Neon Lotus
Authors: Marc Laidlaw
NEON LOTUS
by Marc Laidlaw
Freestyle Press
“Write like
yourself, only more so.”
marclaidlaw.com
ISBN:
978-1-5323-1076-8
This
ebook edition published in 2016 by Marc Laidlaw
Copyright
©
1998 by Marc Laidlaw
First U.S. edition published by Bantam
Books in 1998
All rights reserved, including
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The characters and events in this
book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is
coincidental and not intended by the author.
Cover design
©
2016 by Nicolas Huck (
www.huckworks.com
).
Photocollage created by
Marc Laidlaw based on a photograph by Daniel Winkler (
www.mushroaming.com
), used by permission of Daniel Winkler.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
6. Prayers at a Two-Way Shrine
13. The Opening of the Wisdom Eye
This book is for
my grandfather,
Alexander Zavala
The monks of
Nechung Monastery had wrapped the Medium of the State Oracle of Tibet in over a
hundred pounds of clothing and jeweled armor. The tiny monk could hardly stand
without assistance. He wore white leather boots with curling toes; silken
scarves of red, yellow, and gold, including flags that swayed over his head and
coursed down his back on flexible poles; thick flaring pants of scarlet, and
immensely padded sleeves embroidered with fierce protective eyes. There was
hardly enough of him to fill the spectacular garment; it hung from him in
gorgeous wrinkles. A mirrored breastplate set with turquoise and amethyst rose
and fell unevenly with each ragged breath. At his waist was a sword in a silver
scabbard that dragged upon the floor; on one shoulder, a quiver full of arrows.
An archer’s golden thimble capped his right thumb. His shaven head looked like
a small brown nut, misplaced in so much richness.
As
attendants helped him into the Central Cathedral, the monks in the hall began
to chant with renewed energy.
“Come, Dorje Drakden
,
bearing council.
Come
,
Spirit Minister
,
bringing sage advice
.
Protector of Buddhism
,
we call you.”
Hearing the
chants, the Medium’s eyes rolled back into his head. He staggered beneath the
weight of the ceremonial garb. A young monk hurried to put a low stool under
him. Two others brought forth a massive tiered helmet of gold-plated iron
decked with peacock feathers, bear fur, bells, and grinning golden skulls
weighing more than fifty pounds.
The Medium’s
breath came in rapid gasps. His eyelids fluttered as if he were dreaming. The
monks slipped the helmet onto his head and fastened it beneath his chin with
elaborate slip-knots.
Trumpets
wailed as the monks droned on. The little Medium looked utterly crushed,
overwhelmed beneath garments that weighed more than he. For an instant, slumped
into the Oracular vestments, he seemed to vanish altogether.
Then the
helmet rose steadily upright, lively eyes flashing out from beneath the row of
golden skulls. The ritual garments began to swell, straining against the belts
and ties with which they had been fastened; within seconds they seemed
incapable of containing the powerful body of the Medium.
He was a
common monk no longer.
Dorje
Drakden had arrived.
His first
shout shattered the monotony of chanting. The Oracle’s aides stepped back as he
leapt to his feet. The monks and state officials lining the walls of the
cathedral fell silent and perfectly still, except for those engaged in
invocation and prayers of praise.
The State
Oracle leapt onto his toes, launching into a spinning, capering dance. His
steps were as light and graceful as those of a naked dancer, a swirl of colored
scarves, an illusion.
A brass gong
moaned among the columns of the cathedral, sounding like the sea that had once
drowned these mountains. Five-metal bells sang of space and silence—those
other deeper seas that would never recede.
The
prophetic warrior whirled toward the far end of the hall, where three neon
Sanskrit syllables glowed above the head of an enormous golden Buddha.
OM
AH
HUM
Diamond
white
OM
, ruby red
AH
, and turquoise blue
HUM.
The brilliant characters shone in Dorje Drakden’s eyes. He sent
the body of his Medium soaring aloft in great bounds that the little man could
scarcely have performed even in his ordinary robes.
