Craving

by Kristina Meister

  The servant came over, pointedly tip-toeing to keep from mussing the lines.

  “The lady wants tea?” he asked in a thick accent.

  If the timeline was accurate, then I hadn’t eaten in a couple of weeks, and, stubborn, I refused to go beyond the point of no return. “Yes, the lady does.”

  He obliged, setting the tea tray on a large flat rock beside his master, though he refused to look at me. When I held out my hand for my teacup, he shied away from it deftly, and instead left the cup on the tray for me to take. I recalled the things I had read about modern Buddhist monasteries and their practices. Monks avoided women, so as to cleanse their mind of impure thoughts. I still got the impression he didn’t like me very much.

  He poured a second cup from a separate pot and carefully handed that to my silent companion. When he retrieved a lemon wedge and dropped it into the cup, I realized that the liquid was just hot water. I eyed my tea and swished it around, suddenly feeling like an extravagant heathen.

  Finished with his chore, the monk stepped cautiously off the sand, again trying to make as tiny an imprint as possible, and then arranged himself at the edge of the little oasis of sand like a sitting hen.

  My friend watched him go and as soon as the man found a comfortable position and was paying attention, he shoved his hands into the sand and dug a great hole. With youthful glee, he swirled his fingers through the lines, upset mounds and furrows, and in one final flurry of movement that sent sand into my clothes and hair, smoothed the entire plain around himself as if making a snow angel. Then he glanced at the monk and smiled.

  I take it he doesn’t make mandalas.

  I giggled, thinking that he seemed like a large child, playing in a sand box in his best clothes, just to spite his parents. The monk bowed, but I could see the frown on his face. It occurred to me then that he must have just raked the lines, for there had been no footprints of the tree-climber’s trek to his perch.

  I tried to blink an apology, but got nowhere.

  My friend looked at my cup and nudged his head, so I sipped it politely. It was a creamy green, with earthy back notes and just a hint of a floral nose, and it rolled around in my stomach warmly. It was also very strong, and before I had even finished drinking it, I felt the kick of the caffeine. Jinx would be glowing happily.

  As I swirled it around my tongue, I thought of the ‘nanobot’ metaphor. If it was accurate, Jinx could probably manufacture caffeine in his own body like a cocoa plant, but I had no idea if that would have some kind of effect on the homeostasis he talked of. I wondered then, if I could interrupt the drug, stop its effects by convincing my body to ignore it. If I could, then poison would be one less thing I’d have to worry about in that horrible place. I made a mental note to try it later, if the near future allowed me another opportunity to go into the jhana, which it most certainly would.

  My companion was sitting amicably, awaiting my attention without intruding upon my thoughts. I tossed a casual smile at him and he responded, the bright yellow lemon wedge covering his teeth completely.

  I laughed, surprising myself and our chaperone, but could not stop. I kept laughing until long after he took the rind out of his mouth and set it on the saucer. It seemed that all my pent up emotions saw the tide, and like drowning rats, clung to debris in hopes of finding dry land. I laughed until I was empty, until my sides hurt.

  “Thanks for that,” I said, wiping my eyes.

  He put his hands together and bowed over them.

  I set the cup aside and leaned forward, dropping my voice. Ursula’s gift might not work on him, but I had to try and get some truth out of this meeting. I watched him closely and asked my test question. “Is this a vow of silence, or are you just a quiet person?”

  He blinked, tilted into my confidence, held up a finger, then leaned back looking satisfied, as if he’d just uttered an entire soliloquy and been applauded.

  Amused, I took the hint. He avoided gifts by simply not participating. It was like Arthur’s Zen, all done in silence, each meaning unique to the individual watching.

  “If I didn’t know any better, I’d assume you weren’t speaking out of spite.”

  He frowned delicately, for obvious comedic effect.

  “That’s what he’ll think, you know.”

  He gave a minute shrug, as if to say he had no control over anything that our jailer chose to feel.

  “How long will he leave me here with you?”

