"What in hell is happening around here?"
"I am sorry to have kept you waiting,” said a voice behind him. Startled, he turned and beheld a monk in white robes, lined with purple and gold thread. The robes of a High Lama.
He bowed. “Rimpoche, I hope you will forgive this intrusion. I have just heard about the death of the Old One."
The Lama's smile was warm. “Yes, it came as a shock to us all, but he has gone to a better life, and in this one I must try to do as well, at least until we find his reincarnate again."
Lieutenant Singe blinked, sensing something odd, yet familiar, about the Lama before him. He shook his head.
"Yes, well, then there's those things you built in the courtyard. I've never seen such wonders.” Ramus gestured around the chamber. “And all the rest of it; how did you come by them?"
"Gifts. All gifts. Gifts from those who hope that one day we might lead them to a better world."
"But some of these things seem powered. Those structures below, for instance. They turn on their own. Are they battery-powered like the lamps?"
"Solar energy. We've come to depend on that a great deal up here."
"Ah, yes, that would explain it. But I haven't seen any panels..."
"Built in."
"Amazing."
"I'm glad you've noticed our little toys. They are a nice innovation, don't you think?"
Singe licked his lips. “Yes, innovative. Artwork as rigid as steel, colored and woven with material as fine as human hair, possessing its own light source?” He stared up at the ephemeral-seeming second ceiling depicting the cosmos.
"Do you like our mobile?"
The lieutenant snorted. “Mobile. I've never heard of such a thing. It almost looks like you could reach up and touch the stars."
"It's so soothing sleeping under them. I hardly ever wish to get up."
"But you have no wiring! You have no outlets!"
"Ah,” said the High Lama ruefully. “I knew there was something we forgot."
"And in the past few hours I've heard radio broadcasts, stereo concerts, spotted what could only be described as giant strangers running around in the robes of monks, and I don't understand any of it."
"My son,” the High Lama said soothingly. “There's nothing to excite you so. Everything can be explained. I assure you."
"Explained?” exclaimed Ramus. “Are you kidding me? With all due respect, Rimpoche, the only way you could explain half the things I have seen is by telling me that you were visited by a bunch of beneficent aliens!"
"Ah, do you really think so?” said the High Lama softly.
"You've built structural supports that can't possibly work, yet they do. You have electricity without any hint of a power source, but it still lights. You have an incredible mix of materials. I can't even be sure this isn't my imagination. Maybe I fell from those steps and am experiencing brain fever!"
"Balance yourself, my son. Balance. You will find, after a while, that balance is everything."
"Rimpoche, forgive me, but that's so much horse shit!"
The Lama stared at him before turning and sitting on the pallet, patting a space next to him for the other to share.
"It came in a dream,” he whispered to the young officer. “And I was not the only one to dream of it. All of us were touched. What lay buried in our hearts and our minds began to come alive. Thus were our aspirations towards progress geared to seeking greater truths, and thereby giving expression to what you see around you."
"Utter rot!"
"I told you he wouldn't believe that crock,” came a sweet trilling voice from the doorway.
Ramus turned with an oath and stared. “Oompal?"
She looked back calmly, and then it hit him. She was looking at him. He turned and stared at the High Lama, gazing into the other's eyes, his forehead, the cheekbones, the nose, the mouth, the chin ... and then he knew.
"Great guns!” he squawked.
"Well,” said Oompal, placing a familiar hand on his shoulder. “As they say somewhere in the western world, ‘that's all she wrote, folks!’”
"This can't be happening!"
Oompal leaned over and whispered in his ear. “You think we're all impostors? Would you like me to repeat what you said last time when you thought we were alone, and you promised you'd return to me, hmm?"
Ramus Singe still had an embarrassing crush for this blind girl ... He mumbled to himself. “This can't be happening."
His chin slumped down to his chest, and he refused to look up. He was a little boy again, stuck in that terrible orphanage, and he was not going to look up until his tormentors went away.