At the foot
of the giant Buddha sat a figure equally still, equally golden, but no bigger
than a man. Its features were cunningly painted so that it seemed to be alive.
The eyes were like white almonds; the full, smiling lips were red as roses. On
the bridge of the golden nose sat a pair of black horn-rimmed glasses.
Dorje
Drakden bowed before this, the gilded mummy of the Fourteenth Dalai Lama. From
a monk waiting beside the jeweled throne, he took a white scarf and draped it
over the mummy’s upraised golden hand. Tears welled from the eyes of the
Protector.
Suddenly,
seizing handfuls of rolled scarves from the monk’s bowl, he began rushing about
to the wail of horns and the clash of cymbals, tossing scarves in all
directions till the air of the cathedral seemed full of streaming clouds.
Scarves settled in the hands of precious images, in the lap of the giant
Buddha, and one mysteriously draped itself around the neck of an elderly
onlooker named Tashi Drogon.
Tashi
touched the white scarf tenderly, as if he had never felt silk before, and
looked over into the amazed eyes of his younger companion, Reting Norbu.
The
Protector danced on.
Tashi noted
the startled expressions of the four Kashag ministers seated along the opposite
wall. The entire Council of Ministers was staring at him, oblivious to the
energetic careening of the Spirit Minister. The prime minister alone kept his
eyes on the dance, although he had certainly noticed the unusual blessing.
Still
stroking the scarf, Tashi returned his attention to Dorje Drakden, hoping that
some explanation might accompany the prophecies.
At last the
dancer slowed his pace. Returning to the mummified Dalai Lama, he dropped onto
his knee and bowed forward. Golden bells sang in the helmet as he dropped his
heavy head.
Venerable
Tara, the oracular secretary sitting to one side of the mummy, extended a
quivering hand to the Oracle, offering a slip of paper folded into a triangle.
Dorje Drakden accepted three such triangles, one after another, and slipped
them under the brim of his helmet. Then he stood stroking the golden hand of
the Fourteenth Dalai Lama, weeping softly. Tashi felt an inexpressible sadness.
The Protector mourned the Dalai Lama as if he were a child who had died only
yesterday, rather than a man who had lived a long life two centuries ago.
As if
realizing the foolishness of despair, the Spirit Minister reared back and broke
into ecstatic laughter—a high-pitched ululation that gradually quieted to a
rapid stream of lilting Tibetan.
There was
not a head in the cathedral that did not lean closer, hoping to catch some part
of the prophecy. But Dorje Drakden spoke solely for the ear of the mummy, and
indirectly to the Venerable Tara who transcribed every word on an electronic
slate. While the words themselves were audible only to the secretary, the music
of the utterances was dear to all. Hearing the Spirit Minister speak was like
listening to a mountain stream, each syllable a drop of rushing diamond-bright
liquid.
As the songs
of prophecy came to an end, Dorje Drakden reached into a bowlful of barley at
the foot of the throne and began hurling handfuls of grain across the wide
chamber. As these blessings came showering down, the Spirit Minister stumbled
away from the Dalai Lama’s throne. His body seemed to deflate. The robes fell
loose again, releasing the Protector. The face beneath the helmet turned red,
then purple, and finally blue.
Attendants
rushed forward and caught the Medium as he fell. They slipped the knots beneath
his chin before the helmet strangled him. One took the helmet with a gasp at
its weight; two others lifted the hugely padded body of the unconscious monk
and bore him away.
Reting Norbu
squeezed Tashi’s arm. “You’ve been honored.”
Tashi
nodded, hardly believing what had happened. “It does seem auspicious,” he
admitted.
The trumpets
shrieked their most deafening blasts in conclusion and the monks, after
prostrating themselves in the direction of the Dalai Lama’s mummy, began to
move out in files.
Across the
room, the four ministers of the Kashag uncrossed their legs and rose from the
cushioned platform. The prime minister who had sat above them greeted the
Venerable Tara and accepted the slate containing the prophecies. The Kashag
crowded around but he held up a hand to forestall them.
