The Five Fakirs of Faizabad (30 page)

But he is still the same as he was back then.
The woman’s voice was as silent as the monk’s but no less audible for all that. Her voice was sweet and gentle and full of the rushing of water
and the sunshine sound of her radiant smile.
We say he is gone, gone, gone over, gone fully over, awakened, and then reached the other shore.

Rakshasas licked the young woman’s face again and lay down loyally at her feet.

You have brought us a great gift,
she said silently.
You have brought an old friend back to us. I am grateful and hope that you can all stay a while and enjoy the hospitality of the monastery. But I seem to sense that three of you are already in a hurry to leave.

“We have a friend who is injured, perhaps dead,” explained John.

But this is not the man you left outside,
the woman said silently.
Mr. Burton. This is Mr. Groanin of whom you speak, yes? The one in Yellowstone National Park.

“Yes,” said John. “We were hoping you could help us to help him. Can you?”

The young woman kept on smiling broadly but did not answer John’s question. Philippa had the strong sensation that the woman was some kind of mystic; at the same time she formed the impression that Shamba-la was a place where such mysticism was common.

Perhaps the High Lama, when he comes, will offer a solution,
Nimrod said in silence.

That is up to the High Lama,
she said in her peculiar quiet way.

When will he be here?
Nimrod asked her.

The young woman hugged Rakshasas again.

“Do you know him well?” asked Moo.

When the young woman spoke, she spoke aloud: “Oh, yes. I know him very well. My name is Yang Jin and I have been the wife of the High Lama for as long as I can remember.”

The travelers bowed politely.

“I’m very pleased to meet you, Yang Jin.” Nimrod spoke out loud, too. “I think you know everyone’s name by now since you also know the secrets of our hearts. Will your husband, the High Lama be joining us?”

Yang Jin’s smile widened, although such a thing seemed hardly possible, and there was amusement in her narrowing brown eyes. She put her hand up to her mouth for a moment and then buried her face in the thick fur around the wolf’s neck. A thin gold necklace around her slender neck shimmered in the sunlight and the silk of her sarong rustled like the sound of sand under a soft brush.

Nimrod smiled patiently and repeated the question, after which Rakshasas barked once. Yang Jin looked at him and nodded.

“Very well,” she told Rakshasas. “If you wish it.”

Yang Jin stood up, bowed again, and lifted a hand in the direction of the wolf.

“This
is
the High Lama,” she said. “Rakshasas is the great Abbot and High Lama of Shamba-la. For many years he stayed with us here. Then he went away. And now he has come back to us. He has told me the secrets of his heart, which is how I can tell you that he is back home forever, I think. This is the reason for the great horn. And for the chanting of the heart sutra. Our prayers have been answered. Lord Rakshasas is with us again.”

J
ohn felt his jaw drop to the ground. Philippa gasped out loud. Even Nimrod was surprised by the extraordinary revelation that Rakshasas had been, and possibly still was, the High Lama of Shamba-la.

“Whoa,” said Philippa. “That is so unbelievable.”

“Light my lamp,” said Nimrod. “I can hardly believe it myself.”

Only John seemed inclined not to believe what he had heard. He looked suspiciously at Yang Jin and said, “Is this some kind of trick so that you can keep Rakshasas for yourself?”

Rakshasas stood up and stared quizzically at John with his bright blue eyes.

Sure, don’t be breaking your shins on a stool that’s not in your way, John,
said a silent but instantly recognizable Irish voice that sounded like it came from the air.

“Mr. Rakshasas,” said Philippa. “Is that really you?”

If it’s me jaws you want to see moving, then you’ll have to take the consequences.
The wolf ran forward and nipped her on the hand.

“Ow,” said Philippa.

Of course it is me, you young eedjit.

“Nimrod, look,” said Moo, and pointed across the garden, where Mr. Burton was walking toward them and looking as well as anyone could ever remember seeing him.

“Extraordinary,” said Silvio.
“Fantastico.”

“Truly, this is a place where the extraordinary is commonplace,” said Mr. Swaraswati.

“Mr. Burton,” said Nimrod. “I’m delighted to see you. I thought you were dead. Indeed, I was quite sure of it.” He smiled. “I think I need to shake your hand to quite believe it, though.”

The two men clasped hands.

