by Ada Haynes
Dorje nodded. “You were hoping to get your old life back. The life you had with Yeshe. But, you know, my brother was not a typical Bhutanese. There was always unrest in his heart. He travelled outside of the country, learned a trade that is not Bhutanese, married a foreigner. Yes, he came back here with you, eventually. But he had no intention of settling here permanently. Remember all those little journeys you were continuously making? This was my brother. You loved him, Shona-la, so you accepted his ways because of that. Made them yours as well. You’re not so different from him, as it is. But he’s dead now. And our ways are not his. Our ways are not yours either.”
Shona stopped what she was doing and looked at him. He was right, she realized.
Bhutan was still Bhutan. But it was not the Bhutan she had experienced with Yeshe.
She put a smile on her lips. “So much wisdom in you, Dorje! You will always amaze me. So tell me. What are my ways? What should I do?”
He shook his head. “Not for me to say.”
He paused for a moment, sorted a few more colors, and then added, thoughtfully, “Maybe you should go to the Tsip.”
That made her pause. “The astrologer? Why?”
“He can tell you about your future.”
Shona’s first reaction was to dismiss the advice. She had never believed in astrology, the Bhutanese version of it or any other. She trusted her instincts, and was a firm believer that you could choose your destiny. No matter how screwed her own had proven to be so far.
But then she suddenly remembered something Yeshe had once told her—that he wanted to enjoy every moment he had with her, because an astrologer had once predicted he would not enjoy her love for very long. She had dismissed the words as a joke at the time. Strange that she suddenly remembered them.
She shivered. Maybe it was time to be a bit more flexible about astrology and beliefs. She had nothing to lose, anyway.
“This might be a good idea, Dorje-la. But is the village astrologer a good one? I’ve heard many people complain about him?”
Dorje laughed. “I’ve known the man for a long time. And his horoscopes are frighteningly correct. That’s the reason people complain about him. Who wants to hear you’re going to have a miserable life, and marry the third daughter of a poor family?”
“Ah. Did he make your horoscope as well?”
The man sobered a bit. “Yes. And he did predict I would marry twice. Though he never said why. No one thinks about this. As you know, it is not uncommon for us to have many wives, or to divorce.”
Shona was now decided. “I will visit him. When is the best time to go?”
“Not today. Today is a bad day for horoscopes. And we still have plenty of threads to prepare. But tomorrow will be a good day.”
She laughed at that. She was not sure he was making this up to keep her working or because of the rain, but she could never get mad at such a gentle man.
*
The following day, she reminded him about the astrologer. Dorje put aside whatever he had intended to do and told her to follow him. The astrologer was travelling around the area, but Dorje knew just where to find him, as usual. That was something about the Bhutanese people that had always amazed her.
Today, they had to go to the Lhuentse Dzong to meet the man. Thankfully, they found a truck to bring them midway. Dorje covered himself with a white kabney, and took care that Shona’s rachu—the feminine version of the kabney—was properly in place, before they entered the Dzong.
The astrologer was in a small room on the side, and they were not his only customers, so Shona and Dorje sat in the courtyard and waited for their turn. There, passing monks looked at her with curiosity, as if they had never seen a foreign face before. She always felt conspicuous among so many curious people. She was glad she was not alone.
She liked this place. The whitewashed walls, the gaily-painted wooden galleries, and the constant murmur of the prayers coming out of the temple. It always had a lulling effect on her.
When her turn came, she entered the small, barely-lit room and sat across from the astrologer, an elderly man with a wise, creased face and wearing voluminous red robes.
She let Dorje explain her case. Not that she had been unable to do that herself, but she suddenly found herself a bit nervous in the presence of this elder. She gave him her birth date and the location, though the man probably had no idea where Scotland was. He took down some books from a shelf and started making complicated calculations, written in sand in a small sandbox placed in front of him on the floor.
The astrologer took his time. Then he looked at her and asked, “Are you pregnant?”
It was an innocent question, she told herself firmly. He had no idea how much it hurt her. “No.”
Her answer clearly perplexed him. “Are you sure? You are not so old.”
“I can’t have children anymore, Tsip.”
That brought further consultation of his books and another long calculation. Finally, he told her, “The interpretations in the books are clear. If you were pregnant, you would die giving birth. But you said it is not possible. We may interpret this passage differently. You need to die to be born again, to embrace your new life.”
This surprised her for a moment. Die? Not so long ago she’d said to Dorje that she wished she had died with Yeshe and the others that fateful night. But hearing that she needed to die, her deeply ingrained survival instinct kicked in. As it had many times before.
The astrologer saw her reaction. “Death is not the end. You should not be afraid of it. As you know, we Buddhists believe in reincarnation.” He tapped on his books. “Though in your specific case, I don’t think the interpretation is about reincarnation.”
Now, she was totally confused. “How can I die, and still live?”
The astrologer shook his head. “This puzzles me, as well. Maybe we speak of a symbolic death here?”
It just did not make sense to her. “And that new life? Will it be better than my current life?”
“Ah. I cannot say. It depends on when your death happens. I would need to calculate your horoscope again.”
