Chapter Nine

 

Ne’uchung took her own bedroom and, while Michung may have wanted for something else, as his yearning gaze suggested, he was given the small fold-out couch in her study, which he shared in monklike repose with Gyatsha. They had never been great friends although, bound by oaths and battles, they were close at times. Tonight, they chatted a bit about their lives over the past few hundred years and, as the silences lengthened, they both grew bored and fell off to somewhat fitful sleeps.

At least technically, Drukmo and Gesar were of course still married, and so received the guest bedroom with its IKEA double bed and matching side tables. Gesar had no idea what IKEA was, though Drukmo’s designer eye could spot the brand from across the small room. She didn’t think it worth attempting to explain any of this, which would have been completely lost on Gesar. Besides, she thought to herself, she wasn’t in New York anymore and there also wasn’t anything wrong with IKEA, especially here in the northern Midwest with its well-earned Scandinavian heritage. She thought it strange that she was thinking all this as she was about to bed down with a husband she had neither seen nor slept with in nearly a thousand years. Maybe she should be a bit more anxious? With this thought, a warmth arose, along with a hope for some release or at least tenderness.

Gesar, for his part, was waiting for his turn in the bathroom, not thinking much at all. He had given the group what he believed was a rousing song that detailed their situation and hopefully now, as in the past, would inspire his compatriots and himself to see their way through to a solution. He barely saw Drukmo as she emerged from the bathroom and headed toward their bed. Continuing in this fog, he went about his ablutions and joined his wife in bed. She looked into his eyes, searching for some ember of what he used to feel for her. Gesar, puzzled at first and then, understanding, said, “Drukmo, I have let such feelings go, so very long ago that I cannot even remember ever having them. I am afraid that I have died to the thing you want of me.” Drukmo continued to stare into the brown depths of her husband’s eyes. Searching this way and that to see if what he had said was true. There were no words to express the sorrow that she felt and, turning over, she lay alone upon her so-called marriage bed.

Sometime later she awoke to find Gesar in the corner sitting and staring at a wall, unmoving and as still as the building around him. Irritated and a bit chilly, she went over to sit by him, feeling justified even if the interruption annoyed him. When she sat down, Gesar looked at her and, though there didn’t exactly appear to be tenderness there, at least he turned. Again she searched the hollows of his eyes and at last found a warm ember, which in her way she nourished and brought back to life. They returned to their bed to complete their reunion.

Meanwhile, Trothung and Manéné remained in the living room. Both had given up their tea and were sipping slowly and quietly from the one bottle of second-rate Scotch in Ne’uchung’s cupboard, a gift from some time ago, heretofore unopened. Warmly, they were remembering the times that they had shared, both as allies and, on occasion, as enemies. They talked long into the night, recalling a dozen hard-fought campaigns and all the mortals and demons they had both known. Finally exhausted, together they fell fast asleep on the couch under a pair of comforters, entwined as if for the ages.

The sun rose, as it will, from the east, its rays touching down on the western shore of Lake Mendota and bringing oblique light to the cottage by the lake. Our little group, all well-known to early rising, was already stirring, with the tea kettle and coffee maker done with their work and, as sleep was being rubbed out of eyes, the hot liquids and bagels were brought to the table.

Enjoying a bagel for the first time, Gesar proclaimed it the momo of the new age. While Gesar chewed, Trothung spoke out, “I think your song of yesterday evening quite provocative, but though it brings us much to consider, it lacks any clear direction. Certainly the three earth-spirits may have something to do with this current calamity, but do we know this for sure and will we be able to find them? We knew them well from their abodes on the Tibetan plateau, but we are far from there and it is here that the pandemic seems most concentrated. We knew them as local spirits and possibly there are local spirits here that fulfill a similar function. Or perhaps the three of them were greater than we knew and not so confined by geography.”

Michung added, “Well, they could be more powerful than we realize, but still incapable of wreaking such havoc on their own. I like the idea that they could be aligned with other forces that we have not yet considered. Science has given us much to consider and, like science and medicine at their best, we must be willing to constantly rethink our assumptions and revise our conclusions. Right now your last question is the most pressing: How will we find out?”

Ne’uchung straightened up and said, “Genetics has ascertained minor variations in the viral strains, which, although it has allowed tracking of viral spread, has not explained differences in case numbers and deaths, or why there is persistence in some areas and not others. Clearly, we need information that none of us currently possess. And this too is an equally important question.”

