Neon Lotus (35 page)

Counterpoint
to the subtle quickening in her spirit was the amazed laughter of the old man,
which grew louder and louder until it boomed from the walls and the encroaching
ceiling. Suddenly his voice snapped and he began coughing.

“You?” he
sputtered. “Is that simply what they call you, or is that truly who you are?”

“I am the
Great Mother,” she said.

“How is it
that you come to be held prisoner in the Potala? And why does a Tibetan goddess
speak with a foreign accent?”

“I am no
goddess. The State Oracle of Tibet in Dharamsala gave me the name. It was said
that I would be instrumental in liberating Tibet.”

He chuckled
again. “Well, we are sorely in need of liberation.”

She cocked
her head toward the blackness, hearing Tara Wangdu whispering nearby, holding a
hurried conversation with another prisoner. There were startled words, cries of
disbelief, but Tara was emphatic: “She is here! Right here with us! The Gyayum
Chenmo!”

“Move away
from me,” the old man snapped. “I don’t wish to be trampled.”

“Gyayum
Chenmo!”

The name
spread through the cavernous confines, touched the far walls, and came rippling
back to her—louder now, echoing in the dark. Marianne moved away from the sound
until she felt the wall behind her. She was frightened by the mass of voices
and a sense of great movement in the dark. What had she done? Some fuse had
been lit; an explosion seemed imminent.

But she had
done it herself. This was her purpose, her reason for being in Tibet. She could
not count on a miraculous Wish-Fulfilling Gem to do her work for her; she must
make her own wishes come true. If she were the Gyayum Chenmo, then she must
behave as such.

She faced
the dark, uncertain of the voices and the people who came rushing her way.

Hands
touched her face gently, then drew back as if ashamed or fearful of soiling
her.

“Gyayum
Chenmo!”

They asked
nothing of her, and seemed to want nothing more than to honor her. Their trust
humbled Marianne. So what if she were the Great Mother? She must prove her
worth by virtuous actions, not expect praise merely for existing. Even if she
were no one but a foreigner named Marianne Strauss, she would have joined this
struggle. She would have done all she could for these people. But the fact that
they believed in her . . . perhaps
that would make a difference somehow. It was
their faith, and not only her own, that would liberate them.

“Yes,” she
said at last, knowing what they wished to hear. “I have come. Like you, I have
been captured. But we will not remain here long. Chenrezi’s power grows daily;
he extends his protection over all Tibet. We will not be forgotten.”

Her words
were carried off through the dark until everyone had heard them.

“Why did you
come here?” asked the old man, impatient with her and the crowd.

“I have been
to every quarter of Tibet, recovering ancient ornaments of power that must be
returned to Chenrezi. The last of five is hidden somewhere in Lhasa, I think.”

“You think?”

“I am still
searching.”

“Hah,” he
said, without humor. “Search as you like. You will have the rest of your life
to explore the dungeons.”

“I think
they will free me when they learn who I am,” said Marianne. “The Governor is
anxious to meet me.”

The old man
fell silent.

“Tell me
your name,” she said. “I’ll mention your case.”

“Don’t do me
any favors. Recalling me to his mind might merely tip the scales against
me—he’ll wonder how much I told you. No . . . get out of
here if you can, but let me be. Let me be, I say.”

Her name
spread through the dungeon in wave upon wave, rising and falling in the dark.
She had the feeling that her fellow prisoners had fallen to the ground to
prostrate themselves; she could almost hear the gentle sighing of the air as
they knelt.

“Gyayum
Chenmo . . . Gyayum Chenmo . . . Gyayum Chenmo.”

That
radiance again—she felt it coursing through her. If only she could use it to
light her way. If only she could focus it somehow. It was the power of her
identity, her ego: a stainless light. She felt it pouring from her like a wind,
sweeping over the walls and the ceiling, swirling in the corners of the black
dungeon. She was at the edge of the mandala now, with every ornament in place.
The Wish-Fulfilling Gem was in her grasp; she could feel it as clearly

as though it had dropped from the
sky into her hands. In her mind the gem was there, it was real, it had worked
its magic on her.

But to work
its magic for Tibet, Chenrezi too must hold it.

