The Ninth Buddha

by Daniel Easterman

  He headed for the abbot’s bedroom. The door was locked, but without someone to guard it, it was a flimsy enough affair. The lock was more ornamental than practical, and Christopher was able to kick it open without difficulty.

  The old man was seated cross-legged in front of a small altar, his back to Christopher, his bent figure haloed by the light of a dozen butter lamps. He showed no sign that he had heard Christopher knock down the door. He did not turn his head or speak, other than to continue with his devotions.

  Christopher stood by the door, feeling suddenly embarrassed and awkward, an intruder on his father’s privacy. The old man murmured inaudibly, oblivious of his surroundings. Christopher might have been Tsarong Rinpoche returned to kill him after all, but the abbot paid no attention.

  Christopher stepped a few paces into the room. He stopped, listening to his father’s prayer, hesitant to disturb him. Then, with a shock of recognition, he understood the words the old man was reciting:

  Nunc dimittis servum tuum Domine .. .

  “Now Thou dost dismiss Thy servant, O Lord, according to Thy word in peace. Because mine eyes have seen Thy salvation, Which Thou hast prepared before the face of all people ...”

  It was the Canticle of Simeon, the old man who besought God to let him depart the world in peace, having set eyes on the Christ child. Christopher stood still, listening to the familiar words, wondering if anything more than a dream separated him from that fateful evening after mass.

  At last the abbot came to an end. Christopher stepped forward and laid a hand on his shoulder.

  “Father,” he said. It was the first time he had used the name when speaking to the old man.

  “It’s time for us to go.”

  The abbot looked up, like someone who has long been expecting a summons.

  “Christopher,” he said.

  “I hoped you might come. Have you seen your son?”

  Christopher nodded.

  “Yes.”

  “Is he all right? Is he safe?”

  “Yes, father. He is safe.”

  “And the other boy, Dorje Samdup Rinpoche is he safe too?”

  “Yes. I’ve left them both down in the pass. Chindamani is with them.

  They’re waiting for you.”

  The old man smiled.

  “I’m pleased they got away. You must leave as well, help them to get as far away as possible.

  “Not without you, father. I came to fetch you.”

  The abbot shook his head. The smile left his lips and was replaced by a deep seriousness.

  “No,” he said.

  “I have to remain here. I am the abbot. Whatever Tsarong Rinpoche thinks, I am still abbot of Dorje-la.”

  “Tsarong Rinpoche is dead, father. You can remain abbot. But for now it’s better for you to leave. Just for a little while, until it’s safe for you to return.”

  But his father shook his head again, more sadly this time.

  “I’m sorry to hear about Tsarong Rinpoche. He was very unhappy. And now he will have to start his journey through his incarnations again. How tired that makes me feel. It’s time I laid this body with the others, Christopher. Time I was reborn.”

  “You were reborn,” said Christopher quietly.

  “When you told me who you were, it was like a rebirth for me. And again tonight.

  Tsarong Rinpoche told me you were dead, and I believed him.

  Coming in here like this, watching you at prayer it was like another rebirth.”

  The old man put his hand on Christopher’s.

  “Do you know what prayer I was reciting?” he asked.

  “Yes. The Canticle of Simeon.”

  “He knew when it was time to call an end. He had seen what he spent his life waiting to see. I feel the same way. Don’t force me to come with you. My place is here, among these tombs. You have another destiny. Don’t waste time here. The boys need your protection. Chindamani needs it. And, I think, your love. Don’t be too frightened of her: she’s not a goddess all the time.”

  Leaning on Christopher’s arm, the old man eased himself slowly to his feet.

  “Is the Russian still alive?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. I think so.”

  “Then it’s time you were on your way. I’ve no concern with politics.

  Bolsheviks, Tories, Liberals they’re all the same to me.

  But the boy must be protected. See that he comes to no harm. And your own son. I’m sorry I had him brought here, I’m sorry I caused you grief. But believe me that I thought it was for the best.”