Just then a startling pop was heard and now, sitting at Manéné’s side, was Padmasambhava who said, “I hope that you have made some progress as there is certainly no good news from the outside.” They then brought Padma up to speed regarding what they had been discussing and he, in his usual manner, sat back, motionless, and entered a trance, which the warriors knew to be part of Padma’s insight and power. Padma’s mind scoured the world for answers to this current puzzle, roaming this way and that, from continent to continent, from species to species, and from country to country, people to people. The group did its best to mirror Padmasambhava’s extended stillness until he opened his eyes and cleared his throat. That his dark eyes were unabashedly moist brought tears to their own eyes. They listened as the crow’s feet at the corners of Padma’s eyes deepened and he spoke, “There is no news, insight, or understanding available to me at this time that has not already been spoken or shared among you all. I am not hopeful. But perhaps there is a soothsayer or magician of old that we have forgotten who could be called upon at this time to lend a hand.”

And at that moment, with a twinkle in her dakini eyes, Manéné said, as she had so, so many times before, “I know a guy.”

 

Chapter Ten

 

Dusk was settling over Genoa, Wisconsin, a lazy town on the Mississippi River, and the RV park overlooking the grand river was settling down as well. There was a speckled orange sunset coming and the silence in the air began to deepen as the dark hues brought forth a cascade of color that dotted the few clouds of the western sky. There was a collection of mobile homes, some of which had rested there for decades, like lichen on rocks, immobile and scarcely changing as the span of time folded into the history that no longer seemed much to matter. At the northern edge of the park was an old Airstream, mid 60’s and barely updated; in fact, both the toilet and the stove worked only because they had been replaced and even that was decades past. Alvin Gardner left his vehicle with the idea that he would once again build a small fire and drink some hooch and then go back to his easy sleep. He truly loved the word ‘hooch’ and all that it meant. Cheap whiskey and gentle sleep, after this millennium and the few before, what more could one hope for, really? Just Imagine all the people, living for today…as he had sung so sweetly, not so many years ago… Nothing to live or die for and no religion too. Well, really he was always a Dreamer, but as he liked to think, Not the only one.

He stepped down from his Airstream, collected a few pieces of kindling and some small branches, chose several larger logs from the stash beneath his trailer, arranged them scout-style, and settled down with his hooch. As soon as he was sure no one was around, he fixed his gaze on the closest of the branches in the firepit. As he stared and murmured a few old words aloud, he saw it grow warm and, as so many thousands of times before, it burst into a lovely yellow blaze. The yellow of the quiet fire was reflected in the orange sunset over the broad Mississippi as it meandered in front of him. A sole water craft slowly chugged along the opposite Minnesota shore and he thought back to his days as the foot of Amnye Machen and, although he had not been named for that glorious peak, he did share its name and had lived a hundred years in its shadow, in caves along the Ma Chu— the great Tibetan river that becomes, in its Chinese journey, the Yellow River, well before it empties out in the Bohai Sea directly across from the now two Koreas.

A few hours before Alvin sat down to enjoy the sunset, our little band had finally made it out of Madison and was traveling west on State Highway 14. They had once again proven how very hard it was to shop by committee and it had taken them the rest of the morning and a good part of the afternoon to provision themselves for the journey ahead. Part of the problem, of course, was that they had not yet a very clear idea of where they were going, which, not very surprisingly, made agreeing on what to bring even more difficult. Multiply that by seven hardheads and, well, you get the idea. And that was before adding that Manéné was vague about who ‘this guy’ was or even exactly where they were going to find him. She did say that she figured it wasn’t more than a three-hour drive, which was somewhat comforting.

Finally, they had coolers of food, two tents, and all the blankets that Ne’uchung owned piled into the back of Trothung’s truck and her Prius. Manéné rode with Trothung and the rest piled into the Prius with Gesar, in his kingly seat as shotgun, Ne’uchung in the driver’s seat, and Michung, Drukmo, and Gyatsha crammed into the back. Just under an hour out of Madison they passed Spring Green and Ne’uchung told them about its idyllic outdoor theater and Shakespearean bent. She had season tickets to the plays there, now all canceled with a refund policy that encouraged the donation of one’s ‘sunk money.’ She went on a bit about Julius Caesar, much to Gesar’s entertainment as it turned out that a fair number of scholars thought there was a close connection, and maybe even identity, between Gesar and the Roman emperor. Though the theory was not held in high esteem by many scholars, this did nothing to dampen Gesar’s enjoyment of the concept. On the other hand, like many other Tibetans, he had less enthusiasm for the Greek connections to Buddhist art, which had made it into the art history parlance and about which Drukmo, with her academic training, was well-versed. Regarding Caesar, Gesar said that, if the pandemic were to pass, it would be entertaining to see a play about his namesake, which earned him a playful slap on the side of the head from Gyatsha who was sitting behind him.

