The Trail to Buddha's Mirror (41 page)

“No.”

“You can’t carry me up this mountain!”

“What am I doing now?”

Carrying me up this mountain.

“It is an old tradition. Buddhist grooms used to carry their brides up the mountain.”

“I’ve been meaning to ask you, why haven’t we seen all these devout pilgrims climbing to Buddha’s Mirror?”

“Cultural Revolution.”

Cultural Revolution, Cultural Revolution. It seemed like the answer to every question. Why did the chicken cross the road? Cultural Revolution.

“It was very dangerous to be religious,” she continued, “so people could not travel to Emei to make climb. Even some monasteries on the bottom of the mountain were destroyed by the Red Guard. Very sad.”

“I’ll slow you down.”

She stopped. “You are slowing me down by making me talk. Interrupting my chanting. With the chanting, you are light. Without it, you are heavy. We have far to go and darkness comes soon. So be quiet. Please.”

He sank back down on her back. Before long the sky around them turned golden, then orange, then red, setting the mountain off in an almost surreal glow. The miles passed with the litany of
yi, ar,
throb, throb.

Just as the sky turned black, Li carried Neal through the gates of a monastery. Neal recognized the statue of Kuan Yin, Goddess of Mercy, before Li collapsed in exhaustion.

Neal lay on his
kang
later that night. The monks had wrapped his rib cage in a cloth boiled in an herbal mixture. They had forced some noxious, hot liquid down his throat that eased the pain. Then they had stretched a coarse net over the top of the bed and left him to get some rest.

What’s the net for? Neal wondered. We have to be at least nine thousand feet up here, well above the mosquitoes. Besides, the net was too coarse to keep out anything but a mutant giant mosquito. What was it for? He had his answer a few seconds later, when he heard the scurrying of paws across the floor. He looked down to see at least eight pairs of red eyes studying him.

Rats.

They were all over the place, scratching at his discarded shoes, sniffing at the edge of the
kang,
scavenging for food. Neal huddled up in his clothing, trying to cover up every bit of his person he possibly could. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but the thought of a rat nibbling at his foot kept him awake. Just then a rat ran straight across the top of the net over Neal’s chest. Neal heaved himself up and screamed. His chest responded with a stab of fire that put Neal back in a prone position. It was probably just his imagination, but he thought he saw the rat grin at him. The rat chattered busily. Neal figured that the rodent was telling his buddies they had a helpless victim here.

Bandit monkeys, marauding rats … It’s a good thing there aren’t any wolves or tigers left on this damn mountain—or are there? He entertained himself with visions of tigers and wolves creeping stealthily up the stairway. Well, at least they’d scare off the rats. He finally dozed off to that pleasant fantasy.

He screamed as he felt the tiny claws scrape his chest.

“It is just me,” Li Lan said as she climbed into bed.

“Don’t let the rats in.”

She snuggled against him carefully.

After a few moments she said, “The climb tomorrow is difficult and treacherous. You cannot go on, I think.”

“I have to see Pendleton.”

She thought for a moment.

“I can bring him down here in two days.”

“We don’t have two days, Lan. I’ll be caught by tomorrow morning.”

As soon as Li settled in, the rats became active again. Neal listened to the scraping sounds of their claws on the wooden floor.

“Don’t the rats bother you?”

“This is why we use the nets.”

“Why not traps?”

“Killing is wrong.”

Killing is wrong. Neal tried to tally the number of people who had been killed to bring Pendleton to the top of this mountain. Jesus, had it only been two? The Doorman and Leather Boy One? Only two? What am I thinking about? Two are enough. More than enough. And we ain’t home yet.

“We must leave as soon as it is light,” Li said.

Good, Neal thought. She’s accepted that I’m going with her.

“Sure,” he said.

“Sleep now.”

“Okay.”

She stroked his chest. “I would like to do more than sleep, but you are wounded.”

“Well, maybe if you were real gentle with me …”

“Oh, I can be very gentle.”

She was, Neal thought later, remarkably gentle.

“Li Lan,” he said, “when I go down the mountain … on the other side … will you go with me?

She took a long time to answer.

