Abstractedly, he began estimating the number of gaps ― the vacancies ― in the sea of flames at a good thirty percent of the litters within view. Thirty percent right now. He sensed there would soon be more. Many more.
At odd intervals among the multitude, a few monks, shaven-headed and saffron-robed, carried water and were otherwise ministering to the afflicted. Often, this assistance consisted of no more than providing a brief shadow as they passed between the rows of unfortunates and the blistering sun. The odor of corruption was unmistakable and overpowering. Hemorrhagic splatters fouled the otherwise pristine fabric at frequent intervals.
Stepping carefully between two haphazard rows of coffin-sized rectangles, he made his way to Sun Shi’s chamber and there, with a good deal of apprehension, paused for a moment in the doorway. After half a dozen measured breaths, finding his voice at last, he called into the room, “Master Sun, may I speak with you?”
From inside the darkness, as though echoing across a wide, mist-muted valley with the raspy scratch of dead leaves being crushed underfoot the almost unrecognizable voice replied, “Always, my favorite apostate. Always.” A ragged, croupy cough racked the chamber immediately after the voice had faded away.
Ducking under the doorway lintel, Lyköan entered. Inside the tiny chamber, ghostly wisps of joss smoke danced towards a small hole in the raftered ceiling. A diffused shaft of sunlight sliced obliquely through the smoke, creating an angled column of glittering gemstone stars in the interior's otherwise obsidian night.
On an austere shelf against the far wall, barely visible through the smoke, a single squat votive candle sputtered, its dull saffron flame pressing tentatively into the darkness. On the bare floor in front of the shelf, Sun Shi lay shivering under a perspiration-soaked thin cotton sheet, his body little more than a knoll rising from the thin pallet thrown down upon the room’s bare, earthen floor. A rhythm of labored, shallow breaths echoed hollowly across the room. Walking over to the shivering figure, Lyköan sat down.
“How you doing, old timer?”
“I’ve been better,” came the weak reply.
His eyes slowly acclimating to the feeble candlelight, Lyköan looked down into the monk’s sallow face. Before Sun Shi had taken ill those now rheumy and darkly sunken eyes had always been bright and alert; the sharp contours of his now cadaverously emaciated skull had been merely aesthetic. Stretched tightly across bone and sinew, his flesh had been weathered, yes ― like strong, heavy parchment ― not this dangerously thin, almost translucent vellum on the verge of tearing. In only two days, the time it had taken to fill the wat’s inner courtyard with the sick and dying, the old monk had been frighteningly transformed.
Holding a skeletal hand in both of his own, heat radiating from brittle bone, Lyköan peered into the old man’s fever-tinged eyes and asked, “Can I do anything? Get somebody in here to take a look at you?”
“Another exercise in futility, my boy,” Sun wheezed, looking up at Lyköan with a grotesque death’s-head grin. “I appreciate the gesture. Honestly, I do. But we have more pressing concerns at the moment, don't we? There were thirty-five deaths here in the wat last night. The monks who have yet to fall ill are nearing exhaustion. Time grows short.”
“How can I help? Anything...” Lyköan whispered through a forced smile.
“Tell me, do you recall the four noble truths?”
If time was of the essence, why was the monk returning to lessons learned years ago? “Life brings suffering,” he obediently responded, almost by route, giving the old man his answer. “That is the primary truth. The cause of this suffering is our attachment. That follows. The cessation of suffering is attainable. This is the goal. The path that leads to the end of suffering exists and that should be our course.”
“So, have you learned the words but not their meaning?”
“Probably,” Lyköan replied. “I certainly don’t have your understanding ― or faith.” Staring far into Sun Shi’s fathomless, relaxing eyes, he knew he had answered the dying man as honestly as he had ever answered anything.
“Knowing the truths, then ― even with limited understanding ― you must realize that it would be the height of hypocrisy for me to sidestep this judgment simply because I find it ― inconvenient. Pain and life are synonymous. But pain is not the same as suffering.” The comment was punctuated by a long, hacking cough followed by two short, gasping breaths. “Do you also remember what I told you at Fifth and Fortieth?”
