The Trail to Buddha_s Mirror nc-2

by Don Winslow

  “The Bridge of Deliverance!” Li announced over the roar of a huge waterfall above them.

  “Why is it called that?!” Neal shouted, praying that the answer didn’t involve an albino boy and a banjo.

  “Here, all fatigue disappears, because the sound of the rushing water is so beautiful! Sit and listen!”

  She crossed the bridge to a small level spot and scooped some stones from a pool in the river. She came back and handed the stones to Neal.

  “These are stones from the Great Lake above, and they have great medicinal qualities! You boil them in water and drink the water and you will never have a heart attack!”

  “You’d better keep them on hand.”

  “Are you rested?”

  “Why did you have to hide Pendleton on the top of the mountain?!”

  “Because it is hard to get there!”

  “One more minute.”

  He stood up and leaned gingerly on the bridge wall. He had to admit that the sound of the water was lovely, and the panorama was sensational. He could see the peak of the mountain, their goal, shining in the sunlight above him. The waterfall cascaded right beside him, casting a small rainbow where it smashed into the rocks. The bamboo forest was a sea of emerald. And there was always Li to look at. He was sadistically pleased to see sweat on her face.

  She frowned. “Now I am afraid perhaps the trail becomes difficult.”

  “Oh, now it does?”

  “I am afraid perhaps yes.”

  Neal had come to understand that the more modifiers a polite Chinese person threw into a sentence, the worse the situation was.

  “More steps?” he asked.

  “Yes.” Then her face brightened. “But they are not stone!”

  “Nails?”

  “Wood!”

  Wood. Hmmm…

  “For how far?”

  “Perhaps maybe one thousand feet.”

  “Pendleton walked up here?”

  “Oh, yes!”

  “Let’s do it.”

  Yeah, right, let’s do it, he thought about a half hour later as his heart slammed and his chest pounded back. The beauty would have been breathtaking if the climb hadn’t already done the job. But fear is a wonderful motivator. Neal was tired from the climb, but his mind reminded his body that there were angry people chasing them up that slope, and mind and body got together to make a batch of adrenaline to help him finish the climb.

  The path finally flattened out on a level shelf that skirted yet another promontory. A sharp cliff dropped off on Neal’s right. To his left, a dramatic complex of balconies and terraces had been built into the steep hillside. Under different circumstances he would have wanted to stop and explore the buildings, but the sun was dropping along with his energy and morale, and the morning’s adventure had become the afternoon’s grim march.

  The path dropped steeply downhill, which Neal found almost as wearing as the uphill struggles, through a stretch of sparse scrub pine, across another narrow stream, and then uphill again. He and Li passed a few monks here and there, but otherwise the mountain seemed empty. Where, Neal wondered, were all these pilgrims trying to find enlightenment? He hadn’t seen one stinking pilgrim. He made a mental note to ask Li, when they stopped. If they stopped.

  They would have to stop soon, he thought as he forced his legs up another steep stretch of stone stairs. It would be impossible to hike this trail at night, even with lanterns. He was nervous walking along it even in daylight, afraid a tired misstep would send him hurtling to his own enlightenment in the canyons below.

  And they would have to sleep. He was exhausted and numb. She must be tired, also. And whoever was chasing them had to be beat, as well. He figured he and Li had at least a four-hour jump on them, and their pursuers wouldn’t be able to move at night either.

  He was about to share this analysis with Li Lan, when he heard her chanting.

  “Yi, ar, yi, ar, yi, ar, yi… ”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Counting. One, two, one, two, one, two…”

  “Why?”

  “It takes mind away from the pain in your legs. Try it.”

  “What I had more in mind was a hot bath, a bed, and a bottle of scotch.”

  “Try it.”

  He tried it. He chanted along with her, matching his steps to the beat. He felt stupid at first, but then it began to work. It was so silly and so childish that he began to laugh. Then they laughed together, taking turns at counting off the cadence, and the game took them across more stone bridges, through more thick bamboo forests, up an incredibly vicious series of switchbacks, past three more monasteries and temples, and along the edge of a terrifying cliff.

