Chapter Seven

 

Well, it turned out that Drukmo was not in Buffalo at all. The bard had just wanted to write ‘Buffalo’ because he liked the word—it reminded him of the yaks, dri, and drong that he had loved so much when he was a boy long ago upon the wilderness of the northeastern Tibetan province of Amdo. There, the verdant valleys and broad mountain reaches contrasted with each other and the livestock roamed and was herded across the great stretches of unpeopled land.

Drukmo was, in fact, very much in New York City, in the small clothing store that she owned on Spring Street just a bit east of the subway. Actually it was one of three stores that she owned, the others being in Gramercy Park and the East Village. They had been doing just fine, thank you, until the pandemic had forced her to close the other two shops and now she handled whatever online sales she had through this, her original shop. From thirty employees, she was now down to five, with no idea of how long she would even be able to keep them on. It was too bad, as she had, up until this past January or so, really liked this life. Truthfully, she had liked many of her lives, but admittedly she was rather fond of this particular one. She had been recruited out of high school to play soccer at Columbia and although, as you may know, no Ivy League school offers overt athletic scholarships, they were able to minimize the financial burden of attending their elite school. With adequate financial aid, she was able to play for four wonderful years and leave debt free. Not that they won all that many games, but she had loved the pitch and her teammates, and she hadn’t felt that alive since she had pranced on small horses across the hills and valleys of Tibet. Eventually, though beginning in art history, she found herself spending time at the Costume Institute of the Metropolitan Museum of Art and from there basically backed into clothing design. Though all that was a decade ago, it remained fresh in her mind as she forlornly looked around her shop wondering how she would be able to keep it going. Nowhere had been harder hit than Manhattan—everyone knew not just people who were sickened with the virus, but ones that had died, and she was no exception. Three of her employees were quarantined and recuperating at home and the boyfriend of one of them was still in the hospital, though improving, and both parents of two of the people in her building had died. All this was going through her tired head, when she heard a banging on the door to her store and looked up.

Wearily she stood up and went to the door and pointed at the CLOSED sign hanging there. A small woman with shocking platinum hair and of indeterminate age was standing there, staring at her with a strange smile on her face. Drukmo was thinking that there was something familiar about her when the woman became vaguely transparent, walked through the door, and now was standing next to her. “Maybe I should have gotten all dolled up in my dakini gear and ridden in on a golden horse, surrounded by rainbows and my dakini friends. Perhaps that would have jarred your memory and you would have remembered your old auntie. You young people are so insufferably traditional.”

 

Chapter Eight

 

Strange tales usually have a strange meeting wherein all the characters get together and plot their deep strategy. Perhaps the classic and best examples from this world’s relatively recent literature come from J.R.R.Tolkien. Foremost is the unforgettable beginning of The Hobbit in which Gandalf and fifteen dwarfs descend on a rather naïve hobbit named Bilbo. A close runner up is the secret meeting of the Council of Elrond in The Fellowship of the Ring that culminates with Frodo assuming responsibility for bringing the all-powerful ring to Mordor. In any case, the first of our strange meetings is about to occur in a modest house on Farwell Court on the east shore of Lake Mendota, in Madison, Wisconsin.

Ne’uchung, the contemporaneous geneticist Dr. Liu, looked around her table. She liked the table, though she had bought it second-hand on Craig’s List what now seemed like two or three lifetimes ago. It had a vaguely Scandinavian line, not surprising as it had originally been purchased from The Century Store. This was a poorly named upscale venue that sold solidly crafted furniture, much of it with a Scandinavian edge to appeal to the fair swath of Midwesterners who either share Nordic ancestry or spent their formative years in the homes of friends with such roots. Not that this represented Ne’uchung’s heritage, but nonetheless, the style with its spare, sharp lines and delicate accents appealed to her. This particular table and chairs had been manufactured in Vermont of local wood and had made its way to the furniture showroom and, from there, into a young executive’s dining room about a decade before. He had sold it when he was relocated by his company and hence Ne’uchung now owned a three thousand dollar table and set of chairs purchased for a bit under a grand. She was dwelling on all these unnecessary facts and tracing the grain of the wood absentmindedly, perhaps to keep herself from thinking of the business at hand. A grim business it was.

