Authors: Marc Laidlaw
Shadows
moved on the mind’s horizon.
Gods swam
into sight like planets ascending. She floated in awe of their dark might,
their snarling mouths and raging eyes. The lights of a million suns shimmered
from their vast bodies with a visible sound like the crashing of worlds and the
wailing of trumpets carved from the bones of dead stars.
She knew
them as if they were part of herself.
These were
the protectors, the wrathful ones—gods who could smash the world to crumbs
between their fists unless they were placated, unless they were harnessed and
kept as allies.
For two
hundred years, too few hands had formed mudras, those ritual gestures that
acted as a sign language between the gods and humanity. During the centuries
when the world filled up with fearsome new technologies, there had been
hundreds of monasteries in Tibet keeping up constant communication with these
entities, holding them in check, coaxing them to work for civilization.
They were
creations of the human mind, yes; but that mind was in turn a creation of the
universe, and in it all of nature’s compassion and cruelty could be seen as in
a mirror. Humanity interpreted the gods in forms that reflected their power,
their primacy, and so they danced decked in skulls and corpses, waving bowls
full of blood. Their needs must be met, their bellies filled.
I know you,
she
thought.
I know your other face.
Towering
above her, eclipsing the universe, was a great black dancer: Mahakala. His
fanged mouth gaped wide enough to swallow the galaxy.
“Mahakala!”
she cried. “You are the wrathful Chenrezi!
Om mani padme hum!”
In a flash,
he was transformed.
White became
black, and black was white.
Chenrezi
filled the universe, fanning his thousand white hands; beams of compassion
streamed from his thousand and twenty-three eyes. He walked between infinities,
taking on a few of the forms that made sense to her self-limited mind. To have
seen him more clearly would have required leaving her body behind forever.
She could
have plunged into that gulf—she was tempted—but the thought of Earth kept her
centered and calm.
She was
needed on Earth. She herself was a manifestation of Chenrezi, one of his
bright hands, a ray of energy possessing a certain form and a certain level of
self-awareness that could be defined conveniently as Marianne Strauss.
She was
light given flesh. Flesh given to the world.
I was
. . .
I
was
Tashi Drogon! I remember now
.
I remember.
. . .
I remember the knock on the door, the man in the
turban. The white scarf of the Oracle fluttering down around my shoulders. I
remember all those years of constructing the Bardo device and the studies that
preceded it.
I
remember young Reting Norbu, my dearest friend. Ah, cheer up,
Reting: I remember now! I remember my dear wife Laxmi and the plague that took
her from me. So
young.
I
was so young then
.
I
remember my teachers
,
my
parents, my pets.
And I remember
. . .
Yes, I remember this place between lives,
between bodies, the times I spent straying through the cosmos, always torn
between oblivion and rebirth, nirvana and samsara. If I were a studious,
disciplined monk, I might have slipped into nirvana long ago and emerged a
different kind of bodhisattva . . . or perhaps never
emerged again at all. But I have done good for the world in any case. I have
given my best through life after life, and I will continue to return until
every possibility has been exhausted. I will not accept liberation until all
others have been freed
.
Freed, like the precious amrita from its vial.
Freed, like the Tibetans from their overlords.
Freed from suffering and privation, from the
endless round of delusion and despair.
Even if the path to freedom requires that I
chain myself once more to the wheel
,
I will do it
And gladly.
“Marianne .
. .”
Her name
came echoing back to her from a great distance, yet close at hand.
She opened
her eyes and saw Jetsun Dorje, her lover. She thought that he must have seen
what she’d seen; and yet, how could she ever know for certain? How could she
ever enter his mind and say exactly what doors the amrita had opened for him?
He would remain ever a mystery to her, wouldn’t he?
That was as
it should be.
She no
longer felt any worry. It was pointless to concern herself with things that she
could not affect. There were enough things close at hand in need of her protection;
there were matters she must attend to. If she did what she could, the rest of
creation would fall into place around her.
This
understanding was the gift of the nectar.
“I’ve seen
the jet,” he said. “It’s here above us, on the roof of the building. We must
hurry.”
“I love you,
Jetsun Dorje.”
He placed
the lotus into her hands and kissed her fingertips as if they were petals.
“I love you,
Marianne.”
The jet sat
in plain view on the rooftop landing pad of Golmud Laboratories. The steps were
down, the hatch unlocked, and once they were aboard Jetsun declared his
pleasure at finding the plane fully fueled.
The lotus
had opened doors for them, jammed building alarms and communication channels,
and—picking through the recorded mind of the three-eyed man—showed them the way
to the jet itself. But until they reached the controls, they’d had no way of
knowing if the plane were ready to fly.
Fly it did. Jetsun
brought them straight up, then tipped the jets and sent them shooting in a
broad curve toward the violet eastern horizon. The sun had already set over the
western rim of the Tsaidam basin. As they climbed above the roof of the world,
the snowy valley beneath them filled with shadow.