  “Yi, ar, yi, ar, yi, ar, yi…”

  “Yi, ar, yi, ar, yi, ar, yi…”

  They were heading up some stairs when he fell.

  It was stupid, really. He simply missed the switch in the switchback and walked straight off the edge of the trail. One second he was mindlessly chanting, the next second he was in midair.

  A fir tree broke his fall and cracked at least one of his ribs.

  His shriek echoed through the canyon, so he had the rare opportunity of listening several times to the sound of his own pain. The jolt of agony sped like an express train from his chest to his brain. His brain told him to shut the fuck up, so he clamped his jaws together and whimpered. He wanted to roll around on the ground, but he was afraid to move because his position-feet jammed against a tree on the side of a cliff-was somewhat precarious. When he looked up he saw that he had fallen about fifteen feet. When he looked down he was quite content with his broken ribs; he had another thousand or so feet to fall if he wanted to throw back this card and draw another one.

  He rolled over gently on his stomach so that he was facing uphill, and began to claw his way back up to the path. Li stretched her walking stick out. He grabbed it and she pulled him up. Back on the relative safety of the path, he rolled around on the ground in agony.

  “Is anything broken?” she asked.

  “I think a rib or two.”

  “That is too bad.”

  She was a bit too cool for his taste. He would have liked her to be a little more upset. A few tears would have been okay.

  “Does it hurt much?”

  “No. I’m just cleaning the steps with the back of my shirt.”

  “Yes. It would be better if you would be still.”

  “It would also be better if you’d shut the fuck up.”

  “Better also to be calm.”

  Calm. Right. My stomach feels like it’s been napalmed. We’re halfway up a mountain, it’s getting dark, I can’t breathe or walk, and some very heavy types who are chasing us just got a major boost. So let me indulge in a little panic for a minute.

  Not to mention self-pity.

  “Do not worry,” she said. “I can carry you.”

  “Lan, don’t be offended, but you don’t resemble-in any way, shape, or form-a mule.”

  “I can carry you.”

  “I have at least forty pounds on you.”

  “We must take off shirt and take care of ribs.”

  “You touch that shirt, you go off the edge.”

  “Tough man.”

  “That’s ‘tough guy.’ Aahhhh!!!”

  She opened his shirt. His rib cage was turning purple. His head whirled and he almost fainted, but a silly sense of male pride kept him conscious.

  “I will do some pressing,” she said.

  “I’ll shoot you.”

  She apparently didn’t believe him, because she dug a finger into the muscles above the ribs. The pain didn’t stop, but the piercing stabs settled into a dull, sick ache.

  “How did you do that?”

  “Be still.”

  She did more pressing. Then she manipulated the broken rib. This time Neal fainted.

  He awoke to the sound of her yi-ar chant. She was climbing a hill, carrying him piggyback, her knees bent to adjust to the extra load. The sky was slate
gray.

  His ribs throbbed to the rhythm of her gait.

  “Put me down.”

  “No.”

  “You can’t carry me up this mountain!”

  “What am I doing now?”

  Carrying me up this mountain.

  “It is an old tradition. Buddhist grooms used to carry their brides up the mountain.”

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you, why haven’t we seen all these devout pilgrims climbing to Buddha’s Mirror?”

  “Cultural Revolution.”

  Cultural Revolution, Cultural Revolution. It seemed like the answer to every question. Why did the chicken cross the road? Cultural Revolution.

  “It was very dangerous to be religious,” she continued, “so people could not travel to Emei to make climb. Even some monasteries on the bottom of the mountain were destroyed by the Red Guard. Very sad.”

  “I’ll slow you down.”

  She stopped. “You are slowing me down by making me talk. Interrupting my chanting. With the chanting, you are light. Without it, you are heavy. We have far to go and darkness comes soon. So be quiet. Please.”

  He sank back down on her back. Before long the sky around them turned golden, then orange, then red, setting the mountain off in an almost surreal glow. The miles passed with the litany of yi, ar, throb, throb.

