There was a sudden buzz of excited conversation as monks of all persuasions turned to each other in amazement and consternation. Some found the suggestion that the religion itself could constitute an attachment to be a true revelation, a thesis that would generate discussion for years to come, while others saw it as inherently threatening. They were the more vocal of the two groups and didn’t hesitate to make themselves heard. “That’s absurd!” “It’s red hat nonsense!” “Who taught the boy?”
The fourth council member wore no hat on his clean shaven skull but was swathed in red. If he had eyebrows, they were so minimal as to be invisible from a distance, and his nose was both broad and flat. Though not the question that he had originally planned to ask—the one he gave voice to was appropriate to the moment. “All of us experience emotions . . . One of the most dangerous is anger. How should we deal with it?”
Confident that Lee’s most recent reply had been met with general disapproval and that he knew the answer to the current question, Yanak produced a serene smile. “Anger constitutes a loss of control. Through skillful thinking, and relentless self-discipline, anger can be suppressed.”
In spite of his allegiance to the red sect, the questioner happened to agree, and nodded in acknowledgment. “Thank you. Master Lee? What is your view?”
Lee remembered the village of Urunu, the terraced gardens that cascaded down its rocky slopes, and the carefully maintained aqueducts that served them. “It’s my opinion that any effort to suppress anger via an act of will is doomed to failure. However, just as the force of a raging river can be diverted into an irrigation system, an act of skillful understanding can transmute anger into positive energy.” The council remained impassive, but the audience was less so. Some heads nodded as others rotated from side to side.
The fifth member of the council had a long, thin face, narrow shoulders, and the manner of a schoolmaster. He wore a black skullcap, a matching top, and baggy trousers. His feet were bare and so callused from walking country roads that they looked like tree roots. His voice had a deep resonant quality. “Everyone seeks happiness . . . What is it?”
Yanak frowned. His opponent had demonstrated an uncanny knack for coming up with answers that while a little off center seemed to be well received by at least some of the council. He chose his words with care. “Happiness is freedom from want, which is to say attachment, and consists of a state of enlightenment.”
It was a good answer, an excellent answer, and Yanak’s mentors exchanged congratulatory looks. Rebo, who was curious as to how Lee would respond, watched with interest as the fifth monk gestured toward his charge. “Tell us, son, what is happiness?”
Lee considered all that he and his companions had been through since his departure from Anafa. The answer seemed obvious. “Happiness consists of resistance, because only through encountering resistance can we learn, and thereby attain enlightenment.”
Someone applauded, was ordered to stop, and sat shamefaced as the next council member prepared to take his turn. Though not a monk, he was a highly respected layperson, and one of the individuals who was expected to vote independently. He was a farmer by trade and looked the part. “As the Inwa what will your greatest challenge be?”
To purge the hierarchy of red hats, Yanak thought to himself, but knew better than to say that out loud. His voice was grave. “There are many who don’t understand the way, or feel threatened by it, and seek to control or destroy it. The greatest challenge will be to counter their efforts without violating the precepts by which we live.”
Heads nodded, many of those present smiled, and the farmer bowed from the waist. “Thank you . . . Master Lee?”
Lee looked up from the tiled floor. “The greatest challenge lies within . . . For that is where the monster called ego stares into its mirror, listens for the sound of its name, and mouths the words that will serve it.”
The seventh, and last council member, was a black hat abbot. And, because that meant that Yanak automatically had three votes, the audience was well aware of the fact the decision would fall to the two independents. And the abbot, who was cognizant of that as well, had every intention of trying to sway both the nun and the farmer. He stared over his glasses, which were perched on the very end of a long, thin nose. And, rather than address himself to Yanak as the others had, the abbot fastened Lee with a clearly hostile look. “Needless to say the Inwa must live his life in a manner that is above reproach. However, according to information provided to me by Brother Lar Thota on Pooz, there is considerable evidence to suggest that you murdered a black hat monk during the voyage from Anafa. Do you deny the charge?”