“I’m at a loss to explain it myself,” confessed Mr. Burton. “I don’t remember anything much, except that there was someone else in my head beside me. A djinn called Jirjis. I tried to warn you once, but he stopped me. The next thing I knew, I was lying outside alone on that carpet, drinking a glass of water from the glacier here at Shamba-la.”

What the glacier water at Shamba-la won’t cure,
said the voice of Rakshasas,
there is no cure for.

“Why didn’t you mention something before?” John asked the wolf. “Like when we were back in Yellowstone?”

Sure, if I spoke to you as a wolf, John, you’d need to be a wolf to understand what I said. Besides, it’s only now, since I got back to Shamba-la, that I’ve managed to find the still small voice of spirit again.

“Is it true?” asked Nimrod. “That Yang Jin is your wife?”

Who would say that she was married to a wolf if it was not true?
said Rakshasas.

“Good point,” admitted Nimrod.

“And that you’re the High Lama?” added Philippa.

Sure, Yang Jin is just being polite,
said Rakshasas.
But it’s true that the last time I was here I was also the High Lama.

“But why ever did you leave?” asked John.

“Yeah,” added Philippa. “This place is really great. It’s like — Shangri-la.”

What’s in the marrow is hard to take out of the bone,
admitted Rakshasas.
I left Shamba-la because it was my duty to come back and help with the djinn education of your mother, Layla, and your uncle Nimrod. Just as your uncle Nimrod has helped to educate you as true children of the lamp. But after all these years, it’s good to be back. And I shall always be grateful to you, John, for making that happen.

“Since you mention the need to serve the world,” said Nimrod, “I wonder if I might mention our mission to you. We wish to restore people’s faith in things. If you like, we wish to turn the clock back to how things were before Jirjis Ibn Rajmus started to make people believe that the world was an inherently unlucky place. Or to put it another way, we need to draw from your reservoir of hope.”

Rakshasas sighed.
Ah, Nimrod. And after all that I’ve told you about the hazards of wishing anything,
he said silently.

“Nevertheless I do ask it,” said Nimrod. “Can you help us, old friend?”

“And Groanin,” said John. “We mustn’t forget him.”

Not me,
said Rakshasas.
Shamba-la. If it can be done at all, it can
only be done here. But this is not an easy thing you ask. Sure, great mansions have slippery floors, and no mistake. And to go in is not without its risks. A wish is a dish that’s a lot like a fish …

“I know.” Nimrod smiled. “Once it’s been eaten it’s harder to throw back.”

For that reason you must always remember this,
said Rakshasas.
You are what you wish. With this particular wish most of all. To have this wish come true you must give up a little of who and what you are. Your past and your future. For they are one and the same. Not only that, but you will never knowingly realize that which was lost.

“Willingly,” said Nimrod.

John and Philippa looked at each other and nodded.

“For sure,” said John.

You say more than you can comprehend, children,
said the voice of Rakshasas.
But I doubt not the truth and sincerity of what is in your hearts. This thing will be done. But it would be well that it were done quickly. For I sense that time is short for Mr. Groanin. The three of you will leave. But it is clear to me that the others — Moo, Mr. Burton, Mr. Swaraswati, Mr. Prezzolini — are all united in an earnest desire to stay here in Shamba-la. For they have glimpsed the eternal. That is an easier wish to make come true. Even for me. I only have to ask Yang Jin.

“It’s true,” admitted Moo. “I’d like to stay. At my age you don’t often feel like you’ve been given a second chance.”

Nimrod glanced at Messrs. Burton, Swaraswati, and Prezzolini, who all nodded back.

“Well,” he said, “I can’t say that I blame you.” He turned his attention back to the wolf. “And you, dear friend? Will you stay, too?”

It was hard for me to leave the first time,
announced Rakshasas.
It would be impossible for me to leave again.

Nimrod nodded. “What must we do?” he asked.

Even while we were speaking here,
said Rakshasas,
I have given the order to make the preparations for your departure.

The wolf turned to lead the way back toward the great hall.
And now you must say all your good-byes,
he said.
To me, and to the wonderful friends you brought with you.

Their good-byes took a while as sometimes they do when people are reluctant to be parted and more especially when people and, for that matter, wolves who used to be people, think they might never see one another again; as Rakshasas said he thought was more or less certain in this case.

