but he only heard the clicking of the camera.
When Kristin finished, he turned to Kinley. “Will you translate for us?” His fully charged, thin white laptop was open in front of him. His fingers quivered above the keyboard. The three years he’d spent studying Tibetan would be of no use to him with these texts. Until he returned to Emory with Kristin’s photographs, he would have to rely on Kinley yet again.
“I am ready,” Kinley said, turning to the first page of the first book, “but are you prepared?”
“Prepared? For heaven’s sake, Kinley. This has been all I’ve thought about for the past five years. It’s hard to even contemplate.”
“That’s what I want you to consider. When we walked up to this room, how many steps did we climb?”
Grant felt the familiar frustration with his new teacher rising. “Six floors, must have been well over a hundred steps, but I don’t see what climbing steps has to do with anything.” Grant folded his hands in his lap. He knew the more anxious he appeared, the longer Kinley would draw out his lesson.
“To reach this room, to read these manuscripts of Issa, you had to climb many steps,” Kinley said patiently. “Each step brought you closer to this table, but once you used a step, you left it behind. You left it not in a disparaging way that the lower step was now beneath you, but instead you left it knowing that it had served you well, a necessary step to get where you are today.”
A stillness settled over the room as Kinley stared at Grant, obviously waiting for his reaction. Even Kristin, who seemed to always be toying with the objects around her, sat quietly.
“Okay.” Grant thought back to one of Kinley’s earlier lessons and the cup of cool water that the monk had dumped on his head. “If I hadn’t been raised in a fundamentalist household, if I hadn’t gone to grad school, if I hadn’t broken my leg on the river, then I wouldn’t be here today.” He squinted at Kinley. “So I need to be more respectful, or maybe forgiving, of my own past, even the painful things, because those events have brought me to these manuscripts?”
Kinley nodded. “Our lives are interconnected with the actions that came before as well as our environments, but there is still more.”
“There always is.”
Kinley pressed on. “A Chinese Zen teacher once said, ‘When you are full of doubt and uncertainty, even a thousand books of scripture are not sufficient; but when you truly understand, even one word is too much.’”
Grant pondered the saying for a moment. “These texts are nothing more than yet another step in my journey?” But how can that be? he wondered. If Kinley’s translation contained the same revelation that the Notovitch’s manuscript did, then this was the type of find an academic experiences once in a lifetime if he or she is lucky. He imagined the effects it would have on the history of religion.
“And as with your previous steps, someday you will move beyond this one too.” As if reading Grant’s mind, he added, “As a historian, Grant, you might be adept at discovering the what: what happened in Issa’s short life.”
“Of course.” Isn’t that the point? he thought. In this case the what answered a crucial question that had remained unanswered for two thousand years.
“The what can be useful, yes, just as the how that scientists teach us can be.” The monk caressed the silk covering the first book. “The importance of these texts goes beyond history. You are missing a bigger mystery here.”
Grant scrunched up his brow. How can that be?
“The why,” Kristin said.
Kinley nodded. “Just as Issa uncovered an ancient wisdom on his journey, Grant, you must do the same with these texts. Ask not just what, but why. Religion is not about what has happened in the past, but about what is happening to us in the present.”
Grant sat without moving, his gaze on the table in front of him. He was suddenly struck by a memory from his early adolescence. A memory that seemed entirely out of place at this moment: he was lying in bed late at night, praying that the divine light would shine on him and remove his doubts so that he could believe just like the others around him did. He looked at the faded black lines of the ancient text in front of him. Then he raised his eyes, looked between Kinley and Kristin, opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it without saying anything.
“Let us see how good my ancient Pali is, shall we?” Kinley opened the first book.
Grant’s fingers flew across the keyboard as Kinley began to translate the story of Issa.
CHAPTER 12
RAJASTHAN, INDIA TWO THOUSAND YEARS AGO
HAD HE RUINED his life?
Staring into the glowing embers of the campfire as he lay on his reed mat, Issa couldn’t push the question out of his mind. In leaving on this journey, he had gone against the wishes of his parents and teachers. But he needed to find the answers. Now, he wasn’t even sure of the questions. Thoughts swirled in his mind much like the hot, red sand had swirled around his legs as he had walked alongside the caravan earlier that day.
An unfamiliar noise from the far side of the camp startled him. His heart racing, the teenager sat up.
Silence.
The other dozen men slept peacefully around him. Probably nothing to worry about.
Issa settled back on his mat, tightening the wool cloak around his bony shoulders against the cool desert wind, the ruach. Breathing deeply, he found comfort in the aroma of roasted wood. Why had he been so jittery? Maybe it was the strange land, the different customs. Far from his own people, he now slept beside Egyptian beer merchants and Chinese spice peddlers.
