by Kevin Olson
The dislodged snow and rock rested on the narrow ledge. Kellen stood on the surface, smiling at the destruction. He looked down to see the snow shift. He dug in the snow with his right hand. “I am pleased you have survived, Lama. It will give me the pleasure of…OW!”
Kellen retrieved his hand with the growling snow leopard still attached. Blood spurted where the fangs settled into the mystic’s arm. “Let go, you bloody beast!” Kellen snarled. He retrieved the pistol by reaching over his midsection. Now free from the snow, the claws of the great cat began slashing at Kellen.
The Nazi mystic attempted to draw a bead on the leopard. The massive cat shook its head viciously and tore into the flesh of Kellen’s arm. He managed to take aim. The bullet tore through the air. Kellen found the gun leaving his grasp as the burning metal missed the leopard. The mystic looked to see a red piece of cloth wrapped around his wrist that had caused him to drop his weapon.
Still attempting to extricate his left arm from the cat’s teeth, Kellen turned to face the Green Lama. The Lama shrugged free of the frigid prison. “You!” Kellen hissed through gritted teeth. “I will kill you!”
“Stay your hand, mystic,” the Green Lama ordered. The scarf glowed slightly as Kellen struggled against it. “You are under my control.” The Lama stared at the leopard, the great cat relinquishing its grip and stepping away.
Kellen’s arm bled from the wounds. He seemed unconcerned as he stared at the Green Lama, hateful defiance escaping his eyes. “You think I am like a kitten you can tease with yarn?” Kellen yanked his hand free of the scarf. “You have no idea of my power, Lama!”
“You could show me,” the Green Lama said while retrieving his scarf. He looked at the mystic. “Your bluster indicates most of your power is in intimidation. You do not intimidate me.”
In reply, Kellen leapt to retrieve the revolver from the rock’s surface. He pointed it at the Lama. “I will show you bluster!” he fumed.
The Green Lama laughed. “Your power is not very subtle to rely on a weapon.”
Kellen nodded. “Subtle, it is not. It is exceedingly effectual, Lama. Prepare to die.”
The Lama crossed his arms. “I am always prepared for death. Most humans fear it, yet as a Lama, we welcome the experience.”
Kellen pulled the trigger on the gun. Its only response was a metallic clicking sound. The Lama shook his head. “Your weapon fails you.”
Kellen threw the pistol at the Lama. “It is not the way of a Lama to mock!” He rushed at the Lama. The Lama moved forward to meet him.
“I am like no Lama you know,” the Green Lama said as he grappled with Kellen, his green robe in stark contrast with the Nazi mystic’s crimson one.
“You fail to be humble, Lama,” Kellen said.
“To say I am unlike other Lamas is not said from pride. It is said with humility and regret.”
Kellen sweated from his brow as the pair grappled. “Say it with a postcard from hell!”
The leopard ignored the combat and began clawing at the snow. Gently, she pulled the ice and rocks away until Ravi pushed through the pile and climbed out. The leopard immediately began digging in another area of the pile. Shivering, Ravi took stock of the battle between the Lama and the mystic.
The young boy turned again to the leopard and saw a hand sticking out of the snow where the great cat pawed away the debris. “Mother!” Ravi exclaimed and rushed over to dig with the cat. He uncovered Pari’s ice-covered face. He attempted to free her unconscious form from the debris. “Mother!” Ravi repeated. “Wake up!”
Pari opened her eyes and looked at Ravi. “What is it, my son?”
“We were in an avalanche,” the boy informed his mother. “We survived,” he looked at the heated contest between the Lama and Kellen, “yet the Lama continues to work to ensure we are free from danger.”
Pari pulled herself free from her icy encasement. Seeing the Green Lama thrown to the ground by Kellen, she stood to her feet. “We must help him, Ravi,” she said, her eyes stern. “We must help him as he helped us!”
Froth claimed the corners of Kellen’s mouth as he straddled the prostate Lama’s chest. His fingers compressed around the Lama’s neck. “I will have the secret you hold!” he seethed through clenched teeth. “You will tell me where the Tablet is and how Soma is made!”
The Green Lama succumbed to the abuse and passed out.
