“Save me from what?”
Pema seemed lost in thought. Then a big grin spread across her face. “Save from death. Life is picture.” She pointed at the paintings on the cave wall. “Life not real. We forget we same as ancestor spirit. And we never die.”
Yeshua watched her, stunned. Could it be that simple? Did separation between man and man—and man and Yahweh—begin when Adam and Eve ate of the fruit of the garden? Was separation an illusion? Could it be that everyone was still one and united with God? This woman, living on her own, had just expressed one of the most profound messages he had ever heard. “How do you know this?”
“Spirits tell me.”
Yeshua scratched his head. She talked of spirits in the same way that he spoke of God. The words of her ancestors were no less divine than the words of the Buddha. Yeshua leaned back, watching her. Not only had she saved his life, but she had changed it. When he left Kapilavatthu, he had thought there was nothing more he could learn. How wrong he was!
He brought the bowl to his lips and sipped. The porridge had chilled, and oily yak butter coated the top. He took another sip, bigger this time, and handed the bowl back to Pema.
She finished it off without pause.
Yeshua thought of his father all day long. At night, Abba came to him in dreams.
Don’t cry, son. I am still with you.
When Yeshua begged him for forgiveness, his father shook his head.
You are loved, and love does not judge.
Abba’s words comforted him to some extent, but he still knew he had let his family down. He should have stayed and married a rich girl. He could have brought wealth and prestige to the family and made his parents proud. But instead he had selfishly followed his own dreams. And look where they had brought him. He was a grown man, but still a student. He had achieved nothing.
Remember, son, Abba whispered, the spirit is a bridge between time and eternity. Neither day nor night, neither old age nor death or sorrow can cross that bridge. No one but the man who becomes one with spirit, whose night becomes day, because in the world of spirit, light is everlasting.
Yeshua woke with a stomachache. He knew what he had to do. He didn’t want to seek learning anymore if it meant losing everyone he loved. First Kahanji, now his father. He wanted peace. And how could he teach others if he couldn’t quiet his own suffering?
Pema nursed Yeshua back to health. During the day, he rested, and in the evening they talked of God, spirits, and life. Much of what she said surprised him, and joy seemed to be her natural state of being. When Yeshua asked about her secret to happiness, she shrugged.
“I remember only good things. People who hurt me are not real. If they do bad, is only dream in my head. When I remember bad things, I hurt. So I forget bad things. We all are same spirit. Why I want to hurt myself? Forgive is easy.”
“But what if oneness is not real?” Yeshua needed to hear more.
“What if world is not real? Instead of fight world, change your thought. See world as good, people as good. You want to be right—or happy?”
Yeshua wanted to take her in his arms and embrace her. Hold her tight. She was not the prettiest woman he had ever met, but her soul was beyond beautiful.
Chapter Twenty-FOUR
Himalaya Mountains, AD 24
“You must go now.”
Her words hit him like icy rain. Pema had returned from milking the yaks at dawn and set down the vat of milk on the cave floor. He waited for her to laugh at the joke, but she stayed silent as she stoked the fire.
“Now?” he asked.
“Yes. First eat, then go.”
He had never intended to stay forever. Of course not. But he had enjoyed her company and her simple life, and had even allowed himself to think about what their children would look like. It seemed only natural after all the nights they had spent talking about God and spirits that their lives would forever be intertwined.
“Why?” Yeshua’s voice quivered.
“Time to go.” She chopped the plants, ground the herbs, mixed them with butter and milk, and put the pot on the fire, whistling low as she stirred. She picked something out of one jar, then another, and added it to the brew. She didn’t seem to notice his sadness.
She filled a bowl and handed it to him. Then she knelt beside him and pulled a yak skin over their legs. Her eyes met his.
“You want go to Ladakh, yes?”
He nodded.
“Ladakh far away. You go now, before winter.”
She was right. The paths were treacherous during fall. In winter, they would be impassable.
Yeshua hung his head and stared into the porridge, his appetite gone. Pema had been an oasis, but her place was here. And he had to return home.
