by K. T. Tomb
Bimini and its curative waters were widespread subjects in the Caribbean. The Italian-born chronicler, Peter Martyr, told of them in a letter to the Pope in 1513, though he did not believe the stories and was dismayed that so many others did.
— Wikipedia
***
The rest of the trip was spent napping, snacking, and napping some more. Jonathan seemed to be surfing the web randomly by then in order to keep his mind off the dangerous thugs that might be stalking their team.
“Hey! Did you know that Glastonbury is on a powerful ley-line, if you believe in that sort of thing.”
Charlotte bounced Angelo on her lap.
“I do, more or less. Interesting things seem to be built along those lines.”
“Joseph is said to have traveled there, you know. After the crucifixion, with a cup containing the blood of Jesus. The legend goes that where that blood was spilled on the ground, a fountain emerged, flowing with reddish water. It goes on to say that King Arthur’s Knights of the Round Table spent much of their lives searching for that cup: the Holy Grail. They don’t say how he managed to keep it from spilling until he arrived in Glastonbury all the way from Jerusalem. It’s a long way from the Holy Land to England. He must have had Tupperware.”
“Good one, Jon. Even if it’s a tad bit blasphemous.”
Thalia couldn’t settle down. There were too many unanswered questions about this trip and already too many possible paths to follow. In England, they could explore the holy wells in Wales and Scotland, and from there, Lourdes in France. After that, it could be Spain, and then Mumbai to the sacred Ganges River. Over the centuries, nearly every blessed or sacred spring, well and river had been dubbed, in one way or another, to be the waters of life. Only one or two of them actually made the claim of being the Fountain of Youth, though some of them did claim that regular drinking of the waters could make one more youthful. But that wasn’t supposed to be what the Fountain of Youth was about. Was it?
After they had interrogated the monk at Yumbulagang, they planned to fly east to Mount Kailash if there wasn’t a solid lead to follow. Phoe hoped there would be. Her experience in the Altai’s was still fresh in her mind and she felt no rush to be put back in a situation like that anytime soon. The search could easily take months, if not years, and Kessler wanted results yesterday, not tomorrow.
It was midnight by the time they landed. It was so comfortable in the cabin, and they were all so tired, that none of them could see any reason to go out in search of a hotel that night. Charlotte and Jonathan pulled the couches out into beds and prepared to spend the night where they were.
However, Thalia had too much on her mind. She could not settle down.
“Peter, do you want to go out on the town with me? I can’t sleep.”
“Yeah. We can compare thoughts. Maybe hash out a plan that seems reasonable.”
From the airport, the two of them picked up one of the Range Rovers that had been rented for them and followed a taxicab from the airport parking lot to what looked like an all-night pub.
“That suits me just fine!” she said, looking at the front of the establishment as Peter found a parking spot. Inside and seated, Thalia looked at the menu and realized she was overloaded with things she was thinking about, leaving her with no appetite. But her growling stomach begged to differ.
The two of them picked up some fish and rice, because nothing would impair Peter’s appetite for food. They headed for Zongjiao Lukang Park. At two in the morning, the park was nearly silent, except for crickets chirping and very few people enjoying the solitude. The two found a secluded bench and sat down to talk about their options.
“Exploring all these old places is wonderful; it’s almost as if you can feel the importance that they had over the course of history. I can’t even think of doubting that we will find the Fountain of Youth that Kessler wants us to locate, because I’m just about convinced that Angelo’s team found it. He’s the key to this whole mystery; you know that, right? I feel a definite link between that child with the phoenix tattoo and the fabled fountain. He’s been there, I can see it in his eyes.”
“What do you mean you see it in his eyes, Phoe? That’s ridiculous.”
“It’s not, Peter. When I look into Angelo’s eyes, I don’t see the soul of a two year old. I see the soul of a much older person. Sometimes, it’s as if I’m looking at someone else that is trapped inside the child’s body.”
At that moment, Thalia’s cell phone rang. Simon Kessler. Damn that international roaming plan! And all of Kessler Industries GPS locator systems.
