Sanskrit Cipher: A Marina Alexander Adventure

by C. M. Gleason

  Varden was looking at her; she could almost see the intensity of his jade eyes behind his shades. “The dam here…is it made from metal?”

  She was nodding as he spoke. “I don’t know, but there would have to be steel or iron parts to it, right? Bolts or retaining rods, or even the walls of the dam itself… Am I crazy?” She looked at both of them—though it was difficult to read their expressions with their eyes hidden by sunglasses. Eli was muttering something in Spanish. “I’m not crazy, am I? We know Hedron has the Volvoticus bacteria. Could this be his next demonstration?”

  Varden’s expression was stark. “If something were to happen to the dam here—”

  “This whole freaking place would be destroyed,” Eli said. “And if it happened, say, today or tomorrow, with all of these people here for the festival—”

  “A disaster,” Varden finished. “Utter disaster.”

  “And no one would be paying any attention to what was going on up in the mountains…for a long, long time,” Marina said quietly. “Any change of water flow could be attributed to the disaster of the flood, climate change, and whatever other fairy tale they want to sell the people.”

  “But a disaster like that would bring responses from all over—you know, disaster responses,” Eli said. “People like Marina, and medics, and all of that. Lots of people here to see what’s going on.”

  “What better way to camouflage the labor needed to create or implement the water diversion?” Marina said.

  She was calm, because now she knew. It was the only thing that made sense.

  “And, oh, Eli…” She grabbed his arm because now she understood even more. “If the ecosystem here were to be destroyed, or even significantly disrupted…what would happen to the bee?”

  He swore again in Spanish and yanked off his glasses. “She couldn’t survive,” he said. “If her habitat is destroyed—and there are so many flora and fauna specific to this region—it would directly impact the Apis patricia.”

  “Not to mention the snow leopard,” Varden said, looking at Marina from behind his dark lenses. “And the entire energy vortex that’s centered here in the region. It’s only as strong as its ecosystem.”

  She shivered again, and the image of Snow Leopard, the same one who’d appeared to her in the Lower World, flashed through her mind.

  “Right,” she said quietly. “So how do we stop this?”

  Forty-Four

  “Surely they wouldn’t actually be signing the contracts at the dam itself,” Varden said.

  “Why not? What better way to make sure everyone holds up their ends of the bargain?” said Eli. “Sign the contract, apply the bacteria to some vulnerable part of the dam—”

  “And then get caught up in the ensuing flood?” Varden retorted.

  “They’ve got to have a way to get out of there quickly,” Marina said. “A vehicle or small plane? But it would be nearly impossible to land or take off in a plane around here.”

  “Probably an ATV of some sort,” Varden said. “And we’re going to need some way to get to the dam ourselves if you really think that’s where it’s going to happen.” He frowned at Eli.

  “Have you seen the vehicles they have here?” Eli replied, apparently dismissing Varden’s skepticism. “Deathtraps. We might have to go back to Leh to find something that’ll make it on these roads.”

  “If it’s not a dam, what else could it be? There aren’t any bridges around here,” Marina said thoughtfully. “Or highways with lots of vehicles.”

  “No, but there are things like that,” Varden said, pointing.

  They all looked over, down the road a bit. Marina saw exactly what he meant: there was a heavy metal grid that reminded her of the type of scaffolding one might see against a large building. In this case, the metal framework was rusted and old, and it covered the entire face of a mud-and-brick building from ground to four stories high. She wasn’t certain what its purpose was, this metal grid, but it was a large and heavy structure. She couldn’t tell whether it actually held the building upright, and it couldn’t be security type of grid—the spaces were larger than a picture window and wouldn’t keep anyone from climbing inside.

  Whatever its purpose, the rusted metal grid was heavy and dangerous, and if Hedron decided to use his bacteria on something like that, the demolition would surely cause injury and death…especially with so many people out on the street.

  “The roof of the gompa—the monastery—also has metal pipes and structure,” Varden said. “But most other construction here is that mud and brick, and wood.”

  Marina was just about to reply when she caught sight of a familiar face in the crowded marketplace.

  She might not have recognized or even noticed Manish if he hadn’t been staring right at her. “I’ll be right back,” she said, darting off into the throng of people.

  Manish was slick and fast as an eel, and Marina dodged and ducked through rivers of people in order to keep him in sight. He knew he was being followed; he’d seen her. In fact, she was certain he’d wanted her to see him…and to follow him.

  She thought she heard someone calling her name, but she wasn’t about to stop for Eli or Varden. This was too important.

  “Manish,” she called when he left the crowded area of the small village and started off the road and onto the rocky, rugged countryside that led up the side of the small mountain. “Please wait! I need to speak to you!”

  Not only did she want to ask him about the bee, but she felt that someone who lived here—who would be affected directly—needed to know what Allen Schleuter and Hedron had planned.

  She hurried after Manish, rushing over rubble and grinding over gritty soil as he strode on what passed for a trail, winding along the side of the rough mountain.