“Tomorrow,” she said, her voice edged with excitement, “we will look into Buddha’s Mirror, see our true selves. Then we will know everything.”

He wanted to talk about it more, but she made a show of being sleepy. Her breathing deepened and steadied, and soon she was sleeping.

Neal listened to the clawing of the rats before finally willing himself to sleep. Dawn would come all too soon.

20

Xao Xiyang stepped out from the modest pavilion at the top of the promontory and waited for the sun to rise. The air was so clear, so lovely, so peaceful that he almost did not wish to light the cigarette in his hand. The long climb and the pure mountain air had cleared his lungs, and the serene panorama almost inspired him to begin a more healthy regimen. The Yi guide had put him to shame, but of course he was much younger, and a native. Xao accepted the rationalization and lit the cigarette.

So … soon he would see his true nature. A dangerous undertaking, considering what he was about to do. He was by no means certain he wanted even a glimpse at his own soul. He leaned over the low railing and sneaked a peek at the mists below. He saw no mirror; it looked like a bowl full of clouds, that was all. But hadn’t the Yi guide assured him that the Buddha’s Mirror appeared every day at dawn and dusk? Superstitions, he thought. They will hold us back.

He felt the quiet presence of his driver behind him. If I am tired, he thought, this good soldier must be exhausted, having raced all the way around to the west side of the mountain and then climbed the treacherous western trail. A true soldier, a good man who should not fear seeing his own soul.

“Is the American with you?” he asked.

“Yes, Comrade Secretary.”

“Good. He is well?”

“He is breathing somewhat heavily.”

“We do not all enjoy your sturdy constitution.”

He offered the driver a cigarette, which the man accepted.

“I take it, then,” Xao said, “that young Mr. Carey took the bait.”

“You have seen the fish in the pool at Dwaizhou?”

“Yes.”

“Like that.”

“Ah.”

Xao considered his contradictory emotions: satisfaction that the plan was working, sadness that the plan had to work to its unrelenting end. The duality of nature—that a great good was always coupled with a great evil, a wonderful gift with a tragic sacrifice. Perhaps the Buddha’s Mirror will show me two faces.

“When do you think they will arrive?” Xao asked.

“For the sunset.”

So it will be sad
and
beautiful, Xao thought. Appropriate.

“Have him ready,” Xao ordered.

He could sense the driver’s unease.

“Yes?” Xao asked. “Speak up, we are all socialist comrades.”

“Are you certain, Comrade Secretary, that you want to … complete the operation? There are alternatives.”

“You have become fond of him.”

There was no answer.

Xao said, “There are alternatives, but they are risky. Risks are unacceptable when so much is at stake. Our personal feelings cannot matter.”

“Yes, Comrade Secretary.”

“You must be hungry.”

“I am fine.”

“Go eat.”

“Yes, Comrade Secretary.”

The driver stepped away. Xao watched the sun rise over the Sichuan basin. He knew what the driver had been hinting at—there was no operational reason for Xao to be here at all.

True, he thought, but there is a personal one. A moral reason. When one orders the death of an innocent, one must have the character to watch it.

Xao peered into the mists below him to search for his soul.

Simms was just goddamn miserable. He had spent the night in a damp, dirty, rat-infested Buddhist Disneyland, had to squat over an open trench to take a dump, and now he was standing in the cold fog, trying to choke down a bowl of rice gruel, waiting for the sun to rise so he could climb a few thousand more steps.

He yearned for the comforts of the Peak: a decent meal, a good bottle of bourbon, a young lady wrapped in silk. The thought of spending the rest of his life in the PRC made his stomach turn more than the rice gruel did. It was so dull here, so frigging monotonous, so spartan.

The thought galvanized him, made him urge the sun to hurry up. If he didn’t do what he had to do—grease Neal Carey—he might very well have to spend his remaining days here in this communist paradise. If Carey made it back to the States and slobbered about what the mean Mr. Simms did to him, the folks at the Company might notice the conflict with his job description. They might start asking some unfortunate questions. Then even those shit-for-brains might figure out that he was taking a regular paycheck from the Chinese. And that could get ugly. Probably even that stupid geek Pendleton had put it together.