“Hello, Simon?” She put the phone on speaker, so that Peter could hear the conversation.
“Thalia, Peter. Why did you neglect to mention the child you have with you? I would assume that is why Ms. DeCampos has joined you for her first Phoenix Quest ever. Strange. Do you think you’re any closer to figuring out this riddle? Do you think that you will be able to find those Buryat intellectuals before they are lost forever as children can often get? Can you find it for me?”
“The Fountain of Youth?”
“Indeed.” Simon Kessler ended the connection.
“Talk about cryptic and enigmatic,” Peter said when she had turned the phone off and put it away.
“I’ll say.”
“Does this mean we hold with our original plan?”
“I think that for right now, that would be best. Simon just about congratulated us for being on the right path, so let’s go with it and see where it leads. Remember when we took the corridor under the damn burial chapel in Germany and found that booby trapped maze of a cave?”
Peter sighed deeply. The memory was all too fresh, even though that had been a good five years ago.
“Let Jonathan do as much research as he can on the location and any possible links it may have to a Fountain of Youth story. There has to have been a reason why Angelo and those historians went there.”
“I guess that will have to do for now.”
The two of them walked back to the car in silence and headed back to their jet at the airport. When they climbed back onboard, everyone was asleep except for Charlotte.
“Am I going with you guys to the palace temple tomorrow? I want to take Angelo out to see some of the sights.”
“I don’t think so, Charlotte. In as much as I don’t expect to see any members of Los Carnívoros all the way over here in fucking rural China, you always have to expect the unexpected. That is the way it is in the field.”
Charlotte didn’t want to have to think about danger; however, she knew that Thalia was right.
“Still, it would be a shame to leave you and the boy here while we visit the oldest building in Tibet and one of its most sacred cultural sites.”
The next day at Yumbulagang, the sound of constantly running water and the murmuring of tourists dominated their surroundings. The air was fresh and sweet, and the feeling of peace was impossible to ignore. The gardens were vibrant with color. The guide that walked ahead of the group of tourists they had joined was telling them a little about the history of the place.
“The Palace was built for the first Tibetan King, Nyatri Tsenpo, in the 2nd century B.C. and became the official palace of the Tibetan kings after that. It then became the summer palace for Princess Wencheng and Songtsän Gampo, during the reign of Songtsän Gampo himself. The palace was then turned into a Gelugpa monastery during the reign of the fifth Dalai Lama after Songtsän Gampo moved to the capital of Lhasa in the 7th Century. The name ‘Yumbu’ means female deer named after the shape of the Jormo Zhaxi Ceri Mountain that the palace was built on top of and which looks like a female deer. ‘lagang’ meaning Sacred palace. Hence the name ‘Yumbulagang,’ in its translated form, stands for ‘the sacred palace of mother and son’ in Tibetan dialect.”
As the tour guide droned on, Charlotte made notes; thinking she would like to plant simple gardens such as these around her new home. The view was phenomenal and for miles around in every direction, the va
lley spread out in all its splendor. It was breathtaking.
The only comment Jonathan made was, “It looks almost as good as it did on my computer. I wonder if they have Wi-Fi here?”
“We are supposed to be observing in real time. Keep your eyes open,” Thalia growled at him.
As all five of them, including Charlotte with Angelo firmly pasted to her right hip, continued the tour. Phoe and Peter looked around to get an idea of where they would be able to find Monk Kamala. By the time the guide led them back to the starting point of the palace tour, Peter had decided to just ask him.
“Sir, where do you think we could find some of the resident monks?” Peter received a questioning look from the man. He suspected that the tour guide must have thought he was just another bothersome tourist looking to make a nuisance of himself. Peter quickly added, “We’re actually trying to get in touch with Monk Kamala; he’s an old friend of ours.”
“Oh, I see. Of course. The monks usually hold a common prayer in the main courtyard at six, nine, twelve, three and then at six again. You can join them at the next one if you wish.”
Peter thanked the man and turned back to face the group. He looked at his watch. Twenty minutes to three.