There was a sudden commotion as the audience erupted into conversation, and the burly master-at-arms rapped his staff on the floor to silence them. Yanak shook his head, as if disappointed to hear such a serious charge levied against his peer, and smiled sadly. Norr, who was determined to object, started to rise. Lee gestured for the sensitive to remain where she was. He looked the abbot in the eye. “No, I do not deny the charge. A black hat monk was sent against me, and I killed him in an act of self-defense. Nor is that all . . . During the journey to Thara there were times when I surrendered to fear, hatred, and vanity.”
A sigh ran through the crowd, Yanak tried to conceal a smirk, and the abbot nodded gravely. “Though your spirit is flawed, I admire your honesty, and hope that others learn from your example.”
Having heard from both candidates, the council retired to another room, and the waiting began. Everyone knew that such deliberations could last for quite a while. In fact there had been cases when it had taken days or even weeks for a final decision to be rendered, which was why most of the attendees had come prepared for a long stay and had already started to set up what amounted to small camps throughout the great hall.
The candidates were besieged by both admirers and detractors, all of whom wanted to set each other right and were eager for verbal combat. But as the hours rolled by, the discussions began to cool, and a meal was served. Then, once stomachs were full, many of the participants opted for naps. And that’s where most of them were, asleep on the floor, when the council reemerged. There was a mad scramble as everyone sought to reoccupy their seats, and the inevitable face reading began. “Uh-oh,” Norr heard one red hat say, “it looks like the blacks have it.”
“No, look at Caspas,” another replied. “He’s smiling!”
“That’s no smile,” a third interjected. “It’s a grimace. He has gout, you know.”
And so it went as the members of the audience continued to speculate on which boy would ascend the throne. Finally, after weeks of inner turmoil, Lee was pleased to discover that he no longer cared. If it was he who had been chosen, then he would do his best, and if Yanak had been chosen, he would still do his best.
For his part Yanak was not so philosophical and with good reason. His fate, should the other youth win, would be ignominious at best. His heart beat like a silversmith’s hammer and his forehead was shiny with perspiration by the time the master-at-arms thumped the floor with his intricately carved staff. “Silence! There will be order! Brother Caspas?”
It took a moment for the old man to rise, but when a younger monk moved as if to offer assistance, Caspas waved him off. Then, having gained his feet, his rheumy eyes surveyed the room. “Our deliberations are complete,” the red hat said definitively. “Nom Maa has returned and sits before us!”
The entire audience held its collective breath as the old man shuffled forward and paused halfway between the boys. Then, after what seemed like an eternity, the elderly monk turned his back on Yanak and bowed to Lee. “Welcome, oh great one. The throne is yours.”
Lee bowed in return, and Rebo frowned. “What throne?” he whispered. “Where is it?”
Norr smiled. “Lee told me that the throne is spiritual rather than physical. That means that it can be everywhere and nowhere, both at the same time.”
Hoggles shook his head bemusedly as the acceptance chant
began. “You walked right into that one.”
“Yeah,” Rebo reflected, “I guess I did.”
SIXTEEN
The Planet Thara
Runners have no homes other than the pillows beneath their heads, the closest saloon, and whatever world they happen to be on when the last starship dies.
—Thomas Crowley,
Runner
Thanks to its location on the coast, most of those who chose to visit the village of Lorval came and went by boat. Because of that, as well as the fact that there was very little reason for outsiders to go there, the lightly rutted road was only one cart wide. Rebo, who was seated next to the driver, was forced to hold on tight as the heavily laden four-wheeled coach followed a pair of sturdy angens up a steep incline. Then, as the conveyance rattled over the top of the rise, a panoramic view was revealed, and the runner ordered the driver to stop.