  He shrugged again. His robe dislodged and slid down his shoulder.

  “Will it be a while, do you think?”

  The little monk sitting on the rock came to life suddenly. “Hours sometimes. Long time. Last girl here for whole day.”

  My heart skipped a beat. The last girl. He must have meant Eva.

  “Was she blond?” I asked, trying to sound casual. “Her hair, was it blond?”

  The man nodded, though it was clear he did not want to talk about it anymore, and perhaps felt he should not have mentioned it in the first place. I nodded stiffly and lay back on the warm sand, hoping he wouldn’t bury me and make designs over my body while I slept as revenge.

  “I hope you won’t mind if I pop out for a bit,” I said to my companion.

  He shook his head, and made a hand sign that to me plainly said he was comparing me to a bird flying to freedom. I grinned and closed my eyes.

  If they weren’t going to give me an opportunity to escape bodily, well, then, I would just wander around the astral plane. Short of killing me, they could not stop me.

  Part of me was anxious to get back to Arthur, to reveal what I had seen, ask him if he knew my silent conversationalist, tell him about Moksha’s strange nervous breakdown, and Eva’s visits to the Vihara. The other part of me wanted to see if, in this round of concentration, I’d somehow manifest Karl’s or Moksha’s gifts. I wasn’t sure if it was possible, but I might as well try. It might come in handy, especially if I wanted to teach that asshole a lesson in humility.

  I went straight to Arthur like a bee to honey and found him, not at Jinx’s side, but standing in a darkened room. The tiny auras of hundreds of lit candles flickered, illuminating a large, golden sculpture on a low platform. It sat in contentment and utter acceptance, one hand nestled in its lap, the other raised in the semblance of a wave.

  It was a temple and Arthur was looking the Buddha right in the eye. In the background, monks went about their business, cleaning, praying, watching Arthur without watching him. In tiny glances, they took in his seemingly disrespectful demeanor and said nothing.

  Arthur, I murmured to his psyche.

  His chin dipped in welcome, but his eyes remained fixed on the Buddha’s face.

  Shouldn’t you kneel or something?

  “This is not my religion,” he said, almost surprising me right out of my meditation.

  Oh?

  “It was never meant to be a religion.”

  The look in his eye seemed almost confrontational, and I could imagine why. It was not the Buddha he disliked; it was the existence of the statue that upset him. Arthur was against the entire idea of a messianic leader, and I could see it in the cold blue stare he gave the golden face.

  Freedom from ritual.

  He nodded.

  A withered old man in a pumpkin-colored robe tottered toward Arthur from a door at the side of the platform. Beside him walked a younger monk, who occasionally put a hand out to assist him.

  They’re going to kick you out if you keep glaring at their icon and talking to yourself.

  “They know what I am,” he said quietly, dipping his chin in welcome.

  So this is the monastery you told Sam to call?

  “Yes.”

  The old man said something in what sounded like Cantonese and bowed as low as his crooked back would let him. I wondered how old he was to look so gnarled with age, for it seemed to me that men of Asian descent did not show the effects of time until there were many years tallied behind their names that it dwindled in signifi
cance.

  Arthur spoke to him for several moments, his smooth tongue making easy work of strange syllables. It was astonishing how many languages he spoke, but then again, if I had forever, I could probably pick up a few things too.

  It’s not a hypothetical anymore.

  If I had been a slave to my own neurochemistry, I might have felt uneasy at the notion of facing eternity. As it was, in the jhana, I was fine with the idea. If the Sangha were not there to constantly perplex and endanger me, I could see myself considering the many hobbies I would eventually master, like knitting, acrobatics, or playing competitive backgammon.

  “Is there such a thing?” Arthur mumbled, while the old man conferred with his companion.

  You know, I really have no idea. What’s that Japanese game with the white and black chips?

  “Go.”

  Huh? Where?

  “It is called Go.”

  Oh. Do you know how to play it?