“Main courtyard at three o’clock for prayers, guys. Jonathan, do you know what this Monk Kamala looks like? Can you identify him?”
“Dad sent pictures.”
“Okay then, folks,” Phoe announced. “Let’s go pray!”
The courtyard of the palace was breathtaking. When the group arrived, the monks were already assembled, seated in neat rows from one end of the pavilion to the other and waiting for the faithful and the spectators to take their seats in the rear of the space. They sat cross-legged, dressed in orange and yellow robes and held their hands in front of them with their palms pressed together. Some monks that were seated close to the front, nearest the altar, wore lengths of red cloths wrapped about their shoulders and held strings of prayer beads between the palms of their praying hands. Sharply at three, the courtyard doors were silently closed and the two hundred or so bald-headed men began to hum in low voices. The humming grew in intensity and volume and then broke into words which were half spoken and half sung in Sanskrit. Phoe found the sounds hypnotic and Angelo clapped his hands in excitement at the chanting.
Nam myoho renge kyo!
Ho ben pon dai ni ni ji se son ju san mai an jo ni ki go shari hotsu sho bu' chi e jin jin mu ryo go chi e mon nange nan nyu is sai sho mon hyaku shi butsu sho fu no chi.
Sho i sha ga butsu zo shin gon hyaku sen man noku mu shu sho butsu jin gyo sho mu ryo do ho butsu yu myo sho jin myo sho fu mon jo ju jin jin mi zo u ho zui gi sho setsu i shu nan ge.
Shari Hotsu!
Go ju jo butsu i rai shu ju in nen shu ju hi yu ko en gon kuyo mu shu ho ben in do shu jo ryo ri sho jaku sho i sha ga nyo rai ho ben chi ken hara mitsu kai i gu souk.
Shari Hotsu!
The prayers went on for an hour, and then the monks stood row by row, starting at the front and filed out of the courtyard in perfect order. They waited for all the people to leave the pavilion before asking the monks, who remained behind to close the doors, for Monk Kamala.
“Wait here,” the one with the wire-rimmed glasses said and ran off across the open space toward a corridor.
A few minutes later, he reemerged followed by another monk, one with a drape of crimson cloth clutched around his shoulders.
“Kamala?” Phoe asked as the man approached them.
“Yes,” he replied, bowing to them.
“Simon Kessler sent us,” Phoe continued. “I’m looking for my friend, Angelo Batista, and Simon said you may have been the last person to see him.”
Kamala looked at the five faces one at a time. He saw their excitement, anxiety, worry and fright. Then he saw the shining, innocent face of the cherubic child in Charlotte’s arms and he began to laugh. He bowed reverently to the child and then faced the others again.
“Angelo was here about three weeks ago. He came in search of the mountain spring that this palace was built on top of. Legends all over Tibet claim that the waters of this spring are what gave Princess Wencheng her inexplicable beauty and her husband, Songtsän Gampo, his exceedingly long life. Angelo was looking for the Fountain of Youth but we in Tibet do not hold such a legend in our culture. He tested the waters in our spring and, satisfied that it was not what he was looking for, he left.”
“Did you discuss his expedition with him further?” Eric chimed in.
“Yes, indeed. In fact, we spent all his nights here talking in great detail about his travels and his obsession with this water that he sometimes called ‘Aqua vida.’ I had always thought Europeans called alcohol by that name.”
The monk laughed again at the quip.
“Did he say where he was headed after he left here?” Phoe coaxed.
Monk Kamala was a jolly and well-educated soul, but something told her that if she didn’t steer the conversation expertly, he would be prone to rambling off the topic at hand.
“He told me that he had many leads as to where the location of this special youth-giving water could be but his next stop would be the Seychelles Islands in the Indian Ocean. He mentioned Eden Island and then going on from there to Ile Moyenne.”
The five breathed a collective sigh of relief.
“Thank you very much, Monk Kamala,” Peter said, shaking the man’s hand.
“You are welcome, but you may still thank me with something in the alms bowls outside the courtyard.”