“I show you.” Her eyes glittered as she put her hand on his. He grabbed her hand, cupped it between his hands, and brought it to his lips. Her warmth radiated through him.
After the meal, she showed him how to dress in layers to stay warm. She wrapped his feet in skins and fastened them with long strands of yak hair. Then she pulled robe after robe over his head and hung a heavy fur on his back, which she fastened with a leather sash at his waist. When Pema tied a bundle of furs and blankets to the back of one of her yaks, Yeshua realized that this was not the end: she was going to show him the way. Overcome with joy, he wanted to pull her close and kiss her. But the look on her face told him to stay away. Still, he couldn’t help but smile.
At first, Yeshua struggled to keep up with her. Pema skipped up the paths like a gazelle, unfazed by the thin air and oblivious of the steep precipices. Now and then she turned to make sure he was still behind her. Yeshua gestured toward the yak carrying their bundles as if the animal were slowing him down, although his lungs hurt and his head spun, and he wanted nothing more than to stop and rest. But he told Pema he was fine, just fine. Although they were nothing more than friends, Yeshua still wanted to show strength and be the man.
Their first point of navigation was the rounded peak of the Tisé, the seat of spiritual power and the symbol for Om. Its name meant “Mountain of Sea Water” because it was the source of several holy rivers running all the way from the Himalayas to the plains of Satavahana. Some believed Lord Shiva lived inside the mountain, but Pema’s parents had insisted the mountain was the home of the sky goddess Sipaimen. Perhaps it was both.
The Tisé, roof of the world, rose high above the snowy peaks sprawled in soft blue layers that contrasted with the stark grays of the cliffs. During the day, the sun burned so hot that they stripped down and walked in their under-robes and leg coverings. But when dusk cast its shadow and the air grew frigid, no amount of furs could keep them warm. Pema encouraged Yeshua to continue moving during the coldest hours, allowing him to doze off only once the sun had risen over the horizon. She was the perfect guide. She could start a fire using sheets of ice to catch the sun’s rays and send sparks into a bundle of wool and light a fire in the dried yak’s droppings. She knew which plants to eat and taught him how to smear his face with grease to protect against the cold. She let the sure-footed yak lead them along the safest paths in the dark because one single unfortunate slip could plunge them down the ravines to certain death.
Pema’s wisdom amazed him. At first, she didn’t say much, just listened when he talked of his plan to spread the teaching of Lord Buddha and Krishna in Palestine. When she finally spoke, she asked:
“Who is Buddha? Who is Krishna? Who is Moses? Who is Abraham? Who knew the truth? All of them?” She paused. “Truth is inside.” She poked her finger into his chest. “If you go to Palestine and no one likes your lesson, you angry then—or sad? Issa, you want to be happy? Because happiness from here.” She poked him again as if to push her point into his heart.
Yeshua grabbed her finger and pushed her back, causing her to tumble backward. They both laughed as Yeshua pulled her up. Everything was so easy with her.
They slept in caves or in crevices, side by side under layers of furs, near enough
to share body heat but far enough not to touch. One morning, Yeshua felt Pema snuggle closer. He moved away, thinking she was dreaming. She moved nearer, and again, Yeshua inched away. She crept closer again. And again. Exhausted, Yeshua gave up and succumbed to sleep, enjoying the intimacy of sleeping next to another human being after all these years.
When they woke, Pema acted as if nothing had happened and Yeshua sighed with relief. But to his astonishment, the very next day as they lay down to sleep, Pema didn’t even pretend to be asleep when she put her arm around him. Yeshua trembled at the feel of her soft breasts against his back. He thought of her cave paintings of men and women making love. He thought about sliding his hands down her body, feeling her nipple harden in his palm. But he couldn’t move.
After that, Pema cuddled up to him every day. She let her hand slide a little bit lower and lower until her hand was inches away from his crotch. Yeshua could scarcely breathe. Was she playing with him? When they walked, she spoke about spirits and the universal force that was part of every being. She showed no interest in him as a man. She never gazed into his eyes or casually touched him as they spoke. She moved close to him only when they lay down to sleep. Yeshua allowed her to touch him as much as she wanted while he struggled to think of Krishna and the Buddha and all the holy men in the world who preached abstinence. He thought of her wisdom and their friendship. And still, he reveled in her touch.
