High Priestess td-95

by Warren Murphy

  She opened her eyes. She was still seeing double. The flames were dancing in stereo just inches away from her pink nailed toes. Their crackling was as loud as a California brushfire.

  "This is great bhang," she said aloud. Everything was repeated, from her twenty-no, make that forty-toes, to her various Obies, Tonys, Oscars, Emmys and Grammys ranked upon the mantelpiece. She tried to remember how many Oscars she had won. Three, or was it four? It was hard to tell. She kept spares in every home she owned, from her Parisian pied-a-terre to her London flat.

  She lay back, her vertebrae popping audibly with her every move.

  "Maybe I should try a chiropractor," she told the high, white ceiling.

  The phone rang. Imelda immediately brought it in and held the receiver to her face so Squirrelly needn't sit up and risk dislocating her spine.

  "Hello?" she said through gritted capped teeth.

  A low, ingratiating voice said, "Hello. How's my favorite sixty-year-old nymphet?"

  "Warren! You remembered my birthday! How sweet."

  "How could I forget?" The pause on the line was awkward. "So, now that you're sixty, wanna make it with me?"

  "Warren! For God sakes, I'm your sister!"

  "Yeah, but you're the only actress left in Hollywood I haven't slept with."

  "Sue me, you satyr."

  "Is that a no?"

  "Yes."

  "Is that a yes?"

  "No."

  "So, you'll think about it?"

  "Hang up, Imelda," said Squirrelly, pulling away from the phone.

  Imelda replaced the cordless phone on its base and left the room.

  "And people think I'm a bit flipped out," muttered Squirrelly, who suddenly realized that she had sat up in surprise during the conversation.

  She experimented with moving her legs and fell into such a spasm of writhing, twisting, screaming anguish that Imelda, fearing for her mistress, immediately called for an ambulance.

  THE PARAMEDICS rushed in, took one look and one of them said, "Back spasm."

  The other, sniffing the air and seeing Squirrelly's dilated eyes, added, "High as a kite, too."

  They brought in a spine board and tried to strap her to it. But Squirrelly only writhed and screamed more loudly.

  The paramedics were trying to figure out what next to do when a resounding bell-like voice punctuated by heavy footfalls that shook the pine flooring announced, "I am Kula the Mongol, possessor of herpes in abundance, and I will slay any Christian who defiles the Bunji Lama with his unworthy hands."

  The paramedics looked up, saw a hulking Asian brandishing a silver dagger and immediately backed away.

  "We don't want any trouble, friend," one of them said.

  "And if you stand away from that woman," a squeaky voice added, "there will be none."

  The next person to enter was a little wisp of an Oriental wearing a kimono of scarlet silk. His serious gaze fell upon Squirrelly Chicane, half-strapped to the spine board. With a shriek, he fell upon the board and flung it aside.

  "Western medicine!" he said derisively. "It is fortunate that we arrived in time, before they inserted foreign objects down the Bunji Lama's throat or removed her ears."

  "They remove the ears of the sick here?" Lobsang said.

  "Western doctors are quacks. They believe it is their right to remove any organ or appendage once they pronounce it to be infested with cancer."

  "Oh, right," said Remo. "Ear cancer. That's a real killer."

  And in the middle of this a dreamy voice called up from the floor, "Who's the Bunji Lamb?"

  No one answered that question. Instead, Squirrelly Chicane found herself looking up into a sweet Asian face. It reminded her of the trusting faces she had seen in China years ago, when she had been there on a goodwill tour. To this day, people still criticized her for going and for praising the Chinese authorities after she had returned home. Republicans, mostly. They were so unenlightened.

  "Who are you?" she asked the sweet, trustworthy face.

  "I am the Master of Sinanju, and I have come to relieve you of your suffering."

  "I think my chakras are out of whack, Mr. Sinatra."

  Another Oriental face came into view. It looked worried.

  "I am Lobsang Drom, of Tibet. You know of the chakras?"

  "Yes, of course."

  "You are Buddhist?"

  "Yes," said the other Oriental.

  "Baptist," Squirrelly offered.

  "Bap-tist?"

  "It is the American word for Buddhist," said the trustworthy-looking Oriental.

