The Stolen Karma Of Nathaniel Valentine (The Books Of Balance Book 1)

by Justin Bloch

  The geisha smiled and nodded at this, apparently satisfied with his answer. She motioned for them to drink. She raised her own cup, sipped lightly, holding it with slim, fair fingers. “You have come here to be cleansed,” she said. It was a statement, not a question, and Nathaniel wondered how many people had come before them to this small, hidden place.

  “Yes,” answered Sol. His dark jacket was pooled on the floor around him. “History suggested I come. There is…I want—”

  “Desire leads only to suffering,” the geisha interjected. “Peace can only be achieved through liberation from desire.”

  The karma policeman was quiet for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts, rubbing one hand over his scarred cheek. “My daughter was murdered, and I acted rashly. The repercussions…I want to start again, and I have come here to be cleansed of my pain.”

  The geisha looked at the karma policeman closely and for a long time, her eyes, so black amidst her white face, seeming to peer beneath the form he showed the world to the fire that blazed beneath. Nathaniel felt something touch the back of his hand and glanced down. Nova had covered his hand with her own and was squeezing it rhythmically. Her eyes were flicking back and forth between Sakurako and her brother, and Nathaniel could see the spark of concern in her gaze.

  “The one you have come to see cannot take away your pain,” the geisha said. “You must take yourself away from the pain. This is the path to enlightenment.”

  Sol nodded. “I am aware of how the purification works.”

  Sakurako smiled and refilled the karma policeman’s cup. Nova lessened the pressure she had been putting on Nathaniel’s hand but did not release it. He was not sure exactly what was going on, but Nova seemed more at ease now. He relaxed as well, which was nice because it allowed him to focus on the utter thrill of actually holding the karma policewoman’s hand.

  “I was sorry to hear about your daughter and the events that followed, Sol,” the geisha said.

  “It is time for me to move past those events,” Sol asserted.

  Sakurako gave him another of her burrowing stares. After a moment, she stood, slid open the paper screen and left the room, motioning for them to follow.

  They passed beyond the small room and entered a garden that shouldn’t have existed. Nathaniel had seen the hut from the outside, and it was only the building, nothing more. The garden was much larger, bigger by itself than the whole hut had appeared, thirty-five feet square at least, with stone walls on all sides.

  They crossed it on a straight stone path that led from the tea room to another paper screen door. There were small, circular areas of grass, but the majority of the ground was covered in more rock gardens, and from these grew several bonsai trees and a single cherry tree. Large stones stood like mountains among the smaller pebbles. There was a koi pond in the far corner with water lilies floating on top.

  Sakurako halted in front of the screen. She turned and faced them, considering them each in their turn. Nathaniel felt naked but comfortable under her gaze. It was as if she saw all of him and accepted it as it was.

  “Beyond waits the Weeping Buddha,” she said, raising one hand to the door. “He cannot give you succor, seraph. You would do well to keep that in mind.” Her words did not seem to be a warning, but a reminder.

  Sol nodded. “He is merely a key to open a door.” He bowed to the geisha, bending low. “I thank you for your time and your tea, Sakurako. We are well-met.”

  The geisha returned his bow. “Well-met indeed, Sol of the world above this one. May you find the peace for which you search.” She bowed to Nova and Nathaniel, then turned and made her way back to the tea room, her wooden sandals completely silent on the stone path.

  The karma policeman looked at his companions, then slid open the paper screen.

  The Weeping Buddha was huge.

  He was not fat, as Nathaniel had expected, like the Buddhas that laughed and smiled at him from the menus of Japanese restaurants, but massive and solid. It seemed as if he had been carved from hard wood, his muscles bulging, sharp and angular. Each of his hands was gigantic. He wore only a loincloth, and he was sitting cross-legged on a woven mat. Nathaniel guessed that if he were to stand, he would be as tall as Sol, maybe even a few inches beyond. His skin was tawny, and he was completely bald, his head shining dimly in the soft light of the paper lanterns. His face was unremarkable, kept slipping away from Nathaniel’s mind, as if the two were water and oil. Only his eyes bore notice.

  Large, silent tears fell endlessly from them.

  He was sitting in front of a small pool of water, and Nathaniel could make out a single koi swimming slowly back and forth in the water. It was a radiant gold and its sleek body gleamed as it passed into and out of the light thrown by the lanterns. There was incense burning in the corner, but the scent was subdued, not cloying. The Weeping Buddha did not motion for them to sit, only stared at them, his wet eyes focusing on each of them in turn.

  Sol stepped forward and bowed to him. The Weeping Buddha lowered his head slightly, never dropping his eyes from theirs.

  “I have come to be cleansed, master,” whispered the karma policeman.

  The Weeping Buddha said nothing.

  “There are events which I would put behind me. Until they are, I will not be able to find joy in my life,” continued Sol.

  The seated man extended one hand and dipped it into the water before him, moving it from the left to the right side of the pool to make waves. “You wish it to be water beneath the bridge, but is it the water that flows, or the bridge?” he asked, and the sorrow in his voice nearly tore Nathaniel’s heart in two.

