Descent

by Roland Smith

  “It has happened, but not often. My mother arrived here without a guide. The path to the crater is arduous, as you now know, and it is never the same.”

  “Then how do you find it when you return?”

  Duga shrugged. “We sense the way without thinking about it.”

  This made no sense to me, and Duga must have sensed it, because he added, “We all have our special talents or gifts. Sonam and I can find our way to the monastery from wherever we are. The monks with the yaks we saw on the path are very good with animals. There is another group of monks we call watchers. They do not stray too far from the crater. They are stationed all around, watching in the event that someone strays too close.”

  “Then they stop them?”

  “No. They watch them, follow them. Inform the abbot about their progress. The truth is that the abbot usually knows when outsiders are drawing near. People have come within half a mile of the crater and failed to find it. I am told that the soldiers pursuing you have gotten to within five kilometers of the crater, but they are becoming frustrated. They have established a refueling station at the Butong village, where Captain Yama was intercepted by Sergeant Shek.”

  “How is Yama and his family?” I asked.

  “They were questioned, but not beaten too badly. One of  Yama’s sons told the sergeant where they had dropped you off, but he had a difficult time getting there because he and his three men could not access it from the river.”

  “So Shek only has three soldiers with him?”

  “And the helicopter pilot. The sergeant asked the army for more men, but they told him he and his men were on their own until they could prove that you were still in the area. They did send a barge with fuel up to Butong for the helicopter, but we hear they will not replenish the fuel when it runs out. When the fuel is gone the mission is over. Sergeant Shek and his men are to return to the barracks in Bāyī and resume their duties.”

  “This whole thing is our fault,” I said.

  “No more than ours,” Duga said. “We led you here. This latest incursion is just another of many. You should not worry about it.”

  No worries, I thought. Easy to say.

  Work Is Prayer

  The monastery is set into a hillside halfway up a steep slope, almost perfectly camouflaged by the green tangle like a forgotten ruin. It is built out of massive granite blocks and hardwood logs. The green tile roof blends in perfectly with the forest. Below the building down several flights of steps is a large courtyard made of granite flagstones. A small stream runs down the center of the yard with several hot springs on either side of the stream. This is where we found Josh and Yash last night, soaking their sore muscles under torchlight.

  It’s not surprising that there is no electricity here, as very few rural villages in Tibet have electricity. What is surprising is there could be electricity if the Pemakeans (my word for them) wanted it. Duga said that a former engineer joined the monastery fifteen years earlier and drew up plans for a hydroelectric plant using one of the waterfalls as the energy source. After a yearlong debate it was rejected as too environmentally destructive. The engineer then came up with a plan to use geothermal energy to create electricity. This was rejected as well, but not due to environmental concerns.

  “In the end,” Duga explained, “it was decided that electricity would bring more problems than benefits. What would our beekeepers, candlemakers, and oil makers do without their work? We believe that work is prayer.”

  I wonder what my work is.

  I am writing this in the light of a beeswax candle. It’s nine o’clock in the morning. I thought I’d sleep longer. The room I’m in is eight by eight feet. A monk cell with only a small slit in the wall for a window above my head. I’d need a ladder to see through it. The room is spartan. There’s a wooden platform with a straw mattress on it, which I barely remember lying down on. Next to the bed is a small table and the chair I’m sitting in.

  I’m feeling a little groggy this morning and thought I would write for a while before I get distracted by something outside. I wonder what it will feel like not to be crawling up and stumbling down hills all day?

  I haven’t seen Zopa since I got here. I’m eager to talk to him. How does he feel about finally reaching the monastery? Ha. Not that he’ll answer that or any other question. He’s not nearly as open and chatty as Duga.

  I’m not fretting about Shek, mostly because no one else is fretting about him, including Josh. I shared my concerns with him as we soaked in the spring. He said we need to “go with the flow, see where the current takes us.” Last night I was pretty sure the current was taking us over a two-hundred-foot waterfall. Not so much today. I can’t say I’m optimistic about our chances, but I’m no longer obsessing over it. I guess that’s what eight hours of solid sleep does for you.