  At last, she came around an outcropping of boulder and found a small cluster of growth on a compact piece of flatland. The now-familiar patches of scrubby grass grew among gray rocks, along with bright pink flowers and the miniature sagebrush-like plants she’d noticed earlier.

  Manish had stopped. He was not alone. An elderly man sat there beneath the single tree that grew on the tiny mesa—a juniper whose branches were laden with berries.

  For a moment, Marina was struck by the similarity of this elderly man, folded into a seated position beneath the protection of a tree, to that of Lev the last few times she’d seen him. Journeyed with him.

  But it wasn’t her grandfather who sat there. The old man was obviously native to the region, with weather-beaten skin brown-red and a broad forehead. His sparse hair was still mostly dark, but was threaded with gray. Marina couldn’t begin to guess his age—anywhere from sixty to a hundred—but his hands were knobby and arthritic, and his legs, covered by loose cotton trousers, appeared slender and fragile as sticks. He wore a matching tunic, its edges embroidered beautifully. His very presence gave her the impression that he was some sort of elder or tribal leader. Perhaps a shaman.

  “Hello,” she said, approaching slowly. “I’m Marin—Mariska Aleksandrov.”

  She didn’t know why she gave her birth name instead of the name she’d used for over thirty years, but it seemed the right thing to do.

  Manish glanced at the elderly man, who spoke to him in a language Marina didn’t understand. Then he translated for her. “This is Gulam. He says, ‘Show me your foot, Mariska Aleksandrov.’”

  She understood that he was asking to see the Skaladeska mark on her heel, and she sat on a boulder in order to comply by removing her shoe and sock.

  When she thrust her heel toward Gulam, he merely nodded, then looked at Manish once more.

  Although Gulam didn’t speak, the younger man—his grandson? great-grandson?—seemed to know what to say.

  “I have been punished by my people for showing the blond woman about the bee,” said Manish in good English. “When Snow Leopard led me to you and I saw your marking, I thought you were meant to know, but I dared not make the same mistake a second time. I thought the other woman was
the one foretold…” He trailed off when Gulam said something sharply. Manish nodded, his head hanging a little, and Marina took it to understand he’d been reprimanded again for his error once more.

  And apparently the elderly man understood some English.

  “I’m not here to harm the bee,” she said, speaking to Manish but looking at Gulam. She pointed to the mark on the bottom of her heel. “I am the Daughter of Gaia. I’m here to protect Her, and the bee…and this place. I also bring an urgent warning.”

  She waited while Manish translated for Gulam. In the distance, she could hear the sounds of the festival beginning in the village below—the drumming and jangle of music, rhythmic singing, shouting, clapping.

  She thought she heard her name being called, faintly in the distance—somewhere below—but chose not to respond. The arrival of Eli or Varden could disrupt this uneasy moment.

  Gulam spoke, and Manish translated once more. “Speak this warning.”

  She told them, quickly and as simply as possible, about their fears related to the dam. She ended by saying, “This man, Hedron Burik, wears the same marking.” She gestured to her foot. “But he is not a Son of Gaia, and he is not to be trusted. He has betrayed Gaia and my people…and he intends to betray Gaia here, in this most sacred place, with one of your own people.”

  When Manish finished translating her long explanation, Gulam rose to his feet and, on stick legs, walked to her. She rose from her perch on the boulder and realized she was several inches taller than the wizened old man.

  “Do you know who this person is?” asked Gulam in English. “The one of our people who would do this?”

  “There is a contract…I heard the name…” Marina tried to remember what Eli had said. “Lobzang. It was Lobzang…something.”

  The expression on Gulam’s wrinkled countenance turned fierce and furious. Marina felt more than a flicker of fear as she saw the way his eyes lit and burned. His anger rolled off him, and she sensed the strength and power Gulam wielded.

  When he lifted slender, wiry arms to place his hands on her shoulders, Marina felt a different sort of sizzle of awareness and energy rush through her. Her knees trembled, then gave out as everything went black.

  Forty-Five

  “Marina can take care of herself,” said Eli.

  He’d previously met Varden only once, briefly, and had thus reserved judgment on the man. And because Marina didn’t talk about Varden—who was apparently an emergency room physician when he wasn’t promoting ecoterrorism—Eli wasn’t certain what their relationship was. Antagonistic for sure, but there was definitely something else there. Some sort of connection. Perhaps even grudging respect.

  “It’s my job to look after her,” muttered Varden, still looking out over the crowd where Marina had disappeared. “What the hell was she thinking, going off like that?”

  “Marina can take care of herself,” Eli repeated, needing to remind himself of the same thing. After all, Hedron Burik was in the vicinity, and he wanted nothing more than to get rid of Marina. Eli understood that, at least, was due to a rivalry among the Skaladeskas.

  Eli was just about to say something else when he caught sight of a head with short, dark curls making its way among the throng of people. He froze, then immediately started pushing his way through the crowd after the tall man.

  No way. There was no way Father Dart Gun had found his way here…was there?

  He’s probably tracking your phone’s location. That was what Helen Darrow had said, back in Ann Arbor. But Eli had kept his phone off as much as possible during his travels and even while he was here. There was no way the priest had tracked him here to Ladakh so quickly.

