Pyramid Asia. Ian Purdie
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at his feet. He reached down and scooped up a handful. The flowers looked a lot better than they tasted. The second mouthful was less shocking. Fortunately the river, still running, was nearby. A few scoops of its highly athletic contents washed most of the bitter taste from his mouth.
Lacking other options, he stumbled forward. The lengthening shadows attested to the fact it was already late afternoon. By nightfall he was many more kilometres away from the cave. He felt marginally safer. The air was no longer polluted by the smell of high explosives and his friend’s burnt flesh.
Just after sunset, he encountered a village. It was dirty and dilapidated. The greatest danger its peaceful façade threatened, was either from typhoid or leprosy. It looked like a good place to rot. Most of it already had.
Irfan was past being hungry. His body had realised the futility of screaming for food and given up. His stomach had joined his legs in a state of silent shock.
After executing his nearest approximation of a nonchalant stroll into town, he stepped into a tea house. Four men sucking on a hookah regarded the latest arrival in their domain. Irfan avoided eye contact, not interested in finding out if relaxed also meant friendly. He didn’t need friends, he needed food.
Once again, he silently thanked Allah, this time for the contents of his pocket. He had been paid and was cashed up. He ordered food and found himself a deserted table in one of the establishment’s darker corners.
The food arrived! Praise be to Allah!!!
He continued to thank Allah for his good fortune, between gulps.
After food, Irfan needed sleep. The establishment’s representative behind the counter agreed to furnish him with a bed for the night. He was escorted out the back and shown into a small room.
* * *
“My archaeology professor is doing cartwheels!” declared an excited young Chinese woman on a university campus far away. “He’s claiming the greatest archaeological discovery of the 21st Century!”
“Is it the real Oracle of Singh Ma?” asked Tashi when he and Ping met outside the library as they did every Tuesday afternoon.
“We can’t exactly claim that to be 100% true. However he says it’s the oldest representation ever found and its origins have yet to be determined. It really could be the actual Oracle of Singh Ma!”
“But wasn’t that just a dream some monk had?”
“Yes, originally. But then it was said to have manifested in one of the monasteries. One afternoon, all the monks were bored and threatening to boycott meditation unless something concrete happened. And it did.”
“Is this supposed to be some kind of fairy tale or something?”
“No, it’s a legend. It was recorded by the monks in several monasteries and it’s still taken seriously by some of the more obscure sects of Buddhism.”
“So when do I get it back?”
“It’s not that simple. Professor Guo wants to talk with you tomorrow morning. I told him you’d be available. I hope that’s OK.”
“I’ve got lectures until 10 and then I’ve got a half hour break. What does he want to talk about?”
“He wants to know exactly where you found it and how long you’ve had it. He’s very excited!”
* * *
Irfan awoke. His legs skipped threatening and ached. He’d run too far, too fast and the rest of his body was also complaining.
Outside a noisy procession, containing the young master who’d been confirmed as a tulku, was passing through the village.
There was a jug of water in the room on an ancient sideboard. Irfan splashed some onto his face and then slipped out into the teahouse. It was deserted as he made his way out onto the street.
He was able to attach himself to the tail end of the procession which easily absorbed him as if by osmosis. The procession wound its way out of the village and into the countryside.
After another day, getting further away from the cave, he found himself setting up tents then preparing vegetables, and finally serving up food. Eventually he also got fed. It was a wonderful arrangement as far as he was concerned.
That night he was allowed to curl up beside a smouldering fire and the next morning was included in a pre-dawn breakfast before continuing with the procession.
All things are impermanent and the monks eventually reached their destination after nine days of travelling.
Irfan needed to keep moving. He didn’t accept the promise of a bed, up the winding path that led to the monastery. Instead he made his excuses and departed from the monks as the path forked, offering a clear choice which Irfan had already made.
It was the wrong choice, for everyone. The young tulku had been removed from the head of the procession two days before its eventual arrival. The senior monks noticed an influx of mysterious young men pretending to be monks and realised they were being infiltrated. They put the tulku’s young retainer on the throne and carried him into the waiting arms of the Chinese authorities who arrested him before his feet had touched the cobblestones.
The young master was disguised as one of the servants and smuggled into a kitchen. For the next eight weeks, he was kept in hiding and moved between the monastery’s many hidden rooms as the Chinese authorities systematically beat and tortured their way towards him through a protective crowd of devoted, but otherwise helpless monks.
Irfan’s choice was similarly ill fated. After another two days travelling alone, he was walking along a paved road when a police car pulled up beside him.
“Where are you going?’ asked an unpleasant looking Chinese policeman.
Irfan didn’t bother to answer. He jumped over a small ditch and began running. Behind him he heard the policeman ordering him to stop. That merely spurred him to run faster.
A shot rang out and he felt a stinging pain in his left leg, as he fell forward onto his face.
At last one of his legs had backed up the threats.
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