Shamanka

by Jeanne Willis

  “They have come to learn our ways, master.”

  “Really, Errant Boy?” sighs Fu Bar Yetah, and then, a little more kindly, “To learn about tranquillity, first one must shatter it, I suppose.” He beckons to Sam, Kitty and Lola. “Come, friends of Ruby Featha. See what the body can do once it has been mastered!”

  He claps his hands. The monks stop adjusting their underwear and picking their noses, jump to their feet and line up in front of a heavily carved trunk. Fu Bar lifts the lid.

  Each monk removes a weapon of his choice, including an iron bar, a block of mahogany and a heavy rock. They then assume their positions and wait for the command – all eyes are on their master, who is holding a party popper.

  He pulls the string. There’s a small bang and the monks fly into action, cartwheeling through the air and flick-flacking across the floor as if they have no bones. After this warm-up, they settle down and focus on their equipment.

  Sam watches carefully as the tallest monk grabs an iron bar and, with a blood-curdling roar, smashes it over his partner’s skull. It snaps like a candy cane.

  Kitty clutches her head. “Ow! That must have hurt!”

  The monk remains expressionless. Surely a heavy blow like that would cause concussion, unless he’s superhuman? Perhaps the bar is made of rubber. But if so, how would it make that metallic clank?

  “All in the breathing!” insists Fu Bar Yetah.

  The youngest monk is holding a rock. His partner, eyes narrow with concentration, holds out his arm, preparing to chop it in half with his bare hand.

  “Heeee-yah!”

  He strikes; the rock breaks in two. Sam wonders if it was a fake rock, possibly cut from polystyrene, but it’s clear from the sound it makes as it lands that it’s not – it’s solid. Perhaps it’s been tampered with, cracked and lightly glued together so that it falls apart when struck?

  “Bai she xin shou!” booms the master. “Hand is accurate as spittle of a white snake!”

  However, nothing can explain the fattest monk’s ability to stand upside down, supported on one finger. Why doesn’t it snap under his weight? Sam looks to see if he is wearing some kind of support, a glass thimble perhaps. No, there appears to be no cheating going on.

  “Very muscular finger!” beams Fu, “Cuan xin zhi! Direct the qi right into finger, finger is as strong as dagger. Finger can pierce heart.”

  The monks bow to their guests. The show is over. Were they illusions? Were they real feats of strength, or were they Chinese magic?

  “Please – examine the weapons,” says the master. “They are for real. Shaolin monks do not perform tricks like monkeys, OK? With long training, a man can move mountains.”

  This is a slight exaggeration, but even so, Sam is in awe of the monks. “Incredible, Mr Fu!”

  He raises his neat eyebrow so high, they disappear over the back of his head. “Incredible to you in the West, but in the East? Very old hat!” He leans back in his throne and tells her a story.

  “Once, the ancient gods were trying to hide the strongest power in the universe from Man so he could not use it destructively. The first god say to hide it on the mountain top – no good! Man can climb. The second god say to hide it at bottom of the sea – no good! Man can swim. The third god say to hide it in the middle of the Earth – no good either, Man can dig. Finally, the fourth and wisest god of all, he say, ‘We must hide the power within Man – he’ll never think to look for it there!’”

  “But you found the power, Mr Fu!” says Sam.

  “Ah, not me personally. The power of qi gong is thousands of years old. Master it and it will make you seem superhuman – but only to those with low expectations of themselves. You, Miss Sam, are Sleeping Tiger! Great strength lies within.”

  “Am I a Sleeping Tiger?” asks Kitty.

  “You are Turtle with Head in Shell!” guffaws Fu Bar.

  Kitty feels vaguely insulted but Fu assures her that although turtles are helpless on land they are Queens of the Ocean. Given her sailing skills, Kitty likes his metaphor after all.

  The monks invite them to the tea house where they all sit on a thick rug around a low table. Lola picks the green tea leaves out of her cup and eats them. Sam asks Mr Fu if he’d be willing to teach her qi gong – just a little bit, because she’s in a hurry to find her parents. Has he met her father, John Tabuh, by any chance? Only she’s certain he’s visited China in the past few years. Fu Bar Yetah presses his fingers together and rests his chin on them.