One morning as they were falling asleep, Pema reached for his groin and held on to him. Yeshua swallowed. There was no point in denying her intention. Her hand grasped him gently at first, then more firmly, playing up and down the length of his penis. Yeshua held his breath. He tried to distract himself, but her movements became more determined. When he couldn’t resist any longer, he lifted the fur and moved his hands up inside her robes, baring her breasts in the cold morning air. He pressed his cheek against her chest and sighed. He had waited so long. Then he opened his mouth and sucked on her nipple, tasting its saltiness, its deliciousness. Women were such beautiful creatures—why would God ever want them to live apart from men?
When Pema lowered her pants and spread her legs, Yeshua climbed on top of her. At last he could look at her face without embarrassment. She closed her eyes and moaned. He kissed her neck. He kissed her cheek. He kissed her lips. But then he hesitated: had he gone too far? When Pema lifted her hips to him, his doubts vanished. She wanted him.
He grabbed her hips and rocked her harder and harder until she screamed with pleasure. Their bodies moved together until he exploded with relief, laughing uncontrollably. He rested his head on her chest, listening to her heartbeat. How had he never noticed how beautiful she was before? Those glimmering eyes, the sun-scorched cheeks, and the perfect breasts. He lifted his face to hers to kiss her again, but she turned away, pulling down her robe. Time to sleep.
Yeshua sang through the rest of the journey, just like Abba used to on their long walks between the villages of Galilee. He made up songs that described the beauty of the nature around them and the power of God. But he never sang about Pema and their relationship, even though they now made love every day.
The Himalayan plateau was as magical as Pema. Antelope grazed the steppes against a backdrop of snow-covered peaks. Snub-nosed monkeys played hide-and-seek behind thorny bushes and between the rocks. Occasionally, hordes of donkeys or three-toed horses galloped by far off in the distance. One day, as they stopped to rest, Pema and Yeshua discovered carvings of animals and humans on the walls of a cave, and wondered how many travelers had walked this path before them. They passed rivers, lakes, and camps of nomads, and if they were lucky, were invited in for buttery tea.
Pema taught Yeshua how to survive on his own. They picked eggs from nests of water birds, making sure to leave one or two for the mother to hatch and raise. She showed him edible plants and how to find the juiciest winter berries.
When they came upon a hot spring that spurted water high into the air and painted a shimmering rainbow in the mist, Yeshua and Pema peeled off their layers of clothes and dove into the warm water. They scrubbed their bodies with dried leaves and washed their hair with mud. As they prepared to continue their journey, a caravan of Han merchants on horseback passed by and welcomed them to ride along. In gratitude, Yeshua and Pema rubbed the merchants’ tired backs with herbs and transmitted healing energy from their hands. When their ways parted, the men gave Pema and Yeshua thin silk wraps, claiming they would keep them warmer than the thickest wool.
Although Yeshua was getting used to their wandering lifestyle and their early morning couplings, he knew these blessed days would not last. One day, Pema stepped out on a ledge overlooking a fertile valley and raised her hands toward the sky. She spoke to the heavens in a singsong language with words Yeshua didn’t understand. She pointed to herself and to Yeshua and to the valley and bowed her head three times. Then she knelt at the ledge, spit in her hands, and drew lines across her face with the saliva. She called Yeshua to come kneel beside her and took his hands in hers, closed them palm to palm, and brought his thumbs to the space between her eyebrows.
When she released his hands, she smiled, eyes full of love.
“There,” she said, and pointed at the valley. “SLes. Ladakh. Now you go.”