  Christopher squeezed his father’s hand.

  “Are you sure you won’t come with me?” he said.

  “Very sure.”

  Christopher was silent.

  “You are happy?” he asked after a while.

  “I am at peace, Christopher. That is more important than happiness. You will see. In the end, you will see. Now, you must go-‘ Reluctantly, Christopher let go of his father’s hand.

  “Goodbye,” he whispered.

  “Goodbye, Christopher. Take care.”

  Outside, a miserable sunlight was slowly working its way across the sky. One by one, stars faded and the jagged edges of mountain peaks were etched once more against a grey sky. In the air above, a vulture winged its way to Dorje-la Gompa. Its great wings dragged it forward, casting a grey shadow on the snow.

  Christopher ran towards the spot where he had left Chindamani and the boys. The thin air scarred his lungs. His chest heaved, filling with pain. Altitude and tiredness were taking their combined toll.

  There was a low ridge. He staggered up it and fell at the top, landing in a soft bed of snow. Picking himself up, he looked down into the pass. It was empty.

  PART THREE

  Parousia.

  “And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards

  Bethlehem to be born3’

  The Road to Sining-Fu.

  W B Yeats “The Second Coming’

  Christopher’s greatest fear was that he would fall asleep in the snow and succumb to the cold. He had already been tired after his journey to Dorje-la, and the previous night’s exertions had taken their toll. The weather was bitterly cold, and his only protection was the clothing he wore. Several times when he rested he caught himself dozing off. He knew Zamyatin and the others would be tired too, but not as badly as himself. And they had two tents, a little firewood, and some food. His only hope lay in the tracks that told him which way they had gone. He would keep following them until his strength gave out.

  On the first night, he found a small hollow in a cliff-face: not really of a size to be designated a cave, but big enough to give him a little shelter from the biting winds. He had not eaten since the early evening of the day before.

  All the next day, he trudged on, moving deeper and deeper into the mountains. There was no point in turning back: whichever way he headed, he knew he would find nothing but snow and ice.

  The tracks at his feet became the whole world to him, blotting out everything else.

  He was troubled by dreams. In its exhaustion, his mind began to paint the blank snow with strange images. Once he saw a line of ruined pyramids stretch away from him towards a dark horizon.

  And flanking them all the way a parallel line of sphinxes, robed in black silk and crowned with leaves of juniper. The need for sleep was overwhelming. All he wanted was to lie down and let the dreams take him. Every step became a struggle, every moment he remained awake a victory.

  He kept awake on the second night by aiming the pistol at himself and holding his thumb on the trigger so that, if he pitched forward too far, it would fire. He sang to the darkness and carried out exercises in mental arithmetic.

  On the third morning, he found another shelter in the rock, a deep one this time. He crawled inside it and collapsed at once into a deep sleep. It was daylight when he woke, still groggy, but he guessed he must have slept through all that day and night, so stiff were his limbs a
nd so hungry did he feel on waking.

  When he scrambled out of the little cave, he found himself in a changed world. There had been a blizzard. Try as he might, he could not find any trace of the tracks he had been following. He almost gave up then. It would have taken only a single bullet to make it quick. Instead, he decided to keep on, following the easiest path in the general direction Zamyatin had taken, due north.

  He found Chindamani about five hours later, on a low saddle of rock at the edge of a glacier. She had been there since the previous day When Christopher found her, she was seated outside a small tent chanting a mantra gently to herself, over and over again. He was reminded of his father reciting the Canticle of Simeon.

  He sat down beside her quietly, not wanting to startle her. At first she continued chanting, immersed in the mantra to the exclusion of all distractions. Then she became aware of his presence and became silent.

  “Go on,” he said, “I didn’t meant to disturb you.”

  She turned and looked at him without speaking. He had only seen her before in the yellow light of butter lamps or in stark moonlight, silhouetted. In the watery light of day she seemed drawn and pallid, bereft of warmth.

