Blood on the Shrine

by Chris O'Donoghue

  Vidyatara breathed in sharply. ‘Is that what killed him?’ his voice, almost a whisper.

  ‘It didn’t help.’ said Russell, rising from the floor. ‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to seal this room off.’ The two monks exchanged a worried look.

  ‘But what about the retreat?’ Sanghaketu asked. ‘The shrine room is central to the whole weekend.’

  Russell shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t see any way round it. This man is dead and we don’t know how it happened.’

  ‘Could we move him?’

  ‘Hmm. Let me think.’ Russell folded the glass shard into his handkerchief and carefully placed it in his pocket. ‘There are two other monks here, is that correct?’ Sanghaketu nodded. ‘Are they likely to have been in here while this man…’ he nodded towards the dead monk, ‘has been in here meditating?’

  The two men exchanged a glance. Vidyatara spoke. ‘Er, Dharmasiddhi was in here this morning, cleaning the room. Karunavadra, I don’t know about.’

  Russell couldn’t see how there could be foul play in a Buddhist centre but he needed to make sure. ‘We’d better have them in here so I can talk to them.’

  ‘But what about the others on the retreat?’ Sanghaketu asked, his domed forehead creased with concern. ‘They will be expecting to come in here. It’s what we do on the first night - introduce them to the meditation practices and dedicate the shrine.’

  ‘I’m afraid it won’t be possible. You’ll have to make some excuse and ask them to stay in the house. Now, please will you get your companions?’

  -0-

  The two monks left quietly, one to speak to the retreatants, the other to fetch his companions. Russell clasped his hands behind his back and walked slowly round the room. He stopped in front of the shrine. The almost life-sized golden figure was sited centrally with two tall candlesticks placed symmetrically either side. In front of each was a vase containing fresh flowers, again placed in perfect symmetry, the carefully arranged blooms mirroring one another. Russell smiled in satisfaction and was just about to move on when he stopped and looked again. Peering closer he could see that the vases were very slightly different. Although both were made from clear glass, the one on the left had a geometric pattern engraved into the surface while the other had a series of spirals cut into it. Curious, he thought and moved on. When he reached the two piles of grey blankets he stopped. Something had caught his eye. Something small sparkled, picked out by the overhead electric light. He crouched again, reached down and picked it up. It was another shard of glass. As he stood upright, two new figures came into the room. One was tall with a serene face, the other shorter, a stubble of dark hair on his head and a shadow round his jaw.

  ‘Which of you is, er, Dharmasiddhi? Have I got that right?’

  The smaller man took a pace forward. ‘Yes, that is me.’ His accent was strong, words carefully chosen.

  ‘I understand you were cleaning in here earlier today.’

  ‘That is right.’

  Russell tilted his head to one side. ‘Did anything get broken?’

  A flush rose up the man’s neck and coloured his cheeks. He looked down towards the floor and mumbled. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was it a vase by any chance?’

  The monk looked him in the eye. ‘It was. How you know?’ Russell held out the shard of glass. Dharmasiddhi swallowed. ‘I was carrying both vases. I caught my foot on the blankets. I tripped and dropped one and it shattered.’

  ‘Where did the glass go?’

  ‘Everywhere.’

  ‘On the blankets?’

  ‘Yes. I thought I had cleaned it all up. I must have missed that piece.’

  Russell looked thoughtful. ‘I don’t think it was the only piece you missed.’ He turned to the taller monk. ‘You are?’

  ‘Karunavadra.’ His voice was deep and sonorous.

  ‘And did you come in here today?’

  ‘Yes. I did.’ His faced remained impassive.

  ‘When was that?’

  The monk was quiet for a few moments before he spoke. ‘About four o’clock.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I came in to meditate. I saw Tara Rinpoche and went over to check he was okay.’

  ‘Why did you do that?’ Russell asked, intrigued.

  ‘He is - was - a very experienced meditator. I know that he was able to go very deep and was concerned as it had become very cold. So I wrapped a blanket around his shoulders.’

