by Joanne Pence
Sleep refused to come.
An hour passed before Kira went into the bathroom. He listened to the water running for a while, then heard her come back out. He opened his eyes just a little. Her hair was down. She went over to her knapsack, pulled out heavy flannel PJs, and then shut the lamp. Moonlight against the thin drapery sent enough light in the room that he could make out her long, lithe silhouette as she pulled off her top, unhooked her bra and removed it, stepped out of her slacks, socks and panties, and then put on the pajamas.
He squeezed his eyes tight as she walked to the bed and got into her side. He could smell the flowery soap she had used, could hear her breathing, could sense her nearness.
The space between them felt simultaneously as narrow as tissue paper, and as wide and empty as the Gobi desert.
He wondered if he would be able to sleep at all that night.
Chapter 35
Early the next morning, the four met with the two guides. They had brought food and supplies, including thick parkas and extra blankets in case they got stuck somewhere out in the snow, and soon everything was loaded into the van Michael had rented.
Once past Tashkent, law and order broke down even though the Uzbek government, plus Russian, Chinese, and most likely American operatives, closely watched the region and any travelers. Both Russians and Chinese governments worried about the country being used to stage terrorist attacks on them, and all three foreign governments used the area to spy on each other.
As they headed eastward, against the sky, they could see a faint silhouette in the distance. As they neared, it became a snow-white wall with blue shadows—the T’ian Shan, or “heaven’s mountains.” More than 10,000 feet high, an eternal blanket of snow covered the tops of the peaks.
The guides took them along Old Silk Road caravan routes used by Marco Polo rather than the busier main highway until they neared the border between Uzbekistan and the small, politically unstable country of Kyrgyzstan. Once there, the guides returned to the highway and crossed only in areas known to be safe, since a number of landmines had been planted along the border by the Uzbek government during a time they feared Islamic militants coming through Kyrgyzstan and Tajikistan. Some had been removed, but many were still buried.
Once in Kyrgyzstan, they traveled even more slowly, searching the area, talking to local people, doing whatever they could to find any hint of a Christian monastery having once existed in the area. The road took them along streams from the snow-covered peaks. Winter weather hadn’t yet hit or the area would have been impassable. The autumn landscape had patches of snow alternating with boggy soil and thick, coarse grass, but beyond the small roadway, glaciers and lakes dotted the mountains. Once, they even spied a pair of large, spiral-horned Marco Polo sheep along a riverbank. But they found nothing that could have been a monastery. Even the Silk Road itself was hard to locate most of the time, and a great deal of guesswork was involved by the guides and Renata.
They spent two nights camping, and when they reached the small strip town of Naryn, wedged in a foreboding canyon and called the gateway to the mountain passes into China, they were glad to spend a night in an inn, much as a caravansary welcomed travelers during the time of Marco Polo.
“Don’t shoot! It’s just me,” Kira said as she crossed the inn’s barren courtyard to Michael’s side. He sat alone on a rickety wooden bench.
The women had been given one room, and the men, including the guides, shared another that was set up dormitory style. Here, in the courtyard, a blanket of stars created a brilliant canopy in the night sky.
“Are you all right?” Michael asked.
“Yes.” She joined him on the bench. “Actually, that’s not true. Something is bothering me. You don’t let anyone but Jianjun get close. Why is that?”
“That sounds like a profiler’s question.”
“I’m a psychologist, what can I say? And believe me, that question was way too straightforward for profiling.”
He could understand her uneasiness. If he were in her position, he doubted he’d trust himself either. “I’m sorry, Kira. I’m not an ‘open up’ kind of person.”
She gazed up at the stars awhile before saying, “Come to think of it, neither am I. I shouldn’t have pried. I’ll just continue to drive poor Jianjun crazy with my questions.”
“I’m quite sure Jianjun doesn’t mind,” he said.
“He’s a good man.” Her words were soft. “I just don’t know what’s going on. My father and I weren’t even close, yet since his death, I feel lost.”
“I understand,” he said.
“I doubt it.” Her tone was bitter.
They sat in silence a moment, then he said, “My mother died suddenly when I was only ten. That kind of death of a parent gets deep into one’s bones and leaves a person uncertain.”
“What happened to her?”
He still saw that day clearly. He was at Wintersgate. His mother stood at a third-floor balcony outside what they called ‘the study,’ a library filled with his parents’ books. He had been playing in the garden, and knew if she saw how filthy he’d gotten, she’d be unhappy. So he hid behind a tree, waiting for her to go back inside, planning to sneak up to his room to change. Next thing he knew, she fell … or jumped … or was pushed, from that balcony.
He would never forget the blood on the patio soon after she hit. So much blood. And his screams.
He shut his eyes, trying to forget.
But he always wondered if he had made some simple gesture, if he’d waved in her direction, called up to her, done anything instead of running past so she wouldn’t see him, if that might have changed everything.
Friends, even psychologists, told him he had to stop blaming himself for what had happened, that he couldn’t have known what she was going to do, couldn’t stop her from taking her own life. But he had been there, and no one else was.
He believed his father never forgave him. And he never forgave himself.