Oompal gave the High One a glance, and the monk left the girl to handle it on her own. She sat down, facing him, took his hands in hers and held them in her lap for a long time, until finally, he did look up. Then something in her eyes caused him to look towards the door, where an apparition stood in a monk's robe and smiled. Oompal hissed and the apparition went away.
* * * *
By the afternoon of the next day, Lieutenant Singe came down the path, and Sergeant Anshroeder saluted.
"Everything's in order, sir!"
Ramus halted and stared stupidly before returning the other's salute. “Er, yes, of course.” He licked dried lips, peering into the shadows around them. “Sergeant, are you certain everything's all right down here...?"
"Sir?"
"I mean to say, you haven't noticed anything peculiar, have you?"
Sergeant Anshroeder shook his head. “No sir! Everything is in spanking order, sir!"
Ramus sighed, knowing that everything was not in spanking order, but he couldn't say that in front of the man. Nevertheless, he wished he could say something about what he'd been through and knew it was impossible. He was an officer in the finest army in the world, and he was stumped.
With a shake of the head he entered his tent, and speaking over his shoulder, he told the NCO they'd be staying a few more days. The men should make themselves busy, and no, he was sorry, but the temple was off-limits. At the other's curious look, he explained they were having a bout of fever up there, and since he'd had that himself, not too long ago, he was safe.
Sergeant Anshroeder, a man not given to thoughtful enterprise, nodded energetically. “One thing more, sir!"
"Yes, what is it?"
"The fakir, sir! What about ‘im?"
"As soon as we're through here, sergeant. Not to worry. Either he's there, or he isn't."
Sergeant Anshroeder blinked. He saluted and turned briskly, shouting to the men to prepare for another few days more. For the first time Lieutenant Ramus Singe was ashamed. He'd never lied to his people, never felt it necessary. But now he was about to embark on a different standard of behavior, and it didn't particularly suit him.
Five days went by before Lieutenant Singe, Sergeant Anshroeder, and their contingent made their way into the area, and the corporal, a man newly arrived at his post, regarded everyone and everything with suspicion.
Suddenly, he twisted around, certain he saw movement out of the corner of his eye ... but it had been his imagination.
They stopped a few times asking for directions, until finally, they were led to a path around a short steep bluff that crested a natural wash. Amongst a heap of skewed rocks, skittering goats, and rivulets breaking from a main brook, lay the cabin of Amek Hebel.
It was close to a half hour before he was able to dismount, groan, and straighten. He wished again that they'd got themselves a nice modern helicopter, but it was not to be.
A sharp knock at the door, and it opened to show the wizened face of the goat herder. Once his eyes lit upon their uniforms ... something inexplicable happened. Ramus Singe didn't know what it meant, but he was sure he would find out.
Clearing his throat, he introduced himself and his men. There was a cold nod, a gesture to enter. To make certain there were no mistakes in communication the lieutenant waved in one of their interpreters and soon found himself in the mids
t of the most frustrating chore given native-colonial affairs.
"What do you mean?” he said, then stopped to wait for the translator before he could continue. “There's no longer a need for us? It was you who alerted us. You who called us here."
The interpreter, Private Jaruul Imam Sen looked at him, wondering why the lieutenant was so calm. If he'd been the one dragged across country on a wild goose chase he'd have been livid.
The goat herder expostulated, waving fingers and gesturing, then arms followed and eyes widened. He started up, sat down, yelled something to the ceiling, and then slapped the table top with a crack.
Private Jaruul Imam Sen stared. Lieutenant Singe stared. The goat herder stared at them both, deciding that insanity must run in pairs amongst the British, and chose to ignore them from then on.
"Come on—come on! What did he say? What was it?"
"Er, sir,” the private licked dried lips, his gaze lowered nervously. “He says the man he spoke of is ... no longer here."
Ramus wasn't going to swallow that as an explanation. “What else?"
