Neon Lotus

by Marc Laidlaw

  “Better than horseback?” she asked.

  He grinned. “I was born to this. And machines, unlike horses, never question my mastery.”

  As the plane whirred to life and they began their rapid ascent, Marianne thought of the machinery she had seen recently—the ornate and lifelike Chenrezi, the altars in the nomad camp. These were machines with dignity, machines that graced humanity. Perhaps to Jetsun this plane was such a thing: an extension of his mind and body that he used to dart invisibly through the night on heroic errands.

  But then there were the Mines of Joy. Factories, weaponry, miles of corroded drilling equipment. Could anyone say he had mastered these things?

  “Marianne?”

  The land crawled past beneath them.

  “Hm?”

  “I wonder what you think of me. . . .”

  She remembered the pressure of his arms around her when she’d stepped off the plane yesterday; she remembered the touch of his lips and the rush of his breath in her ears. They had hardly spoken since then. She had known that he would not bring up his feelings again until they were alone together, with a great deal of privacy. Well, they had it now. Most of a long night stretched ahead of them.

  She realized, after nearly a minute, that her considered silence must be driving him mad. She blurted, “I’ve always been alone, Jetsun.”

  His eyes did not waver from the controls. “I, too.”

  “Alone, I guess, because I’ve had so little privacy. I grew up the center of everyone’s attention, in Switzerland and then in Dharamsala. At times I hated all the concern, whether it came from my parents or Reting Norbu or even from the Kashag. I had to be a solitary person just to save my sanity. I don’t suppose it’s easy to get close to me.”

  He sighed, almost imperceptibly. After their reunion yesterday, he had not tried to touch her even casually.

  “Are you afraid of me?” she asked.

  He stiffened, mouth tightening. “Afraid?”

  “You know what I mean. Are you afraid of the Great Mother, whoever she is? Afraid that I’m some kind of icon you’re supposed to protect but never touch?”

  He relaxed slightly, and a smile brushed his lips. “No,” he said. “I wasn’t at first, anyway. When I saw you, I thought you were beautiful—certainly nothing to fear! But then, with Chenrezi and Tara and this talk of the Gyayum Chenmo . . . well, I guess I did start to feel unsure.”

  He looked away from the controls and met her eyes briefly

  “What is it like, having goddesses inside you? What was it like, learning that you were chosen?”

  She felt herself smirk. “I know what you mean. At eighteen years old, to be told that I was the Great Mother of all Tibet, that I would give birth to a new age.” She laughed. “As if it weren’t enough to grow up knowing that I was the reincarnation of an old genius. Oh, Jetsun, everyone has always had such high expectations of me.”

  “You haven’t disappointed anyone,” he said.

  Thinking of her mother she laughed again, but this time it was dry, humorless, like an attempt to dear her nostrils of dust. “That’s not entirely true,” she said.

  He was silent for a long time.

  “What about you?” she asked. “Where did you grow up?”

  “New Lhasa, Colorado. I trained in the Rockies, but I was always dreaming of Tibet. Chushi Gangdruk, the old resistance, came enlisting youths for the new underground, joining up was the only way I could think of to get here. I felt—this may sound ridiculous to you—but I felt as if I had some destiny, some important work to do with my life.”

  “Why should I, of all people, find that ridiculous?”

  He laughed self-deprecatingly. “Because you know that you have a destiny. Everyone tells you so. There’s proof. The State Oracle, the Kashag, the people of Tibet, everyone knows that you have a purpose here.”

  “But none of that would mean a thing if I didn’t feel it myself,” she said.

  He considered this and finally nodded. “I guess that’s so.”

  “You don’t need anyone to tell you what you already know, Jetsun. When you saw Tibet, did you know that it held your destiny?”

  He chewed his lip, hesitating. Then he shook his head. “The station was just rocks and snow, howling winds, as I’d expected. I didn’t feel I’d found my destiny until much later.”

  “And when was that?”

  He took a deep breath.

  “When I met you,” he said.