With that, the bald headed man turned and hurried back toward the darkened corridor from which he had emerged earlier.
“Well, team!” Phoe announced, “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
“Thalia Phoenix! Watch your goddamned language,” Charlotte cried and huffed off with Angelo in her arms in the direction of the parking lot, leaving the others looking at each other in bewilderment.
As they got into the SUV, Jonathan finally spoke.
“Phoe, do you have any idea what was up with the monk bowing to the kid?”
Chapter Six
In Punta Gorda, a town on Charlotte Harbor, a blocky, green-tiled fountain abuts an empty lot near the harbor. A spigot juts out near the top to release water from the artesian well below. Each of the four sides features a picture of a ship, a tribute to Ponce de Leon.
On the side facing away from the street, a public health notice warns that the water "exceeds the maximum contaminant level for radioactivity." The water from the well is also heavy in sulfates, which give it a distinctive smell of rotten eggs. This hasn't stopped the locals from drinking from it regularly.
Punta Gordians proudly declared the existence of a rejuvenative fountain as far back as 1894. In 1926, they mounted a collection drive to pay for the stout little structure that stands to this day. At the height of its popularity, in the mid-20th century, the handle on the tap had to be replaced every six months.
‘Florida's Radioactive Fountain of Youth May Prolong Life’
— by Jackie Snow for National Geographic
***
It was a three hour drive back to Lhasa Airport and every one of them was tired, hungry and cranky by the time they were back onboard the jet; none more so than little Angelo. He was kicking and screaming when Charlotte inadvertently woke him up trying to get him out of the Range Rover. After a warm bath and a change of clothes, Charlotte allowed Pam to offer him some slices of roasted chicken, mashed potatoes and glazed carrots which went down like a treat. Not long after, the little boy was dozing off in her arms again and she laid him down on the pullout cot to sleep.
They had their own roast chicken supper while Captain Sampras got them cleared to take off for the Seychelles Islands.
“I’ve never been to Seychelles before,” Jonathan remarked absent-mindedly as he surfed the Internet, trying to look up interesting facts about the place.
“That doesn’t matter!” Phoe snapped impatiently.
Down girl. Come on d
own from that soapbox of queen bitchiness. The kid’s just making conversation.
“I meant that you need to see what you can find on Ile Moyenne,” Phoe corrected herself. “It’s obvious from what Kamala said that that was where Angelo’s interest really was.”
“I’d think that being a group of islands, water must be pretty scarce. Any natural springs or river system would cause urbanization in that resources’ immediate vicinity. Ile Moyenne seems practically deserted.”
“Well, we’ll know what the deal is in no time!” Eric said.
***
“I’m really sorry about this, Charlotte, but you’ve been vetoed on the matter. There’s no negotiating this,” Phoe said, her voice slightly raised.
“You can’t leave us behind. What if those morons come after us again?”
“You’ll be safe with Sampras and Pam. Go to the hotel with them and do a little sightseeing, go to a beach. Relax, for God’s sake, and have some fun with the kid,” Peter insisted, trying to make the idea of her being left behind seem a little more appealing.
There was no use arguing and Charlotte knew it, so, in the end, she followed Pam to the rented SUV and shimmied into the back seat with Angelo. As they drove off, Phoe sighed heavily and turned to the guys.
“She sure can be pig-headed when she’s ready to be, huh?” Phoe asked rhetorically.
The three men exchanged glances for a moment and then burst out laughing. She looked at them incredulously and huffed. When the three began laughing even harder, she picked up her bags and stormed off toward the waiting vehicle. It wasn’t until she had taken the driver’s seat and had started the engine that they realized they had better haul ass before Phoe left them behind.
At the marina, a large fishing boat captained by a scruffy looking man awaited them. Captain Jareau had not been too keen on chauffeuring a group of inquisitive tourists over to Ile Moyenne until he’d heard Simon Kessler’s proposal for his remuneration if he did so. The man never questioned anything after that. It wasn’t until he realized that they didn’t expect him to wait for them that his doubts returned.