“You mean under the red and white umbrella?” Lyköan asked, attempting a smile. “Yeah, I remember. I've been wondering when you might bring it up again. So that was really you. How did you find me there?”
“What is your memory of that meeting?” Sun Shi asked, his eyes burning in earnest with a familiar inner fire.
“Your advice was something like reality being an illusion. That it would be a mistake for me to hold onto Karen and that other life. That there is a reason each slice of existence is separated from the rest and follows the course it does. How am I doing so far?”
“Quite well. Those aren’t my exact words, but the essence is faultless.”
“You probably know then that I had no intention of following your advice.”
“Funny how things work out, isn’t it?”
“How did you manage to be there?”
“There are any number of techniques for manifesting beyond the immediate, my dearest acolyte. Few require the primitive technology Pandavas employed. Traversing the space between the leaves of existence, however, by any means, unerringly produces an identifiable trail. I simply followed yours.”
“Another of those secrets of the universe?”
“One of many. I have told you time and again how our being is not limited ― certainly need not be restricted to this plane of existence or even this point in time. You may not have believed this before, but I know you do now. It is only the static nature of our perception that causes suffering. Pain in life may be unavoidable, but suffering as a result of pain is an unnecessary, added burden. I do not desire it and so it has no claim upon me.”
“You’re just stubborn, old man.”
“I know you as well as anyone, Egan Lyköan. I know that you have spent half your life dabbling in philosophy. You must have learned something. Would you also call Socrates stubborn?”
“Hell yes.”
“Then in spite of all your seeking you still have not found wisdom.”
“Sacrificing your life just to prove a point? You call that wisdom?”
“Listen to me carefully. The eternal enmity between light and dark ― between presence and absence ― is a continuum ― the natural extremes of existence. It is possible to transform this dualism ― by a unified exertion of certain spiritual energies—”
A rapid staccato of shallow, labored breaths followed. Sun Shi threw off the cotton sheet covering his body. Lyköan could count every rib in the old man’s perspiration-soaked chest.
“Pandavas believes he is serving existence,” Sun whispered, the exertion needed to spit out the words obvious in his pain-wracked face. “That periodic cataclysms are natural and necessary. That a certain taint ― call it spiritual plaque if you like ― is best removed through the wholesale slaughter of souls…”
Pulling in another rattling lungful of air, he expelled a racking, ragged cough, spraying a flowering eruption of polished knife blades and mirror shards into the air that shattered the swirling wisps of joss smoke like the collision of two galaxies.
“He may even believe that such a conflagration has the power to heal some flaw in the operation of the universe. Cleanse its wounds. That by summoning this reincarnated elemental ― this Shiva… Keep in mind, that this name is but a name. It is not a description. Not a definition. Not even a rational explanation. But in its power, it is as much to be respected and feared as the current arbitrator of our existence ― the one with whom you’ve already become acquainted ― He who sits at the point of singularity.”
Lyköan placed his palm across the old man’s brow. Beneath the transparent flesh, he could feel the raging fever devouring sinew and soul. But he was powerless to quench that fire. Tears were welling up in his eyes. Sun Shi ignored them.
“Pandavas may believe he has hit upon the perfect instrument for accomplishing that end,” the old man continued. “But he is wrong. What he is attempting constitutes a grievous and unforgivable spiritual conceit. The universe, however, cares nothing about such matters ― or the passions that drive them ― and thus Pandavas possesses all the authority he needs to successfully achieve his goal.”
“Isn’t there any way to stop him? Or are you saying we shouldn’t even try?”
“Search for that which gives and sustains life. Only then can you right this wrong.”
“I’d be happy to. Tell me what it is. How do I find it?”
“First of all, you must cast off all this wallowing in the Celtic cringe. You wear it like a mantle, boy. More than anything else, it is that which hinders your progress.”
“My what?”