  ***

  They landed before dawn in a small mountain valley—more like a deep ledge—where snow was falling. Jetsun taxied the jet close to a sheer granite wall, watching the wingtips carefully. Marianne echoed his prayer that the plane would avoid notice. There was no reason for scouts to be passing over this area, and they did not intend to stay long, but they took advantage of every opportunity to keep the craft hidden. The snow proved to be their greatest ally in disguising the jet; as they disembarked, it had already begun to gather on the wings.

  By sunrise they stood on the rim of the ledge, looking down over ridges and escarpments, out of the mountains. The peaks of the Kunlun rose to towering heights behind them. Ahead and below they saw a glimmer of sunlight on metal roofs. A small town, it looked like, nestled in the folds of the foothills, isolated.

  Seeing the place, Marianne had a peculiar sensation of recognition. It was as if she had dreamed of it. The same cold wind had been blowing, the snow had been thick upon the rocks, and she had looked down on that little cluster of houses and thought of it as her home.

  Tara pressed into her thoughts.

  “She knows the town very well, Marianne. I could draw you a map of the streets."

  Will we need one? she wondered.

  “No. We will avoid the town. But we must descend first and skirt these peaks before climbing to another place.”

  The downward path was treacherous; they made their way along the spines of ridges, over teetering boulders, high-stepping through snow and ice. An occasional cairn of piled stones told them that this route had been traveled before, which was both reassuring and worrying. If it were a common path, the plane might be discovered.

  It took them two hours to reach the town. Marianne feared that they would stand out against the snow, and in fact they had hardly started west when she noticed two figures approaching from the village. As they drew near, she saw that they were men and they carried rifles. They cried out to Jetsun and Marianne, bidding them to stop.

  Marianne waited anxiously, feeling a strange sense of elation. The first man was tall, his face scarred, and suspicion was plain in his demeanor. Surprising herself and Jetsun, she threw out her arms and ran toward him, calling out, “Jigme! Jigme!”

  The man stopped short, lowered the gun, and peered at Marianne as if he should have recognized her.

  “It’s me,” she cried. “It’s . . .”

  She stumbled to a halt, ten feet short of embracing him, His rifle came up again,

  “I don’t know you,” he said. “How do you know my name?”

  “Cousin,” she whispered. And to herself, “How can I explain?”

  “Who are you?” he demanded.

  “My name is Sonam Gampo. I—I was a friend of your cousin, Dolma Gyalpo.”

  “Dolma!” He rushed forward and grabbed her by the shoulder. “Where is she? Have you seen her?”

  Marianne bowed her head. “She is dead.”

  “Dead?”

  I he other man caught up with them. He was of slight build, scarcely more than a boy.

  “Dead?” he repeated. “My sister?”

  Looking at him, his first mustache upon his lip, Marianne felt herself break into tears. It was not herself weeping but the Voice of the Lotus, the woman within, the madwoman named Dolma Gyalpo.

  “Tsering,” she said. “Oh, Tsering. She sent me for the lotus.”

  The two men looked at each other, then back at Marianne.

  “What did she tell you?” Jigme asked.

&nbs
p; “She told me where to find it. I was looking for it when I met her.”

  “Why would you be looking for a lotus out here in the snow? And who is he?”

  Jetsun introduced himself. “There are many of us looking for the lotus,” he said. “This woman, Sonam Gampo, is the Gyayum Chenmo.”

  Jigme frowned down on her, shaking his head. “Whose mother are you?”

  “No one’s,” she said, forced to turn away by sadness.

  Tara, she thought. Tara, please calm poor Dolma Gyalpo. I can’t have her coming through me like this; it’s tearing me apart.

  She felt her grief subside gradually. Meanwhile, Jetsun had kept up a conversation with the others.

  “We’ve been cautious of strangers,” Jigme said. “Careful to conceal the . . . well, if you truly were sent by my cousin Dolma, you should be able to find the way yourself, eh?”

  Marianne nodded. “I can find it well enough. But will you come with me? Dolma would have wanted me to know you better, both of you.”

