The Pressure of Darkness

by Harry Shannon

  Behold my Mother playing with Lord Shiva

  Lost in an ecstasy of joy!

  Drunken with a draught of celestial wine,

  She reels

  And yet does not fall . . .

  Erect, She stands on Shiva's bosom,

  And the earth trembles under Her tread

  She and Her Lord are mad with lust and frenzied

  Casting aside all fear and shame.

  — Ramprasad (1718-1775)

  "Do you know the story behind that one?" The voice came from nearby, but Burke managed to disguise his surprise.

  He forced a polite smile. "Good to see you again, Dr. Pal."

  Mohandas Hasari Pal, Ph.D. was a tall man, quite muscular for a practitioner of both tantra yoga and several Chinese martial arts. He had dark hair and eyes and the slightly bronze skin of a full-blooded native of India. His English was clipped, precise, and virtually free of accent. Pal did not seem to have aged a day since Burke last saw him, although he was certain to be in his fifties. He walked his obsidian eyes over Burke and then inclined his head gracefully.

  "Ah, yes. Young Mr. Burke. I remember you quite well, actually."

  "Should I be flattered?"

  "Not necessarily, I'm afraid. You were often intellectually self-important and obnoxious."

  Burke smiled. "I suppose I was."

  "Ah, but at least I recall you as the kind of student who actually paid attention. That is a rare thing in a class dealing with comparative religion. You were in that class my wife audited for amusement, no?"

  "Yes. And I remember her well." Burke's pulse leapt, but he willed it to slow again. "And is she well these days, doctor?"

  "Quite. Indira will be joining us shortly." Pal floated across the floor, moving closer. Like Mr. Nandi, his feet barely seemed to touch the floor. "And you may call me Mo, Mr. Burke. It is a nickname somewhat disrespectfully derived from Mohandas, but I'm afraid I have become quite used to it during my many years in this, my adopted country."

  Burke was treading water. "If I remember correctly, you brought Mrs. Pal here with you when you became a citizen."

  "Yes, Indira was raised in a small and rather primitive village called Meeta. Her people could not read. I married her when I was forty and she was but fourteen. I purchased her from her family. This is a practice which I recognize would be deemed scandalous in America. But she was impossibly beautiful and I was madly in love."

  "When we were in your class, I think we were both in our twenties."

  "Yes," Pal replied, without apparent subtext. "I suppose she is much closer to your age."

  "A few years younger, actually."

  Stay on guard. Pal missed very little. Burke knew that he'd grown up in the city, in Calcutta's hardscrabble slums, but attended good schools as a young man, likely due to the fire of his intellect and an obvious flair for manipulation. As a Professor, Mo Pal was an intense man both fiercely Americanized and wedded to the violent and mysterious mythology of his youth.

  Pal smiled politely, pointed to the poem Burke was reading only seconds ago. His hand came closer and the skin smelled slightly of scented oil. "Legend has it that the demon known as Daruka is endangering the world. So Lord Shiva asks his wife Parvati to eliminate the threat. Parvati acquires the body of Shiva, drinks of his essence, and becomes a creature known as Kali. And this new goddess is so horrific and ferocious in her likeness that all beings quake in alarm. Kali and her assistants, all of whom feast on human flesh, attack and defeat the demon Daruka."

  Burke remembered. "But Kali has awakened her blood lust. She cannot stop the slaughter."

  Dr. Pal nodded. "Indeed. Her hunger and rage, once aroused, are so potent that they threaten to destroy this entire plane of existence. She goes on a rampage and murders everyone and everything in her path."

  "I've forgotten the ending, but it had something to do with a baby."

  "Lord Shiva is unable to stop her with words or commands, and so he ultimately transforms himself into the shape of an infant and hides himself upon the battlefield. He cries out for sustenance and Kali, deceived by Shiva, puts down her weapons to suckle him. And that night Lord Shiva danced tandava."

  "The dance of creation."

  "Yes. To please the goddess Kali, who became so happy she began to dance it with him. For most of her followers, though, Kali-ma is the Great Mother. Her demonic aspects are generally hidden, but must never be completely forgotten, lest she become aroused and destroy us all."

