We sat in silence for a moment until Lhandon understood what I was suggesting. “I see. The knives in the kitchen are clean. Perhaps you could use one of those ones.”
Once we were in the kitchen, Lhandon suggested that I get the rune ready before I cut into myself.
“And I don’t have to say or think anything, right?”
“No, all you need to do is remember how to cast the rune, Healing Hand, which you should do before you cut yourself.” He winked at me. “I believe that would be considered a tip from a professional.”
I smiled at him. “A pro tip?”
“Sure, although I haven’t heard it abbreviated like that before.”
I took one of the clean knives off a drying rack and placed it on a metal table. Just as Lhandon had shown me, I traced up the rune, starting from the square at the top and working my way down.
Lha-Mo.
“Again, you’ll get it.”
After another attempt, I tried doing it with my eyes closed, discovering that it actually worked this time.
My right hand began to glow, and once Lhandon gave me the go-ahead, I cut a line into my palm, wincing as the pain spread up my arm. I set the knife down and immediately healed the wound, barely any blood dripping out before it healed up.
“Wow,” I said, going for the knife again.
“Remember, there are limitations, and once you see that your hand is no longer glowing, the spell has worn off.”
“I’ll be careful,” I said as I cut myself again, this time deeper, really feeling the pain. An idea came to me at that moment that I could use this power to get myself used to experiencing extreme amounts of pain.
Definitely something to play around with, I thought as I healed myself again. I performed the same gesture several more times, impressed that there wasn’t even a bit of pink skin or anything left once the wound was healed.
Eventually, my Healing Hand power faded and Lhandon asked me to cook something for lunch while he packed our bags. Having spent time working at a variety of farm-to-table restaurants in Massachusetts, I whipped up a dish featuring twice baked potatoes, a salad made of greens that reminded me of arugula topped with crumbled bits of sliced apples and curd.
It definitely wasn’t something Lhandon was used to eating, but after his first bite, the portly monk was definitely impressed.
“You really aren’t from around here,” he said as he worked on his twice baked potato.
“No, I’m really not.”
After lunch, Lhandon showed me to a room where he had prepared clothing for me. It was similar to the dark, robe-like garb I was given earlier, only there was fur lining along the collar and the pant cuffs.
It was warm, but he assured me it was necessary for the trek we were about to embark upon. We each had a bag and Lhandon handed me another small knife, not unlike the one he’d pulled from his robes earlier.
“Sorry, we don’t have any real weapons.”
“We’ll figure something out along the way. The important part is getting there before the treasure hunters do.”
“Agreed,” he said as he led me to a set of stairs at the side of the monastery. Once we were outside, he pointed to the end of a long valley, even larger mountains on the horizon. “That’s where we’re going. It should be about two days.”
“Got it. And the place is locked up?” I asked, looking up at the pagoda rooftop of the monastery.
“That’s why we came out the side. We should be bandit-proof for a few days. If more treasure hunters come around, then the chance of the monastery being ransacked goes up.” He shook his head. “Let’s hope that doesn’t happen.”
Lhandon was mostly quiet on the first day of our trip. It was clear that he wasn’t used to exerting himself in such a way, his silence mostly because of the effort it took for him to breathe. But huffing, puffing and wheezing at points didn’t stop him from keeping a good pace.
“This looks like a good place to rest,” he said, once we reached a series of caves with blue prayer flags wrapped around some of the rock. “I’ve used this cave before. The demons that were once inside were cleared out years ago.”
“Good to know,” I said as I set my pack down.
“There are some hermits not far from here,” he said once he unrolled his map, which he placed on the ground, using rocks to flatten it out. “Here and here,” he said as he tapped his finger on a pair of mountains he’d drawn.
“Not to scale.”
“That would be helpful, wouldn’t it?” he said with a chuckle.
“There are two famous hermits in these parts, Thupten and Baatar, both of them Spineless Books.”
“Which means? Sorry, I get the rankings confused.”
“It means they are Divine Masters. A novice is considered a Broken Sword; a cultivator a Wheel with a Rusty Axle; an advanced student is called Ink in the Sea; a teacher is known as a Wolf Stalking a Lantern; a master is a Hollow Peacock; and then you come to Spineless Book. The finale stage on the Path of the Divine is a reborn student, a Golden One. This is what the Exonerated One believed you may be.”
“What was the Exonerated One’s ranking?”
“He ranked himself as a Hollow Peacock, a master on the Path of the Divine.”
“Of course he did.”
Lhandon nodded. “I should mention that there’s a caveat to all this.”
“There always is.”
“Once you’re a Golden One, it means you have to start the path all over again. It’s cyclical in that way.”
“I recall hearing that. That would mean these hermits are technically the highest level, considering the final stage is simply a jumping off point to start the Path again?”
“Technically, yes.”
“But no one has an official way to move through these stages, correct? By this I mean that the Exonerated One had his ‘way,’ while this hermit probably has his. There’s no official way?”