  Just as the sky turned black, Li carried Neal through the gates of a monastery. Neal recognized the statue of Kuan Yin, Goddess of Mercy, before Li collapsed in exhaustion.

  Neal lay on his kang later that night. The monks had wrapped his rib cage in a cloth boiled in an herbal mixture. They had forced some noxious, hot liquid down his throat that eased the pain. Then they had stretched a coarse net over the top of the bed and left him to get some rest.

  What’s the net for? Neal wondered. We have to be at least nine thousand feet up here, well above the mosquitoes. Besides, the net was too coarse to keep out anything but a mutant giant mosquito. What was it for? He had his answer a few seconds later, when he heard the scurrying of paws across the floor. He looked down to see at least eight pairs of red eyes studying him.

  Rats.

  They were all over the place, scratching at his discarded shoes, sniffing at the edge of the kang, scavenging for food. Neal huddled up in his clothing, trying to cover up every bit of his person he possibly could. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but the thought of a rat nibbling at his foot kept him awake. Just then a rat ran straight across the top of the net over Neal’s chest. Neal heaved himself up and screamed. His chest responded with a stab of fire that put Neal back in a prone position. It was probably just his imagination, but he thought he saw the rat grin at him. The rat chattered busily. Neal figured that the rodent was telling his buddies they had a helpless victim here.

  Bandit monkeys, marauding rats… It’s a good thing there aren’t any wolves or tigers left on this damn mountain-or are there? He entertained himself with visions of tigers and wolves creeping stealthily up the stairway. Well, at least they’d scare off the rats. He finally dozed off to that pleasant fantasy.

  He screamed as he felt the tiny claws scrape his chest.

  “It is just me,” Li Lan said as she climbed into bed.

  “Don’t let the rats in.”

  She snuggled against him carefully.

  After a few moments she said, “The climb tomorrow is difficult and treacherous. You cannot go on, I think.”

  “I have to see Pendleton.”

  She thought for a moment.

  “I can bring him down here in two days.”

  “We don’t have two days, Lan. I’ll be caught by tomorrow morning.”

  As soon as Li settled in, the rats became active again. Neal listened to the scraping sounds of their claws on the wooden floor.

  “Don’t the rats bother you?”

  “This is why we use the nets.”

  “Why not traps?”

  “Killing is wrong.”

  Killing is wrong. Neal tried to tally the number of people who had been killed to bring Pendleton to the top of this mountain. Jesus, had it only been two? The Doorman and Leather Boy One? Only two? What am I thinking about? Two are enough. More than enough. And we ain’t home yet.

  “We must leave as soon as it is light,” Li said.

  Good, Neal thought. She’s accepted that I’m going with her.

  “Sure,” he said.

  “Sleep now.”

  “Okay.”

  She stroked his chest. “I would like to do more than sleep, but you are wounded.”

  “Well, maybe if you were real gentle with me…”

  “Oh, I can be very gentle.”

  She was, Neal thought later, remarkably gentle.

  “Li Lan,” he said, “when I go down the mountain… on the other side… will you go with me?

  She took a long time to answer.

  “Tomorrow,” she said, her voice edged with excitement, “we will look into Buddha’s Mirror, see our true selves. Then we will know everything.”

  He wanted to talk about it more, but she made a show of being sleepy. Her breathing deepened and steadied, and soon she was sleeping.

  Neal listened to the clawing of the rats before finally willing himself to sleep. Dawn would come all too soon.

  20

  Xao Xiyang stepped out from the modest pavilion at the top of the promontory and waited for the sun to rise. The air was so clear, so lovely, so peaceful that he almost did not wish to light the cigarette in his hand. The long climb and the pure mountain air had cleared his lungs, and the serene panorama almost inspired him to begin a more healthy regimen. The Yi guide had put him to shame, but of course he was much younger, and a native. Xao accepted the rationalization and lit the cigarette.

  So… soon he would see his true nature. A dangerous undertaking, considering what he was about to do. He was by no means certain he wanted even a glimpse at his own soul. He leaned over the low railing and sneaked a peek at the mists below. He saw no mirror; it looked like a bowl full of clouds, that was all. But hadn’t the Yi guide assured him that the Buddha’s Mirror appeared every day at dawn and dusk? Superstitions, he thought. They will hold us back.