Hands were shaken. Kisses were exchanged. Promises to remember forever were given. Moo kept a stiff upper lip. Mr. Burton and Mr. Swaraswati made more reverential salutations, especially to Nimrod, to whom they obviously felt great respect was due. Silvio Prezzolini tried not to smile through his tears but could not help himself.

“I’ll miss you, Silvio,” said Philippa, wiping a tear from her own eye.

No need to worry about Mr. Prezzolini,
said Yang Jin.
This is a place of hope. There is no worry here. He will never have a bad night’s sleep again. None of them will.

“Somehow I suspected as much,” said Philippa. “And I’m glad.”

Nimrod was inclined to say his good-byes quickly. John
and Philippa, being children, were given to take a lot longer saying them, much to the disgust of Rakshasas, for he was a wolf after all and wolves are ruthless by nature.

Sure, if these two went to a wedding they’d be inclined to stay for the christening,
observed Rakshasas.
Will you hurry up?

“You can’t rush these things,” insisted Philippa. “Sometimes the best things are said last of all. Otherwise where is the good in good-bye?”

We’ll make a wise Irishwoman of you yet, Philippa,
said Rakshasas.

“Besides,” said John, hugging the wolf to him, “the last time we parted forever we didn’t get to say good-bye at all.”

This time it is forever,
insisted Rakshasas.
You’ll forget this place. And you’ll forget about us. It’s in the way of things.

“Never,” said the twins.

The twins thought Rakshasas was exaggerating, of course, but Nimrod knew or strongly suspected that he was not.

The wolf licked the tears from their faces.
Sure, I’m only doing this because I need the salt,
he joked.

And then:
May you have warm words on a cool evening, a full moon on a dark night, and a smooth road all the way to your door.

The good-byes were over. It was time to be on their way.

B
ack inside the lamasery, Rakshasas and Yang Jin led the three djinn through the great hall to the temple, which, to everyone’s surprise, was even bigger than the great hall. Everything in the temple was red, except a marble floor that was the color of the sky, and which was decorated with an enormous and elaborate concentric diagram that Philippa found exercised an almost hypnotic effect on her when she looked at it for more than a couple of minutes.

“This building reminds me of a djinn bottle,” said Philippa, blinking her mind clear of the effect of the circle. “It seems bigger on the inside than on the outside.”

Yes
, said Rakshasas.
It is.

Yang Jin invited them to sit within the inner circle. “What is this thing, anyway?” asked John. “A magic circle?”

Nothing so crude,
Rakshasas said impatiently.
Will you listen to the child? Tell him, Nimrod.

“It’s a mandala,” explained Nimrod. “Which is a Sanskrit word for ‘circle.’ Only it’s far more than a circle with a decorative center. It’s a kind of cosmic diagram that reminds us of our relation to what is infinite, to the world that extends beyond.”

Oh, I think you’ll find it does a lot, lot more than that,
said the voice of Rakshasas.

“Whatever it is, it’s very pretty,” observed Philippa. “Although it makes your eyes go kind of weird when you start to look at it closely.”

“I noticed that,” said John. “I thought it was just me.”

“I’ve never seen a mandala as complex as this,” confessed Nimrod. “It’s quite extraordinary. There are so many intricate shapes and colors. It makes the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel look like a caveman’s daub.”

“This is the holiest place in Shamba-la,” said Yang Jin. “Perhaps in all Tibet. Here you are reminded of the divinity that lies within all of us.”

“Some more than others,” said John.

Philippa glared at him.

John shrugged. “I was thinking of Jirjis,” he said. “And that golem. There was nothing divine about them.”

“Be quiet, John,” said Nimrod.

“Yes, sir,” said John obediently, for he could see that his remarks were inappropriate in a holy place.

This mandala took about three hundred years to create,
said Rakshasas.
That is because it’s more than just an actual design; it represents the universe itself. This mandala is an actual moment in time. And, as such, it can be used
as a vehicle to explore the nature of existence, of the universe, and of time itself.

“I was afraid you’d say something like that,” said Nimrod.

“Whoa,” said John. “Did you say vehicle? You mean like a car or something?”

“I think he means something a lot more complicated than just a car, John,” said Nimrod. “Rakshasas? Is this really the only way?”

I’m afraid so,
said Rakshasas.

“You don’t mean —?” Philippa took a deep breath.

“I
do
mean,” said Nimrod. “This is a journey that’s going to make a ride on a flying carpet look very ordinary.” Nimrod frowned. “That reminds me. Rakshasas? What about our luggage? What about the carpet?”

