“Firstly,” said the monk, “meditation is best in the morning when the sun rises and its rays cross this canopy of green.” He placed his hand close to the soil as though caressing its surface and grazed it along at an angle. “This is the time when the sun has the best energy. But other times are suitable, of course.” He leaned his head to the side.
“Now, we have to sit in a convenient place, quiet and comfortable.”
Pascal removed a twig that had lodged itself next to his coccyx bone. At this stage even he was doubtful that meditation was the only answer to fulfilling his existence but he was willing to keep his intent, to focus and let his experience chase the concepts.
“Secondly, you must have the best posture, to ground your body like this.” He sat cross-legged, both soles of his feet pointing up to the sky. “Higher energy flows when your posture has focused intent. Keep your back straight.” The height he gained from holding himself straight made him notice just how curved his spine actually was.
“I find this way is best, but it is up to you. If you really cannot sit properly on the floor, or have difficulties maintaining the lotus position, you can use a chair. Not all of us are bendy cats!”
“Just stay alert and conscious of your body, relaxed in what we call ‘the point of balance’. Your body will guide you.” He breathed out a rasping breath. “Why do you want to practice meditation?”
Sumit had warned him of the teacher’s candid nature.
“Well...,” Pascal scratched his head, “because I want to reach a higher degree of consciousness?”
“You see!” The Ajahn seemed disapproving of Pascal’s self-centered approach. “Of course, in some ways you are also right. We all know the result of a proper meditation; that it may aid us to reach that level. But your main objective is to train yourself to change first!” Exclamatory Buddhist monks were not the general stereotype but Pascal sucked in every word.
“You will see the results when you practice. To fixate upon something you have not experienced yet and attaching to it is like chasing your imagination—your desires. It’s like the donkey and the carrot; he’ll never really get to crunch on it.”
Science had taught him that knowledge would build upon the testing of theories through facts and numbers.
“The most difficult step is the unlearning, Pascal.”
Pascal played the words from Lao Tzu, the Chinese philosopher, in his head:
“The name you can say is not the real name.
Heaven and earth begin in the unnamed.”
“At present I see you are struggling. On one hand, you understand that projecting yourself into an invented future disconnects you from its true reality. Ask yourself why you are so reluctant to let go of your concepts and big ideas”
It was true. At this point Pascal had begun to sense the buzzing irritation in his nervous system. The Ajahn had the effect of a lecturing parent whose argument you want to reject, though in truth you have already accepted.
“Enough. Just stop thinking, and breathe!”
Ajahn Chana’s nose flared as he felt the oxygen expand his lungs. They inhaled together, blowing up their chests like balloons and letting the air escape gently.
“There are no ideas in the world. Focus on your breathing and you will be the master of your mind. It will avoid the mind’s wandering spirit. The awareness of breathing is so vital. Feel the flow feeding your cells, allowing them to regenerate and grow. Keep inhaling then gently let the air out with your shoulders relaxed. Ideas keep trying to surface, but let them go; exhale them out. Pay them no attention; it’s what they want.”
Pascal’s surroundings began to disintegrate around him, or rather, his memory of them began to crumble away. There was no sky or ground. Texture did not exist nor did the concept of color or sound. The Ajahn’s words were in his head, non-articulated although heard, as though they were coming from within.
“Inhale and exhale slowly.”
Pascal felt himself snapped back to his physicality by an irritating sensation on his right foot. It was some kind of insect perhaps? He wanted to rid himself of the magnet that kept pulling him back to his body. The sounds began to return around him.
“Maybe you are thinking now ‘Oh what a nice cool breeze on my cheek’. This is normal and do not fight it. Instead, concentrate on that breath,” the Ajahn kept reminding him.
Pascal could feel the voice inside his synapses without the aid of his eardrums. Dimensions evaporated around him once more; there was no light, nor weight, nor sound.
“Now... You have come to the point where you do not even need to concentrate on your breath. It is lighter, much lighter. An orb of energy surrounds you and you are content. The prana is inside you; you are your own wisdom.”