  He felt the quiet presence of his driver behind him. If I am tired, he thought, this good soldier must be exhausted, having raced all the way around to the west side of the mountain and then climbed the treacherous western trail. A true soldier, a good man who should not fear seeing his own soul.

  “Is the American with you?” he asked.

  “Yes, Comrade Secretary.”

  “Good. He is well?”

  “He is breathing somewhat heavily.”

  “We do not all enjoy your sturdy constitution.”

  He offered the driver a cigarette, which the man accepted.

  “I take it, then,” Xao said, “that young Mr. Carey took the bait.”

  “You have seen the fish in the pool at Dwaizhou?”

  “Yes.”

  “Like that.”

  “Ah.”

  Xao considered his contradictory emotions: satisfaction that the plan was working, sadness that the plan had to work to its unrelenting end. The duality of nature-that a great good was always coupled with a great evil, a wonderful gift with a tragic sacrifice. Perhaps the Buddha’s Mirror will show me two faces.

  “When do you think they will arrive?” Xao asked.

  “For the sunset.”

  So it will be sad and beautiful, Xao thought. Appropriate.

  “Have him ready,” Xao ordered.

  He could sense the driver’s unease.

  “Yes?” Xao asked. “Speak up, we are all socialist comrades.”

  “Are you certain, Comrade Secretary, that you want to… complete the operation? There are alternatives.”

  “You have become fond of him.”

  There was no answer.

  Xao said, “There are alternatives, but they are risky. Risks are unacceptable when so much is at stake. Our personal feelings cannot matter.”


  “Yes, Comrade Secretary.”

  “You must be hungry.”

  “I am fine.”

  “Go eat.”

  “Yes, Comrade Secretary.”

  The driver stepped away. Xao watched the sun rise over the Sichuan basin. He knew what the driver had been hinting at-there was no operational reason for Xao to be here at all.

  True, he thought, but there is a personal one. A moral reason. When one orders the death of an innocent, one must have the character to watch it.

  Xao peered into the mists below him to search for his soul.

  Simms was just goddamn miserable. He had spent the night in a damp, dirty, rat-infested Buddhist Disneyland, had to squat over an open trench to take a dump, and now he was standing in the cold fog, trying to choke down a bowl of rice gruel, waiting for the sun to rise so he could climb a few thousand more steps.

  He yearned for the comforts of the Peak: a decent meal, a good bottle of bourbon, a young lady wrapped in silk. The thought of spending the rest of his life in the PRC made his stomach turn more than the rice gruel did. It was so dull here, so frigging monotonous, so spartan.

  The thought galvanized him, made him urge the sun to hurry up. If he didn’t do what he had to do-grease Neal Carey-he might very well have to spend his remaining days here in this communist paradise. If Carey made it back to the States and slobbered about what the mean Mr. Simms did to him, the folks at the Company might notice the conflict with his job description. They might start asking some unfortunate questions. Then even those shit-for-brains might figure out that he was taking a regular paycheck from the Chinese. And that could get ugly. Probably even that stupid geek Pendleton had put it together.

  He unzipped the long case and pulled out the rifle. The Chinese 7.62 Type 53 was by no means his favorite, but it would do. He favored bolt action, and the telescopic sight adjusted nicely. He sat down behind a large rock and screwed the sight onto the barrel. Then he hoisted the rifle to his shoulder, braced it against his cheek, and checked the sight out in the gathering light.

  He spotted a band of monkeys in some bamboo about two hundred yards down the slope. He thought about his confrontation the day before with the fucking little bastards. I’ll show them an ambush. He centered the cross hairs on the chest of the largest monkey in the group, and squeezed the trigger. The shot threw high and to the left. He adjusted the sights accordingly, and aimed again. The monkey continued to gnaw on some exotic piece of fruit. The bullet slammed squarely into his chest and sent him tumbling down the hill.