“If you’re asking if it needs improvement, then yes, the Path of the Divine needs work, and I say this in the humblest way conceivable. It needs to be restructured in a way to generate proven results. I’ve been thinking about this since you mentioned it. I’ll continue to contemplate it. Anyway, to continue our discussion of the hermits. Baatar is the friendlier of the two, and he may have something we can use as a weapon considering this particular side of the peak is known for its snow lions.”
“So let’s go to him.”
“Sure, there may be some crevices we have to cross to get back on the main trail, but he’ll let us know what to expect, and…” Lhandon grinned.
“What?”
“We monks have a saying that always brings a smile to my face.”
“What’s that?”
“‘There’s a rune for that.’ Basically, whenever an obstacle presents itself, there’s usually a rune that can help one overcome it. But this saying is really tongue-in-cheek. The way is here,” he said, tapping on the side of his head. “The runes, the magical characters, are but a tool.”
“I still find it strange that I know them, yet I don’t read the language.”
He nodded. “It is rather odd, and I’d say it is something rebirth related. Remember, some of the characters we use in religious texts aren’t understood by the general public. There is a simplified version of the text as well, but these don’t work in casting the old runes. Are you hungry?”
“I am.”
“I was hoping you’d say that,” Lhandon said as he rolled his map up. He retrieved some food from his pack, bread and a carrot with dried meat wrapped around it. “It will get cold tonight,” he said. “I’d start a fire, but I think that would expose us to…”
“Spirits?”
“Bandits, spirits, snow lions, bears, the occasional mountain dragon. Did I mention wayward spirits? All those things. We’re too exposed here,” he said, looking toward the entrance of the cave. We were only about thirty feet from the ground, a frozen lake before us surrounded by snow-covered pines. “So
be sure to get in your blanket after this, and do not get out of it until morning.”
“And if I have to go to the bathroom?”
“Go before you bundle up. Trust me. Some say the cold itself is a demon, one that cannot be tamed. I don’t know if I agree with this, but there have been a few winter storms I’ve survived that seemed vindictive, downright petty at points. I’ll use a rune I know to warm tea in the morning and we’ll continue on our way. We should reach Baatar by the evening, get weapons from him, and continue on our way.”
“I guess now is as good of a time as any to ask what you think we should do once we confront Fist of Force and his treasure hunters.”
Lhandon nodded, his eyes darting away from me. “I have thought about it some, but not as much as I would have liked. I’ll keep it in mind tomorrow, and maybe Baatar will be able to offer us a little guidance. Your problem, or better, our problem, is that you don’t know how to activate the Power. It just activates on its own when you are in distress, which puts us at a disadvantage against Fist of Force.”
“So we’re going into this a bit blind?”
Lhandon shrugged. “Maybe ‘with blinders on’ would be a better way to describe it. We can see what’s coming at us head-on, but we’re unable to account for other angles. Yes, Baatar will help us, I’m certain of it.”
I did as Lhandon instructed and drained my bladder to the best of my ability before bundling up and falling asleep. The temperature dropped considerably as the night progressed, and I was glad to have the added warmth of the fur-lined sleeping bag that Lhandon had prepared.
Confused traveler...
I was dreaming when the words came to me, shaking me awake.
I blinked my eyes open to find a wisp of cold bending over me, its face androgynous, its eye sockets hollow.
“Who… ”
“Shhh…” said Lhandon, who was wide awake in his sleeping bag, staring at the thing. The cave was lit by a half-moon, everything a deep shade of ice, but nowhere near as dark as the hole I’d been kept in for three weeks.
Confused traveler, won’t you come out of your place of warmth to understand the cold?
“Don’t listen to it, Nick,” Lhandon said. “Begone, demon!”
The wisp of cold swirled above us.
Demon? I am no demon. I am a creation left behind by Baatar, Master of Ice.
“Baatar isn’t a Master of Ice,” Lhandon said. “Be gone with you!”
When was the last time you saw our master?
“Last time I saw Baatar…” Lhandon thought for a moment as a coldness crept down my spine. The spirit was hovering directly above me, and I had this sudden sense that it could have slipped into my sleeping bag and killed me if it so desired.
He really has progressed up here, which is why he sent me to you, the ghastly ice spirit said. He would like you to not bother him unless you trust him enough to step out into the cold.
I glanced to Lhandon to see a peculiar look coming across his face. “And Baatar is speaking through you right now, correct?”
Of course. I am his creation, sent from his high perch down to this cave to test your loyalty.
Lhandon smiled. “Good to know. But we have to be certain, you understand? There are numerous spirits that live in these mountains, some benevolent and others tricksters.”
The wintry spirit began to grow in size, snowflakes spinning around the crown of its head. You accuse the Master of Ice of being a trickster?
“Of course I don’t,” Lhandon said, “but we’ll have to perform a quick test anyway, especially if he’s listening right now.”
I could sense that the spirit’s eyes were narrowing on Lhandon.
“You have my word, Master of Ice’s creation,” the portly monk said, “just a quick test. Surely, a knowledgeable creation such as yourself would understand the need to be cautious.”
I suppose you are right. Let’s begin.
“I’m going to recite an old poem that Baatar taught me, it was written by a nalropa if that helps any. All I ask is that you finish the final line. It should be pretty easy, but as you said, Master of Ice’s creation, you are of the same mind as Baatar so it should be very easy for you.”