  “Slowly, slowly catchee daddy.”

  “Sorry, Mr Fu?”

  “I met your father last year,” admits Fu. “He was most impressed by qi gong and wanted to learn its secrets. He ask if it is possible to breathe qi into a corpse and bring it back to life.”

  At this point, Errant Boy trips with the teapot and splashes boiling tea over his master’s head. Lesser men might have sworn but Fu Bar deals with the pain by taking a deep breath and inflating his stomach like a balloon. His belly is now so full of qi, it shifts the table forward; he’s now roughly the same shape as Lola.

  “Sorry, master!” fawns the boy. He takes out a white handkerchief and buffs Fu’s bald pate until he can see his reflection in it. Sam daren’t continue the conversation until he has put his hanky away.

  “Do you think it’s possible to resurrect a dead person with qi gong, Mr Fu?”

  Fu Bar nods his head and the sunlight dances off his glossy pate like a swarm of fireflies. “I do not doubt it – but to learn how takes longer than a dragon’s tale. Your father was very keen to learn but he have no time! He and his wife were in a hurry to go to India.”

  “Ah, Missy Christa – beautiful lady!” sighs Errant Boy.

  Sam’s heart leaps. “Do you hear that, Kitty? My mother was here! She was alive and well!”

  Fu Bar Yetah pulls at his chin and pauses ominously. “Alive? In a manner of speaking.”

  Sam’s smile falters. “What, was she ill? Was she … dying?”

  The master folds his hands and bows gravely. “A mother who loses her daughter dies every day.”

  HOW TO LIE ON A BED OF NAILS

  The masked magician produces an oblong piece of wood the size of a bed with hundreds of sharp nails sticking out of it. Naked to the waist, the magician lies down on the bed and goes to sleep. The body should be pierced to death, but on standing up, there’s hardly a mark to be seen. How?

  THE SECRET

  This trick has nothing to do with paranormal strength or supreme faith. If there are enough nails, the weight of the body is distributed evenly between them so that the force exerted on each nail is not enough to break the skin. The dangerous parts are lying down and getting up where the weight may be briefly supported by only a few nails – ouch!

  BAHUT

  We’re flying to India to visit a man called Bahut. His name has been throbbing away at the top of the witch doctor’s list and the notebook smells faintly of aloo sag; an Indian dish made from spinach, which tastes much nicer than it sounds. Lola is looking lovely in a sari, Kitty is too hot and Sam is fretting about her mother; had she become seriously ill in China?

  “Kitty, can’t you ask the spirits if my mother is still alive?”

  Kitty refuses and fans herself with an in-flight magazine. “Take no notice of Mr Pu. She can’t have been that ill if your father took her to India.”

  “Maybe she was dead when he took her to India.”

  “Yes, yes, whatever.”

  Sam is surprised at her callous tone. “Don’t you care?”

  Kitty gulps hard and stifles a sob. “Didn’t mean it. Hate flying … arghhh the plane’s tipping! Can’t breathe!”

  No wonder she’s uncomfortable. It must be hard trying to suck enough oxygen through the nostril holes in her mask, but she still won’t take it off.

  “You might be cooler if you cut your hair shorter,” suggests Sam.

  “I like it long.”

  “It’s funny how the fringe never seems to grow at al
l,” says Sam.

  “It gets to a certain length, then it stops,” Kitty insists.

  They travel in silence. Sam practises qi gong in her plane seat. Mr Fu taught her the basics during their two-week stay at the Hall of the Heavenly Kings. He was an excellent teacher, she was a quick learner and by the time she left, she’d learnt how to direct qi into her knees. Her jumps were nothing like as high as Errant Boy’s, but that would come in time, Fu said.

  “Practise night and day and you will jump as high as the moon hare!” he’d told her. “You very, very good … for a girl.”

  They land in India. Sam practises her vertical jumps while they’re waiting for the train to Nepal. Lola joins in and trips over her sari. Kitty is irritated by their boundless energy.

  “How can you jump about in this heat?”

  “It’s all in the breathing.”