Yeshua had prepared himself for this moment. He knew Pema would not share his life’s journey, although she had been his teacher in the purest sense: she had shared her wisdom and asked for nothing in return. He stood at the ledge, shaded his eyes with one hand, and scanned the green valley sprawled between gray hills below. Pulling Pema close, he thanked her without words. Theirs had been a spiritual connection: God had sent her to save his life, to care for him, and show him the way. He kissed her cheek and then turned away. With peace in his heart, he walked down the hill toward the valley and the brown speck in the distance that was the Ladakhi village of sLes: the crossroads through the Himalayas that connected the Far East and the rest of the world.
Chapter Twenty-FIVE
sLes, Kingdom of Ladakh, AD 24
As Yeshua entered sLes, children rushed to greet him with shouts of welcome. Dogs barked and wagged their tails. Small, round-faced women with high cheekbones and elderly men with long braids stepped out of their whitewashed houses to see what the commotion was about, and then beamed at the pilgrim with their entire beings. With a relieved grin, Yeshua waved at the adults and pinched the children’s cheeks. He sent waves of love to the growling dogs until they didn’t know what to do other than sit down and watch him. He followed a path below umber cliffs pockmarked with dug-out dwellings in the direction of the village center.
When he reached a bazaar, Yeshua squatted down and leaned his back against a wall to take in his surroundings. Farmers displayed pyramids of fresh apples and turnips. Bakers laid out bundles of noodles on a blanket next to baskets of steamed dumplings and sacks of finely ground barley. Women offered healing herbs, freshly made yak’s-milk cheeses, woven linen fabrics, and heaps of black yak wool. Butchers with bloodstained aprons sold dried slabs of yak, camel heads, and cured horsemeat. Traveling merchants hawked salt and spices, cashmere wools, silks, blue indigo dyes, and a sweet and sour herb for smoking called cannabis. Pilgrims moved from stall to stall, begging for morsels of food in exchange for a blessing. How familiar this was! And yet, with the backdrop of snowcapped mountains, how very different. Yeshua’s soul filled with gratitude. Fresh produce meant friendly people with satisfied stomachs. There was no better time than harvest season to enter a new town.
A group of children, attracted by his contented smile, sat down beside him. They stroked his sunburned skin and tugged his beard. Yeshua hugged them one by one and kissed their foreheads. One rosy-cheeked girl hid behind the others and giggled, playing peekaboo with him. Before long, the shrieking children were chasing Yeshua around the market while the excited dogs barked and snapped at their heels.
Exhausted but happy, Yeshua finally slumped down to rest against a hut made of sun-dried bricks. He couldn’t re
member the last time he had felt so carefree. For the first time in his life, he was enjoying himself without fearing the consequences, without regret. What was it Pema used to say? If you are truly one with Spirit—her name for God—you cannot feel guilty because you know you are perfect. Guilt comes from separation. God is perfect, and so are you.
So am I, Yeshua thought as the children plopped down next to him, panting, worn out from their play. They held his hands as he sank into a meditation. At once, he was one with God: bodiless, guiltless, and free.
When at last he opened his eyes, the sun had descended behind the peaks, and he shivered with cold. Black ravens soared above, screeching. Yeshua watched their flight across the skies until the echo of an empty stomach reminded him it was time to find food and a place to stay. The children had long since left, but a small group of adolescent girls idled across the market square, trying to appear busy. They twirled the yellow and red silk ribbons in their braided hair and hid their eyes under pointy fur hats with triangular flaps pulled back like dismissive dogs’ ears. Yeshua gestured for them to come closer. The girls looked at each other and burst out laughing. Then they approached him, their burgundy gowns swaying under the yak skins on their backs.
“Good evening!” Yeshua tried in Pali.
The girls did not respond.
“Namaste?”
Same result.
“Jule,” he tried in Bön, Pema’s language. When they giggled behind their hands, Yeshua knew he had found common ground. “Kind women,” he said, searching for words in a language he had not mastered, “where may a pilgrim find food to fill his stomach?” He patted his belly. Still tittering, the girls led him to a two-tiered building lit by torches. Yeshua bowed to the girls and pressed his palms together in front of his chest.
“I’m a pilgrim,” he said to the innkeeper who appeared from the back room, “begging for a meal and a place to sleep.”
The Transmigrant Page 18