  “How long have you been here?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  “A long time.” She paused.

  “Have you come to take me home?” she asked.

  He shook his head.

  “I don’t know the way. There was a blizzard: all the tracks are blotted out. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t take you back there.”

  She looked hard at him, with sad eyes.

  “You’re tired, Ka-ris To-feh. Why are you so tired?”

  “I haven’t eaten for three or four days. I’ve scarcely slept. What happened? How did Zamyatin find you?”

  She told him. Someone had told the Russian about the stairs of Yama, and he had gone out to the pass by a side entrance. About half an hour after Christopher left to find his father, Zamyatin had found Chindamani and the boys. He had tied them together with a long rope and forced them to start walking.

  “Where is he headed?”

  “North. To Mongolia. He left me behind here because he said I was holding them up. He let me keep one of the tents and enough food for a week.”

  “Are the boys all right?”

  She nodded.

  “They’re a little tired and frightened, but he has not harmed them.”

  “What about.. .?”

  She reached out a gloved hand and stroked his cheek.

  “No more questions,” she said.

  “I have food inside the tent. It’s time for you to eat.”

  They moved on that afternoon through a light snowfall, two blurs of white in a white landscape, heading north. That night they pitched the tent in the lee of a tall rock face out of reach of the constant winds. For the first time since leaving Dorje-la, Christopher felt warmth creep back into his body.

  The next day was like the one before, and the next. To make even a few miles in a day called for superhuman effort. Christopher could not begin to contemplate the sheer scale of a journey all the way to Mongolia. They were prisoners of the mountains: for all they knew, they were heading the wrong way. Though they eked it out, there was only enough food for a few days more. If they did not find a pass out of the mountains soon, they would be trapped in them forever. Christopher kept the gun a secret from her: if he had to use it, he would do so while she was asleep.

  They slept together for the first time on the third night. Until then, she had kept separate from him, sleeping at her own end of their small tent, dreaming her own dreams, waking to her own loneliness. But that night she came, not simply to his bed, but to his world. It was not that she left her own existence entirely behind;

  but from that moment it became paler than it had been, less substantial.

  She came to him while he was sleeping, as though she were a part of a

  dream, silent and unnoticed. He did not wake at first. A lonely wind

  rattled through the gully in which they were camped, but inside the

  little yak-hair tent it was warm. She lifted the heavy blanket that

  covered him, her body on the hard ground, shivering,

  fully awake, more awake than she had ever been. Carefully, like a child who has crept into bed beside her father for comfort, but is afraid to wake him, she lay against his back, awkward and tense.

  He woke to her out of a dream of carnage. His sleep was still troubled and filled with dim shapes he could not remember when he woke. Hooded figures slipped away from him down narrow, deserted streets. Vultures descended on angels’ wings, their sharp beaks poised to tear his flesh.

  He sensed her in the darkness close to him. As sleep left him and consciousness returned, he heard her breathing, felt her breath warm against his neck. He slept in all but his heavy outer clothes and boots. Through his thick garments, he could hardly feel her press against him.

  For a long time he lay in the darkness like that, listening to the wind dance beyond the thin walls of the tent, listening to her breathe softly against the exposed skin of his neck. Then, wordlessly, as though still in a dream, he turned and lay face to face with her.

  With one arm he pulled her to him until she was close against him. His fingers caressed her quietly, sadly, in a dream. She stiffened at his first clumsy embrace, then let herself be held by him.

  Neither spoke. As she moved to him, she felt the dark and the loneliness grow around and within her. Her very nearness to him seemed to intensify whatever distance still rested in her mind.

  He laid his voice on her like an anxious hand.

  “Why did you come?” he asked.

  “Does it matter?”

  He stroked her back.

  “Are you afraid?” he asked.