  "As we males know women can."

  Pal blinked. "As we know all too well, yes. Some left-hand tantra followers in the lesser cults dress as women, not for any sexual reason but to remind themselves of the awesome power of the feminine."

  Pal took Burke by the sleeve and walked him to another work, a painting clearly hundreds of years old. Here Kali was depicted at rest, less enraged. She was still quite formidable. "But you see there is much more to the story, because Kali offers freedom, Mr. Burke. If we come to her as a child comes to his mother, she teaches us the true nature of reality."

  "And the temporal nature of the self, taking us all back to the curse of our ego."

  Pal touched the painting lightly with perfectly manicured fingers. "Yes. If man lives his life unwilling to become accepting of pain and death, he automatically dooms himself to further suffering. If his ego tells him he will not die then die he must."

  "And so we all must die."

  "One does not have to become a transvestite to know that Kali teaches the great doctrine of non-attachment by both the grossest and clearest of means. She uses death to teach us a gentle and profound acceptance of life the only way it may truly be possessed . . . and that is in the given moment."

  Burke walked to another statue, made of dark brown clay. "This one is Aztec, right?"

  "Yes. She is Tonantzin, 'our mother.' The Aztec version of Kali, you might say. Notice that she wears a skirt of live serpents? Coatlicue literally means 'serpent skirt.' She is once again the feminine principle as both creator and destroyer of men and Gods alike."

  "Didn't she have a couple of other names? Something about childbirth, maybe Toci for grandmother?"

  "Oh, yes, you were a fine student, Mr. Burke." Pal grinned broadly. "But one would suspect perhaps a young male college student would remember her other visage more enthusiastically. She was also called Tlazolteotl." He waited, curious to see if Burke could make the connection on his own. He couldn't.

  "Goddess of impurity, Mr. Burke," Pal chuckled at his own joke, "and thus, every hormone-addled young man's dream."

  The two men locked eyes, stared for a fraction too long; a strange tension appeared to hang like a mist in the air.

  "I've always been drawn more to Buddhism than Hinduism," Burke said, breaking an awkward silence. His own deep voice sounded far away. "Zen in particular. But I suspect that we Americans seldom have the patience to study long and complex mythologies."

  "Kali-ma is not a myth, Mr. Burke. Any more than Tonantzin is surreal."

  "Enlighten me."

  Pal turned. "She is not mythological in the strictest interpretation of that word. She is more psychological. Think of her in Jungian terms and you will follow me. She is a way of viewing the darkest side of the feminine, the Johari Window aspect of women that is neither loving nor nurturing but destructive and wild. Something they are rarely able to see within themselves."

  "I understand."

  "Yes," Pal exclaimed happily. He patted Burke on the sleeve. "Yes, I believe you do! Now let us sit down." On the couch, sipping tea from the second cup: "If memory serves, you wanted to ask me some questions about my relationship with Peter Stryker."

  "You heard the news?"

  "Just that he had committed suicide in a rather unpleasant way. It all sounds so very tragic." He did not ask further, merely waited.

  "What did you two talk about?"

  Pal set the cup down on the table. He yawned and stretched like a sleek panther. His face was remarkably free of
lines for a man his age. "Let's see, now. Kali-ma, certainly, but if memory serves, Mr. Stryker was mostly interested in the Thugee sect."

  "The robbers who practiced mass murder."

  "Yes. They have been much abused by Hollywood over the years. Karma, no?"

  "What did Stryker want to know?"

  "How it originated. The truth is, of course, that no one knows for sure. I gave him a copy of Confessions of a Thug by Meadows-Taylor. We discussed the Mahomedans and how they plundered India both before and after the Tartars and Mongols arrived. Some believe the Thugee began there, but the Hindu used to hold that the sect had a divine origin and was thus derived from the goddess Bhowanee. In any event, the group ran wild in India until the British attempted to suppress them, and even the Empire made little headway in perhaps the 1830s."

  "So perhaps Stryker was researching a book on the Thugee? Did he tell you anything at all about the project?"

  "I never asked." Pal wrinkled his nose. "It was another one of those ridiculous pot-boilers of his, no doubt. I think he might have said it was for a silly novel about a new sect springing up to assassinate politicians in Washington, something like that."