She must find
a way out of here. She must continue the search.

“Take me to
the door,” she whispered.

Someone took
her gently by the hand and led her forward; then a second hand took over and
helped her on a few feet more; and then a third hand and a fourth. The Tibetans
guided her through the dark, forming a silent passage, each of them taking a
turn, each of them bringing her a bit closer to the door.

Finally she
stopped and put out her hand. She felt a metal surface. This was as far as they
could take her.

She sank to
her knees.

She imagined
that the Wish-Fulfilling Gem was in her hands, an egg of black glass with an
amethyst flame in its heart.

I wish to leave this place
,
she
thought.

Behind her,
the prisoners kept silent. No one moved for hours. She concentrated on the gem,
until she could almost see the light it cast in her mind dispersing actual
shadows. No one spoke, except to mutter mantras, as if to charm the night away.

For hours
there was no change.

But finally
there came a sound, a clank of metal, scraping.

A sliver of
light appeared.

She rose to
her feet. As the door opened, she saw a gathering of men in uniforms; beyond
them stood a few others in plain clothes, pushing carts ahead of them. They had
brought tanks of water, baskets full of breadcrusts, huge bowls of tsampa—huge,
but hardly enough to feed all the mouths in the dungeon.

They were
startled to see her. One soldier raised his gun as she stepped into the
doorway.

“I am the
Gyayum Chenmo,” she said. “Tell Governor Rato that I will see him now.”

The men in
uniform glanced nervously at one another. The Tibetans who pushed the carts
went pale, awestruck;
several put their hands together and bowed behind the backs of the
guards.

“Go,” she
commanded. “Tell him.”

The guard
with the gun put the barrel to her chest. She heard cries from the darkness
behind her, saw terror in the eyes of the Tibetan servants. The guard trembled
then pushed her away. Quickly, he shut the door again.

Marianne
stood in the dark, breathing calmly, unafraid. She was prepared to wait.

18.
The Great Darkness

Word spread
quickly. The attendants at the food carts must have freed the news into the
city. As her name had poured through the dungeons and rushed back in a wave, so
it winged through Lhasa and the citizens came flying to the Potaia.

Marianne was
led up flight after flight of stairs before being brought once more into
sunlight. It was morning. Snow had fallen during the night, covering the
ramparts of the Potala with a rich white mantle that recalled its ancient
beauty. The sky was a deep blue, the sunlight intense, and the air crisp as
ice. From the high stairs she looked down over the plaza at the foot of the
prison.

There she
saw her people.

The moment
she appeared, a cry went up: “Gyayum Chenmo!”

The strength
of the Tibetans lay in their unity, here displayed to great advantage. She
could only imagine that Governor Rato must feel at least slightly frightened by
such an assembly. But then, he had weapons and the people had none. She prayed
that they would remain peaceful; violence could hardly have made them any more
impressive. Their power was of a different sort.

The stairs were
slick with ice; they descended slowly. She saw a car below, surrounded by
soldiers. The crowd kept its distance from the guards. The walls of Reformed
Lhasa were thickly patrolled, the deadly lenses still mounted and manned. She
did not think violence likely.

“Gyayum
Chenmo! Gyayum Chenmo!”

Her escorts
shivered, not only from the cold. Having reached the bottom of the stairs, they
started to hurry her toward the car. The crowd pressed in like a vise
threatening to crush them; more soldiers stood ready to press them back.

“Marianne!”
someone cried.

She peered
over her shoulder and saw Jetsun Dorje at the edge of the crowd, waving wildly,
his eyes dark and his face lined with worry. She smiled with what she hoped was
a reassuring expression, and then they pushed her into the car.

A soldier
sat on either side of her; three more rode in the front seat. They drove ahead
slowly; the crowd parted with great reluctance and let them pass. Iron gates
opened in the white wall of Reformed Lhasa, revealing an empty street beyond.
Once they had passed through, she looked back to watch the gates closing behind
the car.

They drove a
mile through the nearly featureless maze. Beyond many of the inner gates she
saw apartment complexes and long, low barracks made of dull metal. They passed
squares full of construction materials and machinery. In the schoolyards were
children wearing padded uniforms.