  "Sounds about right to me," said Squirrelly, going with the flow.

  "Can you heal her, Master?"

  "Yes, can you heal me, Mr. Sinatra?" asked Squirrelly, who wondered if the old man was some distant cousin of Frank's.

  Then the trustworthy Oriental reached behind her head with one hand and began manipulating her spine. Immediately, Squirrelly started feeling very warm in the area of her neck, and a sleepiness suffused her mind. She drifted off, and in the darkness behind her eyelids, she could see her chakras-one set now-falling into line.

  Her eyes snapped open suddenly, and she felt firm fingers withdraw from her neck.

  "You may sit up now," said the old Oriental, standing up.

  Squirrelly gathered her dancer's legs under her. They worked fine. She sat up. Her back responded without protest. There was no pain, no stiffness, no hesitancy.

  "Chiropractic?" she asked, assuming a lotus position.

  And the trustworthy old Oriental turned his head to spit into the roaring fire.

  "Your humors were unbalanced," he said. "There was too much wind in your spine. I have released the bad wind."

  Squirrelly blinked. She had never heard of wind in the spine. But it sounded really New Age, so it must be true. That was her personal philosophy in a nutshell: if it sounded right, it was.

  Squirrelly saw now there were four strangers in the room, not counting her maid and the two paramedics, who were packing up their spine board and first-aid equipment with sheepish expressions. They quietly slipped away.

  Two were the Asians she had seen. The third was also an Asian. But different from the two. He looked like Conan the Hulk. The fourth man was white, very casually dressed, and had the biggest wrists Squirrelly had ever seen in her life.

  There was something indefinably interesting about the way he moved. She couldn't take her eyes off him.

  And the others couldn't take their eyes off her. Which was perfectly understandable, she decided. After all, wasn't she Squirrelly Chicane, toast of stage, screen, song and many lives?

  Squirrelly bestowed upon them her most alluring smile.

  "Let me guess, you're a delegation from the People's Republic, sent to convey greetings upon the occasion of my sixtieth birthday."

  The faces of the three Asians fell, and the old one spit into the fireplace again.

  "Wrong guess," muttered Squirrelly. "Okay, I'll bite. Who are you?"

  "I am the Master of Sinanju, destined to be known as Chiun the Great, and I bring with me the Most Holy Lobsang Drom Rinpoche and Kula the Mongol."

  "Who's the hunk?"

  Everyone scowled at that. Especially the hunk himself.

  "A minor servant," said the sweet-faced Chiun.

  "Trade you my maid for him"

  "No deal," said the hunk with the wrists.

  "You don't want to be my boy toy?" Squirrelly asked in a pouty voice.

  "I'm a free agent."

  "Enough!" cried the Master of Sinanju. "Memo, fetch the trunk of the former Bunji Lama."

  And the white guy named Remo stepped from the room, moving, Squirrelly saw with pleasure, like a dancer. Better than Nureyev. With cuter buns, too.

  While he was gone, the old Oriental said, in a voice that lost its squeakiness with each word, "O flamehaired one of many lives, we have journeyed far to bring you momentous tidings."

  Squirrelly began singing, "Happy birthday to me. Happy birthd
ay to me. I hope the hunk is a Chippendale dancer, because he's built like a tree ...."

  When no one joined in, she stopped. "Okay, this isn't about my birthday. So, tell a girl."

  "An oracle has told us of your dwelling here in the land called Malibu," said Chiun, "and lo, it has spoken the truth. We have found you here."

  "The Master of Sinanju speaks truly," said the Mongol, Kula.

  "Truly, he has," added the Tibetan, Lobster. Or whatever his name was.

  "I'm in the book," said Squirrelly.

  "And now the time has come to test the veracity of the oracle's other revelation," said Chiun.

  "An oracle has been talking about me? Behind my back?"

  "The oracle has named you the next Bunji Lama."

  "I never heard of the Bunji Lamb," said Squirrelly, "I did meet the Dehli Lamb at a party once. He was with Richard Gere. Any relation?"

  This time it was the Tibetan who spit into the fireplace.