  "Did he ask you about anything else?"

  "We talked a bit about Kali-ma because of the Thugee," Pal replied. He seemed to be searching his memory bank. "Oh, and about the Aghora and the left-hand path of Tantra. In case you've forgotten, the Aghora seek enlightenment by reveling in the distasteful, shall we say. They carry the left-hand path to implausible lengths."

  "I remember, now. The emphasis is on the acceptance of everything, regardless of how dark or hideous it might at first appear."

  "Yes. They might eat excrement or sit on a dead body, for example, as a way of eradicating every conceivable trace of disgust. Or even eat the flesh of the dead. By embracing the awful, one breaks down dualism, you see. And begins to experience the world as it really is, a thing of 'terrible beauty' rather than allowing it to continue to be perceived as merely terrible or beautiful."

  "I recall it sounded pretty extreme."

  "Oh, to a westerner it most assuredly would," Pal replied. "And yet there are smaller splinter groups deemed even more extreme than the Agouri."

  "A group with practices more extreme than eating shit or the flesh of a corpse?"

  "Well, let us take the Shahr-e-Khamosh, by way of example. The shamshan it uses and the group it describes are known as 'The City of Silence' because the term means cemetery and also that the spiritual work is to become virtually dead while still alive."

  "To die to more than just desire." Burke steepled his fingers. "Or, to pursue the One in that manner as well, in other words?"

  "Yes. And to connect with the spirits of the deceased. To a devotee of Shahr-e-Khamosh there are many spirits, Mr. Burke. As all seers, they see the Preta, who have died without proper services, Dakinis, who died in childbirth, the Bhuta who clings to physical life and refuses to let go. And these spirits instruct them about how to live better lives. Thus, as I said, the way of Shahr-e-Khamosh is to die while still alive, or to live while openly communing with the dead. Simply fascinating superstition, no?"

  "It's all bit too farfetched for my taste." Burke didn't want to think about the little man who haunted his dreams. He spotted a waist-high, lovingly crafted statue to his left. "That's Egyptian, isn't it? Ammut or Ammit?"

  "Or Ammenmet. She was an Egyptian demoness."

  The figure had a crocodile's head with the torso of a leopard and the buttocks of a Hippo; Burke remembered that all three of those creatures were fierce and terrifying to the Egyptians because all were eaters of men. That awakened his interest again. Burke squinted, reads aloud: "Hat em emsuh; pehu-s em tebt her-ab-set em ma, is that correct?"

  "Close. It is a description of the creature. As you may recall, in The Book of the Dead Ammut sits near the scales of Ma'at. When any dead person's heart weighs incorrectly, is found unworthy, she is there to devour and excrete their immortal souls. She was also known as the 'devourer of Amenta.'"

  "The underworld."

  "Yes, and also the west bank of the river Nile. To the Egyptians, west was always a direction linked with death. One papyrus contains a speech made to Thoth regarding the soul of the scribe Ani. It says something like 'His word is true, is holy and righteous. He has not committed any sin and has done no evil against us. The devourer Ammut must not be permitted to prevail and eat him' or words to that effect. The exact wording escapes me."

  "Fascinating."

  "Sadly, I am getting older, Mr. Burke, and my memory is not what it used to be."

  "Your memory is remarkable."

  "Are you boring Mr. Burke, Mo?"

  The voice was sultry, flowed like warm honey; the accent was irresistible. Burke felt the hair rise on his arms and his stomach jangle like a bucket of ice cubes. Pal jumped to his feet. Burke struggled to remain composed. He rose more slowly, and when he could no longer politely delay, turned to look at her.

  Indira Pal had also changed little. Her raven hair was swept back and to the right, where it dropped down to coil around her shoulders like a serpent. The luscious hair framed a face as seductive and exotic as her name. Indira had wide brown eyes with arched black brows, plush red lips, and a slender nose. She was dressed elegantly in a beige strapless evening gown that hugged her lithe frame. Carefully placed gold jewelry caught the waning light and glowed with mystic fire.

  Jack Burke swallowed and thought that nothing on earth had ever frightened him as much as the presence of this one woman.