Pascal was completely unaware of the deep, sonorous noise produced by his voice box. The Ajahn was basking in its glow and intricately connected to it, completely in tune with this young man’s state of mind.
“We call deep mindfulness sampajana: your ability to observe yourself. Inhale deeply and keep your intent; exhale fully and keep your intent. Sati is the control, the mind that filters what is important.
With practice, we may move towards Metta, the awareness of compassion. Let names be only a guide, but with their help you can discover your own way.”
The Ajahn closed his eyes and sat completely still, letting Pascal practice alone, happily and peacefully.
Sumit watched from close by, awed by his uncle’s persuasive powers. All this time he had guided Pascal to his meditation without even uttering a word. When Pascal came to him with a radiating smile afterwards, he was so happy he had introduced his friend to his uncle and that it had been so helpful.
Immersed in a sea of peace and lightness, Pascal was still considering if it was true that such practice had brought his consciousness to unknown territories that the Buddhists call The Middle Way and had broadened his views. He was sincerely grateful to be given this chance and teaching, and so happy to feel inner peace, if only for a moment.
Was meditation the correct answer for him to find a permanent state of mind?
He was not convinced.
The practice was great and improving, for sure. But Pascal was still impatient and could not imagine himself living in a monastery in a constant search of his Self... He still hadn’t found his footing.
…
The sweat was pooling around Ram’s collar, almost dropping into the computer whose plug was surreptitiously dangling from a tree. The monks here decorated the foliage with lanterns, dimly illuminating the forest at night. Only Divine Force could explain the fact that no one had ever been electrocuted.
Ram’s hunger overshadowed his anxiety. It had been at least 12 hours since anything had touched his mouth, but he refused to eat anything he hadn’t seen prepared with his own eyes. He decided to keep his strong determination to stay focused on his work and forget about the food. .
Many of the letters on the scroll had been erased. The writing was difficult to read; a novice of some kind probably wrote it. A fragment of a map had remained on a ripped page, but it was too faded to make anything out.
What had proved a strenuous process to say the least, was Ram’s proudest achievement. His translation of the famous Hindu Book of Wisdom, the Vedic Upanishads boosted his status in the academic world. The manuscript he now had placed in his lap was also written in a similar Abugida language, which the computer was trying to decode.
So many gaps of information meant the normal algorithms used to read the language—even those based on the famous Indian Panini models—had to be tampered with until some of it began to make sense. The novice had also made various mistakes with the consonants, which Ram had to tease out meticulously.
Three hours had passed when Pascal and the master returned to check on his progress. Without lifting his eyes, Ram began to explain: “This text must have been written in the 13th century by a monk, possibly from Sri Lankan origins.”
Sumit and his friend approach
ed them with plastic bags swinging. They’d brought Kao Pad Gai: fried rice with chicken and bottles of Coca Cola. From the other side of the temple came Wanee singing jovially, her tune becoming more distinct with every step. She was happy that Mae Sue remained safe inside the convent.
Everyone focused their attention on Ram.
“What did you find? Have you figured out what it says?”
“I can read out to you what I know so far. Some of it may be cryptic, but it’s all I have been able to draw for now.” He elongated each syllable for clarity.
A vacuum enveloped Pascal as soon as Ram had begun; his ears closed off like a Venus Fly Trap.
He was floating above himself now, watching his own body lean forward into Ram as though wanting to swallow his words, and yet he was totally disconnected, severed from his brain and the blood feeding it. Like the steam from boiling water, he was the same substance as the liquid below but suspended in a completely different state. He observed himself from this vantage point.
In front of him, Pascal traced the huge stone stairs up to a vertical lingam, the sacred Hindu symbol of manhood. Occasionally, Ram’s words would float up to his ears.
