“Yeah,” said Richard. “I got a message from my Lama’s followers, here in the US. He wants to come visit them - us. Airlines aren’t flying except in special circumstances and tickets are hard to come by. So, that’ll have to wait until the airlines fly a little more regularly.”
“We could see if he could be squeezed onto a plane somehow,” said Alex.
“No,” said Richard. “I don’t think that’s appropriate just yet. At some point, we’ll come up with some kind of carbon cap that’ll allow for more normal airline flights. We’ll never again see millions of people taking flights for vacations, but there should be room for necessary business and religious trips. That’s an entire industry, it can’t just be shut down completely. He can wait until things are a little more workable.”
“Maybe your Lama can communicate by computer,” offered Oscar. “I could help out with that.”
“He’s already doing that, Oscar. But thanks. It’s not the same as having him in the room with you. It’s hard to explain. I’m more worried by what I’m going to say to him when I eventually do see him.”
Alex didn’t really understand why Richard felt the way he did about the part he’d played, but he did know he was conflicted about it. Alex just hoped, in time, it would pass.
“Well, I can’t help much with plane tickets. I’m kinda persona non grata at the moment,” said Oscar.
“That’s not exactly true,” said Alex. “The government just isn’t used to being the one being watched, instead of the one watching. They’re afraid of you wielding too much power and becoming another J. Edgar Hoover. They also fear you’ll make so much of their machinations public that they can’t effectively function.”
“Hell, the only power I’m interested in comes in 110 volts,” said Oscar. “I just hate the tyranny of power. And if Shannon didn’t want me to get into the system, he shouldn’t have left his computer on that desk for me to hack.”
Alex knew Oscar was financially independent, and had no particular philosophical axe to grind. He’d even made up a logo with HWH, which stood for “Hackers With Heart.” He and his fellow hackers, who worked with him, wore it on their t-shirts with great pride. Maybe Oscar would be willing to work with some kind of oversight committee? One independent of those he was watching, but had the power to limit what he released openly? At least Richard’s need wasn’t that prickly.
Alex watched Richard closely. He was changed since the lab… But then, weren’t they all? What the hell was Alex going to do with an expensive airplane he couldn’t fly or sell because its carbon footprint couldn’t be justified? Was it still in the hangar at the Flying W? What was he going to do with a bullet-ridden house no longer capable of giving shelter? Was it still standing? What was he going to do with his career? God, it never is going to stop, he thought. Just one problem morphing into the next. Actually, he supposed, it had always been like that. It was just different now. But then nothing ever remains the same.
Epilogue
Richard sat on a folding chair placed in a hallway outside a closed door. He repositioned his stockinged feet on the carpeted floor, straightened his back and lightly placed his hands, palms down, on his knees. Staring ahead with eyes cast slightly downward toward a spot on the floor a few feet in front of him, he relaxed his mind and waited.
Six months passed since they blew up the lab and destroyed the virus. Since then, world events swirled in a vortex of chaos. Governments fell, battles raged, thousands died, corporations failed – general mayhem reigned.
Richard was able to arrange for his Lama to get a flight from India to the Boston area and his Lama was now holding court in a sangha member’s home in Lexington, Massachusetts. Richard left Buddy with Alex and Emily and spent the day with his Lama and his followers in a meditation retreat. It was now late afternoon and his Lama was having one-on-one interviews. He left word that Richard should wait until last. Richard was up next.
In relaxing his mind, Richard journeyed through layers upon layers of thoughts, emotions, subconscious impressions. Flashes of events from the past few days ran through his awareness. He sensed them as they arose and he tried to let them go without attempting to define them, follow where they led or give them attention of any kind. But he wasn’t being very successful. He had questions he wanted to discuss with the old Tibetan monk and his mind just wouldn’t let them go.
Richard was amazed at how much his Lama knew and understood. Not so much as ideas or facts, but on a deep intuitive level that seemed to encapsulate everything. A thought occurred to him. Had his Lama known what was about to go down and sent Richard away to spoil Todd’s plans? Nah, couldn’t be. That’s magical thinking. Still… Richard would never know for sure.
Finally, the door opened and one of his fellow adherents backed out. His hands were placed a foot or so in front of his chest, elbows bent. They were put together, but slightly bowed so the fingertips touched, and the heels, but not the palms. He gave a deep bow, reached out, closed the door, then stood upright and walked down the hall toward the living room. As was the custom at such times, although Richard met the man before, nothing was said.
About two minutes later, a monk, whom Richard knew from India, opened the door and nodded at Richard. He stood aside to let Richard pass.
Richard entered the room. His teacher, dressed in traditional monk’s robes, was seated cross-legged on a meditation cushion facing the door. He smiled warmly as Richard approached. Richard placed his hands together, moved them sequentially up to the crown of his head, in front of his throat, then in front of his heart. He went onto his knees, placed his hands palms down on the carpet and touched his forehead on the floor between them. He stood, repeated the prostrations twice more, and then bowed deeply. “Hello, Rinpoche,” he said.