  "Red, it's good to see you again."

  Burke found himself close to her, inhaling her jasmine scent and touching her hand before he was aware his body had crossed the room. His own voice sounded alien to him, both reedy and unstable. "Mrs. Pal, how nice to see you again."

  "Yes," she replied, meaninglessly. She slipped her hand away quickly, gracefully; the gesture was specific, the insult intentional. She joined her husband, gave him a kiss on the cheek. "Mo, I think we need to be going."

  "Of course. And go we shall. Mr. Burke, perhaps we can meet again another time? Or if you have any further questions for me, you can e-mail them care of the university."

  Burke held his ground. "Just one more moment, please. May I ask how well you knew Peter Stryker, Indira? Were the three of you friends?"

  Indira tilted her head and her eyes were lava. "I am not sure I ever met the man. Did we meet, Mo? Perhaps at one of those awful office Christmas parties?"

  "Perhaps," Pal replied, as if to soothe her growing irritation. "But if you did it was very briefly, dear. No reason you should remember."

  Indira shrugged. "I guess that answers your question."

  "I guess it does."

  "So nice to see you again." Icicles dangle from the words. "You'll excuse us now, please."

  Burke stepped back as if slapped. "Yes, I guess I should be on my way."

  The man called Mr. Nandi appeared at Burke's side and gently took his left elbow. Burke was getting the bum's rush. He allowed himself to be led to the door by the much smaller man. He called back over his shoulder. "Thank you for your time, Dr. Pal."

  "Oh, my pleasure."

  Good, Burke thought, his attitude sour. Because it certainly wasn't mine.

  TWENTY-THREE

  SATURDAY

  "This sucks." Detective Scotty Bowden doesn't want to work. He would rather grab some breakfast. He is pissed off and more than a little drunk. Also, Bowden doesn't like skid row, the stench of urine, vomit and that nagging vibe of hopelessness. Bowden is ending an all-nighter and has already packed away two shots of Wild Turkey dropped into mugs of cold, draught beer. He slides down Broadway, parks and exits onto the sidewalk. He pauses at the mouth of the alley to use a little breath spray.

  Dawn is peeking over the towering office buildings with a baleful eye. A handful of driven executives are already turning into underground parking garages and rushing out of the doughnut shop, breath and hot coffee steaming in the
frigid morning air. The sun will be up soon, but the full moon still hangs in the gray sky like a pocked piece of slate. Most of the bums are already stalking the pavement for handouts. They look like an army of the undead. Since Bowden was drinking when he heard the radio traffic, he is way late to the party.

  A cherub-faced, stocky uniform is holding a couple of curious vagrants at bay. Bowden recognizes the kid. His rabbi in the department has been grooming him for Robbery/Homicide.

  "What's up, Kasper?"

  Patrolman Jon Kasper looks exhausted and a bit green. He speaks with a faint Boston accent. "SID was already here, sir. They dusted and photographed everything. The ME wagon is getting ready to load him up. I told them to hang on until you got a chance to look things over."

  "Thanks. I got tied up with something else. You okay?"

  Kasper blushes, pink on pale lime. "Actually, I nearly lost my doughnuts, sir. I thought I'd seen a few things in South Central, but this one is pretty bad."

  Bowden is distracted by Sergeant Bob Tanner. "Scotty? About fucking time!" Tanner is a loathsome toad of a man, given to copping free blowjobs from the hookers near Selma and Hollywood in exchange for leniency. He is seldom caught without a cell phone at his ear and a wet cigar butt clenched between yellowing teeth.

  Bowden approaches the crime scene. He is surprised by a rapidly festering sense of anxiety. There seems to be something hanging like bug spray in the morning air, something intangible but ominous. He shakes the feeling away. Bowden stamps his feet against the cold and winks. "Morning, Bob. Is some asshole actually making you do a little work for a change?"

  Tanner spits a foul stream of brown juice into a nearby pile of trash. "Fuck you and the horse you rode in on, Bowden."

  "So what happened here?"

  "Some homeless dude got his ticket punched, probably over a bottle of screw-top Thunderbird. What do you care? This ain't your regular turf."