  ‘Where did you get the blanket from?’ Russell asked. Karunavadra pointed to the pile on the floor. Russell pursed his lips and rubbed his chin. ‘Hmm. Thank you. Can you show me where the telephone is?’

  Dharmasiddhi spoke. ‘It is in our community - the cottage where we live. Come, I will take you.’

  -0-

  ‘Do you think he died of natural causes?’ Russell was in the monks’ compact office in their private quarters. He was speaking to John Crooks, the pathologist back in Collinghurst.

  ‘Difficult to say, without being there. Tell me again how you found the poor unfortunate.’

  ‘He was sitting very still, and had been for some hours apparently. He was cross-legged, in the Lotus position, with his hand folded together in his lap. One of the other monks, seeing that the temperature had dropped, had wrapped a blanket round his shoulders. I think there was a sliver of glass caught in the material and when Karunavadra put the blanket round it went into his jugular. What I don’t understand is why he didn’t feel it and react. Instead he just seems to have bled to death.’

  ‘Did you say he is, or was, a very experienced meditator?’

  ‘Yes, as far as I can make out he’d been meditating for many years and had perfected the ability to go into a deep, trance-like state.’

  Crooks was quiet for a moment and there was just the sound of crackling on the line. Russell was about to speak again when the pathologist answered. ‘Ah … that could be the reason. It is my understanding that through meditation, some yogis are able to reduce heartrate and pulse to such a low level that the body goes into a sort of hibernation. I would imagine that when they are in this state, they can remain unaffected by external conditions or stimuli.’

  ‘Then he may have been unaware of the glass going into his neck?’

  ‘Quite possibly. I may be able to give you a better idea when I can see the body. However, I fear that won’t be for a while, if this weather continues.’

  Russell looked out of the window and although it was now dark he could see the snow falling thickly, lit by the light from within the room. ‘I think you’re right, John. The monks here are anxious to use the shrine room where the body is. What do you suggest?’

  ‘Well. From what you’ve told me, there is no hint of foul play - just an unhappy accident. I presume there must be an outhouse or shed there?’

  ‘I would imagine so. Just a moment, I’ll ask.’ Russell put his hand over the mouthpiece and called out. ‘Hello…’

  Vidyatara appeared in the doorway to the office. ‘Yes?’ Russell passed on the pathologist’s request. ‘There is a brick store where we keep materials for repairs and so on.’ Russell passed the information on to Crooks.

  ‘That sounds fine. With this weather it shouldn’t be difficult to keep the body cool - until I can get over to see it.’

  ‘Thanks, John. I’m sure they’ll be happy with that.’ He was looking at the monk as he spoke. Vidyatara nodded and formed a faint smile with his thin lips. ‘I’ll make sure the body is secure until you can get over here - whenever that will be.’

  ‘Right-ho,’ Crooks said cheerily. ‘Keep in touch… And enjoy your retreat - if you can.’ With that there was a click and he was gone.

  -0-

  Back in the shrine room the other monks had removed the blood-stained blanket from around the dead man’s shoulders and wrapped him in a fresh one. They had also unfolded his arms and legs and laid him out flat, with his hands, one over the other on his abdomen. His face was serene - he loo
ked to be at peace. Vidyatara turned to the policeman. ‘When we have moved the body we will need to perform certain rituals -to help him move on to the next life and to help him to have a peaceful passing.’

  ‘I’m sorry that you’ll have to do it in a cold, uncomfortable outhouse.’ Russell was beginning to feel bad about getting them to move the body out into the cold.

  Vidyatara held up his hand. ‘Normally the ceremonies would take place here but do not worry, we are used to the cold. Where we come from this weather would be considered mild.’ He gave a thin smile. ‘At least one of us will stay with him for the next 24 hours. The others will make sure the retreat runs as smoothly as possible.’

  Russell smiled back. ‘Thank you, I’m sure those here will appreciate that. But I think it’s best if you delay the dedication here. Could you do it in the morning?’

  ‘I think that would be all right. I will go and speak to them.’

  ‘I’ll come with you. I may be of some help.’