  The train is packed and they’re pushed into the carriages with sticks by the Indian porters. There’s nowhere left to sit, and halfway to Nepal, Kitty can stand it no longer and announces that if they don’t get off right now, she will die.

  “But the train’s still moving, Kitty.”

  “Don’t care. Let me through! Let me out!”

  She opens the carriage door. Sam can’t stop her.

  “Kitty – don’t!”

  Kitty jumps.

  The train is going slowly but the momentum is enough to send her flying across the dirt track. Sam fights her way to the door.

  “Quick, Lola. Kitty’s hurt.”

  They hold hands and jump. They tumble and roll. Miraculously, neither is injured. Sam dusts herself down and runs over to Kitty who is lying on her front, clutching her face.

  “Are you OK? Have you broken anything, Kitty?”

  “Don’t roll me over, I’m fine.”

  She’s trying desperately to adjust her mask. It had rolled up over her chin as she skidded along the ground. Sam tries to help her up, but Kitty lashes out. “Get off! Stop fussing. Go and hire a trick from over there. Leave me alone.”

  Sam turns round. By the side of the dirt track, there are trucks for hire called tuk-tuks. The man in charge only has one eye. He mistakes Lola for the girl of his dreams and tries to exchange a tuk-tuk for her hand in marriage. He puts his arm around her waist, which Lola doesn’t object to, but when he pinches her bottom, she slaps him round the face so hard he swallows his gold tooth. Luckily, Kitty arrives and has a word with him.

  “How dare you? Lola is a respectable married lardy. Now hand me the cheese!”

  The man nurses his sore cheek. “I am not selling cheese, I am hiring tuk-tuks.”

  Sam points to the truck keys hanging from his belt. He dangles them nervously at Lola.

  “A thousand apologies for pinching your bottom, lovely lady. In order that you do not tell your husband, I insist that you hire this tuk-tuk for free. Please, take it!”

  They climb into the truck and head for Kathmandu. At noon, they stop for lunch in the village and notice that a crowd has gathered between the spice stall and the snake charmer. As Sam works her way to the front, she sees a magician in flowing robes standing next to a rope. It appears to be standing up all by itself in a wicker basket.

  A small boy standing next to the magician is commanded to climb the rope. As he climbs, the rope sways a little. He climbs higher and higher, then suddenly, he vanishes. The crowd shield their eyes from the sun, trying to see beyond the rope – but the boy has gone! The magician looks up and shouts.

  “Come down, boy. Or I will come up!”

  There’s no reply, so he takes out a sword, flourishes it and invites Sam to examine the blade; it’s razor sharp. He grips it between his teeth and, with a scowl, he climbs the rope in hot pursuit. The crowd gasps – now the magician has vanished! High above, beyond the end of the rope, an argument breaks out. There’s a boyish scream – severed limbs and bloody rags fall from the sky. The boy has been murdered!

  Now here comes the magician, feet first down the rope, shaking his fist at anyone who dares to boo and hiss. He folds his arms and waits for silence. He claps his hands and commands the rope to coil back into its basket, which it does obediently. All eyes are upon it. Does the rope have a mind of its own? Might it spring back out and attack them like a cobra?

  The magician slams the lid on the basket to prevent the rope escaping, but he can’t – something is pushing against it. The crowd draws back, ready to run to safety … and out bursts the boy!

  He is smiling and bowing. There’s a collective sigh of relief, applause and whistles. The magician bows, removes his hat and passes it round. Kitty, not willing to part with her money, gets back into the tuk-tuk quickly with Lola.

  Sam stays in the crowd; she wants to find out how the illusion was done. As soon as the magician has his back to her, she examines the rope. There’s a tiny hook pushed into the end. As she looks up, she can just make out a very fine thread stretched between two trees. The magician must have thrown the rope up in the air so that the hook caught on the—

  Just then, the magician turns round and catches her fiddling with the rope. Alarm flickers across his face; how much has she seen? He smiles a false smile and tries to shoo her away.

  “Nothing to see, dear. Magic show over.”

  Sam refuses to move.