"He, uh, he says that with his own eyes he saw the stranger make a child walk again. Walk after having been crippled by disease. He saw the child dance. Dance after her father carried her from one doctor to another, all telling him it was hopeless. There was something wrong with her spine. But at the festival she danced the moonlight dance, the serenade dance, and as she danced she cried for joy at being alive."
"Anything more?"
He says he was mistaken. He is sorry for having taken up your time, but there it is. He is ashamed and wants us to leave. Our presence makes him feel guilty, and he knows he will pay for his lack of faith in another life."
The queen's officer and the goat herder stared at each other. Private Jaruul stumbled from his stool and backed away, unwilling to get in the middle of this mess, but what he thought would happen didn't.
Lieutenant Singe sighed, nodded to Amek Hebel respectfully, and without another word, stalked out of the stone cabin, yelling for the sergeant.
"Sir!"
"Sergeant, I want you to bivouac somewhere around here for tonight. We'll find a more suitable site tomorrow, but we'll stay in the vicinity for about a week. I've got to talk to a lot of people, and there are reports I've got to fill out, and then, when we've completed all that, we're going back to headquarters."
"Yes, sir!"
"I want Corporal Griswold to set up a perimeter around the camp."
Sergeant Anshroeder blinked. “Sir? A perimeter ... here?"
"Four men on, four men off, relieved every six hours."
"Something wrong, sir?"
"Yes, sergeant, something is wrong. I don't think anything can be done, so we'll have to cope."
The sergeant's back went rigid. “Yes, sir! Right away, sir!” And with that, there was more bellowing, and soldiers got a move-on.
Lieutenant Singe stared into the dying sunset, the strange orange-pink glow illuminating the line of mountains. If his suspicions were correct, the reports he might have to write would give the impression that Lieutenant Ramus Singe was out of his mind with overwork and too stressed for duty.
Colonel Shevington, military-administrative attaché to the royal ambassador to Nepal, had a cool look when he glanced from the report and raked it over the red face of Major Armquist, local commandant of the post, and then skewed his unnerving, peering gaze upon the younger man standing at attention.
The colonel narrowed his focus and locked it in place as if his persona had transformed itself into a hungry eagle spotting a nice, fat turkey.
"Lieutenant!” He cracked into the weighty silence. “Do you honestly believe I can forward this nonsense without making myself and this command look as if we've all gone bonkers?"
Ramus stammered. “Please, sir, I'm offering an assessment. I hadn't meant to imply—"
"You bet your horse's ass you didn't mean to imply—because we both know as this report amply draws out—you don't know!"
Ramus Singe stiffened. “Sir, you're impugning the veracity of the reports I've prepared."
"The hell with the reports you've prepared! For all I know those reports are honest, and that has nothing to do with it!"
The lieutenant blinked. He was confused. What did the colonel mean the reports had nothing to do with it?
"What I'm trying to get you to understand, lieutenant, is that without corroboration, this means nothing, less than nothing.” He lifted the sheaf of papers and dropped them on the desk as if they were something he'd rather not have touched. “You say no one up there is willing to make an official statement, except for a few old dodderers. Well, where does that leave me? Worse yet, you imply that some fakir heals cripples, and even though I've seen a lot of magic in my time, where's your proof? You leave me confused, perplexed, and wondering, lieutenant, if you haven't taken leave of your senses!"
Lieutenant Ramus Singe looked unhappy. “Yes sir. I understand sir."
"Do you have any idea what would happen if word got out? Don't you have the least impression of the kind of world we live in?"
The lieutenant was about to say that he did have some idea, but he wasn't given a chance..
The colonel smiled, sweet as honey. “Imagine, if you're capable of such an effort, what this pleasant little section of the country would come to if it were invaded by every crackpot, revolutionary, and radical, whose only reason for being here is to exploit gullible, innocent, and trusting natives. We, the military attached, as well as the native constabulary, will have such a job on our hands there'd never be an end."
