Authors: Marc Laidlaw
“You will
make no move against my emissaries,” said the image. “You will safely conduct
them to the chorten and prepare the vajra for immediate inspection.”
The monks
looked quickly back and forth at one another. The little nun reappeared at the
edge of the crowd, looking pale but fierce with anger.
“We are not
afraid of you,” she told the three-eyed man. “We can kill you and your spies,
and no one will be the wiser.”
“That is
quite untrue. I am in constant communication with my peers. We have suspected subversion
at this project for some time; now it
is
confirmed. Even your so-called masters have become untrustworthy.
You will comply fully with my instructions or else risk penalties far graver
than
those you already
face.”
“If you
truly respect the vajra,” Marianne said, “then ask its will in this matter. We
must all work in harmony, mustn’t we?”
Several
monks and nuns turned to the golden holo-tank and began to chant, imploring the
vajra’s guidance.
At
last they turned back to the rest of the crowd, resignation
written plain on their faces.
“We must
bring them into the chorten,” said the little nun, making no attempt to hide
the anger in her voice. “It is the vajra’s will.”
* * *
Marianne and
Jetsun donned traditional robes for their visit to the plant. As they dressed, Jetsun
said, “Why don’t you tell them who you are?”
“The Gyayum
Chenmo, you mean? I don’t think it would help, even if they believed me. No,
our three-eyed friend has given us a key and I think we’d better use it.”
He nodded.
“They don’t trust us, though. I’m afraid they’ll try some deception.”
She patted
the lotus bud which sang warmly in her pocket, anticipating reunion with the
vajra. “I think we’ll be all right.”
They stepped
out into the starlight. A freezing wind rushed through the valley, whistling
over the rooftops. Most of the dwellers in the monastery had returned to their
homes. Three men and three
women waited to bring them to the project. Among them was the little nun.
“We must go
quickly,” she said. “It is nearly time to take the midnight shift.”
They hurried
to the lower end of the monastery and came out on the road that ran alongside
the river. As they crossed the bridge, Marianne looked down on the water
rushing white as ice below; she could not help but wonder if their escort
wished to throw them into the torrent and have done with it. But they crossed
the span without mishap and soon came to the gates of the project.
The chorten
loomed against the night sky, lit by a few golden spotlights that picked out
the gleam of the tall metal antenna and danced on the flickering metal flags
strung through space. The spire was capped with a crescent moon enclosing a
solar disk. The floodlights showed a pair of enormous elegant eyes painted near
the top of the dome. The serene gaze had a calming effect on Marianne. She felt
as if Chenrezi himself were near, offering reassurance.
A dozen
monks waited inside the gate, enduring the attentions of two three-eyed guards
who were stationed at the entrance.
“No results,
eh?” one of the guards asked the departing monks.
The other
laughed. “Nothing but the golden ray that won’t even light a cigarette?”
The
departing monks bowed their apologies to the laughing guards and stood aside as
Marianne’s group entered. She expected some request for identification but
apparently this station had been isolated for so long that its regulations were
lax—almost nonexistent. A minute later they reached the main entrance of the
chorten. A tall door slid open, admitting them to an antechamber whose walls
were hung with scrolls. On a low table sat a bowl full of red powder, a brazier
set with sticks of smoking incense, and a pitcher with peacock feathers jutting
from the spout.
“You must be
purified before entering the central chamber,” said the little nun.
Marianne and
Jetsun submitted to a brief rite of purification. Sweet water was poured into
their hands; they were directed to sip a little and sprinkle the rest over
their heads. Then a dab of the red powder was smudged on their brows.
“Very well,”
the nun said at last, her own ministrations complete. “Go ahead.”
They passed
through several doors and corridors and finally came out on a ramp that
encircled the hollow interior of the chorten. Above them the dark air was
crosshatched by catwalks and cables, hung with hooks and cranes for lifting
heavy objects. Ten meters below was a blaze of light and color, bright lines
sketched in ionized gas: a neon mandala.
She gasped
when she realized where she had seen it before. It could easily have been a
model for the glowing symbol that had appeared in her mind at the time of
Tara’s torture.
She had the
strange impression that she was moving in a dream—-that all the things she
considered external to
herself were
actually the creations of her own mind.
Four evenly
spaced gates permitted access to the mandala. The enclosure was divided into
quadrants and a fifth circular zone at the center. Each area was built out of
lights that glowed in traditional colors: red, yellow, white, green, and blue.
She half expected to see neon guardians dancing in the gateways, but nothing
was visible from the ramp except the flickering colors. The interior of the
mandala was constructed like a maze: a monk well versed in the design would
have no trouble reaching the center, but she had doubts about her own ability.
Once inside, surrounded by the snapping lines of light, she might become
confused.
Nonetheless,
she was anxious to enter. The lotus insisted on being drawn from her pocket. As
she brought it into the open, a spark of gold fire flared in the heart of the
mandala. She stared at the spot but saw no more than a tiny chip of golden
light.
The vajra?
It was too small to make out.
“Take us
in,” she said.