“This year, 1840 of Buddha’s calendar, a new temple is consecrated…to the arrival of Theravada in the Khmer Kingdom… Pratum Ben festival is coming… the fifteenth day…of the tenth month…The day when the dead come to earth…”
On a terrace dominating the vast wild forest, a throne overlooked the monk’s sanctuary. Its surface was beautifully carved with Hindu deities and images of Buddha. The stone seat held the Monk Emperor. A Shiva and Vishnu statue stood side by side on the sanctuary walls. The peculiar statues, unlike anything Pascal had ever seen, represented the Ying and Yang of the Hindu world: the builder and the destroyer; East and West. They both faced north towards Bhrama, the Principle of the Universe.
Back on the terrace, five women baring their torsos stood facing away from the void. Dressed as Apsaras, their mature breasts perked above their skirts that flirted with the edge as they moved.
“Aguradei…de Name.” They were reciting incantations while scooping water out of large cauldrons and sending it down the small of their back, ushering away their bad karma. Five muscular men carried a palanquin holding a golden Buddha statue that was set amongst brightly colored foods and sparkling jewelry offerings.
They had hardly finished lowering the statue into the cavity of the double-arched sanctuary when a dozen monks with white robes began chanting. The sun’s darting rays sliced through the blank faces of Khmer soldiers who formed two perfect lines.
The crowned monk sitting on the throne was Sridavarma, the new Khmer Emperor who came from Sri Lanka. He hobbled his plump body over to the Buddha to place a gold leaf on its forehead then bowed deeply. Musicians erupted into sound with the hit of a giant gong.
Pascal could see a valley below; its shape amplifying the terrific cadence. The instruments banged and twanged, swayed and strummed as if of their own accord. From its trotting pace the rhythm picked up, galloping towards the sky. Without losing élan, the vibrations lifted, violently thrashing the particles of air until the sound became a mash of indiscernible notes crashing around each other. The volume rose higher and higher still until it was a deafening pulp of sound.
And then it moved. A massive stone above the cavity began to rotate, shifting its weight into position, waiting for release. With a final smash of the large gong the stone snapped in front of the Buddha, sealing it between the huge blocks of the facade.
The gong stopped and an unnatural silence followed. Finally the cache was safely hidden from the outside world and only known to those spiritual leaders who would be handed down the secret. Without even exchanging a glance, the monks held their hands up to the heavens and shouted in complete unison:
“Khali! Khali, Goddess of Destruction… accept our offering now! Be united with our Lord Buddha!” and as instructed, the five women dived into the void. The Vedic sacrifice was complete. The Khmer Empire and Theravada Buddha were now properly protected.
Still floating above the two discordant scenes, Pascal observed the procession of monks moving down the stairs as their mouths recited sutras. The music resumed to a joyful tempo; string pipas and flutes seduced the villager’s hips and everyone was dancing now, throwing sticky rice to the ground in a bid to feed the dead. After all, this was their visiting time.
And the mantra and sacred statue sat waiting for their eternity of darkness.
Pascal opened his eyes and felt the hard stone of the bench under his bottom. More uncomfortable for him was the gaping stares from everyone around him who were completely entranced. Contrary to what he believed, Pascal had described his vision to the group as he was experiencing it himself. The scene where he had watched both worlds unfold had been a complete illusion; he had been the storyteller all along.
Wanee was the first to expel the words:
“In your vision you just told us what archaeologists and researchers have been trying to find for decades!” She always had a way of never letting conversations become awkward.
“The Khmer culture was much more sophisticated than it seems,” she said. Not only was their civilization more technologically advanced than most at the time, but they had reached a very special kind of spirituality.” She was as effervescent as a Schweppes soda.
“Yes,” Pascal confirmed. “Of course, they must be hidden codes.”
“You see, this all tends toward the view that their understanding was at least as advanced as the Egyptians when it came to numerology, astrology and the forces of nature.” Wanee’s excitement had faded and she was almost crying. “And I am amazed that Pascal described it so clearly.”
