Neon Lotus

by Marc Laidlaw

  “Yes,” Marianne said, squeezing the woman’s hands. “Yes. Chenrezi seeks you. You will be reunited.”

  “Chenrezi!”

  The woman threw back her head and let out a single piercing note, a beam of sound. Marianne’s heart quickened, thinking that perhaps she had sent the lotus a message, telling them that she was on her way.

  Then a shadow passed over the roof, blotting out the first stars.

  A helicopter.

  Marianne saw insect faces peering down at her; black-goggled heads swarmed from the open sides of the craft. Screams went up from the rooftop and people began to scatter. A dozen hands caught at Marianne, trying to pull her in every direction.

  The other woman rose to her feet and began to sing to the helicopter, an eerie tune that she trained on the soldiers as if it were a sonic weapon. She spread her arms and wailed, holding their attention. They must have known she was the strange woman Common Good had smuggled into the Mines of joy—the one they were looking for.

  Marianne saw them raise their weapons. She tried to pull the woman down, but other hands held her back.

  Then someone started firing—not one of the soldiers, but someone on the rooftop.

  Black goggles shattered. A soldier fell back into the copter, screaming.

  Burning light sprayed down on the roof, spilling from the soldiers’ guns. Marianne dived through a shadowy doorway, then twisted around to look back at the roof.

  The helicopter lurched away, seeking a place to land. She saw Munpa balancing a heavy black cylinder on his shoulder. It jerked, spat fire, and a huge ball of flame enveloped the hub of the copter’s rotor. The copter tipped and fell sideways, past the edge of the roof.

  Common Good thrust himself through the doorway, spotted Marianne, and shook his head.

  “It’s war,” he said, helping her to her feet. “We must get you away from here.”

  “The lotus!” Tara cried to her. “Where is she?”

  Marianne tore herself from Common Good and hurried through the confusion on the rooftop, searching for the madwoman. She almost stumbled over her.

  The woman lay crumpled on her side, her face seared and split by intense heat, one eye fused shut. The stench of burnt flesh made Marianne gag, but she did not turn away. The woman’s mouth was moving; the faintest echo of a song drifted from her lips.

  “Can you hear me?” she asked.

  She took the woman’s head in her hands and turned it gently to face the sky. Her other eye was clear, gaping with the last of its life.

  “Marianne,” said Tara urgently, “let me take her now.”

  Marianne had no time to reply. Tara was moving in her mind, working her hands. She bent over the woman and fixed both her eyes on that dying one.

  Marianne receded into the distance. She wondered if she had gone to the place where Tara dwelt, deep in the corners of her mind. The sounds of the rooftop faded away, along with the cries of pain and calls to war. Night had fallen. She walked into darkness without fearing that she might lose her way.

  Ahead was a faint white light, slowly growing brighter.

  It rippled along rock walls, fanned over a tessellated floor. At last she recognized her whereabouts.

  Taking a long step, she entered a huge cavern. Chenrezi stood before her.

  She approached him slowly, unhurried, unsurprised to find herself here. He watched her with curiosity in all of his thousand and twenty-three eyes. Ten beatific faces smiled down on her, while fierce Vajrapani’s face kept watch over the chamber.

  “Hello, Marianne,” Chenrezi said.

  She bowed slightly. “I don’t exactly know what I’m doing here,” she said, “or how I came.”

  “Tara had some urgent business. She’s bringing another mind into yours.”

  “Another mind?”

  “The voice of the lotus is your voice now. You will know something of what this woman knew. She is like a lost part of us, calling out to be restored. You are the crucible where we will join into one.”

  Marianne shook her head. “I can’t have anyone else inside me. It’s hard enough, at times, with Tara.”

  “You won’t know she’s here, I promise. But she can help us. It will last only until you recover the lotus.”

  “What if I don’t? What if it closes up again for another ten years?”

  Chenrezi did not answer her.

  “Will I have to die again and again, and be forever reborn into the same quest?”