  "When the Bunji Lama comes to the natural end of his life," he said, "it is his destiny to be reincarnated into the body of an infant born at the exact moment of his death. By certain secret signs is the next body recognized. In the case of the last Bunji Lama, he prophesied that the body fate had decreed for his next fleshly house would be born far from Tibet, and so he further prophesied the certain signs by which his regents could recognize him."

  "This sounds really, really cosmic," said Squirrelly.

  The Master of Sinanju proclaimed, "Behold, the white woman Squirrelly Chicane. Has she not red hair?"

  "Yes."

  "Truly."

  "Not even dyed," said Squirrelly, patting her carroty shag.

  "It is well to remember that the first prediction of the forty-sixth Bunji Lama was that his next body would possess hair the hue of fire."

  "That's me," said Squirrelly. "Oh, my God! Was I the Bunji Lamb in a previous life?"

  "The first test has been passed. Now it is time to see if this woman recognizes any relics of her former life."

  "Show me a relic! Show me a relic!" Squirrelly said excitedly.

  At that moment Remo returned with the trunk and before Squirrelly's mesmerized gaze, it was opened to reveal a dead, musty smell and a headless seated mummy. Its head sat in its lap as if that were the natural place for it.

  "What's that?" she asked,

  "The old Bunji Lama," said Lobsang, prying a bronze ceremonial object from the dead mummy's clenched brown fingers. He brought it over to dangle it before Squirrelly's wide eyes.

  "Do you recognize this dorje?"

  "Dorje?"

  "Ceremonial thunderbolt," said Lobsang. "It is the symbol of the Bunji Lama's temporal power."

  Squirrelly's brow knit in perplexity. "No. Darn it, it doesn't ring a bell."

  "She has passed the second test!" Chiun proclaimed.

  "I have?"

  "It was predicted that the forty-seventh Bunji Lama would recognize none of the trappings of his former body."

  "My God. It's true. I don't recognize it at all." And looking at the lichen-eaten face of the old Bunji Lama, she added, "As a matter of fact, I don't recognize me at all."

  "Bulldooky," said Remo. "Of course she doesn't recognize it. She never saw it before in her life. What kinda of cockamamy test is that?"

  "Silence, white eyes!" said Lobsang.

  "There are other tests," said the Master of Sinanju. "Reveal to us your left shoulder."

  Squirrelly peeled her pink pajama top off her shoulder, unbuttoning the top buttons so Remo could get a peek at her cleavage. He pretended to look out the window with a bored expression. Squirrelly figured he was sneaking a peek in the reflection of the windowpane. Men were so obvious.

  "Behold the mark! It is the sign that has appeared on the shoulder of the Bunji Lama down through the ages. "

  Squirrelly started. The old Oriental was pointing with a perfectly manicured fingernail at her bare shoulder. She pulled it around, saying, "Mark! What mark?"

  And there it was, a dimplelike pit on her shoulder.

  "My God! Look at it. It's some kind of birthmark I never noticed before."

  "That's your vaccination mark, you dip," said Remo.

  "What is this chiling word-'vaccination?'" Lobsang demanded.

  "It is a rare word meaning the mark of the Bunji Lama-for even in this backward land the fame of the Bunji Lama has spread!" explained the old man.

  The Tibetan was hovering close now, squinting at the mark. His long face was unhappy.

  "It is the right mark, isn't it?" Squirrelly asked. "Oh, tell me it is. I've been between past lives for so long I've had a serious case of the blahs."

  "It is as the texts describe." said Lobsang. "But you are a female with white eyes. No white eyes has ever been a tulku. "

  "What's a tulku?"

  "An incarnation."

  "Call me a white-eyed tulku. Except they're blue, you know."

  "There is another test, one not prophesied by the last Bunji Lama, but known to all Worshipful Nameless Ones in the Dark Who See the Light That is Coming," Lobsang said slowly.

  "What's that?"

  "I must see your navel."

  "Sure." And Squirrelly obligingly lifted her pajama top high enough so the lower curve of her breasts was revealed. Remo continued to pretend to be looking out the window.

  "It is true!" Lobsang gasped. "Her navel protrudes, just as did all previous Bunji Lamas!"

  "You mean I'm the Bunji Lamb because I'm an outie-"

  Chiun lifted a quieting hand. "There remains one final test."

