The Trail to Buddha's Mirror

by Don Winslow

  True, he thought, but there is a personal one. A moral reason. When one orders the death of an innocent, one must have the character to watch it.

  Xao peered into the mists below him to search for his soul.

  Simms was just goddamn miserable. He had spent the night in a damp, dirty, rat-infested Buddhist Disneyland, had to squat over an open trench to take a dump, and now he was standing in the cold fog, trying to choke down a bowl of rice gruel, waiting for the sun to rise so he could climb a few thousand more steps.

  He yearned for the comforts of the Peak: a decent meal, a good bottle of bourbon, a young lady wrapped in silk. The thought of spending the rest of his life in the PRC made his stomach turn more than the rice gruel did. It was so dull here, so frigging monotonous, so spartan.

  The thought galvanized him, made him urge the sun to hurry up. If he didn’t do what he had to do—grease Neal Carey—he might very well have to spend his remaining days here in this communist paradise. If Carey made it back to the States and slobbered about what the mean Mr. Simms did to him, the folks at the Company might notice the conflict with his job description. They might start asking some unfortunate questions. Then even those shit-for-brains might figure out that he was taking a regular paycheck from the Chinese. And that could get ugly. Probably even that stupid geek Pendleton had put it together.

  He unzipped the long case and pulled out the rifle. The Chinese 7.62 Type 53 was by no means his favorite, but it would do. He favored bolt action, and the telescopic sight adjusted nicely. He sat down behind a large rock and screwed the sight onto the barrel. Then he hoisted the rifle to his shoulder, braced it against his cheek, and checked the sight out in the gathering light.

  He spotted a band of monkeys in some bamboo about two hundred yards down the slope. He thought about his confrontation the day before with the fucking little bastards. I’ll show them an ambush. He centered the cross hairs on the chest of the largest monkey in the group, and squeezed the trigger. The shot threw high and to the left. He adjusted the sights accordingly, and aimed again. The monkey continued to gnaw on some exotic piece of fruit. The bullet slammed squarely into his chest and sent him tumbling down the hill.

  Okey-dokey, Simms thought as he slung the rifle over his shoulder. He tried to force the excitement of imminent revenge out of his system, but every time he thought about struggling out of that fucking river, he got angry. He had damned near drowned, and he had sure as hell scraped the shit out of his legs crawling onto those rocks and pulling himself out. So, while revenge might be unprofessional …

  He walked back to the old dining hall to find Peng and that other little slant. He’d probably need a crowbar to pry them from their rice bowls. He’d just about needed a gun to force them to walk in the dark last night, the little chickenshits. What did they think flashlights were for, the movies? Well, anyway, they’d picked up a couple of hours before packing it in for the night. Now it was time to get moving again.

  Neal struggled out of the kang. Just turning to put his feet on the floor hurt, and bending over to put on his shoes was an exercise in advanced masochism. Lan wanted to do it for him, but Neal figured that if he couldn’t put his own shoes on, he damned well couldn’t climb the rest of the mountain.

  Lan diplomatically withdrew as Neal winced with pain, and reappeared a few minutes later with two steaming bowls of porridge.

  “What’s that?” Neal asked.

  “Congee,” she replied. “Rice gruel.”

  Neal ate the Chinese version of oatmeal gratefully—the thin cereal warmed his stomach in the early morning cold. He ate standing up; he didn’t want to put himself through the small torture of having to sit down and get up again. They finished their breakfast quietly, the tension between them palpable. The mountain’s summit would be the deciding point in their relationship, and they both felt it but didn’t want to talk about it. First they must get to the top of the mountain.

  The trail started gently and led through a thick cedar forest. It was cold and dark, and Neal shivered. The altitude was starting to get to him, and he noticed that he was starting to breath heavily. He couldn’t help but notice; each breath stabbed his rib cage.

  They walked for about twenty minutes to the far edge of the woods. Neal looked ahead on the trail and wished that he hadn’t; the steps ahead seemed to go straight up.

  “Three Look Stairway,” Li said. “Pilgrims look at it three times before they want to climb it.”