  He was receding now, a white flame dwindling to a speck and finally blinking out. She could hear voices outside of her again.

  “Chenrezi,” she said. “Please help me.”

  An eye appeared in the darkness beneath her; she felt as if she were looking down into a well from which she had just climbed. She gently laid the woman’s head to rest, then let her own head sink forward. She wept until a hand squeezed her shoulder.

  Common Good said, “We can’t stay here any longer, Sonam.”

  She nodded and reached out to close the woman’s eye.

  She realized that there were a few people standing around them, watching. They all carried weapons now. Munpa had his black cannon.

  “Where will we go?” she asked.

  “Everywhere is equally bad,” said Munpa. “The trouble will spread quickly. This is the night we’ve all dreaded and anticipated.”

  Out in the darkness she could hear more helicopters. The sounds of shouting and gunfire had begun to fill the city. From where she stood, she could see flames licking up around a nearby building.

  “Our time has come,” said a woman next to Munpa. “It is good.”

  Common Good stepped to the edge of the roof and beckoned for her to follow. She saw a narrow plank leading over a deep black abyss between the buildings. Down below, where the copter had crashed, were a few smouldering sparks.

  Before she stepped onto the bridge, her eye was caught by slashes of light flickering through the air above the city. Another helicopter burst into flames; she heard screams a second later. She wondered how many had died; how many more would die before dawn?

  “I’ll go first,” Munpa said.

  “No, let me,” said Marianne.

  She took her first step over the gulf.

  8. Mr. Fang

  Marianne felt cold stone beneath her and a warm hand on her brow.

  “Where am I?” she wondered aloud.

  “Sh. . . . Try and rest.”

  “But where am I?”

  Opening her eyes, she saw a familiar face looking down. It was the madwoman, the Voice of the Lotus, bending over her, whispering a soothing song. Rainbow Tara stood beyond, watching with great concern. And above Tara, coming into focus now, were the clustered faces of Chenrezi.

  She sat up quickly. “How did I get here?”

  The lotus song faded as the madwoman moved back. Tara knelt by Marianne, reaching for one of her hands.

  “You must be very quiet, Marianne. Quiet as the dead. We dare not let you wake just yet, for if you were to move . . .”

  She rose to her feet, clutching Tara’s hand. “You mean I’m sleeping?”

  “Unconscious. You struck your head. Now I think you had best be still, so that you bring no attention to yourself throughout the rest of this day.”

  She stared up at the ceiling of rock. In the true cavern of Chenrezi, that stone had been flecked with fire, alive with energy. Now the darkness of it amazed her. She felt like a prisoner in her own body.

  “Common Good,” she murmured. “Where did he go?”

  She recalled a violent encounter in the Mines of Joy. Soldiers had cornered six of them in an alley full of scrap metal and broken rocks. Munpa had blasted through a warehouse wall, opening an escape route into darkness. The six plunged in together, but they became separated; Marianne and Common Good emerged alone. Fighting raged around them, the streets were full of fire; explosions rocked the Mines of Joy as factories were destroyed.

  “Dhondub will never forgive me if you
come to harm,” Common Good had said as they darted from shadow to leaping shadow. “I’ll get you away from here, Sonam. And safely, too, I swear it.”

  They’d made swift progress through the city, but the streets filled with soldiers as they approached the northern perimeter. Common Good, however, insisted that they press on.

  “Reinforcements will come from all over Tibet and China if this fighting goes on—which I think it will. The longer we wait, the better prepared our enemy will be. We must escape now.”

  At last they reached the northern checkpoint. Most of the streetlamps had been broken in the fighting, leaving long stretches of darkness which they used for cover as they approached the gate. Common Good left Marianne in a dark corner near the station, then backtracked and dodged across the dim street. She saw him moments later, creeping along the opposite wall. Suddenly he stepped into the spotlight of the border guards and hailed them loudly, waving his gun.