“NO!” Pari screamed. She brought a rock down on Kellen’s head. “You have killed him!”
Kellen fell next to the Lama, blood the color of the mystic’s robe leaking from the wound. With incredible celerity Kellen rushed to his feet. He knocked the stone from Pari’s hand. It tumbled into the deep, clouded abyss below.
“He is not dead, ridiculous woman! I have merely rendered him unconscious! I need him alive to tell me what he knows!” He grinned viciously. “You, however, I do not need. I will ensure you and your son are quite dead,” he broke out in dark laughter. “Though only after I have done with amusing myself with your tortured screams”
Kellen moved toward Pari, hands prepared to grasp her. She withdrew and brought her hands up in defense. Kellen grinned.
A hardly perceptible whistling sound joined the rushing wind. Kellen’s grin turned to a grimace with blood at its corners. The mystic stumbled forward, an arrow sticking out of his back.
Pari moved away as the Nazi sympathizer lost his footing and tumbled over the ledge. He repeated the misty fall that the Green Lama had taken earlier. Amazed, Pari and her son looked at the arrow’s direction of origin.
Out of the dimming twilight the short, solid form of a Sherpa strode toward them. Accompanying him, the slender, muscular figure of a Native American held a bow in gloved hands, its string still vibrating. The Indian wore a leather flight jacket, black pants, and heavy leather boots. The two odd figures waved at the Green Lama and his company. “I see ill has befallen my Lama friend,” the Sherpa said. His long mustache teased the wind like reeds in a river. “I hope you are well.”
The Sherpa knelt next to the prostrate Lama. He took a vial from beneath his rugged wool coat. He blew the powder into the Lama’s face. Breathing deeply, the Green Lama sat up with a start and coughed. The Sherpa steadied the Lama so as to keep him from tumbling off the ledge.
“Green Lama,” the Sherpa said, “it is your companion, Tsarong. I fol-lowed your path when you did not return. I used the mystic powder to revive you.” He nodded toward the indigenous American. “Twin Eagles has accompanied me. Despite my wishes, he has felled your apparent foe with an arrow.”
The Indian nodded gravely to the Lama. “I do only what is necessary. I do not kill for pleasure.”
“What of Pari and Ravi?” the Lama asked. “What of Kellen?”
Pari and Ravi rushed over at their names. “We are well, Jagmohan!” Ravi assured. “You need be concerned with only yourself. Twin Eagles shot Kellen with an arrow.” He pointed to the clouded abyss. “He fell as you did, yet he has not returned.”
“I did not mean to injure him,” Twin Eagles assured. “It was meant as a warning shot.”
The Green Lama stood to his feet, patting Tsarong on the shoulder as he did so. “Thank you, Tsarong. And thank you, Twin Eagles.”
“Call me Mike,” Twin Eagles said.
The Green Lama nodded. “As you wish. My debt to you both mounts higher than the Himalayas themselves. Yet, I suspect we have not quitted ourselves of the Nazi mystic.” He examined the area. “We should continue traveling so long as there is light. Perhaps we can reach the Clouded Temple, or at least ground we fear not to leave precipitously.”
The party strode onward and upward, this time aided by Tsarong’s climbing equipment. A storm arose and whipped their faces as they challenged the arduously steep terrain, yet all five proved worthy climbers. Some hours after dark, light from w
indows tore through the blinding snow and darkness.
“There,” the Green Lama said as he pointed at the light, “the Clouded Temple!”
Chapter Five
The Clouded Temple
Ravi could not tell if they had traveled many miles or a handful of steps, yet he was pleased to be welcomed into the warmth of the monastery by a bald, aged monk clad in a blue robe. “Welcome, blessed ones,” the monk smiled. “I am Lama Puneet. You will not find my hospitality dulled by solitude. Your comfort is an eager pleasure for me. Anything asked I will attempt to provide.”
The Green Lama clapped the monk on the back in a familiar manner less Asiatic and more American. “It is well to see you, old friend! Thank you for accommodating my companions. Is our pilot friend awake?”
Puneet shook his head. “Mister Masters sleeps.”