Instead of telling Kira any of this, he simply said, “An accident.”
“How awful,” Kira said.
“Yes.” His tone clearly said it was not a topic for discussion.
“What about your father?” Kira asked. “Is he alive?”
She was profiling him. “He’s alive. After my mother’s death, he became even more of a recluse than he had been previously. People say he has the gift—or curse—to see more than the physical in this world. Apparently, I have the same affliction.”
“Do you and your father get along?”
He found this tedious. “We’ve never been close,” he snapped. “And that, Doctor Holt, should give you plenty to think about as you work up a psychological profile for me. Isn’t it better than thinking about demons?”
“No, Michael, it’s sad,” she said, her gaze filled with sympathy. The last thing he wanted was anyone’s sympathy. “But it helps me to understand.”
“Oh, great.” The words were dry, sarcastic.
“It’s fine. And I’m sure that someday, you’ll find Irina again.”
His head jerked towards her.
She stood to leave. “I saw the expression on your face as you talked to Magda about her. A person doesn’t need to be a psychologist to understand what’s going on. Thank you for talking to me.”
Chapter 36
Once past Naryn, the road became increasingly rugged and difficult as they climbed ever higher into the T’ian Shan range. They headed toward the Torugart Pass border crossing into China. It was 12,300 feet, well over two miles, above sea level. The guides told them the pass was currently open, but would shut if a storm came in. They hoped to reach it before that happened. But more than that, they hoped to find the Nestorian monastery without needing to enter China.
Along the narrow, mountain road wending through Kyrgystan, they saw mostly bare land with occasional rocky outcrops and banks of snow. The last time Michael had been here, it was summer, and he remembered seeing migrating tribesmen in the valleys far below
. Some yurts had been erected, and near them horses stood, lambs cavorted, and yaks slowly meandered, followed by their calves. Now, the valleys were bleak and empty, the air so icy and thin the boiling point of water had dropped to 188 degrees Fahrenheit, and tufts of grass cast long shadows on the stony ground.
“Shouldn’t we have found some sign of at least one Nestorian monastery by now?” Kira asked as they bounced over a particularly bumpy patch of narrow roadway that wended between rocky inclines on both sides.
Renata answered. “Since Marco Polo traveled here over seven hundred years ago, it would be amazing to find any structure in this area from his time.”
Michael said nothing. He was tired of this argument with Renata. He wasn’t giving up, no matter how impossible she found his quest.
The sun set quickly, dropping behind the mountains, as they searched for a place where the road widened enough to make camp for the night. But then the driver abruptly stopped the van.
He and the other guide spoke to Renata in Uzbek as they loaded their rifles. “They’re worried about the headlights,” Renata said as she pointed to what appeared to be lights on a truck or other large vehicle heading their way. “It could be nothing, or they could be bandits. This area is filled with them. They especially go after people after dark, and target tourists they think might not be able to defend themselves.”
Michael grabbed rifles from the back of the van and handed one each to Jianjun, Renata, and Kira, plus extra ammunition. He kept one for himself. The headlights sped closer. “Jianjun, be ready to drive Kira and Renata out of here if things go south.”
“I’ll head to the turnout area a few miles back, and wait there,” Jianjun said.
Michael nodded as he and the guides got out. Usually, bandits would turn around if they saw rifles pointing at them. But as the gray truck drew near, the men inside it fired at them.
Michael and the guides returned fire.
“Damn it all!” Jianjun muttered and furiously backed the van to a spot where the road was wide enough for him to make a three-point U-turn.
Michael blasted a tire on the approaching truck, flattening it and sending the truck into a spin.
The bandits jumped out of the truck, still firing. Michael scrambled up the rocky mountainside and ducked behind some boulders.
From there, he shot back, hitting one in the shoulder, then ran farther uphill as did the guards. At the crest, they split up. Michael kept going as the gunfire continued. When he reached a rocky outcrop, he stopped, and squatted behind some rocks.
He stayed hidden as he heard an occasional volley of shots.
Darkness fell, and mist settled over the land, the kind of mist that caused the tops of the T’ian Shan to seem to vanish within the clouds when seen from below.
Eventually, he heard the sound of a truck’s engine. The bandits must have managed to change the tire, and were leaving. He listened for more shots, the sounds of the bandits coming up the hill.
All he heard was the truck driving away, and then the sound disappearing altogether.
The fog and haze blotted out the little moon and starlight. Even Marco Polo had written of the heavy ground fog that sometimes blanketed the area and caused men and caravans to lose their way. Michael headed back towards the area where he had last seen the guards. He couldn’t see more than a few feet ahead. Despite his heavy jacket, thick socks and hiking boots, the cold seeped into his bones. If the temperature dropped much more, he wondered if he could survive the night.
He headed down mountain, believing he should reach the road at any time, but for some reason, he didn’t. He must have gotten turned around somehow, and the hillside he descended wasn’t the same as the one he had climbed.
He headed farther down, but then stopped when he reached an area relatively level. He walked along it far enough to know it was as best a pathway, not the main road. Now, he was sure he was in the wrong spot.
He feared if he continued to wander in this murky darkness, he would end up hopelessly lost.