Even though it hadn’t been obvious to him at first, the description Pascal had added immediately transported Sumit to a region he had visited in his childhood. In the nearby northern city of Champassak in Laos there was a temple that matched his exact description. Sumit had been there a few times with fishermen. It was all there: the forest, the mountain, the sanctuary, but most importantly, the statues!
He recalled Pascal’s observation of the ‘peculiar’ stone carved with exaggerated features with an almost comical appearance. He remembered how afraid he had been of them once. The correlation was so strong that there was no way he was mistaken.
His thoughts tumbled out of his mouth. “The road is challenging and access is difficult. There are wild animals everywhere and the trees, roots and vines had reclaimed much of their territory last time I was there.”
It was his turn to receive the stare of questions.
“You know where it is Sumit?” asked Wanee.
“I am almost certain. There can be no other. We have to leave immediately. I know a fisherman who will bring us along the Mekong, the River of the Drums.”
…
The long-tail boat meandered close to the embankments of the majestic river. This scenery held great fascination for Sumit even as a young boy. The river was decorated with a backdrop of high mountain peaks and large, unspoiled valleys. Bamboo fields along the river framed the sand beaches where Sumit used to bathe protected from the dangerous current. And everyone encountered here bore smiles as wide as the expansive water.
Laotian people were usually very open, eager to help. With only six million inhabitants, the Laotians shared vast territories compared to the Thai population’s sixty million. Their only important activity was selling hydroelectricity and wood to their needy neighbors. Industrialization had never hit them, yet.
With Wanee by his side Sumit felt as though he were embarking on a second honeymoon. Unfortunately, the truth was just as uncomfortable as the benches of the boat they sat in. And the fisherman navigating the waters was no holiday tour guide. Nevertheless, a sense of adventure energized them all.
The fisherman who was helping them reach their destination was an old friend of Sumit’s. As children they used to play in the river and invent stories for themselves when his uncle we
nt traveling.
Life had plotted completely different paths for the two boys. Suvapoum, like his father, had entered in the fish trade. Sumit’s fate lay in the art of fighting and he was ranked in Bangkok as a star, but he always remained modest, never arrogant. He had learned to stay close to the people he loved.
Sumit’s old friends from Issan Province held a great sense of respect. Most of them were untouched by the niceties of social status. He admired his friend the fisherman who was a simple and strong character, always ready to help and give—no wonder he never got rich!
He had agreed without an ounce of hesitation to bring Sumit, his wife and his friends to the Four Thousand Lakes area near Champassak, where the haughty stone lingam stood. The colossal, oblong sex symbol from the Hindu culture was the landmark of the Wat Phu: Temple of the Mountain.
Throughout the trip the fisherman warned them about the strange and dangerous animals in the forest. Cobras were among the most welcoming of creatures. “Watch your step and do not forget the mines; those nice gifts from the Yankees who unloaded them by the millions on the Ho Chi Minh track to Vietnam.
It was not the first time Sumit had traveled here. The trip on the river reminded him of his own past; something he was now able to share with Wanee. This was the real wilderness out here, without a McDonald’s restaurant in sight.
This temple—still largely ignored in comparison to the temples of Angkor Wat—had remained largely neglected. It was still covered by the forest and entrenched beside the steep flanks of a mountain. Some efforts had been made to restore it, but even locals were afraid to stay in the vicinity, especially at night.
They flowed quietly downstream, gaping at the magnificent landscape. People’s life rhythm was so much slower here. From time to time they would come across another boat manoeuvred by a fisherman who grinned, exposing his gapped teeth and he waved at them.
Before returning the gesture, Pascal stood up without even realising.
“They are coming,” he said.
Even Suvapoum was surprised. Except for the ‘tut-tut’ of the boat’s small engine, Sumit’s warning broke the silence between them.
“I know,” agreed Pascal. “They will be here soon.” Sumit turned to the fisherman and said something quickly in Laotian, a language most similar to the Northern dialect of Issan.
He directed his attention to Pascal.