You won’t need it,
explained Rakshasas.
Not where you’re going.

“Oh, Lord,” said Nimrod. “I don’t think I’m going to like this. Always supposing I can remember it.”

“What?” said John. “What’s happening?”

“I think we are about to experience a major case of déjà vu,” said Nimrod.

The next second, the floor turned. Or at least one of the outer circles turned.

“Where
are
we going?” he asked.

Around in circles,
said Rakshasas.
Sure, did not you know that there is no circle that is not made from within a single point that is located in the center? And it’s this point that receives all the light and illuminates the body, and all is enlightened.

With one of the outer circles turning one way, one of the inner circles began to turn in the opposite direction. Soon, both were turning at speed and started to produce a ring effect in which all the light was being bent into a circle spinning around them.

The temple, Yang Jin, and Rakshasas were now invisible to the three occupants of the mandala.

“That’s the Einstein ring,” said Nimrod. “The gravitational lensing effect as predicted by Albert Einstein.”

Of course if you take away all the light,
said the invisible voice of Rakshasas,
if all of the light is absorbed, if nothing is reflected, then what you end up with is a gravitational or space-time singularity.

The floor turned faster and faster.

Good-bye, Nimrod,
said the voice.
Good-bye, children.

“I think he means a black hole,” yelled Philippa as the floor turned faster and faster.

“Hole? What hole?” John looked up at the ceiling.

“Not up there, John,” said Philippa. “Look.”

Now there was just the light of the circle and, beneath them, what looked like an enormously deep and dark well.

“It’s a wormhole through space-time,” said Philippa. “The kind of singularity that would allow someone to travel from one part of the universe to another. Or one part of time to another part of time. Isn’t that right, Uncle?”

“It’s just a theory,” said Nimrod. “But the idea does seem to be sound.”

The three djinn started to sink into the now invisible temple floor.

“You mean we’re going back in time?” said John.

“It would appear that way, John,” Nimrod said calmly. “We’re going back to a time before any of this ever happened.”

“But won’t time just repeat itself?” asked Philippa.

“No,” said Nimrod. “Not with Mr. Swaraswati, Moo, Mr. Burton, and Mr. Prezzolini remaining behind here in Shamba-la. That changes everything. Mr. Swaraswati was the reason that Jirjis began his nasty little scheme to change the world’s luck in the first place. With him gone from Bumby, there’s no point in doing anything. With Moo gone, there’s no one to ask me to investigate an alteration in the world’s luck on behalf of the British KGB. With Mr. Burton gone, there can be no human body for Jirjis to use to trick us. There can be no prophecy given to John in an ink spot that takes him to Yellowstone. There can be no reason for Mr. Groanin to follow John to Yellowstone and get himself mauled by a bear. We’re going back to a universe in which everything that has happened to us in the last few weeks and months never happened at all.”

“That must be what Mr. Rakshasas meant when he said that you are what you wish,” said John. “With this particular wish most of all. That’s what he meant when he said that to have Uncle Nimrod’s wish come true — to turn the clock back to how things were before Jirjis Ibn Rajmus started to make people believe that the world was an inherently unlucky place — we must give up a little of who and what we are, our past and our future.”

“For they are one and the same,” said Philippa. “And that we will never knowingly realize that which was lost. That’s
why he said we’d forget about him and Shamba-la. Because none of it ever happened.” She looked anxiously at the black hole that now seemed to envelope her. “Will it hurt?”

“I don’t think so,” said Nimrod. “But I don’t actually know. All I really know for sure is that …”

… Mandala, temple, Chelsea Flower Show, yellow dress, Yang Jin, prayer wheel, Shamba-la, Kailash crater, golem, falling, Fritz, Hynkell, SS, Nazi, Bactrian camels, Mr. Bayuleev, bandits, pelicans, Zagreus, omphalos, Jerusalem, Dickens, Groanin and the bear, Yellowstone, Commerzbank, Frankfurt, the wolf pack, lightning, cloud, Mr. Swaraswati, ink spots, Falernian wine, Jebel Toubkal, riddles, Mr. Burton, the flying carpet emporium, Asaf Ibn Barkhiya, the El Moania hotel, Fez, HMS
Archer,
the mendicant fakirs, Moo, Silvio Prezzolini, Pompeii, Sheryl Shoebottom, Bumby …