  The karma policeman considered the question carefully, his eyes trailing the still-moving hand of the Weeping Buddha. “It is a matter of perspective, master,” he said at last.

  The Weeping Buddha withdrew his hand from the water and folded it with its partner in his lap. “Do you seek enlightenment, detective?” he asked. Nathaniel saw Sol blink at what the Weeping Buddha had called him, though he showed no other reaction.

  “I seek freedom and peace,” Sol answered. “Freedom from the past, peace in the future. A balance between what has been and what will be.”

  The Weeping Buddha appeared to contemplate this answer, his tearful eyes locked with the seraph’s. After a moment, he spoke again. “This fish leads a life of enlightenment. He does not desire; he does not despise; he does not do anything but live. He will eat if food is before him, he will swim if it is not. This pool is his Nirvãna.” He paused, watching the koi. “You wish to put aside the pain of your daughter’s murder.”

  The karma policeman nodded, but did not speak.

  “I cannot do this for you.”

  Sol said nothing.

  “You must do this thing yourself. I am only a stepping stone,” the Weeping Buddha said, and for the first time, Nathaniel heard the strength that was buried beneath the sadness in that voice.

  “Sakurako would not have let me pass had I sought snake oil, master.”

  The Weeping Buddha nodded sagely at this. The ceaseless tears ran from his eyes like rivers. “You are wise, Sol of the seraphim. You speak as one who knows his own bounds and those of the worlds around him.”

  “Thank you, master.”

  The seated man fell silent, gazing at the karma policeman. After nearly two minutes, he raised his fingers to his face and wiped his cheeks clean of their tears, then rubbed his eyes with his giant fists to dry them. “Come then,” he said, “I am the Weeping Buddha. Pass your hand down my back and free yourself from your suffering.”

  He covered his face with his hands and leaned over until the backs of them were resting on his calves. His shoulders hulked above him. The knobs of his spine stood out like a mountain range.

  The karma policeman stepped around the pond and stood beside him. He bowed low, as he had when parting with the geisha, then placed his hand at the nape of the Weeping Buddha’s bent neck. The seated man moaned, low, mournful.

 
Sol ran his hand down the entire length of the Weeping Buddha’s spine, his palm pressed tightly to the smooth skin of the man’s back even as it began to hitch with his sobs. When the karma policeman reached the small of his back, he removed his hand and the Weeping Buddha let out a harsh, grieving cry.

  Nathaniel watched as the entire carved form of the seated man began to tremble, then quake. He was no longer crying silently, now he was truly weeping, keening, and his breath came in ragged gasps. Tears streamed from between his fingers, flooded between them, ran down to the floor and flowed into the pool where the enlightened koi swam, oblivious to the pain just above him.

  The karma policeman stepped back from the Weeping Buddha, shaking, stared down at the enormous back. He seemed confused, awkward for the first time since Nathaniel had met him. He half-raised his hands to his ears, as if he wanted to shut out the sound of the Weeping Buddha’s cries, then let them fall to his sides. He took a breath, steadied himself, and bowed. He turned to his companions and nodded his head at the door.

  Nova slid aside the paper screen and stepped back into the garden. Nathaniel followed her, and when the Sol passed through, he shut the sliding door. The Weeping Buddha’s sobs were softer now, and the three of them left the garden and entered the tea room. Sakurako was there, contemplating one of the paintings.

  “How did you find the experience, seraph?” she asked pleasantly.

  The karma policeman considered this for a moment. “Balancing,” he said.

  The geisha nodded. “All things balance. I am happy for you.”

  “Farewell, Sakurako,” he said, bowing.

  She returned his bow, then bowed to both Nathaniel and Nova, who did the same. “Farewell, all of you.”

  They left the hut, retrieved their shoes, and stood among the bamboo and cherry blossoms. The air was crisp, and it filled their lungs with cool life at every breath. Nathaniel gazed at Sol as he watched the pink flowers float in the breeze. The karma policeman’s eyes had lost their dullness, and both cheeks were smooth again. Nathaniel stole a glance at Nova and saw that she had noticed the same things about her brother. She was grinning, and that warmed his heart and made him bold, and he took her hand in his. Sol turned and looked at them both and smiled as well.

  “Shall we go?” he said, his voice quiet, always quiet.

  “Yes,” Nova answered. She cried out suddenly and leapt at her brother, wrapping her arms tightly around him. She kissed first one unblemished cheek, then the other.

  The karma policeman looped his arms over her shoulders and kissed her forehead lightly. “Nathaniel?” he asked.

  He nodded in response, and together they started back along the path. They fell into somnolence once more, the forest leading them slowly downward. The whisper of the bamboo was a haiku, and the travelers’ hushed thoughts came in beats of five-seven-five.

  Acknowledgments

  This book owes its existence to more people than I could ever name. Every book I’ve read, every teacher I’ve had, every person I’ve known has in some way shaped the eight year creation of this book. But there are a certain few who have had a special impact and deserve special appreciation. My unending thanks go to:

  Mary, who read this book as many times as I did and didn’t let her love for me get in the way of her red pen;

  My parents, who read my stories and encouraged my art, who taught me that I could be anything I wanted and that an active imagination was a gift;

  My grandparents, for their love of angels and their love in general;

  Lisa and Nora, who kindly read the first chapters of this book when I was struggling;

  Rebecca, who read a very early version of this book and encouraged me to keep going;

  Radiohead, who continue to make some pretty amazing music;

  And most importantly, Molly, born a year and a half ago, who became the reason to finish.