“Suvapoum says we are approaching a chute; a kind of small waterfall. It’s very rocky and dangerous when you don’t know the way. The level of water isn’t high, and he knows how to tread those waters well. There’s a swamp on your right in the bamboo. The river’s tide is high during this time of the year and there’s a passageway that will allow us to get further downstream.” Sumit paused to swallow; his throat felt quite dry. “He proposes we go that way now before nightfall, otherwise we’ll miss our chance. If somebody is following, they won’t be able to find us.” Sumit looked for Pascal’s nod of approval.
In one fell swing the driver turned the boat in the opposite direction and headed for the swamp. The fisherman’s face flushed with excitement as he prepared for his challenge. Sumit prodded Ram, who looked so worried it was too tempting to ignore.
“This is where I captured the biggest Dragon Komodo I have ever seen. It was as big as a crocodile; delicious on the barbecue.”
A vegetarian, Ram was less than impressed.
Wanee joined in the fun: “I read somewhere that they like to jump on board.”
Ram wedged away from the edge rapidly, shifting his weight towards the middle of the boat and clinging onto Pichai’s arm. He looked up at the laughing faces around him and attempted to recompose himself.
“Oh, so funny isn’t it! You won’t be laughing when you become their lunch,” he snapped.
Just as the foliage above began to thicken, they heard the distinct rumble of a powerful engine resonating from the river behind.
“You were right,” marveled the fisherman. “How did you do that?”
“Oh don’t pay attention to that guy,” said Sumit. “He is a Pisces and they’re just very sensitive.” His last word came with a cheeky smirk.
The fisherman cut his engine to a low gurgle; just enough to keep them moving. Its sound was no louder than the millions of buzzing insects approaching them from behind the bamboo curtain.
Ram, who had particularly sensitive skin, was scratching away furiously at the welting mosquito bites.
“Here,” said Sumit, “slap that on before they eat you alive.”
Wanee, whose pale skin was turning pink, grabbed the cream.
They were well hidden, but from their position they were able to see out onto the main river. Several minutes later, as the noise of the engine grew louder, they spotted a large navy patrol boat cruise by. Laos had little capital in reserve, but what it did have was an army: the LPN, courtesy of the country’s paranoid leader. As they came closer, Pascal and his crew could see men grouped around a very tall figure.
“Shit! That’s the giant,” whispered Sumit. “How did they find us? And what the hell are they doing with the Navy?”
Sumit knew the answer but wasn’t sure about his source, so he had decided to hold back some information so as not to panic everyone.
“I can’t be sure of this, but it seems that this can be the only answer: I believe they may be a Russian gang I was told about by a friend who…. He told me this group is well known and very well paid. It looks like they have connections “
“But how come they know where we are?” asked Pascal.
“They have probably been following us since Bangkok, but I am not sure where they got their information from, and I couldn’t be sure about who was paying them.”
“We were so cautious not to use our telephones, so how could they trace us?” asked Sumit. “Anyway we will find out later. Right now we have to move smart and fast.”
The fisherman reassured Sumit, who translated:
“The boat from the navy cannot go through the chutes at this season. They know it and they will stop at a small pier over there. They will have to transfer their passengers and equipment to a smaller boat like ours which is probably already waiting for them, but it will be night very soon and we have time to reach Champassak before they do.” The fisherman’s eyes were shining with pride.
“Within two hours we’ll disembark on a small jetty that’s not far from a small dirt track that is a short cut to the temple. My nephew will have a jeep and some equipment at the jetty to take you into the jungle. Once you get there you will have to walk though. My nephew will guide you.”
“He’ll have good boots, thick pants, ropes and some lights for you, but no weapons!”
The fisherman looked at Sumit and pointed at Wanee.
“Are you sure you want to go?” Sumit asked her.
“I can do it; barefoot even!” she replied.
Sumit was decided.
“If we want to take advantage of their delay we have to go now; tonight. Are we ready?”
