The Secret Valley

The Quest Begins

This story began as a seed, and even I must confess surprise to see how it has sprouted over time.

It required a particular time and setting, 1200 Common Era (C.E.) in that part of the world we now call Nepal, Tibet, India and China. Although the beginning of the 13th century was a time when enormous change reshaped the world, this story is not meant as a history lesson.

If a story is to find its wings, it must focus on its characters who breathe life into the story. It is their growth as individuals—their discoveries, their experiences, their loves, their triumphs and failures—that speaks to us.

The growth of an individual can take a person down any number of unexpected paths. It is these unexpected paths that add magic and mystery to our lives. And to every story. Life is the unexpected.

If you ask me what this book is about, I can tell you that it is an adventure. And a love story. And, perhaps, something more… Just bring your sense of wonder, your sense of humor, and your willingness to be surprised as you set off on this adventure.

The Journeys

CHAPTER 1

THE PURSUIT

GREATER NEPAL 1200 C.E.

Sunrise… The world that had shrunk around him like a cocoon during the night began to expand as the sun rose to chase the shadows away. Raj found that he had climbed above the lingering mists that obscured the valleys, mists fueled by the wet warmth drifting up from the Bay of Bengal. He gazed toward the sky as the dazzling canopy of stars gradually winked out, lost as the sun flooded the morning with light. And warmth. He paused in one of the patches of sunlight that speckled the mountainside, his body gratefully soaking up some small portion of that warmth to counteract the night’s chill. Even in early June, at the height of the summer’s heat, nights could be cool this high in the foothills.

Below he could hear the sound of a river—he had forgotten for the moment what the locals called it—rushing across its stony bed, adding its own voice to the sweet song of morning. The water glistened where the sun touched it, slowly reclaiming its vivid blue-green color. In a few weeks, these same waters would be a muddy torrent when the monsoons returned. For now, the river was fed by glacial melt. You could feel the cold of its origins in the currents that flowed through the deep pools.

The birds had awoken with the sun. Raj could hear the song of the larks as they greeted the day. He could smell the fragrance of morning as well, dominated by the earthy scent of oak with the underlying spicier notes of cedar, pine and fir that would grow more pronounced as the sun warmed the earth and the trail climbed higher still. The tree rhododendron had already passed their blooming season when they filled the mountains with their heady fragrance and explosion of crimson and pink blossoms.

As the sun rose higher still, it illuminated a land created on a scale more suitable for giants than for the hardy people who scratched a living from its soil. Each year they toiled ever higher on the mountain slopes as they terraced new plots to plant their crops of millet, barley and lentils. From Raj’s vantage point, the nearest mountaintops floated like islands on a sea of clouds. He had not yet traveled far enough east to catch sight of the true giants, the mighty Himalayan peaks who soared not just above the clouds, but towered over the earth herself.

Raj used this opportunity to examine the bandage wrapped around his torso. Above the wound it was no longer scarlet, vivid and wet, but had turned a rust brown where the blood had dried. There were still signs of fresh seepage, however, a thin red line. His wound needed attention, just as he needed food. And rest. Still he could not afford to linger here even though the blood loss, combined with this forced climb into the foothills, had made him lightheaded.

The moment passed and Raj shouldered his pack, regretting the need to abandon his horse two days back. Anil was his longtime companion. But the stallion had been injured during the attack on the trade route to Tibet that had left Raj with this sword slash across his ribs. He had briefly considered buying another horse, even a hill pony, but it was easier to track a horse than a man. There were times when stealth was as important as speed.

But it had meant carrying his own pack. Even though Raj had condensed his gear to the essentials, the weight of the pack had become an increasing burden. It was a particular burden on a trail such as this one that cut across the grain of the land, repeatedly winding up the side of a mountain to reach a pass, only to drop precipitously as the track wound its way down to a distant river valley.

Raj had no doubt that search parties had been sent in all directions. Now with his recent sighting, his pursuers would focus their attention to the north and east. He paused and turned to look west, from the direction he had come, as though he could catch a glimpse of his former life, a life that now seemed like a dream. How swiftly one event could turn your life upside down, he thought with a sigh. Still, this was not the first time his life had changed in an instant.