Of course.
The man smiled at her. “There is a another omen. You will get some unexpected good news very soon.”
Even more perplexing. The finding of the White Lady had been very good news, of a sort. But this was already in the past now.
She thanked the Astrologer and offered him the few Ngultrum, the local currency, she still had.
The way back to Khoma seemed very long.
“This was a strange horoscope, Shona. Maybe it was not such a good day for predictions,” was all Dorje had to offer.
*
There was a party going on in one of the neighboring houses that night. The whole village had been invited. Shona had politely declined. She wanted to think more about that strange prediction. But the party was noisy and disturbed her concentration.
She needed to get away from the noise. Only, going out of the village at night was not a good idea. There was no real danger of wild animals, but the road was treacherous, full of potholes, and very, very dark. Streetlights were something that had yet to come to this remote place.
But, she knew a spot at the back of the village where no noise would reach her, because she’d been there a few times already before. Even in the dark, it was doable, she should be able to get there with only a flashlight.
She walked to the kitchen corner of the house. She had seen Dorje put a flashlight in a drawer this morning—probably after having replaced the batteries. She opened the drawer. Ah. There it was.
Someone grabbed her arm. From behind. Hard. And she felt an only too familiar tingle!
Impossible! How had they…?
Instinct kicked in. She grabbed the first thing her hand could find in the drawer and slashed as hard as she could with it, behind her. A grunt. The hand released her.
When she turned around, ready to hit again, there was no one in the room. No one except her. But she had not d
reamed this—the kitchen knife she still held was covered with blood. Someone had been here.
An As’mir! They had found her! How had they been able to trace her? Her mind was thinking furiously. There was only one explanation possible. That email she’d sent to Jeffrey and Maire! Damn! She had been so careful to write it in Cantonese! They should never have found it!
But Keremli had warned her that they would do anything possible to find her!
Shona was a bit mad at herself, now. She was not that good with new technology. They must have found a way to access her friends’ mailboxes. Something she had not thought of. Damn! What now?
She was still in Dorje’s house, in Bhutan. Apparently the contact had not been long enough to allow the Caller to bring her along.
But they were going to come back for her. Probably with more people, this time. She had no time to lose. She packed her few possessions in a hurry. No time for a note for Dorje. She hoped he would understand.
She grabbed the bloody knife and flashlight, and ran out of the house. She managed to reach the suspension bridge without breaking her neck. There she paused. Running over the bridge was out of question. It was stable but quite slippery, and falling into the water would mean her death, with the Kurichu River swollen by the monsoon rains. She ran anyway, and was relieved when she reached the other bank.
But then, she had to decide where to go. Lhuentse was the best alternative right now. It was only a two-hour walk—even now, without daylight. There, she would find somewhere to spend the rest of the night and think about her next move.
She had just started walking when the flashlight batteries went dead. She had been wrong about the batteries. The rain started again. Damn! Damn! Damn!
As she walked on, more slowly now, she remembered the Astrologer and his predictions. Some good news, indeed! Why had she bothered going to him?
38
Ekbeth rushed to the Na Saoilcheachs’ house as soon as he heard the news.
Someone prevented him from entering the room where Kalem was. Ekbeth wanted to knock the impudent guard out of the way. Damn it! He had enough of those people who thought they knew better than him.
But then the voice registered. Najeb. Kalem’s son.
The young man met his stare calmly. “We have to wait, Akeneires’el. They are still busy in there.”
So Ekbeth waited. And waited. He refused offers of food or drink.
Many hours of the night had passed when Erinani na Saoilcheach, their only trained surgeon, and a few others finally came out of the room, with grim faces and blood all over their clothes.
“Is he dead?”
Erinani looked at him with a blank expression, then recognized him and bowed. “Akeneires’el.”
“Leave the niceties for later. Kalem?”
“He’ll live, Akeneires’el, but it was a close call. The knife, or whatever she used, barely missed the heart and perforated one lung. It was a large blade. Lucky for him that Nukri sent him immediately back to us. Though, to be honest, I’d rather he’d been sent to a hospital on the Other Side.”
Erinani na Saoilcheach had in part studied at a medical university on the Other Side, and was often complaining of how medieval their infrastructures were.
“Can I see my father, doctor?”
She nodded in response to Najeb’s question. “You too, Akeneires’el. Just don’t stand between the door and the bed. We have someone monitoring him—monitoring as in keeping a hand on his pulse. I don’t except complications. But I want to have quick access to him if needed. Understood?”
Najeb and Ekbeth nodded.
The smell inside the room was awful. There was a lot of blood on the bed, and brown spots on the wall immediately behind Kalem’s head. The two nurses bowed at Ekbeth, and then went on with the cleaning of the mess.
Someone brought them chairs and refreshments. Ekbeth almost barked at the person. Did he really expect him to eat or drink in such a nauseating place? The nurse saw his expression, bowed, and quickly removed the drinks.
The other nurse said, “We can’t move him yet, Akeneires’el. He’s too weak. Even a transfer could be fatal, the doctor says.”