“Your closed-mindedness to the open-ended curve. That which imprisons you in the bottom cress of the meadow and causes this unnecessary stumbling among the immensities ― above which, thus far, you have not even attempted to rise.”
“Without understanding what you’re talking about ― how do you propose I do that?”
“Look to the ultimate emancipation of theism.”
“And what is that?”
“That in death all things are equal.”
“That’s no help.”
“You no longer need my help. When you began this journey, my guidance was undoubtedly essential, but you can find your own way now. I have faith in you ― even though there are no guarantees. None exist in the future. The future is but a maze of fickle randomness. None exist in the present either. The present is no more than an ever shifting repository of potentials. And you have learned the hard way ― even the apparently fixed past ― is not what men believe it to be. It is by no means uniform.”
“So? If you’re right, then there’s nothing that can be held ― nothing that can be relied upon. If you know of something that can me, tell me!”
Sun Shi answered with another question. “What is the impact of a rift and subsequent reweaving of the fabric of time and space?”
“You’re asking me?”
“You are already witnessing it, even as you write it. When you can answer my question knowledgeably, you will have gained all that is necessary for hurdling any obstacle that may lie ahead. Return to the Bhagavad-Gītā. All that remains hidden from you can be found there. Let that wisdom be your teacher ― provide the tools success demands. But beware the wiles of desire ― of your own will and that of others. Instead, be mindful of opportunity and absorb strength from the seemingly inconsequential manifestations of the duality. And above all else ― always be open to sacrifice.”
“Are you suggesting it’s all up to me? I haven’t got a chance going toe to toe with Pandavas. Not alone. You want to maybe lend a hand? Please, don’t force this cup on me!”
“Don’t sell yourself short, my son,” came the reply. “Nothing’s fair. Existence ― and the brevity that resides within existence that we call life ― is never fair. That is the point, dear boy. The ultimate point. It is here only for grace ― which, when bestowed in abundance ― may cause thanksgiving to overflow for its own result.
“So don’t be so easily discouraged. Although you witness this outer self wasting away,” the old man indicated his frail body, “know that the inner self is being renewed. What you see before you is but a momentary, mild affliction and, in its way, it is creating an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison. Look not to what is seen, but to what is unseen; for that which is seen is transitory, but what is unseen is eternal.”
“More from the Bhagavad-Gītā?” Lyköan asked, totally confused.
“No,” Sun Shi answered with a brittle laugh. “Second Corinthians. There are many books ― many chapters ― but they are all one.”
A fey, indecipherable look washed over the old man’s face, followed by a weak cough, eyes fluttering back into his head, followed by a weak, rapid wheezing. Each individual droplet in the blanket of glistening beads of perspiration covering his exposed flesh had captured and was reflecting in stark detail everything that was transpiring in the bedchamber.
“Cling not to this present place nor attempt to retain anything that inhabits it. Listen to my words and learn from my example. Be prepared to leave everything behind as though it were of no consequence. For the trappings of the physical reality ― these artificial posturings our senses perceive and then insist must be firm ― are in truth as ephemeral as joss stick smoke and as easily dissipated. Believe me when I say I entered with innocence and experience and yet happily exit as well. I suffer no loss for none exists. Oh how eternity adores devouring the creations of time...”
With a spherical burst of radiant neon, Sun Shi’s golden aura expanded, gaining in brilliance as it grew, passing through Lyköan’s body with a warm, soothing rush and the delicious aroma of baking bread, presenting pure sunlight and starlight in equal measure. Within and surrounded by its glowing elegance for the briefest instant, Lyköan experienced the great power rush through him, expanding as the outer edge of the spiritual sphere stretched into the room’s rafters, through the floor and walls, disappearing into the farthest reaches of forever. For the length of a single breath its lingering essence settled inside Lyköan’s chest, flowed warmly out into his extremities ― and was gone.