When he had crept out of his parents’ modest stone dwelling that night many months ago, he had felt full of confidence. His parents expected him to follow a life he wasn’t ready to accept. Although he enjoyed the attention of the families who knew of his reputation and brought their daughters to meet him, he had too much to learn, too much to experience before he was ready to marry. He was only fourteen, after all.
A loud grunt followed by a wet snorting sound returned Issa to the present. That was it—the noise that had startled him earlier. The camels.
The animals had acted strangely the last few nights. Camels did not rank high on Issa’s list of God’s creatures. Loud, smelly beasts, they enjoyed biting his shoulder if he ventured too near during the endless daily walks. Keeping outside biting range didn’t guarantee escaping their displeasure, either; they would just as happily spit a glob of warm mucus down his neck. When the merchants traded the more civilized horses for the camels last month, they had told Issa that these disagreeable animals could not only carry heavy packs on their large hump through the searing desert heat but could also remember the exact path walked months earlier. Tonight they just kept him awake, and tomorrow he faced yet another day in the scorching sun, shuffling across the endless red landscape through dried grasses, thorny
bushes, and scraggly trees.
Once the camels settled down, the night stilled. Even the insects decided to sleep. As Issa stared at the heavens dotted with the faint light of countless stars, the questions played again in his mind. He squeezed his eyes closed and pushed away the doubts. He knew he was destined for something larger, but what, he wasn’t quite sure. He had made the right decision, he repeated to himself.
As a child, he had enjoyed listening to stories from the merchants who traveled through his village, bringing tales from the East, along with their brightly colored silks, brilliant stones, and pungent spices. These men radiated an energy that eclipsed their gruff and uncultured mannerisms, an energy absent from the teachers who didn’t appreciate Issa’s unique perspectives.
He was a smart, if sometimes unruly student. He may have asked too many questions, but what was the point of learning if not to question? Unfortunately, his elders saw his probing as disrespectful. During his travels, he would find the answers he sought.
Another sudden bout of coughing and spitting came from the camels. Issa jolted upright. Brushing his matted black hair from his face, he peered into the dense night. The camels were only thirty paces away, but he couldn’t make out their dirty beige coats in the darkness.
Manu, the newest addition to their caravan, stirred on the other side of the fire. A native of this land, he would know what disturbed the animals. But Manu just grunted and rolled over. Issa debated waking him, but one look at the man’s forearms—larger than both of Issa’s lanky legs together—as well as the crescent-shaped knife strapped to his belt, convinced Issa to let the beefy man sleep.
Issa took some comfort in knowing that if anything unusual happened, the four porters would check on the animals. Not hearing their voices, he relaxed onto his mat. The porters were accustomed to the habits of these beasts, since they slept next to the smelly creatures for warmth, unlike the merchants, who were permitted to sleep by the fire. Difficult fate these porters had: carrying the sacks that didn’t fit on the backs of the camels, cleaning up the campsites. The merchants barely acknowledged their presence. Issa tried to strike up conversations with the porters, but they seemed to be made uncomfortable by the attention, and he was unsure how to proceed. Issa’s father was only a tekton by trade, and making tables and doors didn’t provide enough money for the family to afford even a single slave.
Issa’s thoughts were interrupted by a baritone roar that froze him to his sleeping mat.
The merchants around him jumped from their slumber. The sounds that followed terrified the teenager. A guttural snarl clashed with the camels’ roaring. When his temporary paralysis subsided, Issa sat and strained to see, but he couldn’t make out the struggle. Then a noise followed that Issa hoped never to hear again: a shriek that sounded neither human nor animal. The wail pierced the crisp air and vibrated through to his bones.
Manu, the first of the merchants on his feet, grabbed a half-lit log from the fire in one hand, drew his knife in the other, and raced toward the camels. As soon as he could will his legs to move, Issa followed the other men. When they reached the roaring camels, Issa slowed, expecting to find the source of the animals’ distress where they were tied, but the terrible scream originated from ahead. He heard the porters’ shouts from the same direction. Confused, Issa followed the merchants. When he pulled to a stop beside the others, his breath heaved in his narrow chest. Then an involuntary gasp caught in his lungs. His eyes locked onto a sight that would be imprinted in his memory for years to come.
Issa had never seen a tiger before, only heard tales, but he knew instantly from the faded stripes on its white coat what it was. Three of the porters waved their arms and yelled at the beast. Manu stepped into their midst. Growling, the tiger backed away from the crowd, eyeing the flaming torch in the large man’s hand. Issa glimpsed what looked like a tattered log in the tiger’s powerful jaws as it retreated to the desert shadows. The fur around its face appeared matted and wet. The beast had stolen something from their camp. Will Manu retrieve it? he wondered. But the largest merchant stood his ground, watching the tiger carry its prize to its lair in the mountains that defined the horizon. The tiger gone, Issa looked at Manu’s wide, dark face, whose deep crevices seemed canyonlike in the glow from the torch. He showed none of the fear that Issa felt.