  “It’s a great illusion,” she says. “I’m a fellow magician, I know how you make the rope stay upright – you throw it in the air and hook it over that wire. But what I can’t work out is how you make the boy disap—”

  His expression changes. He hisses at her to shut up, but it’s too late; someone in the audience has overheard.

  “Wire? What hook?”

  The rumour spreads fast. The rope isn’t really magic – the audience has been duped and they don’t like it.

  “We want our money back. Fraud! Fraud!”

  Mad with rage at the prospect of losing his livelihood, the magician tries to grab Sam and throw her into his basket. Luckily, she does her best ever vertical jump, lands in the waiting tuk-tuk and Kitty drives her off at top speed.

  If it hadn’t been for qi gong, I fear she’d have ended up in that basket and met a very sticky end with a sword.

  Bahut – the man they’re supposed to visit next – lives at the foot of the Himalayas by a banyan tree. They don’t have his exact address but it seems that the witch doctor leaves nothing to chance: it may have been his will that the tuk-tuk broke down by a well where an old woman happened to be drawing water. She fills a bottle with a bucket and waves it at Sam.

  “Would you kindly take this to Mr Bahut? No water has passed his worshipful lips for a week and I am worried that he will shrivel. I’d take it myself, but I only have one leg.”

  This is an outrageous lie: the woman has two perfectly good legs, but for some reason she’s hooked the right one up behind her back and insists on hopping about as if to make the illusion more convincing.

  Sam stifles a laugh. “You’re not related to a lady called Effie Ray, by any chance?”

  “No, no. I am born and bred in India. It is a far more pressing matter that you take this water to Mr Bahut. He is over that hill in a sandy place, under the sacred banyan.”

  Sure enough, there he is with his legs in the air and his head in the sand, wearing nothing but a loincloth decorated with tulsi beads.

  The man is a sadhu – a living idol who spends his days in devotion, in the hope of reaching a state of enlightenment through suffering and denial.

  Sam taps him on the shoulder to get his attention. “How do you do, Mr Bahut?”

  There’s a muffled shriek. His legs collapse and he pulls his head out of the hole, spitting sand and spluttering. “How do I do? What in the name of Shiva are you doing, sneaking up on me like that?”

  His hip-length hair is twisted into a knot on top of his head and dressed with paste made from ashes and cow dung. Sam hands him the bottle of water.

  “Why do you bury your head in the sand? Are you hiding from someone?�
��

  He blows his nose on his loincloth, which has rucked up around his hips like a nappy. “Not hiding,” he protests. “Burying one’s head frees the mind for spiritual concerns. When my head is down the hole, I can slow my heart rate to two beats per minute, simply by altering my breathing – that’s practically dead, isn’t it!”

  Sam is impressed but not altogether surprised. She’s already seen what the shaolin monks can achieve with qi gong. She tells Mr Bahut about it, but he just scoffs.

  “Qi gong? Ping-pong! All that leaping about and showing off. My way is pranayama; breathing techniques that allow one to endure the impossible… Watch! This is uddiyana bhanda – observe my tummy.”

  With a sound like a punctured tyre, Bahut expels all the air from his stomach until his internal organs touch his spine. He then fills himself back up with air and asks for a bucket. Kitty moves to one side.

  “Why? Do you want to be sick? I know I do.”

  “No, no, if I had a bucket of water, I could show you the breathing technique of jalandhara bhanda in which I am able to draw a pint of water up my botty.”

  “We don’t have a bucket,” says Kitty hastily.

  “Didn’t the woman by the well have a buck—?” Sam doesn’t get chance to finish.

  “No!” Kitty reckons this is a trick too far. “Mr Bahut! Why would you want to do a thing like that?”

  The answer is surprisingly sensible, although the scenario is unlikely to happen.

  “If my lips were sewn together and I could not drink, I could absorb enough water through my nether region to prevent me dying of thirst.”

  It has its practical uses, then. More than that, Bahut says it’s just one of a series of techniques that a sadhu must perfect in order to release his body from the restraints of the human condition. Having mastered it, he would then have godlike control over all his organs.

  “Does that mean that you can heal yourself?” asks Sam. “Say you lost a leg, could you grow a new one, like a lizard grows a new tail?”