The table sat in front of her large picture window at the back of her cottage overlooking a forested woodland. The lake with its broad expanse was in the opposite direction, but just a short walk away. Her mind, she realized, would like to be walking there now. But now was clearly not the time for idle ramblings. Though maybe she and Michung could saunter a bit later. Pandemic or not, it was good seeing him again…and all the others, that same mind made her add quickly. Blushing very slightly, she brought herself back to the moment.

Gesar sat at the head of the table. Naturally. Ramrod straight with his all too perfect features and long, braided black hair falling down to his muscled shoulders. He could easily have stepped out of a Tibetan fairytale book. Which, ironically enough, would likely have been about him. Although Emily Post would have put Ne’uchung, as the hostess, at the head of the table, she felt no rancor in this regard as it had always and correctly been Gesar who, after all and with all due rights, was king.

To his left, again following the rules of courtly etiquette, was Drukmo, as radiant as ever. Her flaxen tresses framed her face, which was dominated by her deep set eyes, dark brown as hickory. Those eyes spoke of her integrity and perseverance, qualities that had been infused in her throughout the centuries and that had earned her the trust of those in all walks of life. In a more mundane way, these qualities had brought her the success that she had enjoyed in her clothing enterprise. It had her been her inspiration, and the trust of a few of her close friends or, more accurately, associates, that had created the signature fabrics that marked her original creations. Her designs were all made from recycled remnants of textile manufacturing. In addition her shops sold upcycled clothing. All of this put her into the center of environmentally conscious fashion in what was the most contemporary fashion city in the states, or at least had been until recently. Now nothing anywhere is either contemporary or really in fashion. Except perhaps face-coverings, which right now seemed to be coming into their heyday.

To Gesar’s right sat his half-brother, Gyatsha, who was unusually tall for one with such a deep Asian heritage. With thick upper arms and a broad chest, his imposing stature contrasted with Gesar’s inherent delicacy. Gyatsha projected rock solidness and strength both inner and outer, which he did indeed possess. Ne’uchung thought him impressive and conventionally attractive, but she was drawn to him as a friend by his unwavering kindness. Her romantic inclinations lay elsewhere.

Coming up to rub himself against Ne’uchung’s leg was her cat, Sammy, a humane society rescue cat that had been hers for two years or so. She had adopted him just before they were going to amputate his right hindleg after a bad fracture that was a result of a suspicious fall. She had rescued not only the cat but that cat’s leg and he was now just fine. He was a grey domestic longhair and, though he shed some in the summer, he was a good friend and had kept her bed warm on many a cold, lonely Wisconsin night. In true cat fashion, after he left her leg he went on to check out all of these strangers who were populating his house. He had made the rounds underneath the table, much as Ne’uchung’s gaze and thoughts had stopped, one by one, at the faces of friends seated around the table.       Ne’uchung had placed herself next to Gyatsha, and Michung had taken the empty seat to her right. Truth be told, she and Michung had been sharing what would have once been called coy glances ever since he had walked through her door the evening before. He was slender and dark complexioned, with bright, sharp features and clear, piercing eyes that mirrored his insightful mind. His slightly pointy ears and thinning hair made for the imperfections that mark perfection. He had been first a chieftain and then a king’s spokesperson a thousand years ago, and both an eloquent crafter of words as well as a deft creator of superior stratagems. The perfect person for this mission and, she could not help but hope, the perfect Steve replacement. Upgrade, more likely. She felt badly for these thoughts, but there they were and there was no denying a feeling that had ten centuries of force behind it. And as yet, Sammy had not registered any loud complaints.

Sitting at the foot was Manéné, not for one moment to be upstaged  and easily giving the impression that the table had yet another head. She was arguably, as mentioned before, the greatest sorcerer in the history of great sorcerers, conjurers, magicians, and diviners in the long reach of Tibet and pre-Tibetan nomadic society. She was the chief counselor for Gesar across his many exploits and many was the time that she had either extricated him from a tight spot or into and then out of an even tighter and more seemingly impossible situation. She was there, unfailing in her support, when he needed persuading or goading into activity, having fallen on what was his nagging flaw, the oblivious laziness that was his shortcoming. Not that we don’t all have a bit of this and that that we would rather forget. Though she had not gained the degree of external glory that Gesar had, she was known by all who mattered as the one who ultimately made sure that things got done. And what, you might ask at this point, did she look like, this queen of the dakinis? Picturesque as a magnificently clothed platinum blonde Lady Godiva, just in from the hunt and ready for action and adventure wherever it might lead her. And into whatever peril it would drag her and her unknowing compatriots.