  As the few guards in the station walked toward him, Marianne abandoned her cover and ran down the road past the checkpoint. A moment later, she was outside.

  Behind her, she heard Common Good yelling at the soldiers. Bullets chattered. There were no more words exchanged.

  She tried not to think about it. She hurried away from the sparse lights, abandoning the road. The ground was scarred with trenches. She stumbled a few times, once running straight into a mound of earth that seemed to blend with the horizon. On the far side of this mound, another trench waited to swallow her. When she landed, she must have struck her head. The next thing she knew, the Voice of the Lotus was waking her.

  It was no longer possible to keep from thinking about Common Good. However briefly, he had been a friend and a companion—a protector. He had sacrificed everything for her; and who was she, really? No one. She could not believe that her life was worth any more than his had been. What did it matter that her head was full of voices, strange images? They might signify nothing more than her own insanity.

  The cave seemed to echo with the distant sound of gunfire, as if her memories had taken on a life of their own, here in the depths of her mind. She expected the sound to fade when she paid closer attention, but it kept on for as long as she listened.

  Finally she asked Tara, “Do you hear the fighting?”

  “The Mines of Joy are still at war. That’s why you must remain quiet. At night you’ll have a better chance of getting away.”

  “Away to where? I don’t even know where I am. How will I ever find the nomads? They’ll keep moving on, but without the news that I was supposed to bring them. I wasted myself. . . .”

  The cavern started to quiver with life. She had a glimpse of Tara’s face, startled by the sudden movement. Then she was rising through depths of dark water toward a distant sun. She heard voices in her ears and a strange far-off commotion.

  I’ve been found out, she thought. Her eyes popped wide open.

  Five people stood above her, silhouetted against the sun. She was blinded for a moment, but soon she could see the drab green uniforms. Three men and two women, Chinese. They didn’t seem to know enough Tibetan to ask her who she was.

  The women grabbed her under each arm and hauled her out of the trench. Marianne’s head spun. She saw a jeep, beyond it another, and then a row of tents under construction. Soldiers were everywhere, with weapons in their hands. A nearby road was lined with cars and carriers.

  Her defeat seemed certain. As if Common Good’s death had not seemed worthless enough already, now she found herself captured. She should never have disregarded Dhondub’s sound advice.

  As they walked her toward the one tent that stood completed, she cast a glance over her shoulder and saw broken buildings beyond the ruined walls of the city. Smoke was thick in the air but the wind blew the worst of it toward the south. Not only Common Good had died on her account, but who knew how many hundreds or thousands of others? The Mines of Joy had become a bloody battleground—the only conceivable thing worse than what it had been before.

  And the revolt had been forcibly suppressed. As Common Good had feared, reinforcements had come quickly.

  The main tent’s interior resembled an office building. Paper partitions divided it into a warren, reminding her momentarily of Common Good’s domicile. The bare heads of clerks moved behind the screens, their voices muted and polite. Telecoms buzzed, printers clattered. The sudden appearance of a bureaucracy on the fringe of a battlefield struck her with ominous finality. It was certain proof that the fighting had been quelled.

  The women stayed at Marianne’s side while one of the men went down an aisle. She watched him enter a cubicle in a far corner of the tent and bow slightly; the crown of another head, bald, rose opposite him. The soldier returned, accompanied by a somewhat paunchy older man who smiled when he saw Marianne.

  Dismissing the soldiers, he took her hand and said in Tibetan, “My dear woman, what happened to you?”

  She was stunned by his polite manner. For a moment she could do nothing but stammer.

  “Never mind,” he said. “There’s time to straighten all this out. Come join me for tea. I am Mr. Fang. You’re the only person I’m aware of to make it past the walls. May I have your card please? Are you a citizen of the Mines?”

  One hand was on her elbow, urging her down the aisle; the other reached for her identification card. Fortunately, she had not lost it. He glanced at it and said, “A nomad? How did you come here, so far from any clan?”