It had started as just another routine summer morning. Raj had awoken before dawn as was his custom, rising from his bed in his single room in the barracks on the outskirts of Bhaktapur, the royal city built of burnt-peach-colored brick and tile. Of the three principal cities in the valley that comprised the Kingdom of Nepal, Bhaktapur now claimed preeminence as the capital. Kathmandu retained the holiest of shrines, Swayambhunath, the ancient Buddhist temple with its Great Stupa. Lalitpur, just south of Kathmandu and across the Bagmati River, held the larger share of artisans and was renowned for the beauty of its metalworks.

Raj yawned, stretching the stiffness from his body. He had only recently returned with his men from a stint on the western rim of the kingdom where they had ridden patrol to scout for possible incursions by the Khasas. The Khasa Empire nominally ended farther to the west, at Pokhara. Periodically its soldiers probed east, raiding the border villages, testing the valley’s defenses, especially now that Nepal had a new king. But the king intended to exert his control over this valley and hold his lands against his enemies.

Raj automatically turned his gaze north, toward the Himalayas. This time of year they were hidden by the haze of dust and clouds that marked the summer season. After the monsoons, when visibility cleared, the dazzling vistas of the Himalayas stretched east and west as far as the eye could see, their snowcapped peaks brushing the sky. Even though the valley would have been swallowed up had it been set down in the vast plains of India, its compactness and proximity to the Himalayas provided its unique flavor. Raj knew the valley was a coveted prize and a constant temptation to outsiders who wished to claim it for their own.

It was not just the richness of its soil or the salubrity of its climate that distinguished the valley. The valley was renowned as a sacred place and sacredness permeated every aspect of this world. It was not just its man-made objects—the temples, stupas and shrines—but the rivers, the springs, the caves, the trees and the mountains, especially the mountains, that spoke to this sacredness.

Reluctantly, Raj pulled his attention back to his immediate responsibilities. During this most recent patrol, Raj had noticed that some of his newer men seemed tentative in the use of their weapons. His troops were the usual mix of seasoned veterans and young recruits. He decided that a drill was in order, although it would be a light drill. The men would compete as teams while he and his sergeant carefully observed and identified any man who needed additional weapons training.

It was later that morning, as Raj stood at the edge of the parade grounds along the banks of the Hanumante River while his men formed lines, that Commander Chandra’s aide, Samir, marched up to him. Samir had become a reflection of the Commander himself: crisp, tidy, economical of movement. Some people found him humorless. Raj had on occasion caught a glimpse of Samir’s own personality as it emerged from under the shadow of his official persona. Namaste, Captain Raj. It is good to see you again. Did you send the Khasas running home with their tails between their legs?

Namaste, Samir. Well, that’s the story I will tell in the barracks.

Samir laughed out loud and then remembered himself. I have orders from the Commander. He requests that you report to him at the armory. If you would be so good as to accompany me, Captain.

Raj nodded and waved his sergeant over. His sergeant might be crusty, but he was so capable that Raj would not have traded him for a regiment. Sergeant Prakash, take the men through the drill. Keep them at it until you are satisfied with their performance. Make a note if any of them…

The sergeant nodded his understanding. Very good, sir. I’ll run them through the drill until they can do it with their eyes closed. The sergeant lowered his voice and leaned in closer to Raj. Is it the border again, sir? The men, we’ve heard rumors…

They’re just rumors, Sergeant.

But the presence of the Commander’s aide had already set the men abuzz. Raj knew that soldiers lived on rumors. The green recruits talked incessantly of battle and dreamed of glory. That would change after their first taste, of course. War was more tedium than glory, where your constant companions were dust and thirst, salted with a dash of fear. For himself, he would be as happy to drill his men on the parade grounds where the worst things that happened were a broken arm or a bruised ego. But the life of a soldier meant that sometimes you were forced to strap on your armor and march out knowing that men around you might not return. Or that you might be one of that number.

As Raj accompanied Samir through the narrow streets of Bhaktapur, they crossed the open expanse of the East Square which was stirring to life. Vendors were busily setting up their stalls on the patterned brick pavement, displaying their baskets heaped with rice, millet, and lentils of all varieties—black, red, yellow and green. Other stalls marketed the summer vegetables: eggplants, black and shiny; okra, tender and green; spring onions, radishes and spinach. Marigold garlands were strung and displayed for offerings at the nearby temples. Bhaktapur’s myriad of temples stretched tall, some as high as five stories, their distinctive pagoda-style architecture the glory of the valley.