Once Rebo had jumped down to the ground, he found himself standing at what had once been the southernmost border of his boyhood universe, the point beyond which he and his brothers weren’t to go without permission from their parents. From there the road went steeply down past the ancient boatyard, the drying sheds, and into Lorval itself. Rocky hillsides left very little space on which to build, which meant that the houses stood shoulder to shoulder across the street from weathered docks and sheds that were partly supported by tar-coated wooden piles, huge timbers that could withstand the winter storms that rolled in from the east. But there was no sign of that now, as seabirds circled an incoming fishing boat, and sunlight glittered on the surface of the bay.
Farther on, past the hotel where Rebo’s mother had been employed, a terraced graveyard could be seen. It contained twice the number of markers as actual graves. That was because the sea rarely surrendered the bodies of those it had claimed, leaving their families to grieve over tiny symbolic caskets.
And there, perched high on the promontory to the north, was the Halgo mansion. The very people to whom Crowley had delivered a letter those many years before, and by doing so forever changed a little boy’s life.
Now, having spent so much time with Lee, the runner was struck by the fact that the village lacked any sort of temple or other religious structure. Because it was so remote? Or because the flinty fisherfolk who lived there had a tendency to view the sea as their supreme being? It hardly mattered.
Norr had a way of not only appearing at his side—but knowing what to say when she did. “It’s beautiful.”
Rebo slipped an arm around her waist. During the weeks spent resting in CaCanth, Lysander had made himself known yet again and offered to hire the runner. The task was to deliver both the sensitive and Logos to a place called Socket. Wherever that might be. An arrangement that allowed the two of them to stay together without peering too far into the future. “Thank you,” Rebo replied. “But it isn’t as beautiful as you are.”
Norr smiled knowingly. “You say the sweetest things when you want to sleep with me.”
The runner raised his eyebrows. “So, you can read minds.”
“Men have minds but tend to think with something else,” the sensitive observed tartly. “Still, you might get lucky.”
Rebo laughed as a deep resonant voice was heard from within the coach, where Hoggles sat with one leg propped up on pillows. “Hey! Why did we stop? It’s time for lunch.”
“Sorry, master,” the runner replied, as he helped Norr back inside. “We will get under way immediately.”
“See that you do,” the variant responded airily. “This is most inconvenient.”
Rebo offered the heavy what he thought was an appropriate gesture, returned to the front of the carriage, and climbed up next to driver. Hooves clattered on loose shale as the carriage jerked into motion, and the last mile of the journey began. Deep down, and without having consulted Norr, Rebo knew that his mother was dead. But her essence was there in the breeze that swept in off the bay, the sharp tang of the sea, and the warmth that caressed his face. A boy had left—and a man had returned.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The book Runner was inspired by a Time magazine article that appeared in the May 2, 1994, issue. The piece, under David Van Biema’s byline, but with additional reporting by Patrick E. Cole in Los Angles and Jefferson Pemberthy in New Delhi, ran under a subhead that read, “Two different boys claim to be the reincarnated master of a popular school of Buddhism.”
That alone was sufficient to capture my attention, but the body of the article, which went on to detail the ongoing battles between two different factions of the Black Hat sect to control “assets worth $1.2 billion, and the reverence of up to a million followers,” got me to thinking about the possibility of a novel.
But ten years were to pass between the moment of initial inspiration and the actual writing of the book. Part of that was due to the fact that I had other projects to pursue—but part of the delay stemmed from the fact that I wasn’t sure how to handle the concept. Finally, having married the intergalactic courier outline that I had developed years earlier to the Buddhist story, I came up with a science fiction novel that honors fantasy and reacts to religion.
I feel it’s important to note that while the story was inspired by one aspect of Buddhism, and those familiar with the religion may see numerous similarities between “The Way” and Buddhism, it was not my intent to replicate the Eightfold path or any other religious tradition. In fact the religion laid out in the book includes concepts borrowed from many faiths, all of which have value, and my respect.
For more information about author William C. Dietz and his upcoming novels, visit his website at www.williamcdietz.com.
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