  “I came to buy supplies for my people.”

  He smiled, leading her into his cell; he offered her a seat before the portable desk. “Didn’t dare bring the group any closer than this to the city, eh? I’m surprised they gave such a risky errand to you. You must be someone’s prized daughter . . . or perhaps wife? Hm?”

  “I am the daughter of Dhondub Ling.”

  Mr. Fang examined his console screen as it read her identification card. “So I see. Shall I check on your parents’ whereabouts at this moment?”

  Her heartbeat quickened; she sat forward and tried to see the screen herself. “Can you take me back to them? There was such trouble in the city—I had not yet entered when I heard the fighting begin. My horse bolted at an explosion and I was thrown and hit my head.”

  He sighed and touched the screen, which was still hidden from her sight. “How unfortunate.”

  She didn’t think he referred to her blow. “What do you mean?”

  He took a breath and any sign of consternation left his face. With a diplomatic smile, he said, “Your family’s movements are classified.”

  “I don’t understand. . .

  “Neither do I. It could mean anything. Most likely, they’ve trespassed without knowing it—that is, they’ve entered a sensitive area and are being shepherded out of it even now. They could reappear at any time, but until then . . .” He spread his hands.

  “Is that the only reason they would be classified?”

  Mr. Fang kept smiling. “They might be suspected of some illegal activity. My console wouldn’t tell me that. Are they?”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” she said. “We are simple people who harm no one. We follow all your rules.”

  “Not my rules,” he said.

  She was not at all sure she understood this man or his intentions. She had the feeling he was playing with her, trying to trick her into revealing herself. There was another possibility which his last remark suggested. He might mean to gain her trust and reveal a few secrets of his own. Following such a slim and treacherous hope could lead her into disaster. She decided to ignore his opening.

  “Will I be released?” she asked.

  “Not until there is a place for you to go. We cannot simply have you wandering all over the map. No, you can stay here a bit, at least until we know where your family has gone; then we’ll see about reuniting you with them.”

  “I’m to be your guest? Do you often treat Tibetans with such hospitality?”

  He stood up, turning toward a pot of tea w
hich sat warming on a camp stove behind him. Softly he murmured, “Whenever I can.”

  ***

  She was a guest, but a guest under guard. If she wished to leave the small tent that Mr. Fang provided for her, she was accompanied every step of the way. Through the rest of the day she watched trucks and helicopters entering the smouldering Mines of Joy. Everything she had seen yesterday was changed now—destroyed. The Tibetans had played the greatest part in the destruction. They had wrecked the factories with great enthusiasm, even though it meant destroying their own homes and livelihoods. Cries of glee had echoed in the streets last night, as loud as any screams of defeat.

  And yet they had lost. They would pay dearly—those who had not already paid with their lives—for the few hours of desperate rebellion. The survivors would no doubt be made to live in the ruins. Factories would be rebuilt, but she doubted that a cent would go into repairing whatever there had been in the way of residences. The dead would be cremated, the living would sleep in ashes. And when the winter came . . .

  She turned away from the Mines of Joy. In her tent, she lay tossing and grieving for the few faces she could remember from the city. Common Good. Munpa. The children of the rooftop.

  At twilight, Mr. Fang was freed from his official duties. He appeared at the entrance to her tent, carrying a covered tray from which the smell of food drifted like a dream.

  “I thought you might be hungry,” he said, setting down the tray. “I also wondered if you’d like company.”

  “Please,” she said. She was wary of him, but he had aroused her curiosity as well as her appetite. He uncovered a platter of momo, Tibetan dumplings.

  “Have you heard any more of my family?” she asked as he spooned soup into two bowls.

  “Nothing yet. I am confident that the morning will bring more information—unless, as I said, they’re under suspicion for one reason or other.”

  “Why would that be?” she asked, raising her bowl to sip.

  He raised one eyebrow. “You have no idea?”

  “I told you before—”