  "What is it? What is it? I'll take it, whatever it is. I'm great with tests. Crossword puzzles. Scrabble. You name it."

  "There remains the joss," intoned Chiun.

  "Yes, the joss," said Kula. "Have you a Buddhist shrine in this place, O Light That Might Be?"

  "No."

  "No."

  "Then where do you worship your ancestors?"

  "Usually I just call home and talk to my folks."

  "If the joss is not found, she is disqualified," Lobsang said sternly.

  "But I don't wanna be disqualified," moaned Squirrelly. "I wanna be the Bunji Lamb. I deserve to be the Bunji Lamb. I've been just about everything else. Except the Queen of Sheba. My friend Poopi has dibs on her."

  "Does this mean we can go home now?" asked Remo.

  "Not until this entire house is searched and the joss found or not found," said Chiun firmly.

  "Somebody tell me what a joss is and I'll help you look," Squirrelly said helpfully.

  "It is an icon unique in all the world, which with his dying breath the last Bunji Lama described in detail," said Chiun, casting his eyes around the room but avoiding the mantel over the crackling fire.

  So it was that Remo Williams, trying to look everywhere but directly at Squirrelly Chicane, spotted the sword-wielding golden statuette without a face.

  He blinked. He started to open his mouth, caught himself and slipped up to the fireplace to stand directly in front of the statue, blocking it from view.

  "Why don't you guys check the other rooms?" he said casually. "I got this one covered."

  Chapter 9

  The minute the others left the living room of Squirrelly Chicane's Malibu beach house, Remo turned, grabbed a goldplated statuette off the mantelpiece and tried to find a place to stash it.

  The redwood furniture was spare and modern. Not a single cushion to hide anything under. Under the couch looked inviting, but knowing Chiun, Remo figured that would be the first place he'd look.

  That left the fireplace. Remo hated to do it-the statue wasn't his property-but this might be an emergency. Whatever Chiun was up to, trouble was sure to follow.

  Remo tossed the statue into the fireplace so it landed behind the burning log.

  Except the log wasn't really a log, but some kind of papier-mache pseudolog. The minute the statue hit it, the thing cracked in half with a mushy sound and a shower of sparks.

  The statue lay in t
he flames and whirling bits of burning paper exposed for anyone to see.

  "Damn," said Remo.

  He had no choice. He had to hide the damned thing. Getting down on one knee, Remo reached into the flames. His hand went in and out so fast it was a pink blur, driving a wall of air before it and pushing aside the hungry flames. The hairs on the back of his hand weren't so much as singed when he pulled it out again.

  The statue was hot, though. Holding it lightly so the hot metal wouldn't sear his fingertips, Remo rushed it over to the Bunji Lama's trunk and stuffed it behind the mummy's squatting form. Then he closed the trunk.

  When the Master of Sinanju returned a few minutes later, Remo tried to look innocent.

  Chiun, seeing his expression, said, "What have you been up to?"

  "Nothing. Just turning the log." Remo pointed at the shattered log and kept his face relaxed.

  Then Kula stormed in saying, "I have found it! I have found it! The defaced joss!"

  And he held up the golden statue that was familiar to anyone who ever watched an Academy Award ceremony.

  "It is the joss that was foretold!" Chiun cried. "Exactly as foretold."

  "It is?" said Squirrelly.

  "This is your joss?" demanded Lobsang.

  "Yes, of course it's mine."

  "I found it holding open the door to the well room," said Kula. "Like a worthless object."

  "Yeah, I use that one for a doorstop. What's a girl to do when she has so many josses?"

  "It does not look like a Buddha," Lobsang said. "What is this joss called?"

  "Oscar."

  "Os-car? How came you by it?"

  "That thing? Oh, I've only had it for a million years.

  Just then, everyone noticed the smoke.

  "Where is that smoke coming from?" asked Chiun, crinkling his tiny nose.

  "It comes from the trunk of the old Bunji Lama," said Kula. "See? It has closed itself. Now it is smoking. The Bunji Lama craves our attention."

  "Oh, hell," muttered Remo. "Here it comes."

  Kula threw open the trunk. Pungent smoke rolled out. It smelled like a compost pile on fire.

  "What is it you wish to reveal, O Light That Was?" asked Lobsang of the wizened form.