  They fed us well last night. Bowl after bowl of rice, fish, vegetables, and fruit, washed down with yak butter tea. I was stuffed when Duga led me to my monk cell, but now I’m hungry again, wondering what’s for breakfast. I have in mind a sizzling bacon and cheese omelet, toast slathered in butter, and several tall glasses of ice-cold freshly squeezed orange juice. The ice and the OJ are out, but they do have chickens, dairy cows, pigs, and wheat. Everything you need for something delicious.

  After breakfast my plan is to explore the monastery. I don’t know how long we’re going to be here and it’s unlikely we will be allowed to return . . .

  * * *

  “You are up.”

  I turned around from the desk, expecting to see Duga, but it was a different monk. I couldn’t see his face in the dim light, but his voice sounded familiar.

  “I’m just catching up on my journal.”

  “There is no hurry. We have dinner for you whenever you are ready.”

  “You mean breakfast.”

  “No. Dinner. You slept through breakfast and lunch.”

  I looked at my watch and saw that it was eight p.m., not a.m. I’d slept nearly eighteen hours. No wonder I was so hungry. I got up from the desk and took a couple of steps toward the mystery monk and had a second shock.

  “Norbu?”

  He gave me a bright smile and a deep bow. He looked completely different with his shaved head and orange robe.

  “How did you get here?”

  “I am very sorry for the deception, but I was undercover. All travelers do this from time to time. It is necessary in order to gather information that may affect the monastery.”

  “Your English is better than you let on back at the hotel.”

  “Thank you.” He gave me another bow. “I spoke what I call ‘hotel English’ to you. It is bad policy to speak excellent English in Bāyī if you are Tibetan. The People’s Liberation Army would pay too much attention to you. Not wise if you want to remain incognito.”

  “Here’s looking at you, kid,” I said.

  “Bogie. I do love those films, but it was a ruse. I had to come up with a believable explanation for my English, as poor at it was.”

  “Why did you come back to the monastery?”

  “It was my time. Someone at the hotel would have told the army that I helped you escape, or they would have used the information against me in some other way.” He smiled. “Shall we go eat?”

  The incense-scented corridor was smoky from all the candles and oil lamps. The sounds of chants, bells, and gongs echoed off the stone walls. We passed monks coming and going. The monastery was bigger than it appeared from the outside. It took a good ten minutes to reach the dining room. I would never be able to find my way back to my cell without a guide. The dining room was massive, lined with row after row of long wooden tables and benches. The room would have seated at least five hundred people, but we were the only people inside it now. There were three bowls and a pot of tea on one of the tables.

  “Is someone joining us?”

  “No. This is all for you. I assumed you would be hungry after your long journey and long sleep.”

  Beneath the teapot wa
s a stack of cash. “What’s this?”

  Norbu laughed. “Your tip.”

  “I’ll give it to monastery if you don’t want it.”

  “We do not use money here. Eat.”

  I ate and did not stop until every hunk of fish and grain of rice was gone. When I finished the last drop of tea in the pot, including the bitter dregs, I asked Norbu where everyone was.

  “Zopa, I believe, although I have not seen him, is with Dawa. Yash took a group of guides someplace to give them a climbing lesson. Your father has been in the library since early this morning.”

  “Library? Are you sure?” It was hard to picture Josh spending all day in a library surrounded by books he couldn’t read.

  “Yes. I saw him there just before I came to your room. He was worried about you.”

  “Let’s go to the library,” I said, getting up.

  There were a few diversions along the way. The first was a gymnasium about half the size of the dining room filled with monks, men and women, practicing martial arts, although practicing is a little mild for what I witnessed. They were sparring, full contact, with fists and feet, and tossing each other onto the unpadded floor. Several of the monks were bleeding. Half a dozen others were sitting next to a wall like broken, discarded dolls. Some of them looked unconscious. The monks still fighting moved so quickly and fluidly, I could barely follow what their hands and feet were doing.