Although the danger had passed, Issa realized that the shrieks continued. He focused on the semicircle formed by the men. Then he saw the source of the inhuman cries. The fourth porter, a boy, no more than a year or two older than he, lay clutching a mangled stump just below his right hip. The rest of his leg was missing. In its place, a thick pool of blood soaked into the dirt.
Issa’s stomach turned. In a moment of awful clarity, he realized that the tiger, targeting the smaller prey, must have grabbed the porter while he slept next to the camels and dragged him a short distance. The porter’s leg had been torn from his body.
As abruptly as the terrible sound had begun, the porter’s screams stopped; his mouth now moved wordlessly. Issa looked to Manu, who watched the scene with a grimace on his face, or could it have been a smirk? The boy needed immediate help to stop the bleeding, or he would die within minutes. Why is his countryman just standing there? Issa scanned the other faces in the group. No one moved.
Unable to speak from the shock of the attack, the boy began whimpering like a fox caught in a trap. His right hand, covered in blood thickened by the dusty red dirt, grasped at the remains of his leg; his fingers searched through the torn flesh.
Issa could no longer contain his anxiety. “You’ve got to help him!” he pleaded in a voice that came out higher-pitched than he wanted. Speaking Greek, the common language of the traders, presented a challenge for him. Manu cocked his head in Issa’s direction and raised the makeshift torch in the direction of the boy’s voice. Confronted by the grimace of the large man, Issa stretched up to the full extent of his awkwardly growing frame and held Manu’s gaze without blinking.
“Who are you, boy, to tell me what to do?” rumbled the voice out of the massive chest in a jumbled Greek worse than Issa’s. Breaking the teenager’s defiant stare, Manu glanced toward the porter. “He’s just a Shudra. In two days’ time, we pass through a village where we pick up another one.” Cutting his eyes back to Issa, his lips formed a wide smile that showcased his twisted and missing teeth.
The hollowness in Issa’s gut grew. He searched the faces of the other merchants. “Will no one help this man?” he asked.
None moved.
Issa tried again. “He’s traveled with us for months, carrying our bags and cleaning our camp. We cannot let him die on the side of the road like an animal.”
The merchants stared at Issa in silence, as if he were now a greater curiosity than the porter with the missing leg. Why does no one care? For a moment, Issa thought he recognized a glimpse of something in the faces of the three uninjured porters. Hope? But they remained uncomfortably silent.
Only the eyes of the boy, whose tear-streamed face contorted in agony, would meet his. Issa made his decision. Ripping off his tunic, he tore the right sleeve from the garment. He knelt next to the porter and placed a shaky hand on his clammy forehead. Issa’s touch seemed to provide strength to the boy, and a clarity appeared in his eyes that had been absent before. “Be strong. I will help you,” Issa assured him, sounding more confident than he felt.
He had no experience in medicine, but he had once watched his father dress the broken leg of a sheep that had fallen into a ravine. Stopping the bleeding was the first priority. Next, he would have to clean the wound to prevent the rot that would certainly kill the porter even if he were to survive the blood loss. With uncertain but determined hands, Issa wrapped his torn sleeve around the stump where the leg had been. Blood quickly soaked through the cloth with no sign of slowing. Technically this man’s blood was unclean, but there was no way Issa could stop the bleeding without dirtying his hands in it. Taking a breath, he grabbed the cloth and pressed it into the
bleeding flesh. Everyone in the group, except Manu, Issa noticed, jumped at the shriek that came from the dying boy. Startled but undeterred, Issa kept his hold firm.
“You will live,” he reassured his patient, although again he was not as confident as he tried to sound. The bleeding slowed, but every time Issa let go, the blood started flowing again. He didn’t know how much blood a man held in his body, but too much had spilled on the ground. Then an idea came to him. He quickly removed the makeshift bandage from around the torn flesh and retied it a couple of inches above the end of the stump. After a few attempts, he perfected his tourniquet, stopping the flow of blood. The porter was now unconscious but still breathing.
Sweating from his effort, Issa gestured his blood-soaked hands at the other porters. “Bring me some wine and oil to pour on the wound.” The strength in his voice propelled one of the men to run to their supplies, returning in a minute with two flasks. Together they cleaned the wound. Issa then ripped off his other sleeve and wrapped it around the end of the stub. He admired his handiwork. The boy would live.
“Help me carry him back to the camp,” he commanded the other porters. “We must move him carefully.”
The three porters gathered around the injured boy. The one who had helped to clean the wound caught Issa’s eye and smiled shyly. When they prepared to lift their patient, a baritone voice called to them, “And what happens in the morning, when we leave camp?”
Manu towered over Issa.
Issa hadn’t thought that far ahead yet. He’d just saved this man’s life. Certainly they could find a way to transport the porter to a village where he could recover.
Manu continued, “Anyway, what use is a one-leg Shudra? How will he carry our sacks?”
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