“It’s good
to have my wings again,” Jetsun said.
“They suit
you. How many hours do you think it will take us to get to Kham?”
“Not too
many, but in the dark I wouldn’t count on finding that base. We’ll need a
secluded place to land, then we’ll set out again before dawn. Eastern Tibet is
fairly populous; I don’t know how safe we’ll be.”
A strained
voice said, “Those who offend the gods will never find peace, no matter how far
they run.”
Marianne
looked down at the lotus and saw the three-eyed man gazing up at them with
angry eyes.
“With your
help,” she said, “I think we will find much of what we need.”
“I will
never help you!”
Laughter
rang from the lotus. Tsering’s merry face floated up beneath that of the older
man.
“Oh, I think
you will,” said the boy. “You’re in Chenrezi’s hands now. You’re nothing but a
pattern to be played as he wills.”
“And what
are you?” the man snarled.
“The same
thing precisely. A pattern, energy, light; a whorl between the worlds; an
instrument of compassion. But I’m content. My musician has a thousand hands; he
could play entire symphonies unaided, if it were necessary to liberate souls.”
“Liberation,”
spat the three-eyed man. “You are slaves to your so-called spirits. You have
never learned to put religion to work for you. Have you ever coaxed your gods
to grind the grain or heat your homes? Did you ever think that the gods should
defend your land not with prayers and vague threats, but with firepower and
weaponry? No wonder Tibet fell to your Chinese neighbors. Yet we have
accomplished these things! And you think we can be defeated so easily?”
“He’s
lying,” Tsering remarked.
“Lying? How
dare you—”
“You’ve
tried to accomplish these things, but you’ve had trouble bending nature to your
will. Your problem, sir, is your attitude. You tortured the amrita! While you
gained some knowledge of its chemical composition, the true essence remained a
mystery to you.”
“Must we
respect mere objects? That’s idolatry. We are gods. The universe must respect
and serve us—it
must
, and it
will
!”
“Then why
hasn’t it?”
“Because
matter is stubborn and mainly inert. With perseverance we will drive the noble gases
into our service, whip them free of their elemental sloth.”
“Why torment
them? What do you hope to gain from perturbing nature?”
“We
hope
for nothing. Our success is
certain.”
Gazing at
the lotus, Marianne saw the three-eyed man’s delusions come to life; they
seemed more sure than his grasp of reality.
She saw the
golden vajra, Chenrezi’s lost scepter, trapped between two poles crackling with
the same energy that had killed Tara. Power poured from the vajra, into the
circular channels of a vast mandala, and thence into batteries, powerlines,
switching stations. She saw tall missiles being charged with the vajra force,
their warheads glowing with its essence.
But in these
unbalanced fantasies, the visions kept slipping awry, branching into far more
deadly possibilities.
She saw the
vajra blazing out of control, emanating twin bolts of destruction, touching off
a chain reaction to disintegrate the huge domed chorten of the powerplant. The
mountainsides burst into flame: glaciers sublimated into vast gouts of steam.
Underground rivers exploded. Tibet cracked wide open, the continent shook,
oceans evaporated, the moon caught fire. The fabric of spacetime warped in to fill
the void left by the earth, but the vacuum would not be filled. She saw the sun
and planets drawn swiftly in, the stars blurring as the galaxy twisted into
that hole like bright water swirling down a drain.
Abused, the
vajra became a scepter of destruction. It was Chenrezi’s tool, or that of
Chenrezi’s fierce aspect, Mahakala. With nature thus dishonored, the gods took
advantage of their ultimate prerogative. Their mouths gaped at the interface of
emptiness and appearance; they sucked up their creation in a single breath.
Then only
the vajra remained, indestructible, shining in the hand of the great black god,
Mahakala. A necklace of blasted worlds hung from his neck like skulls. He
trampled on the exhausted, deflated universe.
The vision
filled Marianne with terror, for she knew that Mahakala had done what must be
done, as a mother will snatch her children from the edge of a precipice with an
angry shout. Mahakala and Chenrezi were cosmic gods; they gave their protection
to more than merely this one universe. If the local gods raged out of control,
it was up to the cosmic deities to restore order, even if this meant destroying
Earth. For the sickness could not be allowed to spread.
“Don’t you
see?” she asked the three-eyed man. “Don’t you see what might come of your
project if you keep on?”
He looked
stricken. “I—these are delusions, things you’ve planted in my mind!”
“No, this is
the first time you’ve followed your own logic to its end. You must help us
liberate the vajra. Willingly or not, you must help us.”
He did not
answer. He looked greatly subdued. She did not think that he would resist them
much longer.
After a time
he spoke again: “We had not intended harm. Our work was incomplete but we had
hopes of finding the key in time to put it to use. We sought the Equation of
Emptiness.”
Marianne
gasped. “The Equation of Emptiness?”