Ekbeth looked at the nurse. Nodded his thanks. Then finally took a good look at Kalem.
The man looked more dead than alive. He must have lost many pints of blood to be so terribly pale. Almost as white as the thick bandage on his chest.
As he knelt next to his father, Najeb’s face was equally ashen. “I should have gone with him, Akeneires’el! Why did he have to go there alone?”
Ekbeth felt as bad as Kalem’s son. He had told Kalem to rest, but his bodyguard had refused to listen to him. He had gone to that remote place in Bhutan as soon as they had located it on a Google map. Without a plan and exhausted.
The young man was crying, Ekbeth realized. He put a hand on his shoulder. “Kalem is alive, Najeb. Ara be blessed for that.”
He could only imagine what was going through the youngster’s mind. Najeb and Kalem had often been at odds with each other. Najeb was a trained bodyguard, but his passion was in building. He spent most of his time in the old archives, trying to rediscover the techniques their ancestors had used, or in the houses, attempting to repair the erosion of time. Kalem had often vented his frustration, in front of Ekbeth, about the stubbornness of his son. Too much of the same temperament here.
“Do you want me to go after Kimiel, Akeneires’el?”
The question took Ekbeth by surprise. Kimiel had been the last person on his mind during the past hours. Kalem had been his only concern. He shook his head. “Too late. She’s probably gone from that village by now.”
They had missed a perfect opportunity here, Ekbeth realized. Scared, the woman was going to be even more difficult to find. She would not repeat the mistake with the email again. Of that he was certain.
Kalem had made physical contact with her, Nukri na Liom had told him. But it had been too short for the Caller to make use of it. Sadly.
Ekbeth took one of the seats. They would find her. They had to. She had broken so many of Ara’s laws! Stolen from him and his cousin, left the Valley when it was closed, tortured Lyrian, almost killed Kalem.
All those things, the thefts excepted, were punished by Ara’s trial.
Second chances, had said the Aramalinyia. He could excuse Shona for having transferred herself out of the Valley when it was forbidden. Not the rest. Right now, even Ara’s trial did not seem enough to Ekbeth. The punishment would only be inflicted on her once. No matter how much suffering she endured before she died, she deserved far worse.
But Ara’s trial was their worse punishment. He could only pray she was going to suffer terribly before she died—something he had never before in his life wished on anyone. Even at their most irritating, his family members had never angered him that much.
What was happening with him, lately?
He rose from the chair. “I need to go to the temple, Najeb. Thank Ara for this.”
Najeb just nodded.
*
The following morning, Ekbeth returned to Zurich, without a bodyguard. Lyrian was expecting him. “How is he?”
“Kalem regained consciousness this morning. Erinani is optimistic. But he can’t talk yet. Too weak. We are not sure what happened exactly.”
“What happened is that bloody bitch put a knife in his chest!”
Ekbeth nodded.
Lyrian looked at him incredulously. “I know how forgiving you are, Ekbeth. You always have been. But don’t tell me you’re forgiving her that as well!”
“I don’t. Believe me I don’t! I’m just tired. And we’ve lost her, again.”
Lyrian was grim. “Yes. True. But we will find her. Eventually. Sally called, by the way. Told me she may have an idea to catch the woman. But she refused to give me details.”
“I’ll call her.”
Lyrian nodded, then smiled wryly. “I have some more good news, of a sort. I think I’ve found some of her personal bank ac
counts. Two of them are at our bank. Like Watanabe’s.”
“And?”
“Our accounts have been inactive for almost ten years. The others as well, if the information I managed to get is correct. And there’s a lot of money in them. About forty millions dollars.”
Inactive most of the time meant the account holder was dead. No one would let that much money lie still for so many years. Unless…
“Sally told me there are rumors that Kimiel is rich. She must have another one somewhere. An active one.”
“Exactly. Only I can’t find it.”
“Well, get those that you’ve found blocked. At least ours. And about Watanabe, it’s really time we go and meet him.”
Ekbeth took his mobile phone, opened it, started typing a message.
Lyrian asked, “You think Watanabe is the one who called, threatening to bankrupt us through the Triads? I thought they were not allowed mobile phones in jail.”
“Money can open a lot of doors, we both know that. If Watanabe does not answer, I’ll try to contact Matheson through Maire Kincaid.”
He pressed the send button. “There. Now, enough time spent on this problem. How is the bank business going?”
They spent the next few hours discussing the current issues.
Ekbeth got a reply in the middle of the night.
*
The next morning he was waiting at the meeting point in the main hall of Manchester airport, a very nervous Najeb at his side.
“Relax, Najeb. We are just going to talk. There’ll be no need for your talents today.”
Najeb nodded, but did not relax.
A black limousine pulled up beside them and no other than Jeffrey Matheson opened the back door to invite them in. They exchanged no courtesies.
They rode for some time, in silence. Ekbeth was not really interested in their destination. Eventually they reached a Victorian square building, which was secured by several layers of barbed wire and various guarded posts.
Matheson led them inside. They presented their passports, submitted themselves to a superficial search, and were brought to a visiting room. Najeb positioned himself in one of the room’s corners.