He unzipped the long case and pulled out the rifle. The Chinese 7.62 Type 53 was by no means his favorite, but it would do. He favored bolt action, and the telescopic sight adjusted nicely. He sat down behind a large rock and screwed the sight onto the barrel. Then he hoisted the rifle to his shoulder, braced it against his cheek, and checked the sight out in the gathering light.

He spotted a band of monkeys in some bamboo about two hundred yards down the slope. He thought about his confrontation the day before with the fucking little bastards. I’ll show them an ambush. He centered the cross hairs on the chest of the largest monkey in the group, and squeezed the trigger. The shot threw high and to the left. He adjusted the sights accordingly, and aimed again. The monkey continued to gnaw on some exotic piece of fruit. The bullet slammed squarely into his chest and sent him tumbling down the hill.

Okey-dokey, Simms thought as he slung the rifle over his shoulder. He tried to force the excitement of imminent revenge out of his system, but every time he thought about struggling out of that fucking river, he got angry. He had damned near drowned, and he had sure as hell scraped the shit out of his legs crawling onto those rocks and pulling himself out. So, while revenge might be unprofessional …

He walked back to the old dining hall to find Peng and that other little slant. He’d probably need a crowbar to pry them from their rice bowls. He’d just about needed a gun to force them to walk in the dark last night, the little chickenshits. What did they think flashlights were for, the movies? Well, anyway, they’d picked up a couple of hours before packing it in for the night. Now it was time to get moving again.

Neal struggled out of the
kang.
Just turning to put his feet on the floor hurt, and bending over to put on his shoes was an exercise in advanced masochism. Lan wanted to do it for him, but Neal figured that if he couldn’t put his own shoes on, he damned well couldn’t climb the rest of the mountain.

Lan diplomatically withdrew as Neal winced with pain, and reappeared a few minutes later with two steaming bowls of porridge.

“What’s that?” Neal asked.

“Congee,” she replied. “Rice gruel.”

Neal ate the Chinese version of oatmeal gratefully—the thin cereal warmed his stomach in the early morning cold. He ate standing up; he didn’t want to put himself through the small torture of having to sit down and get up again. They finished their breakfast quietly, the tension between them palpable. The mountain’s summit would be the deciding point in their relationship, and they both felt it but didn’t want to talk about it. First they must get to the top of the mountain.

The trail started gently and led through a thick cedar forest. It was cold and dark, and Neal shivered. The altitude was starting to get to him, and he noticed that he was starting to breath heavily. He couldn’t help but notice; each breath stabbed his rib cage.

They walked for about twenty minutes to the far edge of the woods. Neal looked ahead on the trail and wished that he hadn’t; the steps ahead seemed to go straight up.

“Three Look Stairway,” Li said. “Pilgrims look at it three times before they want to climb it.”

“I’ve looked at it three times,” Neal answered, “and I still don’t want to climb it.”

The grade was so steep that his knees practically touched his chest with every step. He consciously pushed off the balls of his feet, trying to concentrate on his legs as his ribs burned and stabbed him. He had to stop after the first twenty steps.

Li turned around. “Please go back to the monastery. I will bring Robert down.”

“Right.”

“I promise.”

“I started out to climb the fucking mountain. I am going to climb the fucking mountain.”

“You are a fool.”

“I’m not arguing.”

She turned and started back up. He caught his breath and went after her.
Yi, ar, yi, ar, yi, aaarrgh!
His ribs threatened him. He felt the sun begin to beat on his hunched-over back.
Yi, ar, yi, ar … yi … ar

…
yi
…
ar
…
yi
…
ar
…….
yi.
He stopped to rest again. He wanted to collapse on the stairs, to lie down and rest, but he knew he probably couldn’t get up again, so he forced himself to take another step. Wrapping one arm around his ribs, he took another step. The pain nauseated him. Another step. More pain. Another.
Yi, ar, yi, ar.
Another rest.

He started out again. The trail curved sharply and then opened out onto the edge of a cliff. To Neal’s right a sheet or rock rose as high as he could see. To his left—much to closely to his left—was a drop of at least a thousand feet.