The Lama said something in Tibetan to the monk who opened the door for Richard and who was now sitting on a cushion next to him. “Rinpoche says he is very pleased to see you again,” said the monk.
“It’s good to see you as well,” said Richard. He folded his legs beneath him and sat on a meditation cushion opposite the two of them.
A look of concern flashed across the Lama’s face. “Rinpoche says you look troubled. He would like to know what is bothering you.”
Where to start? thought Richard. “I am troubled, Rinpoche,” he said. There was a long pause while he tried to collect his thoughts. Nodding, he said, “I killed another man.”
The old man looked at him without expression. “Rinpoche asks that you tell him about it.”
Richard took a deep breath. “I was standing, looking at a man who was about to operate a lever that would release a virus to kill billions of people.”
Richard spoke in single sentences, allowing time for the monk to translate between them. Richard’s Lama sat and listened quietly with no apparent reaction.
“I picked up a gun that was dropped. I don’t really know why. It was more like something was dropped and I picked it up because that’s what you do when someone drops something. I don’t even think I knew what I picked up, at least at first. Then I looked at the man. He looked at me and the gun. I saw in his eyes he had made a decision. He tried to move quickly toward the lever. But in that instant, I saw the implications of what he was about to do. If he threw that lever, billions of people would die. And not a quick death. It would be a slow lingering death that would cause immense suffering for all infected for up to a couple of years. I was filled with an overwhelming sadness. I decided I would rather endure the consequences of killing again than to let all those people suffer. If, in my next incarnation, I would go to the hell realms as a result… Well, okay. I aimed the gun, pulled the trigger and shot him dead before he could get to the lever.”
The old monk gave no visible reaction.
“Rinpoche says, there is more? Yes?”
Richard looked at his hands. “Saving all those people from the virus was a good thing. But in the months that followed, I saw many of those same people suffer a lot in othe
r ways. Some died or were maimed in battle; some even died from starvation because of the breakdown of world order. I can’t help but wonder just how much suffering I really saved them from.”
“Rinpoche says that is the dance of samsara.”
“So I killed a man, accumulated a huge burden of negative karma, all for nothing,” said Richard.
“Rinpoche says maybe not. He says, there is only one way to save anyone from suffering and that is to give them the gift of enlightenment. But that is not a gift that can be given. It is something that each of us has to work for. Although we cannot walk the path for someone else, we can, however, point out the direction to go. This is the true way to help others.”
“But how can I point out the path when I’m still trying to find it myself?”
“Rinpoche says the only way to do so reliably is to first reach enlightenment yourself. That is why it is so important to maintain your practice and your own journey along the path.
“But even so, you can help others by sharing what you have learned, what insight you have gained. This can be done by living an example life, and by giving heartfelt counsel. As long as you are not enlightened, you will make mistakes. But you will make good progress as long as you act out of compassion. As long as you are doing what you are doing with the best interest of others as your motivation. As long as you say to yourself, ‘I do this for the sake of all sentient beings’ instead of ‘I do this because I think it is right, or best.’
“Rinpoche says that although you cannot stop suffering in samsara, trying to do so is not useless. By trying, you are exercising compassion which brings you further along the path. This helps others by providing an example. And the further you go along the path, the more you are able to help others make their journey. Also, it is hard to make much progress when you suffer. When you can alleviate other’s suffering, if only for a short while, you are providing them with the opportunity, even if brief, to make more progress. If you save someone else’s life, even though this is always temporary, you have provided them more time in this precious human life to make progress toward enlightenment.”
Richard squirmed on his cushion. “Still, I killed another man.”
“Rinpoche asks if you were able to speak to the man you killed before he died.”
Painful memories washed across Richard’s mind. “I spoke a few words. I went up to him and reassured him he killed no one and it was alright. I didn’t want him to die thinking he had killed billions of people. It seemed a terrible burden to die with. He said something about not being wrong, and then he died.”
There was an exchange in Tibetan between the old lama and the translator. The translator rose, bowed and left the room. His teacher looked at Richard and said, “You wish to go back to monastery?”
Richard never before heard him speak in English. Surprised, he sat in silence, not knowing how to respond. The simple question opened a door of opportunity he thought was closed. Memories flooded into his mind of cool soft breezes flowing from high mountain passes, wafting with the vague scent of conifer; the sound and feel of gravel underfoot as he circumambulated the great stupa in the courtyard, all the while softly repeating Buddhist prayers; the large kitchen where he took so many meals with his fellow monks, silently, no word ever spoken; the mindless simple chores, like washing dishes, cleaning the shrine room, sweeping the courtyard; the hours on hours, day after day, sitting straight-spined, cross-legged on the cushion, meditating in the large shrine room - the room, filled with monks sitting on its hardwood floors between brightly painted walls and gold filigreed pillars, suffused in a thin cloud of incense whose aroma alone could put you in a deep contemplative state. And the calm peaceful wakefulness, the serene quiet realization of the essence of the center of being; the contented joy of seeing things as they were - although seen through a translucent veil.