Lastly, though not for a moment, in his own mind least, sitting at Manéné’s right and next to Drukmo was Trothung. Trothung, though appearing a bit slumped from age and habit, projected a certain power and strength of mind. He yet had the air of an elder statesman whose mind was keen and whose body was able and active. His ability to see clearly into the depth of a problem or issue was likely unmatched over the last thousand years. That he had humbled himself for the last hundred or so, taking on a number of positions in which he could be of help to others, was a source of both wonderment and deep suspicion for his friends around this maple table. These suspicions would continue to simmer for some of them as our tale unspins.

These concerns aside, the group of seven sat around a fairly contemporary table in a fairly small cottage, and the plan to save the world needed discussion and wisdom. The question of who would begin the talk was answered when Manéné began this song.

 

The song is Ala Ala Ala.

Well known, thala brings the melody.

To the gods-demons above and below,

To the earth-spirits of water and wind,

To the land-spirits of mountains and plains,

To all of these and to our ancestors,

I sing today and ask for aid.

If you don’t recognize this place,

It is the broad midwestern plain

Hewn by the great Wisconsin Glacier

In times now lost to time.

If you don’t recognize me,

I have had so many names—

Many names—that for these same ages

I have been known as Manéné.

No pun there, just a small joke

To lighten our heavy load today.

When that great glacier withdrew,

It left behind the lake that we see

From your lovely picture window,

And allowed some of our ancestors

Who had crossed the Bering Land Mass

To migrate farther southward

To the shores of this very lake.

Therefore, it is fitting that we gather here.

Other crises have occured

Since the ice left here a hundred centuries past,

But few that threatened to take

The human species and all at once.

The great plagues of the so-called

Dark ages and after were too slow

And too easily avoided—

People, living less densely,

Were protected by the vast distances

Naturally separating them.

But that was six or seven billion births ago.

This large number of humans alone

Would at any time breed danger.

But as the not very ancient Western proverb goes–

The chickens have come home to roost.

Again, no pun, just a passing note.

So we are gathered here to fix this thing.

Perhaps we will fail as others have:

Whole countries have failed their people

And largest among them is this one.

Other countries have seen a way through,

Working and suffering together,

Prevailing, to some degree,

Over this nasty viral disaster.

But even they continue to be threatened

By the ongoing and continued case load.

If this cannot be stemmed, it is clear

That the virus will spin and spin.

As the earth turns, so will the disease.

The continued pestilence

Will bring all people down.

The bright dolphins and other

Worthy species will inherit this earth.

Sadness and desperation may fill our days,

But we must soldier on and find a way

To stem the vast tide of this disease.

Ancient Tibetan proverbs would say,

No need to tell you what you already know;

No need to point out what you already see.

So, perhaps I have not said a thing

You did not know and you all

Could have said it better, but there it is.

If you have understood my words

May it be the start of great benefit.

If not, then there is of course

No reason for more air to be spent.

 

Thus Manéné sang. When she was done there was a brief moment of silence, followed by a number of songs back and forth and back again. Various aspects of the current pandemic were reviewed, first by the scientist, Ne’uchung, and then the physician, Michung, followed by the others. Each went over what they knew or what they had read or what they had heard or seen. To summarize: the virus had spread throughout the world, and its largest caseload was here in these United States. Though the curve here had flattened, the number of new cases remained high. When areas of the country reopened, this was followed, like clockwork, by a predicable increase in cases and deaths. Some areas, for reasons not understood, were able to reopen without this increase, but these areas were rare, small, and remote. And other remote areas were clearly not so fortunate. What had perplexed scientists throughout the world, perplexed our group as well. Other countries, notably Italy, so hard hit early on, and most northern European and southeast Asian countries seemed to be able to reopen without great problems.