  -0-

  Between them Russell and the monk explained as delicately as possible what had happened to Tara Rinpoche. Initially shocked, the retreatants took the news philosophically and were grateful that the retreat would continue as expected.

  At seven the following morning, wearing coats, hats and scarves, they made their way the short distance from the house to the shrine room through the snow, which overnight had fallen heavily and settled in a thick blanket. In the vestibule they shrugged off their outer clothing and slipped out of their shoes. As they entered the main room they bowed towards the shrine and collected cushions and blankets. Arranging themselves in lines, they settled, cross-legged or sitting back on heels, along the long walls. Each carefully wrapped a blanket around their body against the cold and then sat quietly, waiting for the instruction to begin. Russell followed their lead although he found it difficult to get comfortable. Vidyatara, sensing his discomfort, came over and, using folded blankets to support his knees, helped him to settle. Smiling, he left Russell and returned to his place at the side of the shrine; once he was seated he struck a small gong.

  ‘We will start by dedicating the shrine.’ His voice was deep and melodic. ‘Please stand.’ The 12 men and women rose to their feet, shrugging off the blankets. Russell looked round and seeing the others putting their hands together, as if in prayer, followed suit. Vidyatara intoned: ‘We dedicate this shrine to the Three Jewels.’

  ‘We dedicate this shrine to the Three Jewels,’ the retreatants replied in unison, Russell hesitantly joining in.

  The monk went on: ‘To the Buddha, the Ideal of Enlightenment to which we aspire.’ Again the others responded. This continued for several minutes until they reached the last stanza: ‘For the happiness of all beings, for the benefit of all beings, with body, speech, and mind, we dedicate this place.’ Their voices faded away and Russell was aware of the almost total silence. The atmosphere in the shrine room felt magical: the lambent light of the candles on the shrine; the glittering surface of the gold Buddha and the reflected sunlight shining through the small windows, overlooking the white-carpeted garden.

  ‘We will now practice The Mindfulness of Breathing,’ Vidyatara said. ‘Please make yourselves comfortable on your cushion. Let your body relax, close your eyes and become aware of your breath.’ Russell sneaked a look around the room. All the others seemed serene and relaxed. He tried to make his limbs stay cross-legged without aching or going to sleep so he could concentrate on his breath but was finding it hard. However, with the monk’s guidance he found his muscles softening and his breathing slowing…

  Chapter 2

  Shambhala – In Buddhist and Hindu traditions it is a mythical kingdom or pure land, a fabulous place whose reality is visionary or spiritual as much as physical or geographic.

  THE LANDSCAPE looked picture perfect. The fields were covered with a pristine coating of white, sparkling in the winter sun. It was deep enough so that the fences and hedges that formed the boundaries were reduced to amorphous mounds. Trees, skeletal in form, were festooned with shimmering coatings of snow, an occasional bird landing on a branch sending a cascade of flakes spiralling to the ground. In the distance a plume of smoke rose lazily from a chimney but there was no sign of anything moving. Sheep and cows were either under cover or huddled in field margins, waiting for the farmer to bring fodder.

  There was just a single set of tracks in the snow that had built up in the lane, made by a tractor that had passed by earlier. The tracks disappeared as the road turned a bend at the bottom of the hill but there was movement in the distance. At first it was just a dark speck against the white but gradually the shape became a figure, struggling up the hill, following in the track made by the tractor. And as the figure grew closer it took the shape of a man, wearing a coat that was too thin for the weather and shoes unsuitable for the conditions. When he reached the entrance to the retreat centre he paused, wiped the snow off the sign with his sleeve and revealed the name, SHAMBHALA. Trudging up to the front door he knocked and waited.

  Hearing the knock but feeling baffled that anyone would turn up in this weather, Sanghaketu cautiously opened the heavy wooden door. A young man was standing there, bare-headed and shivering, his laboured breathing causing clouds of vapour. ‘Is this the retreat centre?’ he asked, his voice, a shaky guttural growl.

  ‘Ye-es,’ the monk answered hesitantly. ‘What did you want?’

  ‘I’m a traveller,’ the man went on, ‘and I thought, as this is a retreat, you’d take me in.’