“It was the
work of a Tibetan scientist named Tashi Drogon, but he left it incomplete at
his death. For that we blame ourselves. Had we let him live even a day longer,
he might have solved it. For a time we were confident we could finish the work
ourselves, but it has proved insoluble.”
“It eluded
you because you meant to use it for destruction,” Marianne said, barely
stifling the fury in her voice. Tashi’s memories were still quite close to her.
“No—”
“Yes!” she
shouted. “You would have abused nature by turning its own laws against it. Who
do you think you are, playing with the forces that created the universe? An
extra eye doesn’t make you divine, no more than a valley full of worshippers . . . addicts,
I mean. Where did you come from, anyway? Who are you?”
“We created
ourselves.”
“You cannot
lie to me. I hold your mind in my hand.”
“I speak the
truth. Once we were spirits, disembodied. We came into the minds of men and
caused ourselves to be shaped. We guided their hands so that the work would be
well done. So you see, we owe no fealty to humanity. We are its natural
masters.”
“Who bred
you? Whose genes were woven together so that you could be born?”
“Our
laboratory was built by Tibetan hands. Under our guidance, Governor Rato culled
the finest embryologists from Chinese schools and brought them to us. And from
their varied repositories of genetic material, we selected the finest characteristics
for our flesh.”
“Did you
create that story, or merely swallow it whole?” asked Marianne. “Has it never
occurred to you that those you consider your slaves might well be your masters?
Think of your experiments—what if they failed? Your kind would be the first to
die. You’re programmed to kill yourselves when you’ve finished your errands.
Your creators built limits into your minds, so that you would never question
your existence. And who benefits from your lives? Surely not you.”
“Lies!”
cried the three-eyed man.
“Marianne,”
said Jetsun suddenly. He had been playing with the communications equipment
while he piloted the jet. “I’ve reached our friends.”
She set down
the lotus, put on her earphones, and switched on the shallow holoscreen in
front of her.
A Tibetan
woman stared into the jet with a look of astonishment.
“Pema?”
Marianne said.
“Gyayum
Chenmo! Jetsun Dorje! Where are you? Hold on—” She pulled away from the screen,
gesturing wildly. “Dhondub! Dr. Norbu!”
“Where are
you?” Marianne asked. “Did you get our message?”
“Message?”
Pema said.
“We sent a
message south with a truck driver—”
“We aren’t
where you left us,” Pema said. “We’ve been relocated by the Chinese. Your Mr.
Fang said we would come to harm if we stayed where we were, and he detailed
several planes to carry us out. We tried to reach you once but there was
someone on your channel—a demon with three eyes! We thought you had been taken. . . .”
“We were,”
she said. “But we got away. How’s Reting?”
“I’m here,
Marianne,” said Dr. Norbu. He leaned into the picture, smiling, looking
relieved.
“Are you
well?” she asked.
“Mad with
impatience,” he said. “Time passes and we come no closer to our goals.”
Jetsun Dorje
laughed aloud. “Show them the lotus, Marianne!”
“The lotus?”
said a gruff voice. Dhondub Ling dominated the screen. “You found it, then?”
She held it
up to show him. “And the nectar as well. We
have none of the actual stuff
but surely your chemists can synthesize it from our information.”
In the air
above the lotus, there appeared a glowing matrix, a three-dimensional image of
the nectar’s molecular structure. She figured it to be more complete than that
which had been plucked from the mind of the three-eyed man, for the amrita
itself had corrected his images. The composition moved like a living thing, an
intelligence. Merely to contemplate it, to drift through its oddly angled
passages, caused the mind to expand.
Marianne
glimpsed another reason for the creation of the three-eyed race. Their limited
minds could only be opened so far. They stood little threat of being affected
by the enlightening properties of Chenrezi’s ancient ornaments. No normal
human being could have analyzed the amrita or the vajra without gaining insight
into his own illusions; but the three-eyes were well shielded by their
hypertrophic egos.
“Where are
you now?” Dhondub asked.
Jetsun gave
him the coordinates. “We’re heading toward the Lancangjiang; we’ve located the
vajra.”
Dhondub
looked displeased despite this news. “You’re risking two treasures in hopes of
finding a third?”
“They may
lead us to the third,” Marianne said. “Once we’ve got the vajra, we’ll bring
all three to you. But where are you?”
“Don’t bring
them here,” said Dhondub. “We’re paralyzed in Lhasa at the moment. Take them
to my brother Changchup at the site where the Dharma wheel is being excavated.
He will be able to get everything back to Chenrezi swiftly enough.”
“You’re in
Lhasa?” she asked.
“Yes.” He
wrinkled his nose. “I hate it here; I feel so trapped! It’s crowded and much
too warm. But that man Fang had good reason for bringing us here, from what
I’ve heard of the troubles in the west.”
“You can
trust him,” Marianne said.
“Give me
Changchup’s location,” Jetsun said.
Pema came
onto the screen to do so. Then she said, “Good luck, you two. We are fortunate
to have your help.”