Twin Eagles stretched his arms.“I will go join Rick. That flight and today’s adventure sapped my energy.” Familiar with the temple already, he moved to find his sleeping quarters. “Good night, all.”
“You honor the Clouded Temple with your visit.”
The monk bowed his head toward Ravi and Pari. “You honor the Clouded Temple with your visit. I am certain you are hungry and wish for warm tea.”
Ravi rubbed his arms.“Do you have some?”
Puneet laughed. “The life of a monk is not so austere as to preclude sustenance. Please to follow me,” he waggled his finger and began walking. “You can eat with the others.”
The Green Lama stayed behind with Tsarong. “The Nazi mystic believes I hold the Jade Tablet. He is correct. I must keep its secrets from him.”
Tsarong nodded. “There is little danger his retrieving the Jade Tablet, yet I agree. Caution is of great importance.”
“The decoy remains in the basement, I presume.” The Lama pulled off his hood to reveal dark brown hair beneath.
Tsarong nodded. “A mendicant would believe it real. The Nazis we anticipated may not be fooled for long.”
The Green Lama pulled at his chin. “We will have trouble. Kellen survives, and he reads my thoughts. He will not listen to reason. Madness is his true love, yet he knows it not.”
Tsarong nodded. “Trouble will find us.” He looked toward the door where Puneet took Pari and Ravi. “Perhaps we should remove ourselves from the country. Mister Masters will help.”
The Lama shook his head. “There is no time. If this weather holds, even the skills of our guests will be worthless. We need to prepare a defense for the Temple. The false tablet might buy us time. We can scarcely hope it is time enough.”
“My friend,” Tsarong said with all seriousness, “the Temple is prepared for peace. It is not a fort to be defended. The monks will not fight.”
“We have no choice,” the Lama replied, “and neither do they. It must be. We must be vigilant; else the Nazis will create an unstoppable force against the world. If that occurs, there will be no peace aside from the peace of the boot and the bullet.” The Green Lama punched a fist into his palm. “Though the secrets are ineffable, we cannot risk they may be discovered. We must fight to maintain peace!”
Tsarong shook his head. “You have much to learn, my friend. How you are skilled in the mysteries beyond the monks is a wonder when you cannot control your passions.”
The Lama nodded. “It is true, Tsarong. My journey is not complete. I have time to learn perfection. Now, I desire the protection of innocents and the destructive force in our charge.” He looked to the window where falling snow drifted through. “If the storm breaks by dawn, there may be another way.”
Tsarong nodded. “Perhaps the light will shine to us.”
“Let us hope and pray it is so,” Lama said. “For now, we must rest and meditate. Dawn will come with storm or clarity. We must prepare to welcome it.”
The Lama walked to the hall where the monks ate together. Passed out from exhaustion, Pari held Ravi in a blanket near the burning fireplace. Tsarong followed him in. “They are resting,” he stated.
“They will need it for tomorrow,” Lama replied. “Whatever trails the rising sun or darkened clouds the day brings.”
The Green Lama excused himself. In his sparse room with stone walls, he assumed a lotus position. He fell into a deep meditation to prepare himself for the following day.
As the night drifted toward dawn, a slight whirring drifted through the thin, cool air. A small tank carried aloft by overhead propellers landed in the soft snow outside the Clouded Temple. It took aim at a high, candlelit window and quietly ejected a shiny metal canister through the nozzle of its cannon.
In the dining room of the Temple, several monks rested comfortably in their lotus positions. Pari and Ravi stayed by the warm fire, wrapped in a blanket. The metal canister flew through the unglazed rock window and clanked to the floor. An identical projectile soon followed. A monk stirred, choking on the yellow gas escaping from the metal cylinders. He rushed to the prayer bell, yet fell to the ground. The effort only caused the gas to go into his lungs and bloodstream more quickly.
The other sleeping monks stirred before falling into a deeper rest than before as gas filled the room. Pari and Ravi did not stir. Canisters fell into other windows as the strange tank aimed from beneath the propellers.
