Path of the Eclipse

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “No,” he said quickly. “Not that. Not you.”

  “I haven’t said—”

  Saint-Germain cut short his objections. “I know what you are intending. You are going to offer to take the place that I filled so long ago. No. It isn’t because I doubt your sincerity,” he went on more gently as he saw the shock in Master SGyi’s eyes. “It has been more than three thousand years since I experienced that. I doubt, after all this time, and all that has happened, that I could recapture what I felt then with anyone.” As he said it, he wanted very much to know again that lightness of spirit he remembered from his long-vanished childhood. “What I seek now, you would not want to provide me, were I cruel enough to ask it.”

  SGyi Zhel-ri thought this over. “You haven’t sought what you first found.” He got up from the stool and went to where Saint-Germain was standing. “You are in need of restoration. You are no longer willing to impose your desires on others. Why must you also refuse what is offered you?” He did not wait for an answer, but turned and went out the door.

  “It’s not so simple as that, SGyi Zhel-ri,” he started to protest, but heard the door close before he could finish. Feeling strangely bereft, he turned his attention to his worktable and busied himself in cleaning and arranging the containers, apparatus and tools set out upon it. This was comforting work, mindless and undemanding. He could let his thoughts drift, avoiding all those matters that brought him acute discomfort. He compared himself to a helmsman navigating through shoals, mocking himself for the analogy since he was very much aware that he and all his kind were terrible sailors. When at last he banked the fire in his little athanor, his laboratory was quite dark, and the few oil lamps cast only enough light to make the shadows seem vaster.

  Saint-Germain was no stranger to the dark, and as he pinched out the lamps, he welcomed the closing in of the night. As he made his way down the stairs, he could hear the night chanting of the lamas in the sanctuary in countermelody to the moaning of the wind over the snow. The heels of his boots were sharp, waking echoes from the walls as he went briskly toward his rooms.

  “Your pardon,” said one of the old lamas as he came up to Saint-Germain from the hall intersection where he had been waiting.

  “And yours,” Saint-Germain said automatically, preparing to pass the old man.

  “Your presence is required, Shih Ghieh-Man,” the monk said, and bowed, indicating that Saint-Germain was expected to follow him.

  At first, Saint-Germain wanted to refuse, assuming that SGyi Zhel-ri had sent the lama for him so that they could resume their discussion. He was keenly aware that few of the others at the lamasery wished for his company, as they regarded him with a distaste that bordered on revulsion. Yet he did not wish to defy the old man, who doubtless was only carrying out instructions. “Where do you plan to take me?”

  “To the chapel of the Bodhisattva SGrol-ma Dkar-mo,” the lama answered.

  Saint-Germain could not entirely conceal his smile. SGrolma Dkar-mo was the redemptress of the Tibetean pantheon, the personification of compassion. The Bya-grub Me-long ye-shys lamasery had a small chapel to her, as did almost all of the Yellow Hat Order lamaseries. “At this hour?” he asked aloud, saving his other questions for his next interview with the Master SGyi.

  “The Master has said it would do you well to meditate there for a time, and sent me to be certain that you acted on his instructions.” From the tone of the old lama’s voice, it was unthinkable that anyone would refuse to follow the instructions of SGyi Zhel-ri.

  “Very well. Lead the way.” He suspected he would be able to find the small room more easily than the lama, but the old man had lived within the lamasery walls for thirty years and knew it as thoroughly as his fingers knew the seams and planes of his face.

  “Through here,” the old lama said at last as he opened a narrow door at the end of the western hall.

  Saint-Germain bowed, the palms of his hands pressed together just above his wrist. “May you incur no karma and pass from the Wheel,” he said politely as he went into the chapel. The door clicked shut behind him.

  The room was dark and surprisingly silent, being far enough away from the main sanctuary that the sound of the chanting did not reach it. Even the wind was muted, for this side of the building was in the lee of the mountain where the storm could not carry. There was a faint scent of incense, the same that permeated the walls of the lamasery, offsetting a little the smells of close-packed humanity, yak butter and wet wool.