Ram’s reply was a shy but brave smile. Wanee looked at her feet; perplexed.
The roar of the speedboat engine faded and the fisherman accelerated to maximum power; they had to get there first.
Pascal’s wristwatch ticked past seven o’clock, but the darkness had already invaded. Fortunately, they reached the fisherman’s nephew and the jeep before it had started to rain and therefore raincoats and high boots protected them. Occasionally, flashes of lightning illuminated the thick water curtain in front of them. Behind it, sinister shadows hid, seeking shelter from the strong wind.
The heat was almost unbearable in their plastic raincoats. Along with their sweat, they felt strange insects crawling down their necks and pants. Everyone was frightened.
Ram’s shaky voice kept repeating:
“Don’t let our guide escape; don’t let him escape.” But he continued to advance steadily, with determination.
Wanee was suffocating; the heat was too much for her. She decid
ed to tear off the raincoat’s hood. The temperatures wouldn’t have her to die of pneumonia, but she was afraid she would asphyxiate. She kept the plastic around her vest only. Sumit didn’t know many other women who would be so unrelenting in their quest for knowledge; her curiosity was driving her.
They continued on foot, as it was too dangerous to go by car. The fisherman’s nephew had told him there was a much easier, but longer route that had been created by UNESCO but they would be too exposed so he suggested a shortcut.
It was a nightmare. They had been gone from the jeep fifteen minutes when the track was inundated by a torrent of storm water.
“It’s only a half-hour walk,” he’d said. If he were right, there would only be fifteen minutes left to go.
He was right.
They were exhausted when they reached a huge silhouette of a large and imposing dark structure emerged in front of them; the halo of the full moon projected its outline.
What a sinister sight, thought Pascal. The sense of relief was palpable as Pascal expressed with astonishment, “The Sanctuary!”
“No, not yet,” said the guide. “This is only the first palace; it’s almost a ruin now. Look here and here: the walls are crumbling away.” He was waving his torch around, pointing to the weak foundations. He sent the light from the torch above them, beaming towards the darkness ahead.
“The sanctuary you are looking for is above you, halfway up the top where the lingam stands. Be careful! The stairs here are extremely dangerous and many rocks are covered in moss so they are slippery. In fact most are missing; stolen over the years. It is very easy to slip into the void below.”
“Here.” He handed them a rope. “Better keep together, and for your own safety hold onto to the rope at all times.”
Always ready for a joke, Sumit could not miss the opportunity to interject: “Fasten your belts and don’t smoke in the toilets!”
They began the climb—a feat that was considerably easier than the track they had crossed to get there. They arrived at a large terrace at the top where they admired the breathtaking and scary view of the gloomy forest lit by the moon’s rays.
Although most of the crew signaled feelings of elation, when Pascal realized where he was, he fell into a frenzy.
“The terrace! This is the one; this is the place of my vision!” They all stood in front of a magnificent double arch that was half in ruins. A Buddha statue was standing there.
The guide brought out the tool kit he had anchored to his backpack and indicated to everyone to get started on the stonewall behind the statue. They began hacking away, but despite their furious efforts nothing moved. They had followed Pascal’s every instruction, believing that their answer was just in front of them—and yet nothing was happening.
“All this for nothing!” whimpered Wanee, who bowed her head only to notice her mud-soaked shoes. “These picks and shovels are useless! We’ll have to go back completely empty-handed.”
“Mekong, this river... Mae klong,” Pascal said aloud. “The klong! The river! There’s something else here.” He stood completely still with his neck poking out, a sign of his concentration. “The River of the Gongs; the offerings for Kali!”
Sumit and his friend were feeling that their puzzlement with Pascal was beginning to become habitual. “What’s happened to him?” asked Pichai.
Without paying attention to his remark Pascal took out his mobile phone: a relatively large and clunky orange Nokia. He had bought it for its durability and because it was waterproof. He pressed a few keys and a low hum could be heard. The small noise gradually became more audible and they all began to hear it: the vibrations of gongs. Pascal placed his vibrating phone in the middle of the big stone supporting the reclining Buddha.
