It was a difficult balance of effort and letting go. If she concentrated too hard on clarity and stability, the image began to break up and other thoughts intruded; if she let go too much, the image faded into the mists of her mind. There was a perfect balancing point; and gradually—very gradually—she found it.
“Now gaze upon the image of the knot you have created in your mind. Observe it from all angles: from above, from the sides.”
The softly glistening coils of silk remained steady in her mind’s eye, bringing her a quiet joy, a mindfulness, that she had never before experienced. And then the voice of her teacher disappeared entirely, and all that was left was the knot itself. Time vanished. Space vanished. Only the knot remained.
“Untie the knot.”
This was the most difficult part, requiring immense concentration— being able to trace the coils of the knot, and then mentally untie it.
Time passed; it could have been ten seconds, or ten hours.
A gentle hand touched her shoulder and her eyes opened. Tsering was standing before her, robe tucked around an arm.
“How long?” she asked in English.
“Five hours.”
She rose, and found her legs so wobbly she could barely walk. He grasped her arm and helped her steady herself.
“You learn well,” he said. “Be sure no take pride in it.”
She nodded. “Thank you.”
They walked slowly down an ancient passageway, turned a corner. She could hear, up ahead, the faint sound of the prayer wheels echoing down the stone passageway.
Another corner. She felt refreshed, clear, alert. “What drives those prayer wheels?” she asked. “They never cease turning.”
“There is a spring of water under monastery—source of Tsangpo River. It pass over wheel, turn gears.”
“Ingenious.”
They passed by the wall of creaking, rattling brass wheels, like some Rube Goldberg confection. Constance could see, behind the wheels, a forest of moving brass rods and wooden gears.
They left the wheels behind and came into one of the outer corridors. Ahead loomed one of the far pavilions of the monastery, the square pillars framing the three great mountains. They entered the pavilion and Constance drank in the pure high-altitude air. Tsering indicated a seat and she took it. He sat down next to her. For a few minutes they gazed over the darkening mountains in silence.
“The meditation you are learning is very powerful. Someday, you may come out of meditation and find the knot . . . untied.”
Constance said nothing.
“Some can influence the physical world with pure thought, create things out of thought. There is story of monk who meditate so long on rose that when he open his eyes, there is rose on the floor. This is very dangerous. With enough skill and meditation, there are those who can create things . . . other than roses. It is not something to desire, and it is a grave deviancy from Buddhist teaching.”
She nodded her understanding, not believing a word of it.
Tsering’s lips stretched into a smile. “You skeptical person. That very good. Whether you believe or not, choose with care image you meditate on.”
“I will,” said Constance.
“Remember: Though we have many ‘demons,’ most not evil. They are attachments you must conquer to reach enlightenment.”
Another long silence.
“Have question?”
She was quiet for a moment, recalling Pendergast’s parting request. “Tell me. Why is there an inner monastery?”
Tsering was silent for a moment. “Inner monastery is oldest in Tibet, built here in remote mountains by group of wandering monks from India.”
“Was it built to protect the Agozyen?”
Tsering looked at her sharply. “That is not to be spoken of.”
“My guardian has left here to find it. At this monastery’s request. Perhaps I can be of some help, too.”
The old man looked away, and the distance in his eyes had nothing to do with the landscape beyond the pavilion. “Agozyen carried here from India. Taken far away, into mountains, where it not threaten. They build inner monastery to protect and keep Agozyen. Then, later, outer monastery built around inner one.”
“There’s something I don’t understand. If the Agozyen was so very dangerous, why not just destroy it?”
The monk was silent for a very long time. Then he said, quietly, “Because it has important future purpose.”
“What purpose?”
But her teacher remained silent.
5
THE JEEP CAME CAREENING AROUND THE CORNER OF THE HILL, bumped and splashed though a series of enormous, mud-filled potholes, and descended onto a broad dirt road toward the town of Qiang, in a damp valley not far from the Tibet-Chinese border. A gray drizzle fell from the sky into a pall of brown smoke, which hung over the town from a cluster of smokestacks across a greasy river. Trash lined both shoulders.
The driver of the jeep passed an overloaded truck, honking furiously. He swerved past another truck on a blind curve, slewing within a few feet of a cliff edge, and began descending into town.
“To the railroad station,” Pendergast told the driver in Mandarin.
The jeep dodged pedestrians, bicycles, a man driving a pair of oxen. The driver screeched to a halt in a crush of traffic at a rotary, then inched forward, leaning continuously on the horn. Exhaust fumes and a veritable symphony of claxons filled the air. The windshield wipers slapped back and forth, streaking the mud that covered the jeep, the anemic rainfall sufficient only to spread it around.
Beyond the rotary, the broad avenue ended at a low gray cement structure. The driver stopped abruptly before it. “We are here,” he said.
Pendergast stepped out and opened his umbrella. The air smelled of sulfur and petroleum fumes. He entered the station and made his way through hordes of people, pushing, yelling, lugging huge sacks and wheeling baskets. Some carried live, trussed-up chickens or ducks, and one even wheeled along a piteously squalling pig tied up in an old wire shopping cart.
Toward the back of the station, the throngs thinned and Pendergast found what he was looking for: a dim passageway leading to the officials’ offices. He passed by a half-sleeping guard, walked swiftly down the long corridor, glancing at the names on the doors as he passed. At last he stopped before a particularly shabby door. He tried the handle, found it unlocked, and walked in without knocking.
A Chinese official, small and rotund, sat behind a desk heaped with papers. A battered tea set stood to one side, the cups chipped and dirty. The office smelled of fried food and hoisin sauce.
The official leapt up, furious at the unannounced entry. “Who you?” he roared out in bad English.
Pendergast stood there, arms folded, a supercilious smile on his face.
“What you want? I call guard.” He reached to pick up the phone, but Pendergast quickly leaned over and pressed the receiver back into its cradle.
said Pendergast in a low voice, in Mandarin. “Stop.”
The man’s face reddened at this further outrage.
“I have some questions I would like answered,” said Pendergast, still speaking in coldly formal Mandarin.
The effect on the official was pronounced, his face reflecting outrage, confusion, and apprehension. “You insult me,” he finally shouted back in Mandarin. “Barging into my office, touching my telephone, making demands! Who are you, that you can come in here like this, behaving like a barbarian?”