  It was a moment before Saint-Germain realized he was not alone in the chapel. There was a movement on the dais where the presiding lama sat when prayers were said in honor of SGrol-ma Dkar-mo. There was a scrape, a quick intake of breath, then a metallic clatter as something dropped to the floor. Saint-Germain could now discern the other presence, for though there was no light in the room, there was the boy SGyi Zhel-ri: he waited on the dais, his hands cupped, extended, bleeding.

  Slowly Saint-Germain approached the dais, moving quietly but without stealth. He wondered briefly if the protector who had come to him had felt the same gratitude he experienced as he moved. It had been one thing to turn away from this gift when it was a matter of debate, but here, in the privacy of the night, he had no will to deny the esurience that gripped him. At the dais he knelt, then bent his head. His lips touched warm fingers.

  His childhood was too many years gone for him to recapture that sense he had known then. There had been too much loss and anguish for him to be free of the constraints he had learned down the years. Yet, unexpected and unbidden, a kind of peace touched Saint-Germain in the depth of his loneliness. A solemn elation, at first remote, then magnified, filled him, an annealing homage to the force of life he had not encountered before. The gulf of his isolation yawned a little less; the fetters of his alienation loosened.

  When at last he lifted his head, his features were calm: his soul, so long in turmoil, was at rest.

  A dispatch from RDo-rje-brag lamasery, southernmost of the Yellow Hat Order lamaseries, to the other houses of the Order.

  At the coming of the various purifying festivals of the Vernal Equinox, and upon the occasion of the anniversary of the birth of our King, we of RDo-rje-brag lamasery take this opportunity to inform the rest of our Order that during the last three days, travelers have come on the road from the south, and have been able to cross the passes without mishap. Therefore, those seeking to make their way to the lowlands for continuing study and dedication to the Path are advised that this is the most appropriate time for such a venture, as the great heat of the summer has not yet come to the lowlands.

  We of the RDo-rje-brag lamasery would wish to be informed if any large parties of our fellow Yellow Hats plan to make this journey, for we will then make arrangements for ponies and guides to be made available to them. We are aware that ten lamas from the chapterhouse in Lhasa intend to leave in thirty days for the Hindu countries, and those wishing to have the advantage of their enlightened company should plan to arrive here within that time.

  Our prayer wheels are always spinning and our chants rise up continuously to the source of all being. Let yours do the same.

  Zhi Kha-spungs, scribe of the RDo-rje-brag lamasery.

  7

  In the courtyard, a lama in the costume of a tiger-demon chased another lama representing the timorous soul. Bells and drums accompanied this display as the gathered lamas celebrated the arrival of spring.

  Two of the King’s sons had come from Lhasa to witness this ceremony to extend the annual royal blessings to the lamas. They had come with a large train of servants and had set the entire Bya-grub Me-long ye-shys lamasery in an uproar.

  “It’s because I kept the King waiting once,” SGyi Zhel-ri said to Saint-Germain as he stood in the dismantled laboratory. “They want me to know that they will not allow a similar affront to themselves.”

  “Which is why you are up here?” Saint-Germain suggested as he looked for rags to wad in around the jars he was loading into a l
arge basket.

  The boy laughed. “That is part of it. The rest is that I am sorry that our Paths diverge here.” He pulled up the stool and began to sort vials and packets. “Their train leaves for Lhasa in three days. It would not be difficult to arrange for you and Rogerio to leave with them. You would have the advantage of royal escort, and would not be unduly delayed on the road. Those traveling with Princes, though they are foreign, have certain privileges.”

  Saint-Germain was surprised. “I thank you, SGyi Zhel-ri.”

  A burst of noise from the courtyard claimed their attention for a few moments as the tiger-demon roared and howled.

  “They do this every year,” Master SGyi said when things were quieter.

  “Does that bother you?” Saint-Germain had found the rags and was wrapping a number of glass jars with them.

  He shrugged. “There is little harm in it, but not much growth, either. The lamas who place their belief in such rituals do not comprehend the real nature of the principle of Yab-Yum. Most of these seasonal rituals,” he went on more prosaically, “are left over from the Bon traditions. Many of the lamas refuse to admit it, but it is the truth. The old magicians would take time to placate or encourage all the forces around them because they did not understand that all force is one force.”