Michael jerked himself awake. Falling asleep in this temperature could be fatal. It was still hours before dawn, and the inversion continued. He kept watching, hoping for a sliver of moonlight, anything to help him find the roadway. But then, a solitary figure stepped out of the fog. He was no more than a shadow. As he neared, he seemed to be wearing a long wool tunic with a cowl. Michael held his rifle ready to fire.
“I am not here to hurt you.” The man’s accent was thick. “You can lower your rifle.”
Michael and his rifle didn’t move. “Who are you? What are you doing out here?”
“I’m a monk. I live some distance, but I heard the rifle fire echoing through the mountains. When I thought it safe, I came out here to see if anyone was hurt. Are you?” He lowered his cowl and Michael saw he was an elderly man. His hair was long and white, and he had a wispy white beard. “If you’re hiding from bandits, I have not seen any since nightfall.”
A monk, out in this nothingness … and he speaks English?
“How did you find me?” Michael demanded.
“I know places to hide from the cold as well as from bullets. But you are too suspicious. If you do not wish my help, so be it.” With that, he started to walk away.
“Wait.” Michael stood, still gripping his rifle in case this was a trap. “If you can point me to the road, I’ll make my way back to my friends.”
“You do not know this area, and its dangers are many, both natural and man-made. Come to the monastery with me. I can give you some food and a bed for the night.”
“Are you Buddhist?” Michael asked, not recognizing the clothes the monk wore, and realizing they contained many layers for warmth—a sort of primitive insulation system.
The monk took hold of the silver necklace he wore and lifted it from under his robes. On the end was a cross. It appeared to be Christian, but instead of a crucifix, it had three little circles at each tip of the cross—right and left, top and bottom. “I am a Nestorian Christian. My name is Sirom.”
After so many days of searching, this is too easy.
Michael stiffened. “Lucky me, just when I was looking for a Nestorian monastery, you’re here to guide my steps.”
The monk smiled secretively. “I know. Follow me.”
Michael studied the man. “I thought there were no more followers of Nestorius.”
The monk’s brows lifted, but the rest of his face remained impassive. “Well, you can see I am here, so your world is—as usual—wrong.”
Michael wondered if he was having one of those dreams so realistic it left you unsure when you woke which was the dream, and which was reality.
The monk didn’t answer, but walked away. Michael hesitated, then followed. They continued along the pathway. It seemed they went in the opposite direction from the one Michael thought he needed to go in, but he couldn’t be sure of that.
After a while, Sirom spoke again. He explained that the Nestorian church had gone underground in the area, but it had not disappeared.
“We expected someone would be looking for us,” Brother Sirom said. “Someone from the West, trying to right the wrong done by Marco Polo.”
“Why would you expect such a thing?”
“Our history has been passed down from one abbot to the next. As you are aware, what you have is not a pearl, but a philosopher’s stone.”
Michael nodded.
“You are not surprised or troubled by this?” Sirom asked.
“No.”
Sirom’s eyebrows rose. “What do you plan to do with it?”
The monk spoke as if he assumed Michael had the pearl with him. “A Chaldean priest warned me not to destroy it, but to return it to the monastery from which Marco Polo stole it.”
“Good. You must head east. This is not the land you seek.”
“What do you know about the pearl?”
“We know its history, and that demons are active because the pearl has been freed.”
“Freed?
What do you mean?”
“Something happened that freed them. Perhaps the priest who possessed it knew how to fight the demons, to control them. When he died, they were freed—until you or some other new owner learns how to keep them contained. Now, the demons roam the earth. We feel them. I suspect they are following the pearl, which means they are following you.”
Michael didn’t like the implication he had failed. “Do you know about some special soil that’s supposed to control the demons?”
“The soil doesn’t control them, it removes their power. Only the keeper of the pearl can control them … if he knows how. But they’re demons and know how to tempt the owner. Far too often, the demons won the power struggle with their owner. Through that owner they inflicted much harm and suffering.”
“How can the owner learn to control them?” Michael asked.
Brother Sirom looked coldly at him, not answering his question. Michael didn’t trust this man, or this situation. He wondered if this was another trap set up by demons in the way they’d fooled him with Irina. Finally Sirom spoke, “There is a reason Father Berosus chose to give you the pearl. He saw something in you. But remember that you never know who or what the demons might attack. Be ready.”
Michael stared at the monk. He hadn’t mentioned Berosus’ name. How did this man know him? “The pearl is a tool of alchemy, which I’ve studied.”
“If you think you can control a demon,” Brother Sirom said, “you are mistaken.”
“As keeper of the pearl, I should know how. Perhaps the same way Father Berosus did.”
“But he was a holy man. Do you plan to draw them to you?”
“That’s preferable to having them roam the world, isn’t it?”
“Not for you, or for your friends,” Sirom warned.
“When I find my friends, I’ll pass on your warning.”
“Those friends will be better off if you confront the demons alone, especially if you attempt to thwart their will and not succumb to the temptations they throw your way,” Sirom said. “Demons are known to attack not only their prime target, but also anyone close to that target. They torture and kill in the most horrifying ways.”