  “I’m coming,” Tsering said. “You couldn’t keep me away.”

  “I’ll tag along, too,” Jigme said. “But I won’t lead the way and I’ll give you no clues. As we go, I want you to tell me what you know of Dolma Gyalpo. How did she die? And where?”

  Marianne told the story haltingly as they made their way over icy fields past snow-covered points of rock. Tsering asked her endless questions about the Mines of Joy, the rebellion, and his sister’s transmigration.

  “Then she is still alive,” he said. “She’s inside of you—”

  “No,” Marianne said. “The part of her that is most alive is in the lotus now, where it has been since she left you. If she had made it here alive, she would have reunited with herself when she visited the lotus. As it is, I must be the one to carry her home.”

  She hesitated, glancing up at the mountains, finding something familiar in the relative positions of the peaks against the sky.

  “It’s here, isn’t it?” she said. She expected no answer from Jigme, and he gave her none—only glared at Tsering so that the boy would keep silent.

  She felt confident in her decision as they turned and moved up the slope. The path was covered in snow but again stone markers showed the way. She marveled at how quickly she had reached this point so far from the nomads, so far from Chenrezi’s cavern, so far from Dharamsala or the demands of her mother. She felt as if all the events of her life had been leading her to this place. Yet only a few days ago she’d had no idea that she could reach it so soon.

  They climbed for hours. She was forced to walk without speaking, conserving her breath. Jigme and Tsering followed, keeping equally silent. Finally she turned to Jigme. “This is the right track, isn’t it? You wouldn’t follow me this far if I were wrong, would you?”

  His expression remained inscrutable. “Perhaps we mean to kill you, stranger, and hide you where friends will never find you, far from the lotus you seek. Why should we believe your incredible story? For all we know it was you who killed my cousin. You may have found her wandering, captured her, and tortured her to learn the whereabouts of the lotus.”

  “You know I’m not lying,” she said. “But I realize that you must protect the secret with all your honor. You would not reveal the place to even a Dalai Lama if there were any trace of doubt in your heart.”

  “You’re right,” he said. “And I have grave doubts. But lead on . . . if you can.”

  “Oh, I can,” she said. “I only wanted to thank you for your company. It has meant a great deal to Dolma Gyalpo.”

  Jigme said nothing. Tsering looked at her as if he had a great deal to say, but dared not speak a word. Marianne held down the wave of sadness that came from the woman within.

  Guide me, she told the Voice of the Lotus.

  Through the sadness came something new, like clear bubbles rising to the surface of Marianne’s mind. At first she did not recognize what this new sensation meant, but then she found herself humming. As she pressed on through the ice without picks or snow axes, relying on nothing but the instincts of one who had been raised among these peaks, she broke into song.

  Jetsun glanced at her in surprise. It hardly sounded like her voice.

  The others fell quiet, suppressing even the harsh sound of their breathing in order to listen.

  The song was wordless. It gave her strength simply to hear the strong tune welling up out of her heart and rising between the gleaming, frozen peaks. Echoes joined her in the singing; the mountains began to ring. She had a momentary thought of avalanches, but surely her voice was not that loud. The wind itself died down, as if to listen. Her music sounded like pure crystal, a spiraling tunnel of ice. There were monks who knew how to chant so sonorously that they produced chords; this was something more than that—a symphony. The mountain pass rang with harmonics; undertones lay like granite peaks beneath the high, delicate ice of her highest notes.

  The party advanced between narrowing walls along the edge of a frozen stream. They entered a bowl of snow surrounded by sheer cliffs.

  Breathless, she left off singing.

  But the sound continued.

  It filled the round valley, a pure note lapping over the brim of the walls, spilling down the ridges and ravines like invisible water or nectar.

  She could not find its source. The sound seemed to come from the air itself.

  At the far end of the enclosure, three streams of water fell from on high. The wind caused them to waver back and forth, braiding them together like strands of a shimmering rope. Where they plunged at last to the valley floor, a high mound of ice had formed.

