Neon Lotus (20 page)

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.

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?”

Her yidam
did not respond for a moment. When Tara came, she gave Marianne a flashing nod
of affirmation.

“Pluck the
lotus,” she said, and was gone.

Marianne got
to her feet. She started back toward the water.

“Where are
you going?” Tsering said, catching her from behind. “Don’t you know not to get
your feet wet? You’ll catch frostbite. Your boots will freeze.”

“Not these,”
she said. They were self-drying boots of nomadic design, woven with threadlike
heating filaments and equipped with thermostatic controls.

She waded
out into the icy water and bent to pluck the flower.

As her hand
approached, the blossom’s glow intensified. She was afraid it might burn her,
so she touched it gingerly at first.

It was warm
as breath, no hotter. The petals felt solid as crystals. It was like a fleshy
mineral, strangely pliant. She reached under it, probing for the stem, and her
fingers encountered what felt like a strand of beads. She had barely brushed
this strand when it snapped. The lotus drifted toward the shore, born on
ripples from the falls. The curious stem sank away before she could examine it.

The lotus
gave up a single brief cry, then fell silent.

She caught
it gently and brought it up cupped in both hands, letting the water drip away.
Her fingers dried quickly in the lotus’s warmth.

Tsering
gazed at it fondly, then gave her a sharp look. “Jigme would have shot you if
you were lying, you know.”

She said
nothing. She was uncertain of how best to carry the lotus.

“I don’t
believe you could have tortured my sister and made her tell,” he said. “She
must have thought you were the one meant to have it. It sang to her, and she to
it. I never thought anyone else could do that, until you came.”

She decided
to carry it in one hand until she thought of a way to conceal it. There was no
one here who hadn’t seen it before, except for Jetsun.

“What is
it?” he asked. “Do you know?”

“It belongs
to Chenrezi.”

“The living
Chenrezi?” he asked.

“You know of
him?”

Tsering
nodded, then gave her a sly smile. “I thought that was only a story. That’s
what Jigme says.”

“I thought
this lotus might be only a story, but now I know otherwise. Maybe someday
you’ll see Chenrezi yourself and learn how true some stories can be.”

“Are you
taking it back to him?”

“Soon,” she
said. “First we must find some other things that belong to him. Things that
were lost.”

Tsering
looked down into the heart of the lotus. When he looked up at her, that red
glow was mirrored in his eyes. “Can I come with you?” he asked.

“I—
”

The sound of
an explosion cut her off.

They spun
toward the mouth of the cave, gravel grating under their boots. There was
nothing to see except the shimmering veil of the three falls.

“That was Jigme’s
rifle,” Tsering said, his face gone pale.

“Why would
he fire?” she asked.

Tsering ran
up onto the boulders and began to climb up toward the ledge. Sunlight touched
his head as he rose higher.

“Careful,”
she said.

He nodded
back at her, then vanished out of the cave. She listened anxiously, staring at
the lotus. It looked fragile but not brittle. Nor was it as delicate as an
ordinary flower; if she did not drop it or strike it against the rocks, it
would be safe enough. She took the scarf from her neck, wrapped it around the
lotus, and then tried to scale the rocks while she held the blossom in one
hand.

Ahead, she
saw Tsering crouching on the ledge. She knew that the mist from the falls had
obscured his vision. The two of them would have to venture out and expose
themselves in order to learn what had happened.

She thought
she heard shouting. Tsering glanced back at her and managed a brave smile.
Raising his rifle, he headed into the fog. Before she could cry out to stop
him, he was gone.

There was
another shot, faint as an echo.

Then the
mist turned red.

She thought
she was dreaming; the image was so fleeting that it seemed impossible. Then,
through the frosty haze, she saw a shadow fall and heard a whimpering moan.

“Tsering!”