  “Shaolin kung fu?”

  “Similar. These monks are our monastery’s defenders, but they usually practice their art against each other.”

  “Rough practice,” I said, thinking a better word might be brutal.

  “We have very good physicians here, and these monks are resilient.”

  But they’re not bulletproof, I thought, and we continued on.

  The second diversion was the abbot, Dawa. We came around a corner and nearly knocked him over. He was a thin little man with no teeth. If we had actually bowled him over, I think he might have shattered like an ancient vase. He laughed at the near miss and gave us a gummy smile, as if it had been the funniest thing that had ever happened to him.

  “You are Peak!” he declared in a high-pitched voice, then began speaking to Norbu in rapid Tibetan. As he spoke, his hands fluttered through the air like a pair of small birds. When he finished, he stared at me, grinning, eyes bright and joyful, waiting for Norbu to translate. I couldn’t help but smile back at him with a strange sense of well-being and contentment I’d never felt before. The little man grinning up at me had spent fifteen years in a cave, and here he was standing on his own two feet and radiating happiness out of every pore in his body. It nearly took my breath away.

  “Dawa thanks you for leading Zopa here from Chomolungma.”

  Chomolungma is what the Tibetans call Mount Everest. It means “saint mother.” We had not come from Everest; we had come over the top of Hkakabo Razi from Myanmar. My confusion must have shown, because Dawa and Norbu were staring at me with fixed grins as if they were waiting for me to get the punch line of a funny joke. Eventually, I got it. At least, I thought I understood. I had met Zopa in Nepal on the way to Everest. We had gotten to the monastery via Nepal, Tibet, Afghanistan, and Myanmar. Four different journeys in my mind, with breaks in between at home without Zopa. To Dawa this might seem like one journey. But this did not explain his saying that we led Zopa here. We didn’t even know the monastery existed.

  “Zopa led us here,” I said. “With a lot of help from Duga and Sonam.”

  Dawa said something to Norbu.

  “Dawa says that Zopa’s path to the monastery was through you and the others. People always arrive here at the correct time for the correct reason.”

  I had no idea what he was talking about. Dawa’s smile broadened, and again he spoke to Norbu.

  “Dawa says the path to our monastery is long and begins the day you are born. Some people know they are on the path, like Zopa. Others do not know until they arrive. You are just passing through, but you will take a little of here with you wherever you go.”

  I turned to Dawa. His ancient smiling eyes appeared to look right through me as if he knew more about me than I knew about myself. He put his palms together and said in perfect English, “Go out and do good things.” Then he continued down the corridor and disappeared into the shadows before I was able to utter a word.

  Go out and do good things was what Zopa told Zhang Wei, or Chin, after saving him from the avalanche on Hkakabo Razi. Chin had taken that to heart. I decided I would do the same thing when it was time for me to leave.

  The Library

  After meeting Dawa, Norbu and I walked for what seemed like a very long time. This might have been because I was thinking about what Dawa had said and the profound impact it was still having on me. I felt as if I had been tipped upside down and had every thought and feeling I’d ever experienced shaken out of me. I continued to feel his joy with every step I took, but there were so many steps that I began to wonder if Norbu was leading me in circles. The monastery seemed endless. My old thoughts and feelings started to come back, some of which I could do without, but I guess you don’t get to choose. All you can do is embrace the good thoughts and deal with the bad ones as best as you can.

  We reached a long set of stone steps. As we started down I realized that the monastery was not built on the hillside but into the hillside. By the lack of windows and number of steps, I surmised we were underground.

  “The monastery is riddled with natural tunnels and caverns,” Norbu said, anticipating my question. “The library is in the largest of our caverns. It is vast. Tashi, our head librarian, has not been outside in years.”

  “An underground roost,” I said.