“What’s a nalropa?”
Lhandon turned his attention to me. “I’m glad you asked, Nick. A nalropa is someone who practices Divine Madness. Basically, they go crazy to understand the Way of the Immortals.”
Just get this over with! the spirit roared, snow flurries filling the inside of the cave.
“Yes…” Lhandon said through chattering teeth. “I’ll make it quick, I assure you, Master of Ice’s creation. Just let me remember it…”
I noticed Lhandon shift in his sleeping bag.
“Here goes, this should be very easy for you: ‘He who is without honesty has a dry mouth; he who is without spirituality makes no offerings; he who is without courage does not make a general. That is the Teaching of the Three Zeroes. Now, the sign of a rich man is a tight fist; the sign of an old man is a tight mind; the sign of a nun is a tight vagina. Which teaching is this?”
“Tight vagina?” I whispered to Lhandon, trying not to give him an incredulous look. There was more movement inside his sleeping bag as he looked up at the spirit, as if Lhandon was trying to get something out of his pocket.
This is what you’d like me to answer?
“Yes, Master of Ice’s creation, it is one of Baatar’s favorite poems to recite.”
The ice spirit thought for a moment. A rich man with tight fists, an old man with a tight mind and a nun with a tight vagina? Surely this is the Teaching of Old Age.
“I’m not afraid, spirit.” Lhandon’s eyes lit up as he lifted his hand out of his sleeping bag, a tiny glass jar between his fingers. “Be gone with you!”
The spirit screamed as it was sucked into the tiny glass jar, the temperature in the cave dropping to the point that I felt as if my heart was going to stop beating.
Suddenly, everything was normal again, still frigid, but not bitterly cold.
“It is the Teaching of the Three Constrictions,” Lhandon said as he showed me the glass jar, which contained a swirling energy within it.
“What… how did you do that?”
Lhandon shrugged. “I wouldn’t put it past Baatar to create a being such as this, so I wanted to be sure before I cast a Rune of Inquiry. This was one of the early runes I learned, and because of my weight and the fact that I often delivered food to the hermits in these mountains—mostly because the Exonerated One thought it would help me shed a few pounds—I was transferred the ability to not only cast a Rune of Inquiry, but also condemn falsities to an object to deal with some of the spirits up here.”
“And they always play along?”
“Spirits are generally vain, so yes, they always do. I usually choose a poem or a saying to double-check that they aren’t trying to trick me. I wished it worked on mortals, but it does come with the added benefit of keeping the spirit on my person until I let it go, where it is forced to do my bidding until I free it.”
“That’s an incredible power,” I told him.
“My only problem is I’m too nice; I’ve caught other spirits before and let them go after keeping them for a small amount of time.”
“Let me guess… for karmic reasons?”
He nodded. “Precisely, and maybe stupidly. Those captured spirits would have come in handy during the attack at the monastery.” Lhandon shook the glass jar at me. “I’ll keep this one, though. It may be something we can use against Fist of Force and his treasure hunters. The spirit will be understandably angry after being kept in the glass jar; it should prove quite deadly.”
“I’m sure it isn’t happy.”
He swallowed hard. “But to protect the Flaming Thunderbolt of Wisdom would have been the Exonerated One’s last wish; I will take the karmic repercussions for the lives that will be turned to ice once I unleash this spirit.”
Chapter Nineteen: Snow Lioness
The sun came into the cave gradually, Lhandon up long before I decided to get out of my sleeping bag. After a quick breakfast of bread and dried meat, we consulted the leather map he’d pulled from memory and continued on our way.
It was a beautiful walk that sometimes took us over ice, along pathways cut into the sides of rocky ravines, through tall pines and across a couple of streams. We were quiet as we walked, Lhandon doing a bit better pace-wise than he’d done before.
I saw in his movement the form of someone who wasn’t tied down by his weight, a springiness to his step even with the added pounds. But it took focus, and deep breaths, which allowed me plenty of time to let my thoughts drift as I kept up with him.
I was starting to notice two very different versions of myself: the one before my forced meditation, and the one after. I would think and experience things first in the way I was accustomed to, as I’d done all my life, and then reexamine it in a post-meditative way.
Because of this, I noticed it took me longer to come to grips with concepts and thoughts, but once I’d settled on something, it was with true clarity that I knew my reasoning had come from a different place.
A more balanced place?
Maybe. But there was more to it as well. I still continued to feel my body in an unusual way, to observe my surroundings with an appreciation that I’d never experienced before.
And while I would never look back on my forced meditation fondly, not with how it was thrust upon me, part of me was starting to be glad that I’d gone through it.
And as we continued, I couldn’t help but think of what my friends had gone through as well, if they were indeed alive.
If Hugo survived, he’d probably used his military training to gain some sort of tactical advantage. My only hope was that he hadn’t gone crazy. Hugo never was the same after his two tours of Afghanistan.
Bobby likely had a hard road ahead of him, especially with the fact that he’d been captured. I only hoped that he was still alive, because finding him was the next logical step for me on this journey.
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