A train of thought tickled at Richard’s awareness and interrupted his memories. Should he go back to the monastery? A place where he could easily practice what was good and right? Where being kind and generous was as easy and natural as taking an effortless breath of fresh air? Where following the Dharma was the only available option, without distraction or interruption? Where he could engender calm and peace, leading to a slow plodding progress toward that elusive and ill-defined goal called enlightenment? Or…
Suddenly, like a shaft of brilliant sunlight piercing a thick fog, a single thought stabbed into his awareness, breaking other thoughts into little disconnected eddies that dissipated in swirls of psychic mist.
The thought?
This is not about me.
Hell, I don’t even exist! A half-smile curled around one side of his face. At least no more so than a circle of chalk is a cow.
Richard wondered before what it might mean not to exist, because it was a central part of Buddhist thought. He tried to find some way of interpreting it he could accept, but had a lot of trouble with it. How could he not exist? Cogito ergo sum! I think, therefore I am. Clearly, something was happening in his mind.
Wait a minute! Maybe that was the key. In Buddhism, experience was the ultimate reality. Makes sense. My only contact with what is real is my direct experience. Everything else, the existence of an external reality, the existence of other people, everything else, was a supposition made consistent with that experience. Ideas, world views, and even the nature of the self, were extrapolations from that experience.
What was the self? Richard knew lamas sometimes gave their students the task of finding and defining the “I” – that thing we call the self. He’d tried it himself. He went to a quiet place and spent a considerable period of time looking inward, trying to identify the “I.” It was like trying to grab a handful of sunbeam. It was there, but not there. He ended up feeling what he experienced could not be explained by postulating the existence of an “I.” Something was going on, but something else.
Experience was key, so maybe what he was could be described better in terms of experience. But which experience defined what he was? His thoughts, his emotions? What if he thought of the self not as a thing having experiences, but as the experiences themselves? All of them. His thoughts and emotions, sure, but also what he touched, and what he saw, heard, smelled and tasted. All of his experiences. Then the floor he stood on, the incense he smelled, the cars out on the street he heard, people he interacted with, and what he thought of as himself would all be speculations created by the mind to provide objects that were sources of those experiences. But what if they didn’t exist? What if all that exists were the experiences themselves? Even if objects did exist, all he would ever know for sure were the experiences they created. His experiences were the only contact he had with reality. Everything else was no better than a guess. If all he could be sure of was his experiences, then there was no separation between what he was and what he experienced because he was what he experienced.
He took in a sharp breath. Compassion! Of course! Compassion wasn’t just a rule of law to be followed and which, if violated, would mean dire consequences in this life and beyond. It wasn’t just a road sign pointing toward the ultimate realization. As true as that all may be, compassion was more, so much more. It was the key unlocking chains that bind to a self-referential world-view that caused nothing but misery. It was a doorway leading to an outlook that frees the mind from the belief in the existence of the self – the belief at the core of all suffering. It put the attention on something other than the self, loosening its grip on the mind. It provided a way for greater contact with the ultimate reality, which itself was made of compassion. It was a path to enlightenment – seeing reality as it was.
Richard looked up at his Lama. His Lama was looking at his robes, smoothing and straightening the folds. He appeared to be patiently waiting for the return of the monk he sent on an errand. Richard wondered. Had he just received a transmission? The purported ability of the mind of an accomplished master to communicate directly with the mind of his disciple? Did it matter?
Th
e translator returned with a book in his hand. The book was open and the translator was thumbing through the pages. He stopped and said, “Here it is. Rinpoche wants you to read this.” He handed the book to Richard.
Confused, Richard accepted the book and his eyes looked down the page to where the translator pointed. He read:
Once in a previous life, the Buddha was a captain called Compassionate Heart. He was sailing upon the ocean with five hundred merchants when the evil pirate called Black Spearman appeared, threatening to kill them all. The captain realized that these merchants were all non-returning Bodhisattvas, and that if one man killed them all, he would have to suffer in the hells for an incalculable number of kalpas. Moved by an intense feeling of compassion, he thought: “If I kill him, he will not have to go to hell. So I have no choice, even if it means that I have to go to hell myself.” With this great courage, he killed the pirate, and in so doing, gained as much merit as would normally take seventy thousand kalpas to achieve. On the face of it, the act was a harmful one, since the Bodhisattva was committing the physical act of murder. But it was done without the least selfish motivation. In the short term, it saved the lives of the five hundred merchants. And in the long term, it saved Black Spearman from the sufferings of hell. In reality, therefore, it was a very powerful positive act.
“Rinpoche says that when you killed before, you saved a life, but your actions were not totally selfless. You wanted to save the woman for yourself. Even though that became impossible later. You wanted to do the right thing so you could think of yourself as a righteous person.”
Richard sat and stared at the floor in silence. Had his motivation in killing Todd been totally selfless? Or had he done it to promote some selfish agenda of his own? It was so hard to know for sure. It was just too easy for him to deceive himself, especially when looking at himself.
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