To add to the confusion, testing was going forward in other countries while it lagged in the United States, which continued to have trouble with reliability. Tests that worked in the lab did not perform as well in the field. Ne’uchung’s lab had done painstaking DNA analysis of the COVID-19 virus showing that, while there was some minor strain variation, there had not been enough mutation to render the tests inaccurate. Swabbing technique, the swabs themselves, testing reagents, and transport storage media were all being evaluated as potential issues in testing.

Michung had heard stories from his colleagues of how the virus seemed to act differently in different geographic areas, apparently varying in severity between hospitals in the same area and sometimes even between floors on the same hospital. Though anecdotal, this had been mentioned to him enough times for him to bring it up.

Trothung remarked that the way the two of them were talking made it sound like there was something very unique about what was happening here. He looked down at his wrinkled hands and then at each of the people arrayed around the table adding, “I know it has been a long time since we have been together. I know that for the most part many of you don’t trust me. I get that. I will tell you though, that since the beginning of this pandemic, when it hit hard in my currently native New Orleans, I have been at the front lines helping people to get through this. I deliver food to the elderly and the elderly to their doctor’s appointments. I go to the hospital to bring needed supplies and to the food pantries to help with distribution. I have seen the ravages of this pandemic up close as at least two dozen of my friends and colleagues have become ill. A number have been hospitalized and a few have died. So I get this and it tears me up that so little progress has been made in so many hard hit areas. I wish I had something more useful to add, but maybe I am too close to see a solution. Or maybe our humble project is bound for failure.”

Gyatsha picked up the thread, squaring his shoulders, and replied, “It’s hard not to feel discouraged. I was, as you all know, in Bali. A beautiful tropical land with lush wilderness, spectacular beaches, and friendly, open people who harbor very little ill-will toward their neighbors or even their enemies it seems. I came prior to the pandemic, from Atlantic City, after having spent many decades in a number of different cities and towns across this country. People here are, I am not sure how to put this, not so nice. It is an embittered country indelibly marked by how it treated so many different sets of people so incredibly badly. Starting from when the so-called white men “discovered” this place—decimating the native human population through planned famine and disease and genocidal warfare. Next was the hallowed institution of slavery which began in Virginia around 1619 and spread widely, not be abolished for nearly two hundred and fifty years and certainly not then leading to any sense of equality for our brown skinned brothers. Waves of immigrants were to varying degrees and for varying times, right up to the present, treated not as people but as something clearly less. I don’t find it easy to separate this dark history from what is happening here and now.”

Drukmo added, “What you have said, Gyatsha, doesn’t shed much light on what we need to accomplish. And Trothung, your efforts are certainly wonderful and, for myself at least, shockingly unexpected, I admit.

In New York, perhaps the hardest hit part of the country, I saw great acts of kindness. While the situation there has stabilized, there are still many new cases and people continue to die. Like Trothung, I have had friends die and would do anything to help.”

Trothung added, “There have been so many conspiracy theories about this, from germ warfare/bioterrorism to right wing or left wing or big pharma or big tech or ecoterrorism or evangelicals or China or Muslims or Jews. Probably someone somewhere thinks it was the Buddhists or the Jains or the Hindus who started all this. For a while, while living in Louisiana, it was easy to think it was that the Republican administration, like the one that failed the state following Katrina, was, as people say, asleep at the switch. I don’t doubt that had something to do with the early spread. But now? It seems that there must be more going on to keep the virus rolling. It isn’t rolling in New Zealand where there hasn’t been a case for weeks. We are going to need to dig deep to come up with both a cause of the ongoing problem and a solution.”

Gesar, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, rose to sing.

 

The song begins with Ala Ala Ala

And as you know, thala brings the melody.

I beseech the gods above and the demons below,

Gods-demons, earth spirits, zodors—all

Arranged and arrayed throughout the world.

Come now, don’t hold back.

We ask of you all that we desire

As we struggle to turn a tide

Against the waves of this disease

As it ravages and strikes

The shore and core of humanity.

If you don’t recognize this place,

We sit at the shores of Lake Mendota

Created when the great Wisconsin Glaciation

Left the land barren and cold

For a hundred thousand years,

Leaving behind five great lakes

And tens of thousands of lesser lakes.

This then is a larger lesser lake.

But enough geology for now.