At last they
came to a halt below a square cement building; it reminded her of a bank. A
uniformed woman watched them from behind a glass booth, admitting them only
after questioning the guards. A new escort met them inside and took charge of
Marianne. The interior was furnished in spare, utilitarian fashion: metal
chairs and tables, architectural blueprints mounted on the walls, plastic
lilies. An elevator took them to the top floor.

They came to
a plain wooden door bearing a placard with this legend: “Office of the
Governor.”

They led her
in.

A broad
window looked toward the Potala over a labyrinth made of white walls. A man in
a drab uniform stood staring at the palace, his hands clasped behind his
back. His hair was pulled
back in a single braid of black, threaded with gray. His ears stood out from
his head.

A desk
separated them. The guards indicated that she was to seat herself in a chair on
the near side of the desk.

Then they
withdrew, closing the door.

“Gyayum
Chenmo,” said the man after a moment.

“Yes,” she
answered.

Governor
Rato, the man she had seen on the public address screen, turned toward her. His
face was weary, his eyes embattled. He put his hand on the back of his chair
and lowered himself into it almost gratefully.

“I am glad,
at last, to meet you,” he said. He smiled.

“Glad?” she
said. “I suppose you would be.”

He narrowed
his eyes; the smile slipped away. “At last,” he said. “We can put an end to
this foolishness. We can—”

Abruptly the
Governor pushed himself away from the desk, eyes bulging, and began to claw at
his throat. “Out!” he gasped. “Out of me!"

He dragged
himself to his feet again, clutching at the windowsill, and glared around at
Marianne.

“You won’t
stop us,” he said, his eyes bright and furious. Then his face changed
completely. He was again the man who had first greeted her, the weary Governor
Rato. She realized that his expression was one of fear.

“I am
sorry,” he said. “It is extremely difficult to speak—to keep control. Usually I
can manage for longer periods, but your presence drives them into a frenzy.
Their grip grows ever more ferocious. And yet . . .” He gasped for air, his
fingers scrabbling down the glass. “Yet they fear you. And that gives me hope.”

“Who fears
me?” Marianne asked. “Who is it that controls you?”

“Gods,
ghosts, demons—I don’t know what they are. They have always been with me,
always . . . or at least since I was a boy. They first came
on me in the ruins of the old Nechung Monastery. I was caught there after dark,
looking for fuel; my mother was dying of pneumonia.” His eyes rolled toward the
ceiling; he seemed to be looking into the past. “The old place had been defiled
by explosions and guns, the rebels, the Cultural Revolution—the monks
themselves had tried to destroy it ahead of the Chinese—but by my time it was
no more than a ruin. A haunted one.
It was widely believed that demons roamed the
place, and since no one went near it, I thought I might find some wood for the
fire. Then night fell. I lost my way. I heard laughter all around me, the wind
rushed up, tongues of fire, spirits of flame. The spying ghosts!”

The Governor
looked wildly around the room, as if expecting them to come after him now. His
eyes lit upon Marianne. A calm look returned to his face. He nodded and sat
down again, licking his lips nervously, kneading his hands.

“I woke up
miles from my home, naked in the snow. The spirits had run away and left me to
freeze. Somehow I made my way back . . . but it was too
late. She was dead. I cursed the ghosts but soon regretted it, for the sound of
my voice drew them back to me. They crept in through my ears and inhabited me,
as if
I
were no more than a ruin myself. They were so powerful . . . but
they are even stronger now. Their plans are elaborate, richly conceived. I have
been an excellent puppet. I have done too much of their work.”

Marianne
shook her head, stunned by his words. “Their work, you say? But what are their
intentions? Why do they possess you?”

The Governor
nodded. “You might well ask. I asked many times and they finally told me. You
see, once this land was theirs, all theirs. They flew wild through the snowy
mountains, they ranged over the plains in the form of winds. Then came the old
saints from India, sorcerers like Padmasambhava who conquered them with
Buddhist magic and bent them to his will. Padmasambhava turned the old demons
into protectors, set them up as guardians of mankind. And he taught Tibet the
rituals that would appease the mighty ones and keep them in the service of
humanity.”

The Governor
shook his head.