Vistas of shadowy strangers dropping into the valleys with their four-wheeled drives, their planes, their helicopters, their incessant whining demands, and their insatiable curiosity forcing a need to invade privacies rose before them all.
"And that,” said the Colonel tightly, “doesn't even come close to what our Chinese friends might do. What if, in some indefinable way, they felt threatened? Eh? Eh!?"
Ramus Singe blinked.
"Ah,” breathed the Colonel. “At last, I see a light dawning in your eyes.” He and Major Armquist shared a look. “Let's say that we had an opportunity to divert a disaster. What would be our first course of action?"
Ramus Singe licked his lips. Dangerous territory. A wrong decision, and he'd be stranded in some outpost so far from the light of civilization he might as well become a wandering peasant.
"Destroy the reports, sir?"
"Is that what you would do, Lieutenant Singe?"
He took a deep breath and plunged. “Yes, sir."
"But these are official reports, lieutenant. Surely you jest."
"No, sir, I don't. I see now what would have come of it, were it to be made part of the official record, and frankly, I'm unwilling to allow that. It's better this story never gets told."
"What of your men, lieutenant?"
"There shouldn't be a problem, sir. I kept everyone in the dark about what's really, er ... supposed to happen. And the interpreters never talk to anyone outside their own circle, so that isn't a problem either. As for my actions these past several weeks, I suspect everyone else imagines I'm out of my mind."
The colonel looked at Ramus Singe's superior officer. “And do you agree with your lieutenant? Do you think these reports can be hushed up as he says?"
The major was nobody's fool. “Reports, sir? What reports? I don't know anything about them."
"Right.” The colonel got up from behind the desk, straightened, and grasped the major by the elbow. “Let us adjourn then to the officer's mess. I think I could do with a touch up."
"A pleasure, sir,” said the major in delight.
Together they stepped into the midday sun and made their way steadfast for cooling refreshment, as only Englishmen knew how to refresh themselves.
Left behind, Ramus Singe stuffed papers into the office's antique stove, hands shaking with a need to hurry. A match was lit, and a happy glow spread outwards. The lieutenant br
eathed a sigh of relief. What a nightmare. For a moment there he was afraid the ploy wouldn't work.
Building upon the bare bones of the story, he'd let it seem that a messiah had come to heal the sick and the maimed, and as he'd hoped, the English mind refused to countenance the phenomenon. Acting in defense of logic and politics, they would rather the situation disappeared.
Of course, he'd said nothing of Oompal's gaining her sight, or of the High Lama's regained youth, or any of the wonders at the Temple of Kinji.
The sheer task of making what was barely credible too fantastic to allow loose had taken all his wits, and he was amazed he'd succeeded. He hadn't imagined he was that capable.
Just before stepping from the office he stopped, his conscience demanding he “think” about what he'd done. What would happen now that the world would never learn the truth?
Shouldn't the world know the truth? Shouldn't this stranger from the stars be watched?
He shook his head in disbelief. Was he mad? No, he most certainly was not..
* * * *
Reg-I-Nald glanced over the British passport, and then looked at the Timur Strait. Across it was the last valley. He was headed there. He leaned over and rubbed the mane of the stiff-legged donkey murmuring his thanks. It had taken three months to make the trip. Three months of self-denial, three months of self-discovery.
"Well, my friend,” said he, watching an ear twitch playfully. “We must part company soon. You've been a fine companion, and there've been times I considered you a friend. You were transportation and safety. You warned me of that landslide a couple weeks past, and when I failed to listen, you gave me a kick I deserved and damn well saved my life. I will remember you with fondness, no matter the pain in my rear end."
By the afternoon of the next day, Regis Taggart, British tourist, lost from an archaeological dig his friends were working on several months earlier, paused in his descent from the mountains and considered what lay before him.
True, the airport was small, but if it harbored a single plane that flew, and the friendly mountain folk he'd come across swore it did, it would get him out of here. His computer designed passport would have no trouble passing inspection at a customs station later on.
The Fourth Guardian Page 8