  “I’ve looked at it three times,” Neal answered, “and I still don’t want to climb it.”

  The grade was so steep that his knees practically touched his chest with every step. He consciously pushed off the balls of his feet, trying to concentrate on his legs as his ribs burned and stabbed him. He had to stop after the first twenty steps.

  Li turned around. “Please go back to the monastery. I will bring Robert down.”

  “Right.”

  “I promise.”

  “I started out to climb the fucking mountain. I am going to climb the fucking mountain.”

  “You are a fool.”

  “I’m not arguing.”

  She turned and started back up. He caught his breath and went after her. Yi, ar, yi, ar, yi, aaarrgh! His ribs threatened him. He felt the sun begin to beat on his hunched-over back. Yi, ar, yi, ar … yi … ar

  … yi … ar … yi … ar…….yi. He stopped to rest again. He wanted to collapse on the stairs, to lie down and rest, but he knew he probably couldn’t get up again, so he forced himself to take another step. Wrapping one arm around his ribs, he took another step. The pain nauseated him. Another step. More pain. Another. Yi, ar, yi, ar. Another rest.

  He started out again. The trail curved sharply and then opened out onto the edge of a cliff. To Neal’s right a sheet or rock rose as high as he could see. To his left—much to closely to his left—was a drop of at least a thousand feet.

  Don’t look down, Neal warned himself. Isn’t that what they say in all the movies?

  He peeked again. His stomach lurched and his head spun. That’s probably why they say not to look down, he thought. He felt as if he were hanging on to the edge of the world as he began his trudge up the mountain again. Yi, ar, yi, ar, yi …

  Just focus on counting, he thought. Don’t think about the pain, don’t think about the fear, don’t think about Pendleton, or about her, and for God’s sake, whatever you do, don’t think about the fact that they’re gaining on you. At this pace, they have to be gaining on you. Gaining fast. But don’t think about that. Think about yi, ar, yi, ar… yi… ar … yi … ar … for two solid hours straight up the hill.

  Li was waiting for him on a broad landing.

  She pointed up ahead of her. He could see a huge peak, shaped like a big nose, rising above the rest of the rocks.

  “The summit,” she said.

  “How far?”

  “Four hours. Perhaps for you six.”

  Perhaps for me death.

  “Is it all this steep?”

  “Most. One place is gentle, almost level. But, I am afraid, it is also very frightening,”

  Swell.

  “Why frightening?”

  “The path is very narrow.”

  “Over a very long fall?”

  She nodded and frowned. Then she smiled and added, “But after that, it is a short climb to summit.”

  Neal looked at the summit again. Fuck you, Silkworm’s Eyebrow! I’m coming and you can’t stop me! You took your best shot and I’m still on my feet, still climbing!

  “Let’s get going,” he said.

  Xiao Wu crossed the Bridge of Deliverance. The spray from the waterfall felt good. The day was very hot, even up here on the mountain, and his feet hurt. All he had to wear were his leather city shoes, and the blisters had already started to form the day before. Today they were raw, and he wished he could stop and dip his feet into the pool below the bridge.

  But the American was setting an unrelenting pace. Even fat Peng was keeping up
with it, so Wu thought that he had to do it as well. Besides, they were still angry with him for letting Frazier get away, and they only brought him along so he could point out exactly where the fugitive had started up the mountain.

  Perhaps, Wu thought, I should have misled them. That would have been treason, of course, but why is the American carrying the rifle? Why is the American here at all? It doesn’t seem right.

  They were going to kill Frazier, he knew that, and that didn’t seem right, either.

  He forced the thought from his mind and picked up his pace.

  Neal collapsed at the top of Three Look Stairway. He turned over on his back and gasped with pain and fatigue. He didn’t even try to stop the tears from rolling down his cheeks. His chest heaved and his ribs hurt like they were breaking all over again. He could barely hear Li walking back down the path toward him.

  In fact, he could barely hear at all. An incredible roar of rushing water echoed in the canyon and reverberated inside his head. The path was enclosed in a heavy mist.

  Maybe the nuns were right about Purgatory, Neal thought.