Lyköan peered down into Sun Shi’s slack face, saw the dull eyes fixed upon eternity, and understood. The husk now lying motionless upon the pallet was silent and expressionless, its animating source now flown. He doubted that the soul that had once inhabited this vessel was destined ever to return ― having loosed the shackles of this vale of tears finally and forever.
After closing the eyes slowly with his thumbs, he bent down and gathered up the empty shell in his arms. It was small and weighed nothing. Every tear that fell, and there were many, fell not for Sun Shi, but for himself. For what he had lost. He continued rocking back and forth for some minutes, the weightless burden crushed tightly to his chest.
The streets were eerily deserted hours later when, after funerary details had been worked out with one of the temple's still surviving monks, Lyköan finally exited through the wat gate under a waxing pale velvet moon. He took off running, the coughs and cries of the afflicted multitude stalking him for some distance before fading into the shadows. Picking up the pace once they had been left behind, he raced for the Ayutt Haya ― and the only human soul who remained to him in this world. Even at full stride it would take another forty minutes. But no matter how fast he ran, how hard he pressed into the exertion, there was no way to outrun what he had just left behind: one more searing episode to be locked away in the angry vault of his pounding heart. Sun Shi would certainly have seen it differently and admonished him, but at that moment, in that raging solitude, as the tears flowed, flying from his cheeks as he ran, he could not keep himself from thinking that, if it was the last thing he ever did, he would find some way to make those responsible pay ― and pay dearly.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
The Manifestation
A man who is in one place cannot (Autoprosopos) at the same time be in any other.
Increase Mather : Cases of Conscience
“C'mon, you two, you can level with me, how are you doing it?” Fremont asked from across a table cluttered with canned goods, loose batteries, flickering candles and two Heckler & Koch G36C assault rifles.
“Doing what?” Nora replied, deflecting his question with a question of her own.
“You know what I’m talking about, Carmichael,” Fremont shot back with an angry snicker. “All this goddamned energy ― where’s it coming from? Shit. It’s been what ― a couple weeks now?”
“Sixteen days,” Nora corrected, avoiding hi
s eyes.
“Okay, sixteen days then. Only proves my point. I can barely drag this goddamn fork to my mouth, but look at you two ― still fresh as fucking daisies.” Raising both palms in front of his face as if to protect himself, he added, “Just wondering. What is it, something you boosted from the lab?”
“No, Felix, nothing like that,” Lyköan inserted from his chair next to the blind-drawn window. “Just more motivation, that's all.”
“What are you talking about?” Fremont asked with an exaggerated snigger.
“I’m talking about Pandavas,” Lyköan replied. “We know the bastard, we've experienced his hospitality first hand, remember? You haven’t.” He pushed back in the chair. “Our juices are pumping full tilt, Felix. That’s all it amounts to.”
Lyköan appended the weak explanation with a weak grin and a “you agree with me, right?” raised brow. Fremont returned a totally unconvinced stony glare. Without breaking eye contact, Lyköan leaned forward over the can he was holding and shoveled another soggy heap of steaming vegetables into his mouth. Fremont looked away. After standing the chopsticks upright in the can, Lyköan finally risked a quick, worried look in Nora's direction. Tilting back in his chair, he again turned to the window and, spreading two slats of the tightly-drawn blinds, squinted out at the deserted soi below.
The apparent nonchalance with which his flippant explanation had been delivered was, of course, pure canard. He and Nora did have more energy ― and knew it. Their bodies were teeming with nano-scriptors, tirelessly repairing every debilitative effect of the past sixteen days. Felix didn’t share their advantage. Nevertheless, he obviously sensed that something strange was occurring.
“That’s not it Lyköan,” Fremont grunted out at last. “But nice try.”
Yeah, you’re suspicious as hell, Lyköan thought. But you’ve got no idea exactly why, do you? You’ve got every right to be edgy. It's been more than two weeks without power or running water, the entire city stinking to high heaven. At some point suspicion and innate personality conflicts were bound to supplant even the most steadfast esprit de corps. I should have seen it coming.
The SONG of SHIVA Page 43