  Saint-Germain paused in his work, brows raised. “Were you taught that, or did you find it for yourself?”

  “I found it for myself, as you did. That’s the only way anyone ever learns anything.” He opened a small box and looked inside. “What are these?”

  “Rubies and diamonds,” Saint-Germain answered.

  “Did you make them?” He had picked up one of the stones and was staring at it, watching the light play through it.

  “Yes.” He gave the basket he was packing an experimental heft to be certain he could balance it properly when he had to carry it down the stairs. It was, he decided, tricky but not impossible. He took another basket from the corner and began to load the last of the jars and vials into it.

  “It will be strange to have this room empty once more,” SGyi Zhel-ri said. He took rags and conscientiously began to wrap the more fragile items in them. “Don’t take it amiss when I tell you that no one has ever treated me as an equal before, Saint-Germain.”

  “You’re an extraordinary boy,” Saint-Germain observed. “It would be strange if you were treated otherwise.”

  “But you know about loneliness, better than anyone I have ever met,” SGyi Zhel-ri protested. “It’s difficult to live so far removed from all those around you. I can say this to you, because you have endured far more of it than I have. And you won’t respond with more veneration, which is what the lamas here do. The Abbot encourages it.” His voice had grown shrill, and he made an effort to calm himself. “I understand my responsibilities, and I know what I am to do. But I wish that there were others to carry the burden with me. Not all the time, just once in a while.” He sat still, dejected, suddenly out of words.

  Saint-Germain put his packing aside and gave his attention to the boy. The usually tranquil features were distorted with unhappiness. “SGyi Zhel-ri,” he said kindly, “I have no way to aid you, though I wish it were otherwise. You have your Path, as you told me at the first.” He considered the young Master. “If you would not disdain it, let me give you a warning: the Abbot, SNyin Shes-rab, is an ambitious man. I doubt he sees himself in that light, but it is true. He wants to see this Order rise in importance, which naturally would bring an increase of power for himself. You, SGyi Zhel-ri, are his most persuasive asset, and he will use you to attain his own ends.”

  SGyi Zhel-ri made an impatient gesture. “I am aware that SNyin Shes-rab longs for power. He sees the day when the King himself will bow to the Yellow Hats. I don’t wish to be bothered with this.”

  “You may not wish it, but it will come to you.” Saint-Germain thought of the fragility of youth. How could he find adequate words to convince a nine-year-old boy, no matter how perceptive, that he had been designated a player in a game of which he had no making? He put one small hand on the child’s shoulder and realized it was the first time he had touched him, except to put his lips to SGyi Zhel-ri’s fingers. “You are unique—”

  The boy interrupted him. “That’s not quite true. The Yellow Hats have a long tradition of child-Masters. I am not the only one.

  “Perhaps, but you are likely one of the most genuine.” He knew that SGyi Zhel-ri could not challenge that, and he waited as the boy’s face grew somber. “The very fact that you are what you are is advantageous to your Abbot. He will draw others into his influence because he will try to control the access to you. It may seem that this cannot happen, but unless you take measures to stop it now, it will. He has too much to gain through that control.”

  “He has said that he doesn’t want me talking to the Princes today or tomorrow. He said it was because there are other ceremonies that would be more appropriate for the Princes to attend.” SGyi Zhel-ri sighed. “I suppose he’s told them something else.”

  “Ask them,” Saint-Germain said at once. “Send one of the lamas to the Princes, and when they come to you, ask them what they have been told, and compare it to anything he may have told you. If the two don’t agree…”

  “SNyin Shes-rab has been very good to me,” the boy said, suddenly unsure of himself.

  Saint-Germain felt a terrible sympathy for this child who had shown him such great humanity, and he wished he could shield the boy from the isolation and pain he felt. “Yes, he has been good to you.”

  “I know why, Saint-Germain. You’re reluctant to tell me that there was little caring in his decision. I know that because I can’t not know it.” He bowed his head, and at that moment seemed aged.