Then, a weird and wonderful event took place. The tiny sound coming from the telephone started to amplify and resonate with the mountains around, echoing in the valleys and getting stronger and stronger. Soon it was almost as powerful as a thunderstorm, and wave after wave, the sound vibrations permeated the atmosphere. No one could move; they were frozen with shock.
Just as Wanee felt the scream rising in her throat, a faint beam of light from the full moon landed on the Buddha statue. The giant stone behind it began to shift, turning slowly.
To everyone’s amazement the stone had pivoted completely and uncovered a cache, revealing a golden statue that was glowing as though illuminated from within.
With one swift move, Pascal rushed and pulled it out with all his strength. As soon as the statue escaped its niche, the noise around them ceased completely and the stone pivoted back at great speed, missing Pascal’s fingers by milliseconds.
The recess was sealed for yet another eternity once more.
“What just happened? How did you know?” asked Ram.
“Oh it was very simple,” explained Pascal. “It is thanks to you and our yoga practice. We have endured very long sessions of tiring exercises together and afterwards, when we had to unwind our tense and shaking bodies, we lay down for deep relaxation: Shiva Sena. The yogis used the sound of the gong to help achieve total respite.”
Ram was still incredibly perplexed. “Yes but that still doesn’t explain...”
“It struck me when I saw the Buddha lying on the stone,” cut in Pascal. “The idea had probably sat in my mind for a long time, hidden in the darkness of my mind’s inner chamber—just as that Buddha had been hidden for all these years. I was just waiting for the moment to materialise.”
“Actually,” he said, “it is only a rare phenomenon of physics.”
“Still...,” asked Ram, “how could you know it would resonate with such force?”
“Well, that’s the other thing. In Salt Lake City the Mormons have built a very special church they call the Tabernacle. I remember being completely amazed when I visited it because from the lecturing theatre you could let a pin fall on the floor and everyone in the entire church would be able to hear it with utmost clarity even though there were no speakers.”
“You mean like the ‘whispering gallery’ in St Paul’s Cathedral?” asked Wanee.
“Yes, a marvel of acoustics; a simple physical occurrence. That’s exactly what just happened. The terrace, and more exactly the Buddha’s location, was the epicentre of the vibrations. When Ram read the manuscript I didn’t get the full meaning of the cache’s opening, but it all came to me together with the memory of The Tabernacle.”
Ram was not convinced. “But how can vibrations make such a heavy stone revolve?”
“Now here I can only guess,” said Pascal. “Perhaps it is just the nature of this strange and wondrous universe. With such intense vibrations, unknown dark energies coupled with the magnetism of a full moon may have multiplied the effect. There had to be some kind of synergy with the vibrations and most certainly, a cosmic event we were unaware of; perhaps some kind of alignment. The Stonehenge arrangement had to be built in this way; there are many things primitive cultures invented which were just not so primitive. Some we may never know.”
“Our old civilisation probably had more knowledge about the forces of the universe than we do,” interrupted the guide in his native Khmer language.
Wanee broke her silence to add: “The understanding of a perfect harmony with the universe, the power to manipulate vibrations from the cosmos—all this had been rumoured to be the expertise of the Khmer civilisation. They may have even known more than we do now, but there is little evidence left. The technical explanation of the magic event we just witnessed might just be pure hypothesis, but cosmology has always played a central role in ancient religions. Don’t be mistaken when you admire all these fantastic carvings from the Khmer temples. They’re not just an attraction-park deco. That’s why we are still so fascinated; we have been told that the strange elliptic designs we find on old edifices, pyramids, temples and palaces from past cultures seem to be consistent and may symbolize some pattern of the universe.”
“For the Khmer culture, it is the same. All
these statues and carvings are, in fact, coded information: Shiva, Vishnu and Buddha were only easy-to-understand images of a different reality, designed to educate the commoners. These old masters had recognized that deities were living symbols only of the interconnections between vibrations of matter, mind and energy fields from earth to the infinite galaxies.”