  “Thundering Terrace!” Li yelled. “The dragon and the thunder live below!”

  Neal nodded.

  “You are in pain?”

  Neal rolled his eyes and nodded.

  “There are caves just up the path! We will rest!”

  She helped Neal to his feet. He staggered behind her, out of the mist and onto a broader terrace, behind which a cave burrowed into the cliff. She helped him to sit down. Even seated, they could now see the path below them. They could see the roofs of several monasteries, the trail below, the torturous stairs. They could see three figures climbing the trail near where Neal had fallen the day before.

  “They have followed you,” Li said. She sounded devastated.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “You should have let me go at Leshan.”

  “You’d be dead if I had.”

  “It would still be better.”

  They sat quietly for a moment.

  “Two Chinese and one American.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “By the way they walk.”

  She stood up. “The resting is finished.”

  He struggled to his feet. “We can still make it, can’t we? Get to Pendleton in time to hide? To keep running?”

  She stood for a moment, calculating. “Perhaps. Perhaps. There is left the Eighty-four Switchbacks, the Elephants’s Saddle, and the Buddha’s Ladder. Perhaps three hours.”

  “We can make it.”

  “We can at least warn Father.”

  It doesn’t sound good, Neal thought. The Saddle sounded easy, but the Eighty-four Switchbacks? A ladder? Their pursuers were maybe three hours behind. Maybe. But they were gaining.

  “You’d better go ahead,” he said.

  “They will kill you.”

  “Nah, they’ll just criticize me severely. I can take it.”

  “They will kill you. Come.”

  She started out, and he fell in behind her. Five minutes’ walk along the shelf took them to the first switchback. He looked up and saw what looked like an endless series of stone fire escapes zigzagging up the precipice. The first few switchbacks were fairly easy, but grew steeper as they worked higher up the mountain. About ten switchbacks in, the grade became almost as tough as Three Look Staircase, and Neal found his knees brushing his chest as he ascended the steps.

  The sight of their hunters gave him a good shot of adrenaline, which lasted for a good forty switchbacks. After it had worn off, Neal had to search for a motivator. Fear didn’t do it, neither did anger. Duty gave him five switchbacks, loyalty another seven, love another twelve. Contempt only got him one, pride less than one-half, a reprise of loyalty got him over the next difficult two, guilt took him for three, and then he dropped.

  “Fourteen more and then level!” Li Lan shouted down from the switchback above.

  Neal lay in a fetal position on the steps. Fourteen? I don’t have fourteen more steps. I have nothing left.

  “Go ahead!”

  From the corner of his eye he saw her stand for a moment, and then begin a slow trudge away. She’s beat too, he thought. Christ, I’ve lost everything.

  And when you’ve lost everything, you have nothing left to lose. Clever boy. He pushed himself up with his hands and stood on unsteady feet. I’ve lost everything, so what the hell? When you’ve lost everything, there’s nothing left to do but keep going.

  Come on, one foot in front of the other. Just one, and then just one more. Just one and then one more. Just one. Yi. Yi. Yi. Yi. Fuck the mountain. Fuck Mr. Peng. Fuck Simms. Fuck Friends of the Fucking Family. Step. Step. Fuck my whole stupid, useless life. Step. Step. Yi. Yi. Yi. Yi. Look behind you. The bastards are gaining. Really stepping out. Well, boys, wait until you hit old Three Look Staircase. Wait till you come up the greatly beloved Eighty-four Switchbacks. We’ll see how chipper you are when you step over my dead body.

  This huge guy comes into a bar, see, and asks, “Which one of you bastards is O‘Reilly?” Step. Step. And this skinny guy sitting at the bar raises his hand and says, “I’m O‘Reilly.” Step. And the big guy grabs him by the neck, turns him around, punches him three times in the face, step, slams him to the floor, step, kicks him in the groin, picks him up, step, step, hits him in the stomach, throws him down again, step, step, step, kicks him in the balls, stomps on his face, step, step, step … step, step … and storms out of the bar. Step. Step. Step. Then the skinny guys sits up, step, starts to laugh, step, step, step, and says, step, “Boy, did I put one over on him!” Step, step, step.