Five of
their guides began to walk away along the ramp. The little nun gestured that
they should follow her down a stairway to the southern gate.
“Where are
they going?” Marianne asked, indicating the other monks.
“They have
jobs to do.”
The southern
gate was yellow as a blazing fire. Shading her eyes, Marianne stepped through.
Suddenly the
opening was filled by a black shape. Mahakala, the Great Blackness, stared down
at her with a wrathful expression. He slashed the air with a curved knife and
held out a skullcup whose jagged rim was wet with blood. Through his dark body,
dimly, she could see the lines of the opposite wall. Steeling herself, she
walked straight into the god and allowed the illusion to consume her.
She expected
nothing more than a flash of light, perhaps a tingle of electricity. Instead,
the gateway devoured her.
She was
tossed through space, her senses confused and torn, every nerve on fire. She
felt as if her limbs were being pulled apart, her organs ripped out by clawed
hands, her skin flayed from her body in a single motion. Sightless, reduced to
a mote of agony, she had no alternative but to let the guardian of the gate
finish his work. It was pointless to struggle. If she were caught here, if this
were the end of her journey, then so be it. At least the lotus and the vajra
would be reunited; and someday perhaps another adventurer would carry on where
she had left off. Perhaps that adventurer might even be herself, reborn.
A dark wind
rose to blow away every last speck of Marianne Strauss. She was void of body,
void of mind. She no longer felt pain nor any other sensation. She rested in
emptiness. A sense of bliss enveloped her.
Then she
found herself moving, slipping back into her body as if it were an empty glove.
Taking a step, her sight returned. She saw her hand reach out and touch a
transparent wall. Yellow light shimmered over her skin.
She turned
quickly and saw Jetsun behind her, frozen in midmotion, his eyes and mouth wide
as he stood paralyzed in the gate. She knew what he was experiencing but
realized also that the pain was illusory. It had done her no harm. Perhaps it
even had a purpose.
Suddenly the
field released him and he stumbled forward into her arms. He took a gasping
breath and looked around.
“What
happened?” he asked.
“We paid a
price for admission.”
The nun
stood beyond the gate, watching. She looked disappointed to see them unharmed.
She took a few steps, passing through the gate without deliberation. The field
did not seem to affect her.
She joined them, showing a slight smile, then pointed to the west.
“We must
approach the center by traveling clockwise.”
“What was
that in the gateway?” Marianne asked, following the nun along the circumference
of the mandala.
“A chod
barrier,” she replied. “One must sacrifice all
possessions when entering the mandala, including the body. The
demons tear you to shreds, devour your very atoms, and yet they cannot destroy
you. The road to enlightenment can sometimes seem cruel, can it not?”
The walls
turned from yellow to red; it was like stepping from a flame into a ruby. At
the western gate the nun stopped briefly, prostrated herself, and offered a
short prayer to the guardian of this quarter. Then they walked on. Marianne
watched the air for the appearance of another projection; she was waiting for
the onslaught of another chod barrier. But they passed unharmed into the green
northern quadrant.
It was a
long walk around the mandala. Marianne's eyes grew dazzled by the play of
colors. The lotus sang impatiently in her hands, for they were still no closer
to the center than they had been at the southern gate.
At last they
reached the realm of white light, and here they turned sharply into an inner
corridor that led them counterclockwise back into the green quadrant. They
wound their way to the west and then to the south again before doubling back
into yet a third concentric corridor. Back and forth they wound, gradually
drawing nearer the central blue zone. Marianne’s eyes began to water from the
brightness of the lights. Whenever she blinked she saw curious inversions of
the mandala: dark passageways sketched in brown and violet lines.
When fewer
transparent walls separated them from the center, she caught sight of a
platform surmounted by a golden object whose features were indistinct. Finally
one tip of the vajra appeared, gleaming like molten gold. They made their last clockwise
circumambulation of the blue-lit center, then walked into the chamber.
The lotus
almost leapt from her hands.
The vajra
sat at the level of her heart, affixed to the platform with wires and delicate
clamps. An array of lights blinked at the edges of the dais; numbers flickered
across tiny meters.
As Marianne
gazed at the vajra, looking for a place to set the lotus, her eyes strayed over
a panel where a single insistent message flashed in English characters:
HELP ME.
She
straightened abruptly, pulled the lotus close to her breast, and turned to Jetsun.
“What is
it?” he asked.
She gazed
past him, horrified by what she saw.
The little
nun was striding away from them, taking long steps toward the southern gate.
She moved down an aisle that had not existed a moment ago. As she hurried on,
the walls closed up behind her and the doors were swept away.
A sickening
rush of colors blurred around them. Dizziness rose up within her.
The inner
walls of the mandala were spinning ever faster. Marianne saw the little nun
exit the mandala by the southern gate, and then the outermost ring began to
rotate.
She looked
up at the other monks and nuns on the ramp above the mandala. Their mouths
began to move in unison; she knew they were chanting, but she could not hear them
over the rushing of the walls. The hostility in their eyes was like a crushing
blow.
Why do they hate us?
she
wondered.
Surely they would help us if they
understood our mission.