  Sanghaketu smiled. ‘It is not normally something that we do, but…’ he gestured outwards with his hand. ‘As the weather is bad you had better come in out of the cold.’

  ‘Thanks,’ the man said, and stepped into the hallway.

  ‘Are you hungry?’

  The man’s face lit up. ‘Starving!’

  ‘I will find you some food. Then I will talk to the others to see if it would be in order for you to stay.’ He led the man into the empty dining room – the others were still meditating – and told him to sit. Going into the kitchen, he filled the kettle then placed it on the stove. He brought out a tray with bread, margarine and jam.

  The man grabbed at the bread, smeared it with spread and jam and started hungrily wolfing down great mouthfuls, barely pausing for breath between bites. Sanghaketu also gave him a steaming mug of tea and a plate of biscuits. In no time the plate held nothing but crumbs and the scalding tea had been emptied down the man’s throat. He sat back in his chair, closed his eyes, took a deep breath and belched noisily. Then looking up he saw the monk staring at him. ‘Sorry! I haven’t eaten anything since yesterday.’

  The monk nodded. ‘I am glad you found it satisfying. Now if you would wait here I will see what can be arranged.’ He gave a small bow and left.

  The man looked around the high-ceilinged room. It was plainly decorated, the walls maroon below the dado and cream above, reminiscent of the livery of a pre-grouping railway carriage*. The tables were laid with knives, plates and spoons. Looking through the large serving hatch to the kitchen he could see a catering-sized saucepan on the stove and he could hear the hiss of gas and the sound of bubbling coming from the pan. A stack of earthenware bowls stood on the countertop. Looking the other way he could see the glow from the coal stove and he turned his chair towards it and held out his hands, feeling the warmth. He smiled; this was better than the bed and breakfast he thought he was going to stay at in Uckfield.

  -0-

  Russell followed the instructions, concentrating on his breath and almost forgot the cramp in his calves. But, after half an hour, when the final gong had sounded, he was relieved to be able to stretch and ease the tension in his legs. However, he was pleasantly surprised to find his mind was much clearer than it had been before and he felt relaxed. He looked around and could see by the serene look on the faces of the others that they too had benefited from the meditation. Quietly they got up and made their way to the anteroom where feet were pushed into shoes
and shoulders shrugged into coats. Outside the sunlight sparkled on the crisp white snow as they made their way along the cleared path, back to the house for breakfast. Filing in, they noted the newcomer sitting warming himself by the stove. The nature of an all-welcoming retreat centre rendered them only mildly curious. Russell, however, with the nose of a policeman, was a little more interested. He nodded to the man then took his place in the queue for porridge. This was ladled out from the pot that had been simmering on the stove. Honey, brown sugar, a bowl of dried fruit and milk – fresh and soya – were on a side table, to be added to taste. When he had been served he found a chair next to the man and sat at the table.

  ‘Hello. Have you come to join us?’

  The man squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. ‘Not exactly…’

  Russell raised an eyebrow. ‘You could hardly be just passing…’

  The man gave a sheepish grin. ‘No, I walked from Buxted station. I was heading for Brighton on the early train but the line’s blocked near Uckfield so that was as far as it went.’

  ‘But that’s a good mile and a half away. What made you head for here?’

  ‘There was a poster advertising this place. I guessed if there were monks of some sort they’d offer me their hospitality. I didn’t realise how far it was until I was halfway. Then it was too late to turn back. I just kept going in the tracks made by some farmer on his tractor.’

  ‘Mmm. I see. You’d better get yourself a bowl of porridge before it’s all gone.’ The man was getting eagerly to his feet when Russell asked: ‘By the way, what’s your name?’

  ‘Oh, Dave… Dave Elsdale.’ As he stood he glanced across the heads of those eating and Russell saw him start as he caught sight of someone across the room. For a moment recognition stopped him in his tracks and he blanched, but he then quickly composed himself and moved to the serving hatch. Curious, Russell looked round and stared straight into the eyes of the man who had caused such shock - his roommate, Laurie. The man blinked then looked back at his food.