If you don’t recognize me,

Arisen from a celestial sleepiness,

I am Gesar, born to lead the Tibetan people

And, having delivered them from demons

Both animal and human in form,

I thought I had nearly retired

To my not so humble abode

In the heavenly realm of Tushita.

There, I was resting in contemplation

Seemingly profound in depth and subtlety,

When that most sublime of universal truths—

One true in heaven, on earth, below,

And most true within luminous mind—

That the unceasing path of compassion

Is the purpose to which we are all born.

From that energy and space

It was clear that action must

Replace what stillness could not conquer,

That we needed again to muster

And, forming an avenging team,

Join our minds to overcome this pandemic.

In the past few days,

My mind has swirled with all I have heard,

Swirled and whirled and tried to land—

And where it landed was in the mountains

Where the three great earth-spirits live.

Perhaps you remember the horse race,

The one that brought me the kingship

And the hand of the wondrous Drukmo.

Halfway through the race,

A great, dark, dense cloud arose

With a chilling, deadly wind,

Threatening the great warrior riders

As they headed through the second

Mountain pass, galloping, thundering,

Unaware of the spirits they had disturbed.

I saw these dark, cold clouds

As they threatened the grand horse race

And the very lives of the riders.

Who could bring such a cataclysm?

Who indeed, just those three earth spirits,

Leopard, Bear, and Tiger, these three

Dwelling in the forests and the mountains.

They were well beyond furious,

Enraged at the riders and the race.

Also angered at their male partners—

The zodors that protected the lands,

The mountains, rivers, and valleys,

The caves, the lakes, and the plains.

In their angry minds, the men

Had forgotten their earth-protector role

And abdicated to watch and wager

On the very horse race that brought me

All the riches and wonders of my life.

These zodors watched and wagered

While their better halves protected the earth.

On my trusty kiang,[1] Kyang-göd, I raced

And found the three of them huddled

Around a fire on the eastern slope of a mountain,

Incantations chanting and incense burning.

The cloud was growing

Ever colder, ever darker, ever denser.

Somewhat fearfully I approached them

And prostrated, face down on the dusty plain.

Riders were about to be swallowed by the cold,

Frozen and littered on the great racing plain.

From the depth of my heart I called out,

Begging their compassion to flower,

And beseeching the mercy

That dwells within the hearts of all beings.

After some back and forth they relented

And the dark, frozen cloud dispersed.

As I was leaving, in chorus, they muttered

Words I have not forgotten.

If, in the future, humans break their trust

With the land, the water, and the air,

We earth-spirits will not relent.

A second chance will not be theirs

And we will claim the earth,

This planet that we reluctantly

Share with this unworthy species.

Gesar, they said, do not forget these words:

“We will be watching,

We will be waiting,

We will be present.

And if that time comes,

We will be ready

And we will act.”

These words have haunted me,

Though for centuries their import

Lay dormant and hidden away.

Now they are back, both the words

And, I fear, the earth goddesses

With their wrath unfurled and unleashed.

Perilously, the pandemic grows

As the earthly human contingent

Wanders in the sloth of ignorance.

As cows ambling to the slaughterhouse,

This species is poised for oblivion.

The dinosaurs, haughty in their prime,

Had an asteroid, a great crater,

And a winter they could not survive.

Winter is coming for these people.

Still blissfully they move

From place to place,

From lawn to lawn, and beach to beach.

The malls are now again full

And the virus is happy,

Waiting and waiting, time no issue

For its coiled RNA strands

Enveloped in prickly crowns,

Royal helices with their frontline

Of S-proteins set to pierce.

Unless we find the keys and locate the locks

To the secrets of this ghastly kingdom,

The species to which we all gave oaths

To protect and to nurture

Will pass beyond, into the netherworld—

Far from our protection,

Without refuge or guardian,

To the space of nothing

Where nothing rules and silence

Is the only song heard.

If you have understood my words,

Then you understand our project.

If not, again we end by saying,

All is lost.

 

Thus Gesar sang. By the time he had finished his song, the hour was late, or nearly early, and it was decided by mutual decree that they all bed down for the night and in the morning agree to next steps. And bed down they did.

[1] Kiang:  Small horselike animal native to the Tibetan Plateau. The largest of the wild asses.