Ne’uchung could tell that she was a bit anxious, though she wasn’t sure why, but she did think that as a consequence she was running off a bit at the mouth. So, she kept herself quiet for a while as Gesar and Gyatsha and Michung babbled on, remembering battles past, and when she stole glances back at Drukmo, all that Drukmo was registering was a soft light in her eyes and a subtle grin. Ne’uchung did not need her imagination to know what that grin was about. They were driving through Viroqua when Trothung signaled a left turn and they headed now due west on 56. Ne’uchung did point out the historical marker that was there erected for Lucy Stone, who in 1856 spoke out against slavery and for women’s rights. Quite a bit ahead of her time. The story goes that during her speech the platform collapsed and she brushed herself off, stood back up, and said, “So will this nation fall unless slavery is abolished.” Ne’uchung had always liked that story and she felt that even to this day most people did not appreciate the great courage that it took to be a successful or powerful woman.

On they drove as the sun was setting and the small town of Genoa came into view. With a right turn on State Highway 35 they headed north a few miles when a small, private RV site appeared between them and the wide river to the west. Again Trothung signaled a left and, before they had gone a hundred feet, pulled over to the side. He and Manéné stepped out and stretched. Gesar rolled down his window to Manéné’s tap, and she leaned in and said, “I suppose it is time to tell you who we have come to see. Gesar, when you last saw him you probably thought that it was for the last time, since you had shut him in a cave and essentially incinerated him. I am talking about Amnye Gompa, the old sorcerer and ‘evil’ magician. Perhaps you all remember him?”

Gesar didn’t have to think about who this might be and answered, “Certainly I remember him. He was aiding a large group of northern demons and hording a vast fortune. His wife, Nyuljéma, had the good sense to turn to the dharma, but to the very end he was just plain old evil and tried no less than a few times to kill me. If memory serves, he had a way with fire, but got so angry with me that by mistake he torched, not just his ritual items, but five of his disciples. That Amnye? You bet I remember him, but how did he survive? Didn’t you counsel me on how to ritually bury him so that he could not return and do further evil?”

Though it might seem to us strange to start singing while leaning on the open window of a Prius, with a slightly stooped older man listening behind her, that is exactly what Manéné did.

 

The song begins with Ala Ala Ala.

Thala brings our haunting melody.

I invoke the presence of the gods

Wherever they dwell in the three times

Without regard for past, present, or future.

May the powers of their many blessings

Bless our vital mission

And bless this place.

As for the place, we stand at the shore

Of the great river Mississippi—

For two hundred years and counting,

A children’s spelling challenge.

This land’s greatest river

Creates a grand, natural divide,

And, what’s more, is the wellspring

Of a thousand wonderful stories.

When we Tibetans look at this one river

We see our land’s many great rivers—

Rolling between mountain peaks,

Creating partitions and regions,

Keeping herds and enemies apart,

Bringing fresh, nourishing water

And the wondrous silt that becomes topsoil

To the valleys and plains far below,

Giving sustenance to barley and wheat

And life to our herds of animals.

All lands have natural blessings,

One of which, without a speck of doubt,

Is the promise of its populace,

Its clans and tribes, were they to

Live in harmony with that sacred space.

One cannot waste human resources,

Any more than one would waste water.

And so it was that Amnye could not be wasted.

Though you thought you had right on your side,

Right is not everything.

Sometimes it is nothing at all.

As the ancient Tibetan proverb goes:

If the sky is vast, the stars are countless;

If the earth is vast, the six grains are countless;

If someone’s knowledge is profound,

They are a treasure of information.

So, while it seemed he was turned to ash,

As in so many matters

‘Seemed’ is the key word.

Amnye was saved for another day—

Worthwhile, not just as a magician

But as an erstwhile diviner,

Seeming that one day his value would flower,

Like the proverbial jewel

Found beneath the pauper’s front doorstep.

Seemed here is as seemed is.

I admonish you all: be civil.

Trothung, himself a magician,

I can count on to be respectful.

The rest of you are more or less

Here for the proverbial ride

And, as passive passengers,

To watch and listen and learn.

If you have something to add, fine,

But I insist that you not upset Amnye—

Despite your preconceptions,

He is a sensitive soul

And the one most skilled for what we need now.

So, be kind and be gentle,

And perhaps remember this proverb,

Though you may need to think on it:

Although the stars are greater in number,

It is the moon which dispels the darkness.

Although the breadth of the valley is great,

It is the bridge that brings the guests.

Although the reach of the river is long,

The sovereignty of the ferry is greater.

It is my hope that you understand my words.

If not, there is no reason to repeat them.

 

Without another question, and feeling chastened, the group proceeded in formation along the dirt road of the RV park. At a site on its secluded northern edge, they came upon an old but still shiny Airstream, nestled toward the rear of its site. They could smell a fire burning on the far side of the vehicle. Manéné motioned them to be quiet and stay behind as she slipped around the RV and, trying her dakini best to not rattle Amnye, approached his campfire.