  Marianne’s eyes filled with tears. It was so cold in the valley, despite the lack of wind, that she feared her eyelids would freeze together.

  “Where is it?” she said. “I hear it, but where has it gone?”

  Jigme stepped forward unexpectedly and put his arm around her in a solid embrace.

  “All right,” he said. “I believe you knew my cousin. You sing with her voice. This is indeed the valley of the lotus.”

  “But where is it?”

  “Show her, Tsering,” Jigme said,

  Tsering laughed, his voice rising above the musical keening that she had begun to think was nothing but the wind. He sprang forward, sinking deep into the gathered snow, heading toward a narrow ledge that circled the edge of the valley.

  “Go!” Tara whispered, insistent.

  Marianne turned to Jetsun. “Wait here.”

  He did not argue with her, but granted her the privacy that she would need when she met the lotus. She felt a quickening inside her. Dolma Gyalpo’s soul had come home to reunite with its lost portion.

  She hurried after Tsering, who waited on the ledge with one hand out to help her. They traversed the cliff’s face along a tiny crack that was slippery with ice from the falls. As they approached the huge mound of powder, they entered a mist so cold it seemed to scald her. She gasped at the shock of pain but Tsering caught her wrist and cried at her to hurry. It was not far now, she knew. The song of the lotus was so intense that she thought it might never leave her.

  Suddenly the ledge ended. Tsering pointed down at a mound of rocks, then stepped onto the nearest boulder and began to scramble away, using his hands and his feet for the descent. She looked up once and saw that they stood even with the falls. Jigme and Jetsun were lost to sight in the crystalline mist.

  Tsering’s voice carried up to her. She moved onto the rocks, careful not to slip; even in her gloves, her fingers were sore from the cold. She joined him on a gravel slope, in the mouth of a low cave that gaped behind the triple falls. A pool of eternally rippling water lapped at a shore of polished stones; farther out there was nothing but froth. Near her feet, the water was clear although in motion.

  There was something else in the shallow water: a dazzling bit of reddish light, swimming slowly into sight as her eyes adjusted to the dimness.

  Blood-colored, translucent, the lotus floated on the current.
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  Its song was almost deafening.

  She walked to the water’s edge and fell to her knees, afraid to go any closer. The dead woman stirred in her breast. She felt like an intruder, but it was unavoidable. She had carried the Voice of the Lotus this far, serving as a kind of pitcher. Now, leaning forward, she released the woman’s spirit. It poured from her like water out of that same pitcher.

  For a moment she was blinded.

  Dimly, she thought she saw Tara standing between her and the lotus; Tara with her hands on the edge of a golden door. A cold wind rushed out of Marianne, forcing the door wider, wider. Tara waited, ready to pull it shut. Her young face was surprisingly grim, intent on its task. She caught sight of Marianne and called, “Go back! Go back!”

  But the wind had hold of Marianne. The song had caught her in its net. She felt herself being drawn like a snail from its shell. She could not resist. The face of the madwoman appeared before her, dissolving into a million likenesses, all of them urging her to come along. A great thing was about to happen, she must not miss it. . . .

  “No!” Tara called angrily. “It is not meant for you!”

  The warm hand of her yidam closed around her wrist. The darkness ebbed from her eyes. Her face burned with cold, a distant noise throbbed in her ears, and someone was tearing at her shoulders.

  She came up gasping, coughing, to find Tsering pulling her away from the water. Her face and breast were soaking wet; she had inhaled water, and now it came up painfully as she coughed. Her head felt full of ice. As she sputtered and choked, Tsering wiped at her cheeks with his thick mittens.

  “Dry off!” he was saying. “You must dry off!”

  She moved away from him, looking for the lotus. It was silent now, and had changed in another way as well. When she had first glimpsed it, it had been half-closed, a mere bud; now it yawned in full bloom. Concentric rings of petals unfolded, each from within the other. A rosy light—perhaps refracted from the sun, perhaps the product of the flower’s inner fires—danced over the low stone ceiling like reflections from a hearth.

  She searched her mind, called to Tara. “Is she gone?”