“We will
convene in one hour,” he said.
The
ministers hurried toward the doors, barley crunching underfoot.
The prime
minister fixed his eyes on Tashi Drogon and came striding toward him. He wore a
plain khaki chuba with the sleeves folded back to show that despite his
position he worked with his own hands. The Silon was famous for trusting none
but himself with sensitive tasks.
“Doctors,
you will be present for the reading, of course?”
“Certainly,
Silon,” Tashi said.
“Am I
permitted?” asked Reting.
“As Dr. Drogon’s
student and collaborator, I assume he will want you to witness the answer to
his question.’
“Reting is
more than my student,” said Tashi. “He is my partner.”
Reting bowed
to each of them. “Thank you.”
The prime
minister’s eyes lingered on the scarf that hung around Tashi’s neck. “Have you
any idea what it means?” he asked in a low voice.
Tashi
shrugged. “No, Silon. Except perhaps that our device has divine approval.”
The prime
minister nodded and granted Tashi a rare smile. “My own thought as well. The
prophecies may explain further.” He bowed to both doctors then went after the
departing ministers. Two guards accompanied him, keeping their eyes on the electronic
slate.
Several
muscular monks watched from between the columns, waiting to see if the doctors
would leave on their own. Tashi looped the scarf around his neck so that the
wind would not blow it away, then he and Reting went outside.
A chill wind
greeted them, coming down from the Dhauladhur range of the Punjabi Himalayas.
He smelled the faint sweetness of rhododendron and also the metallic tang of
snow on granite. He slid his finger along the seal of his insulated jacket, a
tattered but beloved garment he had purchased when he was a student in America;
he had found it in an astronautics surplus store. The jacket, he sometimes
joked, was nearly as old as Reting and had withstood the trial of time with
considerably less wear.
Although a
young man, Reting Norbu was forever stricken by colds and gastric complaints.
His teeth were bad and his face preternaturally thin. He had suffered great
deprivation in his childhood; and later, given the chance of improving his lot,
he had forsaken food for textbooks and sleep for study. The dark circles
beneath his eyes were permanent, as was his doleful disposition.
“Cheer up,
Norbu,” was Tashi’s frequent exhortation, although little was the good that it
did. He repeated it now. “Things look promising for us,” he added.
“I don’t
know,” said Reting. “When the Kashag gets ahold of a thing, I fear for it. They
pull it in four directions at once, till there’s nothing left but tatters.”
“The Silon
will hold them steady. He’s a good man. He understands our purpose as well as
our needs.”
“I don’t
know. I hope you’re right, of course.”
Tashi thrust his hands deep
into the pockets of his jacket, “Besides, they can’t do a thing without our
cooperation. Unless we can get the Bardo device to work, all their schemes and
plans for it mean nothing.”
“Do you
think it will ever work?”
“Let’s see
what the gods say, shall we?”
Reting
seemed on the verge of some pronouncement gloomier than his preceeding ones;
but whatever it might have been, a violent sneeze diverted him.
“You’ve got
a cold coming on, Reting.”
“It’s
nothing.”
“Take care
of yourself, my friend!”
“I swear
it’s . . . ”
Tashi
unlooped the Oracle’s scarf and wrapped it around Reting’s neck. “Come, let’s
get some tea. We have time.”
In a small
cafe near Dharamsala’s main square, in the shadow of the Namgyalma chorten,
they sat sipping salty buttered tea until the sweat sprang out on their brows.
Reting was not inclined to speak so Tashi watched the traffic in the street.
Locals and pilgrims alike circumambulated a stand of prayer wheels below the
chorten, dragging their hands over the copper barrels as they muttered mantras.
Merchants crouched against a low wall at the foot of the shrine, selling grain
and vegetables from flat circular baskets. One could almost believe that this
was Tibet. Undoubtedly life had gone on like this in Lhasa before the Chinese
occupation. The exiled Tibetans carried on as they had for ages, as if their
homeland were forgotten.