As they drew near the armory, Raj spotted Commander Chandra. He was standing alone, apart for once from the junior officers who normally swarmed around him, like bees around their queen. Unlike Raj, the Commander was not a tall man nor was he particularly robust in build. Raj knew the Commander was in his late-forties and his hair was beginning to silver. What he lacked in stature, however, he made up for in presence. The Commander was a man born to rule.

Namaste, Commander. I am told you wished to see me.

The Commander turned to face Raj and made a swift appraisal although his face gave away little of that assessment. Namaste, Captain. I trust you have recovered from your recent patrol.

Raj nodded. It had been uneventful. Sir, I can report that the border is quiet. No signs of incursions or evidence of raids on the outlying villages.

Good… Good. The Commander turned to look west, his gaze fixed on some distant point. Raj politely turned in the same direction. Raj had already guessed that this summons had nothing to do with the border. Had there been any problems, he would have already met with the Commander.

Captain, I apologize. It seems I must send you on another mission on the heels of your most recent patrol. Unfortunately, it cannot wait. The Commander turned his gaze back toward Raj and caught his eye. It is a sensitive matter… and requires your utmost discretion.

Raj nodded, but said nothing more. The Commander disliked interruptions and rarely asked questions where he didn’t already know the answers.

You are familiar with a monastery located to the north of here, above the upper Trisuli, Sing Gompa, I believe it’s called?

Raj smiled to himself. Yes, Commander. It’s a steep climb to reach the monastery, especially the last section of the trail from Dhunche.

I understand you know the abbot, what’s his name?

Father Abbot Prasad. Yes, I knew him from his time at Swayambhunath. It seemed to Raj another lifetime when he had known the abbot, who was then a monk at the great Buddhist temple on the outskirts of Kathmandu.

Good… Good. The Commander fell silent again and Raj waited patiently. Captain, I must stress that this matter is more than just sensitive. It is of paramount importance to the kingdom.

Raj pictured Sing Gompa, nestled against the slope of a hillside, facing out to the high peaks of the Langtangs, the range of the Himalayas to the north of the valley. What could possibly be of such importance to the kingdom in that beautiful, yet remote spot? Raj knew that it was not unusual for the larger monasteries to involve themselves in political intrigues. But he did not move in those circles where the competing goals of religion and politics fenced and sparred, where deals were struck and bargains made. He waited to see what else the Commander might reveal.

You are to take twenty men, with the usual armaments, and ride with all possible speed to Sing Gompa. When you reach the monastery, you will seek an audience with the abbot. He is in possession of… an object that you must secure and transport to Bhaktapur.

Raj hesitated, hoping the Commander would provide more in the way of explanation. When the Commander fell silent, Raj felt compelled to raise the question regardless of how it might be received. Commander, forgive me for asking, but what is so important about this object that it requires an escort of twenty men?

A trace of irritation crossed the Commander’s face. Captain, your questions will be answered upon your arrival. All that is required of you now is to carry out your assignment. The Commander pulled a packet from inside his coat. These are your sealed orders, not to be opened until you reach Sing Gompa.

Raj took the orders and placed them in his pouch. The Commander’s expression did not invite further inquiry, and Raj could sense the underlying tension. He waited a heartbeat and then saluted. With your permission, sir, I shall leave as soon as the men can be made ready.

The Commander gave a short nod and then held up his hand even as he raised his head to look Raj in the eyes. Remember, Captain, I am counting on you to do the right thing. When you have finished your business at Sing Gompa, return without delay. I will be waiting. Namaste, Captain.

Namaste, Commander. Until my return.

His sergeant did not seem overly surprised when Raj returned with news of their imminent departure. Raj smiled to himself. His sergeant was an old hand who had his own sources and connections. He had already set about organizing the men for the mission. The men were good-naturedly grousing as they headed to the barracks to pack their gear.

Although the sun had been up for two hours, the air still carried something of the morning freshness as Raj led his men from Bhaktapur at a trot. The horses were frisky, the men eager and the roads dry as they sped west along the main route to Kathmandu. The soldiers parted the foot traffic of farmers bringing their produce into the city’s markets.