“But no
more,” he said. “For two centuries the old ways have been abandoned. Once there
were hundreds of monasteries performing the rites of protection. The whole of
Tibet was devoted to the preservation of humanity.

“Now there
are only a few tiny pockets of devotees scattered across the world, all of them
far from the places where the demons have their strongholds. It is here in
Tibet that the spirits still
roam. You may believe me when I say they have gone wild for lack of
appeasement. The vows they swore to Padmasambhava weakened with the years,
until it was an easy thing to break them. Now they press in, they take human
form; they cause slaves to be built who will serve them in the future, when
mankind has been utterly crushed. And I, a man, have been forced to serve them.
Even to the extent of destroying you, who might have saved us.”

The Governor
shut his eyes, clenched his mouth, and pressed his hands to his brow.

“You haven’t
destroyed me,” said Marianne quietly, reaching across the desk to touch his
arm.

At her
touch, his eyes sprang open, burning with a cruel light. He grinned.

“Not yet,”
he said, in a voice that was somehow changed. “But very soon. First you will
bear witness to the destruction of Tibet.”

“Get out of
him,” she said, clenching her hand around the Governor’s wrist. “I am the
Gyayum Chenmo. You know my power is pure and invincible; it comes direct from
Chenrezi. Leave him now or you will be the only ones destroyed.”

For a moment
she thought she saw eyes within Rato’s eyes, a million-faceted gleaming like
the magnified eyes of a fly. In every one of those facets was a cold, inhuman
hunger—and a quickly hidden glint of fear.

The
Governor’s hand shot out to touch a console on his desk.

“Guards!” he
screamed.

The door flew
open. Strong hands grabbed Marianne from behind, dragged her away from the
Governor. In her struggle, she discovered that they were three-eyed. Rato was
taking no chances.

“You may
have grown in power,” she told him, “but so have the forces which once bound
you to serve us. And you shall be bound again.”

“With what?”
said Rato—or those who possessed him. “This is the Kali Yuga, the age of
darkness; the old knowledge is fading from your minds. You have no grip on us,
Great Mother. This is our time of triumph. We are not Tibetans; we are not
human at all. Our power far exceeds

yours. We travel from mind to mind,
we pick knowledge from the ether. Never does your State Oracle of Tibet utter a
syllable, but we know it instantly. And as for the living Chenrezi, we know
more than he will ever know. How do you think we have managed to outwit him at
every turn?”

“Only to be
outwitted by us at the next turn,” said Marianne. But secretly she was
appalled. It was not Reting who had betrayed them. Demons needed no human
spies.

“You are
deluded,” Rato said. He snapped his fingers and spoke to one of the guards.
“Bring the doctor. Both of you deserve to witness the end of your work.”

Reting, she
thought. They were to be reunited. How could she bear to face him after their
last encounter? She was responsible for every injury that had been done to him.

“If you have
harmed him,” she said to the Governor, “you will pay with . . .”

She
faltered, shaken by the confusion in Rato's eyes. The other Governor had
returned—the weary and frightened man, the puppet. She could not bring herself
to hate him. She sensed that the spirits were using him as a shield, hiding
behind his innocence. She must find some way to get at them without harming
Rato.

Footsteps
came up behind her. The guard brought her around to face Dr. Norbu.

Seeing her,
he began to weep. “It can't be!”

“I’m sorry,
Reting,” she said. “You don’t know how sorry I am. I can never take back what I
said—”

“But you
were right!” he said. “I did betray you. They drugged me; I tried to resist, I
did all that I could to erase you from my mind. I prayed that they would get no
useful information from me. But now I see that they learned everything.”

“No! Not at
all, Reting!”

“I wish you
had been so helpful,” said Rato, coming around the desk. “The fact is, Dr.
Norbu, that she surrendered herself before we had properly begun to question
you.”

Reting
looked only slightly relieved. “Surrendered?” he said.

“And why
not?” said the Governor. “She knew that it was futile to oppose us. You have
both merely bowed to the inevitable.”

“We will
beat you yet!” Reting shouted.

The Governor
shook his head. “You have already lost.” He looked at the guards and tipped his
head toward the corridor. “Come. We have a short journey to make.”