  Unless he just assumed Eli was coming to where the bee was, which, if that was the case, was a good confirmation that he was in the right place.

  Or did the priest have another reason for being here?

  If indeed it had been him.

  “Did you see her?” Varden was right on his heels.

  “No, but I think I might have seen the priest,” Eli said over his shoulder, still making his way through the people. Who’d have thought there’d be such a crowd here in the middle of nowhere? Although he guessed maybe the people who lived here didn’t have all that much to do besides celebrate the triumph of good over evil. And there were definitely a good number of tourists as well. It was the biggest festival in the area. Apparently, people really came from miles around.

  “The priest who attacked you?” Varden said.

  “Yes. And now he’s gone—or whoever I saw is gone. It might not have been him. But it sure looked like him from behind,” Eli muttered. “But there’s no way he could have tracked me here this fast.”

  “Unless he’s hacking your email for your travel plans,” Varden commented.

  “Nope,” replied Eli. “I didn’t send anything to my email. And I bought my ticket to Leh right at the airport in New Delhi. So I don’t see how it could be him.” He edged away from the crowd. “Now what do we do? Wait here for Marina to return, or try to find out what’s going on at the dam—and stop them from destroying it and killing all these people?”

  Whatever Varden’s response would have been was drowned out by a sudden cheer from the people in the marketplace and along the small road that led up to the monastery. The sounds of drumming and other percussion filtered down to them, and people began to sing and chant and whistle as the performers began to parade their way down the hill.

  The Tsedup festival had begun, and Varden and Eli were caught right in the middle of it.

  The performers—the monks of Phyang—were dressed in long, loose tunics of every color imaginable. Their costumes were decorated with detailed embroidery, and each of the dancers wore a mask with a large white face and an elaborate headdress. They carried drums and instruments that reminded Eli of maracas, and the place was filled with activity: dancing, singing, rattling, shaking sounds, the dull thudding of drums that he felt deep in his chest.

  Even the spectators got into the mood, chanting and shouting, swaying and whistling.

  It was like being in the middle of a parade-like rock concert, Eli thought, but with brighter colors. And a lot more energy. It was a pure sort of energy, a clean, simple, primitive feeling that surrounded him as the people here participated in a centuries-old rite in gratitude for good conquering evil.

  Varden nudged him. “He’s here. I can feel him.”

  “Who? The priest?”

  “Hedron,” Varden said, already on the move. Instead of plunging into the crowd, or heading in the direction of the parade that was making its way down the side of the mountain, Varden went off, away from the people.

  Eli didn’t hesitate, although he realized that if they left the marketplace where Marina had last seen them, she wouldn’t be able to find them easily when she returned.

  Unless Hedron already had her.

  He hoofed it faster, keeping Varden’s dark blond head in sight and ignoring the tiny stones that got kicked up and caught in his Birks.

  And what did Varden mean by he “felt” him? Had he not even seen Hedron but somehow sensed he was here? Sure, Eli had felt the intense energy of this place the minute he stepped on the ground in Leh. There was something very special about this rocky, desolate area—there had to be if Jesus had lived here and kept bees.

  Which was, Eli reminded himself with a thrill of excitement, part of the reason he was here. He needed to see that bee, her habitat, her hive. He wanted to prove to himself that his theory was correct. He wanted to let those fuzzy little lovelies creep all over his arm and buzz around his face.

  And then there was the honey, which had healed his dart wound so rapidly. It was miraculous! He wondered what else it could do. It could change medical history, such a treatment.

  He patted his pocket, making sure the small pot was still there. There’d been no way he was keeping it anywhere but on him at all times. Even on the plane, he’d carried it on—thankful that he’d thought to cool the
honey so that it was solid and not a liquid that would cause the TSA to confiscate it before he boarded.

  They’d been making their way from the center of the small village where all the celebratory activity was, leaving the noise and revelry behind them, when suddenly the sounds of the festivities changed.

  There were shouts—angry, urgent ones—and the music and drumming ceased. Eli stopped in spite of himself and turned to look; something was wrong.

  Still on the same level as the village, he didn’t have a good view, but he could hear. It sounded as if the festival had been interrupted, and that someone was speaking…and everyone was listening.

  He couldn’t hear what was being said, but there was something in the timbre of the speaker’s voice that made the hair on his body stand on end. Whoever was talking, whoever had the wherewithal and influence to interrupt the great festival, was important and powerful. People were listening. Eli wanted to listen—he was drawn into the speech and began to edge back toward the crowd.

  Whatever was happening was important. Vital. Urgent.

  And then, all at once, a great shout—a roar—rose from the crowd. It was the sound of fury and outrage, no longer one of revelry and celebration.

  “What’s happening?” Varden said.

  “I don’t know, but they’re angry…and I don’t think they’re angry at him,” Eli said, having just now spotted an old, wizened man who seemed to be the one who’d been speaking. He was standing on the shoulders of two tall, much younger men, held in place by a strong grip as he delivered his fiery, furious speech to the crowd around him.