  There was one thing, Saint-Germain realized, that he could tell SGyi Zhel-ri, and he offered it as a gift. “Don’t shut yourself away. It is more … painful this way, but the other is worse than death. I … lived that way for too many years, and I paid the cost of it. It is seductive, the shutting away. Others with your ability have turned away from it because it demanded too much of them, but in doing that, they crippled themselves. That crippling”—he closed his eyes against his memories—“all the pain that compassion can bring is nothing compared to that withering of the soul. If your Abbot is an opportunist, you don’t have to let him contaminate your work. You have the power, not he, and you can choose the course you wish to take. SNyin Shes-rab’s position depends on you, and little though he may like it, he will accommodate your demands because if he did otherwise, he would lose everything.” He stopped, watching the boy’s face. “It’s little enough, SGyi Zhel-ri, but there is nothing else I can do. Even if I were to stay here, I could not protect you. In time SNyin Shes-rab would be rid of me, and then he would have a weapon to use against you.”

  SGyi Zhel-ri nodded, his face closed. “I’m aware of that. It’s just that I wish it weren’t so.” He tugged at his robes, and looked at Saint-Germain. “It will be best, I think, if I go down to the courtyard now. I will see you before you depart.” He hesitated. “You did not have to help me.”

  “Nor you me,” Saint-Germain reminded him, bowing formally to the boy.

  His bow was returned. “I won’t forget you.” With that he turned and went out of the room.

  The crowd in the courtyard was singing an apparently endless and repetitious song when Rogerio came up the stairs to help carry down the last of the baskets.

  “How much longer, do you think?” Saint-Germain asked as his servant came into the room.

  “The guides say that they will be ready to depart in three days’ time, at first light. They have agreed to allocate us an extra pony. That, with our own, will carry everything we need. I’ve asked about the purchase price of the pony, so that we may take it when we continue on.” He tactfully did not mention where they were going, for neither of them truly knew.

  “Excellent.” He went to his little athanor, which was now cool. He opened the door and brought out
a small crucible. “I haven’t been able to make much gold, but here”—he held out a few gleaming nuggets—“use this to pay for the pony and our passage. Do we have any strings of cash left?”

  “Four or five of copper and brass, one of silver, one of gold.” Rogerio watched Saint-Germain expectantly. “Not very much.”

  The sum was, in fact, quite large, but considerably less than what Saint-Germain had become accustomed to. “I’ll have to use the jewels, then. There aren’t very many of them left.” He went to the window and stared out at the mountains. “I wish we knew what has been happening in the world. Once we reach my house in Shiraz, there will be no difficulty. My laboratory there is well-equipped. Also, there is a considerable cache of gold and jewels hidden in the walls of the library. But until then…” He touched his fingers together. “We must be cautious until we reach Shiraz.”

  “I will attend to it,” Rogerio assured him, looking around the room. “It’s all ready but the athanor and the scroll,” he remarked.

  Saint-Germain’s expression had become remote. “Leave them,” he said quietly. “We can’t use the athanor while traveling, and I will need a larger one in any case. The chart … I know what’s on it.” He left the window as the sound of the singing went on and on.

  That night there was feasting at the Bya-grub Me-long ye-shys lamasery and the revels lasted long into the night. Saint-Germain stayed in his quarters, hearing the revelry around him while he painstakingly translated a few of the texts SGyi Zhel-ri had lent him from Tibetan to Latin and Greek. He knew that he lacked fluency in the Tibetan language, and occasionally felt the frustration of it as he struggled to determine the exact meaning of a phrase. Shouts and songs echoed along the corridors as he wrote, though the lamasery fell silent long before he had finished his work.

  The next day was devoted to religious ceremonies of a graver nature. Special tents were erected in the courtyard, and the lamas, in ceremonial vestments and headdresses, sat beneath them, prayer wheels turning, the reverential chants punctuated with the sporadic ringing of the gong. Toward evening SGyi Zhel-ri addressed the gathering, speaking on the wisdom of noninterference, pointing out that those who seek achievement and advancement through others would end by harming themselves as well as those they had used as tools.