  “I lived in ancient Japan,” he said quietly, as if I could forget that he was so well traveled, “where it was very popular. Someday I will teach you.”

  No thanks. Knowing you, you’d probably be trying to make a pretty design and win totally by accident.

  He continued to converse with the monk while I waited to reveal my newest information to him. It seemed that they were hashing out a difficult arrangement of some kind. The younger man’s brows were furrowed in concern and he periodically glanced at his elder to gauge the old man’s reaction to whatever news Arthur was disclosing.

  What are you to them?

  “Nothing,” he said. To my amusement, the little old man seemed not to mind Arthur’s spontaneous bouts of English directed at the air. Indeed, he would wait patiently and look around as if searching for signs of me.

  So how do they know you?

  “They . . .”

  Let me guess. They found you.

  “Yes.”

  Is there a metaphysical website that you all leave personal ads in, because I need to get rid of an old freezer and the futon in my attic.

  Suddenly, the old man turned at looked directly at me, as if he could plainly find my outline in space. It unnerved me, because somehow, instinctively, I knew he was just a plain, old, garden variety human being.

  “You’re the one they need to speak to,” Arthur replied.

  What? Me? How can he see me?

  “He is very insightful. They’re waiting, Lilith. Tell them what you have to say.”

  What do I have to say? I mused, joyfully confused.

  “Tell them about the man in the tree,” he prodded.

  If I had been standing there, I would probably have choked on my own spit, but in the jhana, it seemed like a perfectly normal leap of understanding for Arhtur to make, even though it did surprise me a bit.

  I can’t keep any secrets from you, can I?

  Arthur smiled. “No, but knowing you, that is probably fortunate.”

  Are you calling me a trouble-maker?

  Arthur shrugged and gestured to the old man, who was still staring fixedly at my lack of a position. He said something. Arthur translated.

  “Have you seen him?”

  I am in a place they call the Vihara. I think it’s out in the grasslands. They just introduced me to a man who doesn’t speak. He’s wearing a golden robe.

  What the old man said next, needed no translation. “Ananda!” he cried happily and placed his hands in a prayerful position. I would have chuckled if I could have. I wondered if Unger had felt deflated when Arthur told him that he was not Ananda.

  I got the impression Eva had seen him before too. Do you know anything about that?

  “Yes, the Sangha arranged meetings between your sister and Ananda, but always at a different location, and until now, we had no idea where they kept him.” I thought of Arthur’s questions to me the last time I had spied on him. He had asked me if I had met anyone else, because he had known Ananda was there somewhere, waiting to be found. And you came here, knowing I would be able to tell them what they wanted to know, because the Sangha would try the same thing with me!

  “Yes,” he replied unabashedly. The conversation with the old man continued until their business concluded. Happy and supported on both sides, the old man puttered away, too excited to bother with an immortal and his imaginary friend.

  Arthur turned back to the statue with a tiny shake of his head.

  What?

  “He will not get what he wants.”

  What’s that?

  Arthur sighed. “To see Ananda again, before he dies. We both know this is not a possibility.”

  Again? And how do you know the old man won’t see Ananda again? I protested, thinking that if a man had lived that long, he at least deserved the benefit of the doubt.

  “Because we both know when he will die,” Arthur disclosed, glancing my way.

  What? You can tell, like, the exact date and time?

  “Yes,” he said matter-of-factly.

  Oh. Well, that sucks.

  His left brow twitched. “It is unfortunate. He loves Ananda very much.”

  I scanned the room. So these are the Guardians who paid Eva?

  “Yes.”

  Was she hired to find Ananda? And why are they so obsessed with him? Is he their leader? A sudden thought came to me. Ananda had sat, in fervid meditation, concentrating on the single purpose: to attain enlightenment so that he could recite. Had he, like Ursula, gotten exactly what he’d wished for? And if Jinx was right, about it all being Ananda’s fault, then how could he too possess a coping mechanism? If the idea that triggered such horrible transformations was built into the sutras Ananda created, how could he be affected by it?