  About The Author

  Justin Bloch lives in Maryland with his always-supportive wife and a baby girl who has begun to demand that he read books to her. This is one of his proudest achievements.

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  Now, please enjoy a special preview of

  The Book Of Doors

  the second volume of

  Justin Bloch’s

  The Books Of Balance

  Chapter I

  The door opened, squealing on old hinges. Light rushed around the edges, greedy and excited, but as it collided with the thick darkness of the basement, its progress slowed, and by the fifth stair down it was sluggish, a trickle, not a flood. At the boundary between the light and dark, the air shimmered and blurred like salt water and fresh meeting in an estuary.

  At last the light reached the bottom of the stairs, crawled across the bare concrete floor, and pooled around a limp figure. His arms were raised above his head, his hands dangling from the rope binding his wrists and leading away into the shadows above and to either side of him. His head was bowed beneath his shoulders, and his hair hung down in dirty coils, obscuring his face. It was red, his hair, and in the weak illumination from the top of the stairs, it was the color of ancient rust. He raised his head and stared at the blank rectangle of the doorway, but he could not look for long. The light hurt his eyes, and he turned them away. The rest of the basement was swamped in almost plush, velvety blackness, and he could make out nothing of the space surrounding him. The light fell squarely down the stairs and could not find purchase beyond.

  When nothing happened after several minutes, he began to wonder if this was a chance at escape that he was throwing away. He was worried that this would end just as his first attempts had, with his freedom proving unexpectedly out of reach, but he had to try. He struggled to his feet, gripping the rope with both hands and pulling for leverage. When he was standing, he closed his eyes and breathed deeply, waiting until his swaying stopped. He was weak, his legs did not want to support him. He had no idea how long he had been in the cellar now, had no idea how long he’d been there before regaining consciousness the first time, bound on his knees on the cold floor. It was a long time, he knew, but he had no real means to measure time anymore. He could not even remember the attack, could not remember where he had been, who he had been with, what had happened. The last thing he could remember was sitting by the window in his kitchen, looking out at the corn. The dark had destroyed time, had devoured his memory. And now here was a way out, an escape, and he feared he was too feeble to take it.

  With the light from the doorway, he was finally able to make out that the ropes binding his wrists were tethered to two iron circlets bolted into perpendicular, cinder block walls. The corner of the basement was behind him, too far for him to reach. He braced himself and tried to pull free, hoping that the iron was old, weak, that perhaps with enough force, he could break one or the other. He managed two steps forward with little problem, but the third yanked his arms behind him, and his tortured shoulders screamed in agony. The rope gnawed at his raw wrists. He suppressed a cry as he swooned backward, black mists shrouding his vision, and it was only the ropes that kept him from crashing into the wall behind. As it was he collapsed once more, his kneecaps cracking loudly on the concrete, and his arms snapped back above his head, wrenching his shoulders again. This time he could not stop himself, and he screamed.

  The light changed then, and he forced himself to raise his head. Two slick tear trails ran down his cheeks, reflecting white against his dirty, sweat-stained skin. He could not make his eyes focus at first, but when they cleared, he saw what had made the light different: there was a silhouette at the top of the stairs.

  It remained where it was for several moments, a black shape cut out from the surrounding light. It was motionless for so long, in fact, that he began to wonder if he was hallucinating, if perhaps his fevered mind had broken. But at last the shadow began to descend the
stairs. It came slowly, each heavy step a decision. The wood creaked beneath it, and this more than anything convinced him that the silhouette was real, that it was not some trick of a damaged mind.

  And then there were no more stairs, and the shadow stood before him. He tried to discern its features, but the light coming from behind made it impossible. It was just a hulking, unknown shape, and all the more terrifying for it.

  He had forgotten his shoulders and his wrists. His breath whistled in and out of him, short, shallow inhalations that seemed to make it only a fraction of the way into his lungs. The back of his neck prickled; he could feel the hair standing up there.

  The shadow hunkered down before him so they were at eye level, although still, even this close, he could make out nothing of the shadow’s face, only inky blackness. He heard it clear its throat, and then it spoke the words he had been horrified he might hear since he first awoke strung up in the dark void of the basement.

  “I want to know where it is.” The silhouette spoke with a man’s voice, a quiet voice like the sound of fingertips scraping across whisker stubble.

  “Who are you?” he coughed back. He was surprised at the harshness of his own voice, the parched, rough feel. His throat felt as if it were lined with thistles. “Why are you keeping”

  “I want to know where it is,” the man repeated. He had not moved since crouching, not so much as a twitch. “I want to know where it is and you are going to tell me.”

  The prisoner shook his head, let it hang. It was bad, it was bad that the shadow knew. No one was supposed to know, not that it was him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Who are you? Why are you doing this to me? Let me out of here.” He ran the words together so that he could keep from being interrupted again.