  “I’m not O’Reilly!”

  Step, step, step.

  Boy, am I putting one over on them.

  Step.

  Simms spotted them first, but then again he was looking the hardest, and they were outlined pretty clearly against the cliff face. One of them looks hurt, Simms thought. The other is dog-tired.

  He nudged Peng and pointed. “There are your puppies!”

  Peng was bathed in sweat. Three Look Staircase was worth more than three looks.

  “Will we catch up with them?”

  “If you can shake your ass!”

  “Remember, I want her and Pendleton alive!”

  Maybe you do, Simms thought. But I don’t want to take the chance of one of them being part of a spy swap some day and telling all kinds of stories in the debrief.

  “Remember,” Peng said. “They are evidence!”

  Corpses are evidence, too, Simms thought.

  “Let’s worry about that when we catch them, all right?”

  Simms saw that this fired up Old Peng and made him waddle a little faster. The kid behind them was fading.

  It doesn’t matter, Simms thought. As long as I don’t fade. And I don’t have to catch them, I just have to get in range. The bullets will catch them.

  Neal lay down at the top of the eighty-fourth switchback. The path in front of him was fairly level, just a mild grade across a bottomless chasm. Li was laying down also—on her back, rhythmically slowing her breathing, getting ready for the next phase.

  “I’ve lost sight of them,” Neal gasped.

  “That is bad. It means they are closer. We cannot see them because of the angle.”

  “I’ll bet the resting is finished.”

  She stood up. “We are on the Elephant’s Saddle. If we cross quickly, we can reach the summit ahead of them. I think, perhaps, in time.”

  Neal knew a cue when he heard one, and forced himself up. He indulged in a look over the edge of the trail. It was a mistake. You wouldn’t want to go off either side without a parachute. You wouldn’t want to go off either side with a parachute.

  “Is this the time to tell you that I’m afraid of heights?” Neal asked.

  “No,” she said as she stepped out.

  No sense of humor, Neal thought. Maybe I should try the O‘Reilly joke on her. He picked his way carefully along the dirt trail. Bits of sha
le slid out from under his foot and rattled off the edge. Neal resisted the temptation to watch them fall into eternity. His rib cage felt as if Reggie Jackson had used it for batting practice. His legs quivered and his ankles shook. He didn’t even want to check in with his feet. He heard noise and looked up to see Li Lan break into a trot ahead of him.

  He limped along the path.

  Xao’s driver handed his field glasses to his boss.

  “They are on the Saddle,” he said.

  Xao looked through the glasses. He could make out the figure of Li Lan, strong but tired, jogging up the slope. Carey seemed to be limping far behind her.

  “He is injured, I think,” Xao observed.

  “Or merely unfit,” the driver answered.

  Xao handed back the glasses.

  “What about Peng? Can you see him?”

  “I lost them when they entered the Thundering Terrace. They must be well up the switchbacks now.”

  “You said there were three.”

  “Yes, and I could swear one is a Westerner. The one with the rifle.”

  “Impossible. Probably a Yi tribesman, a hunter.” The driver shrugged.

  “How long?” Xao asked. “An hour at the most. Longer for him.”

  “Go and get things ready.”

  “Yes, Comrade Secretary.”

  An hour, Xao thought. After all these years, one hour to the family reunion.

  She reached the Buddha’s Ladder well before he did, of course. It wasn’t a ladder at all, but a severe rise up the side of the summit to the edge of a precipice. On the other side was the Buddha’s Mirror. There were few actual steps here, mostly just a treacherous, slippery dirt path.

  She stopped and waited. The view from here was lovely, she thought. Rock peaks seemed to rise straight up from verdant bamboo jungles. Swirling rivers and waterfalls like sapphire brocade on green silk. The entire Sichuan Valley stretched out in front of her. Behind her, Emei’s final peak, gray and austere, waited for her. The sight of her own soul waited for her, and she had waited a long time for it.

  The sunset would be scarlet. She could tell that already. How appropriate, she thought, that she would meet herself under a red sky.

  “Hurry up!” she shouted to him.