  Could even holding the thought in your head be enough? It was concerning, especially since I had no idea what the thought was. Imagining it worming its way through my personality, eating away at the core of me, was terrifying. My pity for the Sangha grew.

  His memory, I said to Arthur, it wasn’t just an irenic memory. It wasn’t human.

  “You are becoming quite wise in your immortality, my dear. It is true. Ananda has been cursed with a perfect memory that he cannot escape, as the human mind can only hold so much. When the Sangha kidnapped him, they endangered him in a way they cannot imagine.”

  Kidnapped?

  “The man who died in Sam’s shop was one of his handlers,” he explained. “After Ananda recited the sutras, he saw how things had changed. Eventually, he went out on his own. He lived in monasteries and such, but was always followed by those who knew who he was. When he decided to attain the Parinirvana . . .”

  What’s Parinirvana? I asked.

  “Some would say it is the final level of the jhana,” Arthur clarified doubtfully. “The final Nirvana where death and life entangle. A stage beyond death.”

  Beyond death? How can an immortal go beyond death? Isn’t he already?

  He crossed his arms. “It is perhaps not real death, but simply seems like it to all those watching. It is said to be impossible to return from, that the body lays in a deathlike state for many days, immune to decay. And then the person moves on. If Ananda achieved it and returned, he would be the only one. In any case, Ananda began a new life. Only to be surrounded once more by those who came to revere him for his harmonious character.”

  How ironic.

  “Indeed. Eventually, a group formed around him, his own circle of followers, and they set about taking care of him, just as the Sangha had done for the Buddha. Eventually, as these enterprises do, the circle grew, organized, laid out goals. However, their mission is one of watchfulness; they are record keepers, an entire society of rememberers, and because Ananda believes the Buddha did not desire followers, he refuses to aid their enlightenment.”

  I could see then why Arthur was waiting. The little old man was returning, making his slow way across the lovely garden, over a tiny decorative bridge that arched over a small stream. The poor gentleman; as much as he loved Ananda, he did not merit bein
g saved. It was heartbreaking. I realized how blessed I was not to sit at Death’s table and challenge him to a game of backgammon.

  So they’re all still human? They’re not like the Sangha?

  “They live and die, and over time, have come to revere Ananda’s immortality to such a degree, that he was ensconced in their shrines and temples. He is a saint to them and cannot ever be free of it.”

  Why?

  “If he were to go into the world, he would be confronted with a great many things it would be impossible for him to forget.”

  They protect him from himself.

  “Yes. To this day, Ananda is moved to safe houses every lifetime or so, the latest being a Vihara in the Texas desert. The monastery is always the same in every way, and because of this there is nothing new for him to remember, thus he is not buried by the weight of time.”

  Why did they have to move him? Why not keep him in the same monastery?

  “At first, to benefit from his teachings. However, most recently, he was moved for his safety. He was being tracked.”

  Other monks trailed behind the elder, obviously anxious to speak to Arthur, but respectfully matching their pace to his slower one.

  Tracked by the Sangha.

  The old man lifted a hand and swatted at the air, shoving a greeting at Arthur as if it was too much of a burden. Arthur gave a graceful reply. “Yes.”

  Then they knew what he had done?

  “Sometime in the last century, the man who imprisoned you came to believe that Ananda held the key.”

  Karl? Who is he? Did you know him?

  “Not well. He was a srotapanna, of the outer circle, but he is not the same man he once was. He achieved right liberation long after the Sangha was already formed.”

  Through the course of their quest to find a way to reverse-engineer their cure, the Sangha had begun testing the sutras, seeing what they did to regular people. It was only after those people kept leaping into traffic that it was the sutras themselves that were tainted. They must have realized it was not the Buddha’s fault, it was Ananda’s. If they had found out Ananda was still alive, what would they do?

  “After the Sangha targeted Ananda, he was brought to the United States, sometime in the seventies.”