  She said nothing, then put one hand behind his head and drew herself closer to him. Then, in a very quiet voice, she said ‘yes’.

  “Of me?”

  “Not of you,” she answered.

  “Of wanting you. Of wanting to lie with you like this. To become flesh with you.”

  “To become flesh?”

  Not ‘one flesh’, she had said, but ‘flesh’.

  “All my life I have been a vehicle for the spirit,” she said.

  “I

  pretended my body was a mirror, that the image was what counted,

  not the glass.” She paused.

  “I’m tired of pretending. I am what I am. Even if the glass breaks, I want to be more than the mirror.”

  He kissed her gently on the forehead, then over her entire face, small kisses, delicate as flakes of falling snow. She trembled and pressed herself against him.

  He caressed her back now with longer, softer strokes. She was wearing her indoor clothes from the monastery: a silk tunic and trousers. His hand touched the rising curve of her small buttocks and he felt desire begin in him.

  “Desire is greedy. It will devour you,” his father had said. But what if one were already being devoured? By loneliness. By incapacity to love. By simple bereavement of the flesh.

  With shaking hands, he undressed her. Her body felt young and supple and quiet as silk. Outside, the wind had fallen and snow fell in un resisted profusion, softening, whitening everything it touched. He bent over her and kissed her forehead again, then her eyes, in equal proportion. She shivered and moaned gently. His lips felt hot against her skin. She thought that, deep inside her, the goddess shivered too.

  “I love you,” she said. It was the second time she had told him, but the words still seemed strange to her, a phrase from a liturgy she had heard spoken often but never until now seen enacted.

  She felt desire for him grow, suffusing her as a light suffuses a hitherto-darkened room. His fingers moved across her flesh slowly and quietly, like the wings of pigeons stroking the bright air. His mouth found hers in the darkness, without speech or sound, and she opened her lips to his, her breath mingling with his breath, her hea
rt beating alongside his. She reached up a hand to touch his cheek. He felt strange to her: her fingers strayed blindly among the thick hairs of his beard.

  As desire grew in both of them, it blotted out everything else.

  The world shrank to a tiny point, then vanished. Only their bodies remained, floating in the void. They had become a single universe into which no light or sound or good or evil entered.

  She helped him undress with fingers made clumsy by passion.

  Why had no-one told her this, that a man’s body was more beautiful than a god’s, the awkwardness of desire more satisfying than the most perfect ritual, a moment’s fulfilment worth more than a lifetime of righteous virginity? Even the gods cohabited with their celestial consorts: the rhythms of their bodies in the act of love cast shadows over the world of men.

  His hands moved over her now with the ease of love that has become whole. Out of his past, memories came to inform and guide his fingers along the uncharted waters of her flesh. He sensed her uncertainty and her hesitation in this strange novitiate. She had no memories to guide her, only instinct and the patterns set by her impassioned deities.

  And yet, as he moved into her and they gave themselves up wholly to the dance, they discovered a fierce harmony, a single rhythm that possessed their bodies and their hearts entirely. She moved beneath him, easily, softly, without guilt or shame, in slow, erotic measures no art or artifice could match. And he moved in her perfectly, matching his actions to hers, seeking her in the dark with a dream-like intensity. And so the memories fell away and there was only this moment, only love for her, transcending the past, driving it out, remaking it in her image.

  And finally there was silence. And darkness that seemed to stretch into eternity. They lay together, only their fingers touching.

  Neither spoke.

  By morning, the snow had stopped. They were the only living things in a white immensity that seemed to have no end.

  At noon on the same day, they found a pass leading into the Tsangpo valley region. Beyond the pass, they came upon a hut inhabited by two hunters. The men were sullen at first, but when Chindamani told them who she was, the frowns left their faces and food and drink appeared as if from nowhere. Christopher realized how little he really knew of her. Here, she was a sort of queen, a holy person whom others would obey without question or hesitation. He kept his distance from her while they remained at the hut.