Moments later, Kellen and a Nazi pilot strode into the dining room wearing gasmasks. Kellen saw Pari and Ravi sleeping soundly by the flickering fireplace. He nodded. “How perfect!” he said with muffled voice. The pilot remained at the door as Kellen strode past the sleeping monks to the mother and son. “This is exactly what I came to shop for.” With powerful arms, he lifted first Pari over his left shoulder. He folded Ravi over his powerful right arm. “Let us leave, Captain Adelbrecht.”
“So soon, Herr Kellen?” the pilot replied. “We could kill everyone. We have already retrieved the Jade Tablet!”
Kellen shook his head in mockery. “You lack imagination and subtlety, Captain. It is well you can use your skills as a pilot for the Rotor Panzer. You are unskilled in contemplation. You are a fool to think we have the true Tablet.” Kellen shook his head. “No. They are protecting it. This will require greater finesse to cause the Green Lama to reveal it to us. We must remove him from his place of power. This Temple offers him resources. We will cause him to follow us to retrieve the woman and the boy.” The mystic began to walk out the door. The captain followed.
The Green Lama smelled an odd scent in the air, and knew something was amiss. The yellow glow washed in through a West-facing window, indicating it was late in the day. He expected to return to consciousness far earlier.
The Lama moved through the building, noting the monks sleeping in the dining room. A round metal canister the size of a soup can rolled lazily back and forth over the uneven floor, impelled by the cold air blowing through the chimney. Ashes drifted from the extinguished fire. Green Lama rubbed his chin as he lifted the canister. He spun it around in his hands, examining it. “Om! Ma-ni pad-me Hum,” he muttered. He continued through the Clouded Temple.
“Twin Eagles,” a gentle voice said as Mike tried to open his eyes. “Twin Eagles,” the voice repeated as Mike rolled onto his back. He pushed himself into a seated position on the austere mat of straw and cloth barely disguising the rock floor. His eyes cleared to a green color and focused the irises to see the Green Lama shaking his shoulder. Mike leaned on his hands to sit and looked at the man. “What is it, Lama? Is it time for you to return to Ceylon?”
Green Lama smiled lightly at the strong-framed, sharp-featured man. “No,” he said, “not yet, Twin Eagles. There are problems.”
Mike swallowed a yawn and stood to his feet. He glanced at the dark-haired man sleeping on the mat across the room. “Why wake me up first, Lama? Is Rick okay?”
“Rest easy, Twin Eagles. Our friend sleeps comfortably.”
Mike stood
up to face the Lama. “Look here, Green Lama-Jethro Dumont! Drop the Twin Eagles crap, okay? Yes, it’s my name. I don’t care for how you go around acting like an Indian! It’s not like there’s some connection there because I’m pure Seminole and you’ve learned the fakir stuff! India is Hindi, you dope, not American Indian. You’re not either one no matter how much you learn! Two things to remember: I prefer to be called Mike except by my friends; Two, I’m not saying you’re not a friend, but remember you’re a client.”
Green Lama smiled lightly. “Please, Mike. I mean no offense and we have no time to quarrel. As I mentioned, there are complications.”
Mike’s keen eyes wandered to the sleeping form of Rick Masters. “What’s up with Rick? He never sleeps so long in the afternoon. In fact, I don’t either!”
Green Lama handed Mike the round cylinder in explanation. Mike turned it over in his hands, reading the words in large letters. “Schlaf-Gas!”
Green Lama nodded. “Yes.”
Mike offered a frustrated shrug as he knelt next to his friend and business partner. “What does ‘schlaf’ mean? Is it laughing gas?”
“No. It means ‘sleeping.’”
“Sleeping gas?” Mike shook his head. “No such thing.”
Green Lama nodded. “It appears to be exactly what it claims. My bro-thers all slept soundly when I found them. Now awoken, they appear fine. The gas bears no ill effects; it seems I feel in good health.” Green Lama stretched. “Even a bit refreshed.”
Awakened from Mike shaking his shoulder, Rick sat up and smoothed his straight, black mustache before running his hand through his hair. “What’s going on?” He glanced at the window. “Looks like I overslept!”
“We have suffered a sleeping gas attack,” Mike said. He helped Rick stand to his feet. Mike looked at the Green Lama again. “Jethro says there’s trouble, but he hasn’t said what.”