  “Yes, but instead of emptying himself of worldly knowledge, Tashi fills himself up with worldly knowledge.”

  “Hopefully his head won’t explode,” I said.

  “Ha. You have heard the joke.”

  “Duga told me.”

  “Yes, he is humorous. Unlike Tashi, who I’m afraid is not very funny. I hope you are not put off by him when you meet. Tashi is not known for his social skills.”

  I barely heard Norbu because we had just stepped through a set of massive wooden doors into the library. It was just as he had described it. Vast. The domed cavern was several stories tall, lined with circular catwalks and bookshelves disappearing into the dark ceiling. The orange-clad monks holding candles up there, searching the stacks, looked like skinny jack-o’-lanterns. The central area below was as big as a football field. Tables and chairs were scattered all across the stone floor, most of them occupied by monks reading and writing or whispering with each other. The quiet buzz of voices and the shape of the cavern made me feel like I’d just stepped inside a giant beehive, or stone bell. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I saw that not all the library patrons were monks. Several people were wearing traditional Tibetan clothes called chubas, men, women, and children, making the Pemako library truly public, open to everyone, as Norbu had said. In the middle of the central area was a raised platform with a desk on top of it. Sitting at the desk was a monk with his bald head down, writing in a notebook.

  “I will introduce you to Tashi,” Norbu said. “Then I will take you to your father.”

  We stepped onto the platform. The monk kept writing as if we weren’t there. When he got to the end of the page I thought he’d stop, but he didn’t. He turned the page and continued writing. I looked at Norbu. He was smiling as if this wasn’t unusual. After the fourth page, Tashi slowly screwed the cap back onto his fountain pen, carefully set it to the side, closed the notebook, then looked up at me with a deadpan expression in complete silence. It was the first hostility I had felt in Pemako. He clearly didn’t like me, or being disturbed, or both. I returned his stare, smiling, remembering Dawa’s smile and the effect it had on me. My smile seemed to have absolutely no effect on Tashi. He was in his late fifties or early sixties, heavyset, which was unusual among the Pemakeans. Most everyone I’d seen was
carrying no extra fat. His head was shaved, but it didn’t look like he had much hair left to shave. He wasn’t Asian. His skin was pale. He had dark blue eyes. European? American? It was hard to say, but one thing was certain: The more I looked at him, the more familiar he appeared. Tashi, a common Tibetan name, could not possibly be his real one.

  “You are Peak Marcello,” he said.

  By his accent, Tashi was a Brit.

  “You are sixteen years old. The son of Joshua Wood, the climber, and Teri Marcello, also a climber, married to Rolf Young, an attorney. You have two half siblings, Patrice and Paula, twins.”

  All true, except Mom was a retired climber. He could have learned these facts on the Internet, except the monastery didn’t have the Internet, or computers, or cell phones, or electricity. He must have gotten the information from Josh, or Zopa, or maybe even Yash.

  “You’ve been talking to Josh,” I said.

  Tashi gave me a slight head shake.

  “Zopa?”

  Another shake.

  “Yash?”

  Tashi said nothing, clearly not interested in answering. I didn’t think he was mean or ill-tempered. He was just peculiar. I wondered what it would be like to remember absolutely everything you hear, see, and read. It was bound to make you a little strange.

  “Please tell me everything that happened to you from the moment Zopa showed up in Burma, or as it is now called, Myanmar, on the other side of Hkakabo Razi.”

  “That would take a very long time,” I said.

  Tashi closed his eyes and lowered his head. I guess one good thing about remembering everything is that he didn’t have to take notes. “You may summarize,” he mumbled.

  This made me smile. Without his memory, what other choice did I have? It took me a long time to recount our journey. When I finished, he didn’t look up for a full two minutes, and I thought maybe he had dozed off. Finally, he slowly raised his head, opened his eyes, and said, “Your father and Yash arrived on the other side of Hkakabo Razi via helicopter?”