Wanee stopped herself, realizing her tendency to lecture. It was all too much to take in after what had just happened. Still shocked by what seemed to be a ‘miracle’’, they all turned their attention to their discovery: the golden statue.
On its back, as it is usual to find at the back of Buddha statues, was a cache, a small hole, covered by a bronze plate,.
They removed the plate to find a dark, sticky object the size of a man’s wallet. With delicate fingers, Wanee pulled out the object and displayed it on a flat stone corner.
It was Sumit’s turn to educate,
“This is the way the Chinese monks protected their documents for posterity. This was how the book of Kung Fu practice was discovered in the tomb of Da Mao, the Master from Sao Lin Temple. Two boxes were found in his coffin. One box was empty, but the other one had the Book of Practice written on carved bamboo leaves that were wrapped in waxed fabric to preserve it for later practice.”
“We shouldn’t open or compress that object now. We have to use a gradual warming process so as not to break the small palm leaves inside. One thing is for sure, this is what the Mantrayana is looking for,” said Wanee.
They had almost forgotten about the group chasing them when they heard the enormous bang from a gunshot, followed by another rain of bullets ricocheting on the stones around them from automatic machine guns. People were shouting from below and they saw the lights of torches surrounding them.
“My god,” exclaimed Ram, “they must have seen everything. We are encircled and they know we have found the statue and the old mantra!”
During the trip Ram had never felt very motivated by the story and was not concerned with it so much as he was about Ma Sue’s safety. If the mob had found them out here, there was no way she could be safe. He declared bluntly:
“This is the wish of Brahman. Why risk our lives for old manuscripts? We must show the white flag.”
Sumit was furiously talking with the guide.
“There is a way I remember going when I was a kid. We have to climb to the top, but it will be lethal if you don’t listen to me carefully. Just below the sacred sculpture on the top there is a hidden excavation and stairs that bring us to a small cave. It is impossible to find if you don’t know about it and under which rock the entrance lies. Come, we must go there now.”
Everyone rushed to the top, grabbing the rope to avoid falling and scratching their knees on the jagged steps. More shots were fired, but they were not aiming at precise targets. The group was almost invisible because the facade protected them and the moon was lighting the other side of the slope.
Pichai felt an incredible sting in his right arm; a bullet had scraped his shoulder. He ignored it as much as possible despite the pain. He would tend to it later.
Panting and exhausted, they reached the lingam.
Sumit and the guide gave them details with every move.
“From here we go down to the cave, which opens to the drop, once we get down there we will have to wait until morning whan we can escape to the jungle.”
Sumit was also trying to comfort them.
“This way was a route the Buddhists monks used during the wars between the Khmer the other ethnic warriors when the Empire collapsed. We have no choice but to sleep here until daylight. There may be snakes and spiders, but we have no choice. At least, we will be safe from the hostiles.”
Ram was beginning to regret not surrendering as he was still anxious about Ma Sue, but the situation could have been worse and the approaching hostiles’ shouts forced them to forget the cave’s inconvenience.
Sumit had found the entrance and removed the heavy stone blocking the way to the small staircase below the lingam. Fortunately, with the help of Pascal and Ram they managed to roll the heavy stone back once everyone had passed. Pichai was really feeling the pain from his gunshot now. Strong, angry voices were approaching.
Pressed together in the tiny opening in the rocks they could see the torches beaming everywhere and heard the men’s disappointed grunts.
“Sorry we missed ya, damn baboons!” whispered Sumit to his friend.
Someone tickled Ram.
“Did you feel that spider Ram?”
Wanee too had lightened up, teasing Pascal. “There won’t be any croissants tomorrow morning.” Humour was a privilege of friendship; one that was growing between them all.
They had found the first mantra!
SEASON 3: CONSPIRACY
The Quantum Mantra Page 7