Most of the farmers carried baskets overflowing with the morning’s harvest, and Raj absently noted the melons and cucumbers, contrasted against the shiny eggplants as they rode by. The soldiers held to the center of the road. As they approached Kathmandu, the congestion forced them to slow their pace. Raj had never cared for Kathmandu, teeming with its brash and pushy people.

To the south flowed the Bagmati River on its own journey to the plains of India. Raj steered north and west, toward Swayambhunath, built on a mount overlooking the city, where the golden spire of this, the holiest of Nepal’s stupas, reflected the morning sunlight. For a moment Raj saw himself as a young boy when he had first accompanied his mother to worship at the Great Stupa. At the time it had seemed a grand adventure although now he realized that they had walked less than two hours from Lalitpur to reach the mount.

His mother had attempted to explain to him, in a way that a five-year-old could grasp, the true nature of the stupa. Each part of a stupa represented an aspect of the spiritual journey, the path to Enlightenment, the ultimate goal of every human being. She pointed to the dome which was also called the water bubble and told him that within its interior the holy relics were kept, including a portion of the Lord Buddha’s ashes. Raj found himself most fascinated by the eyes that stared out from the stupa in the four directions, the all-seeing eyes of the Buddha. He wondered just what it was that they saw. Could those eyes see all the way across the river to their room in grandfather’s house?

For that moment past and present seemed to coexist. Raj looked up to catch sight of the hundreds of pilgrims dressed in bright colors who had gathered, circling the stupa clockwise, spinning their own prayer wheels as well as the larger prayer wheels lining the perimeter. He could see his mother and himself as they circled the stupa, stopping to spin each of the prayer wheels in turn, to send the prayers rotating in the drums heavenward.

His mother had been so happy that day. To worship at Swayambhunath was to earn tremendous merit. Raj could remember the look on her face, her eyes bright with devotion, that same devotion which was most certainly reflected in the faces of the pilgrims who circled the stupa this morning all these years later. Some of the pilgrims had decided to make the transit around the hill itself. A few had elected to travel by prostrating the entire distance. The soldiers, who had been the focus of attention on the road, suddenly found themselves reduced to insignificance next to the spectacle of this ongoing celebration.

Raj’s memory jumped to a more recent visit to Swayambhunath. It must have been four years ago now, he thought, during the festival celebrating the Buddha’s birth, enlightenment and death. Thousands of pilgrims had swarmed the mount as monks splashed the stupa with saffron paint while lamas performed the ritual dances that marked the occasion. Raj had attended the celebration with his wife and daughter. Sunita, who was just short of her sixth birthday, had thrilled at the spectacle. He could still see her face, her eyes lit with happiness, the excitement that had set her own feet to dancing, the look he had shared with his wife… His smile slowly faded as he locked that memory away and turned his attention to the road ahead.

Beyond Kathmandu, they left the valley floor and began the climb to the hill town of Kakani. It was cooler as they reached the higher elevations although the haze persisted. Their pace slowed to a walk as the horses picked their way up the stony road which clung to the side of the hill. Raj called a halt when they reached Kakani where they watered their horses and ate a hasty meal commandeered from the local tea house. From Kakani, the road began its steep descent to the Trisuli River. The heat built steadily as they dropped toward the river valley itself.

The men’s high spirits, however, continued unabated. If this trip was not quite free of the usual constraints of military life, neither did it carry the same level of tension as when they were responding to some incursion by the Khasas. The sergeant shot Raj another look and Raj relented. Despite the urgency the Commander had conveyed, there was no need to risk accident or injury by pushing the men or the horses too hard.

It was midmorning on the following day when they reached the Trisuli River. They could hear the roar of the river even before they saw it, as its turbulent waters leapt and crashed against the rocks as the river spilled down from the glaciers of the high mountains. The valley narrowed as they headed north to the village of Dhunche. The road itself climbed steeply through a series of switchbacks, leaving the banks of the rushing river which ran below on the valley floor.

They rode into the small village of Dhunche late morning on the third day, the road having climbed nearly 5,000 vertical feet since they first reached the Trisuli. Now they were faced with a second climb whose vertical distance was an additional 4,000 feet along the trail to Sing Gompa. Raj would have preferred to delay this last leg of their journey until the following day since the steepness of the trail was hard on men and horses alike. But he felt the urgency of his mission press upon him the closer they came to Sing Gompa. Raj used the halt at Dhunche for their first meal of the day and to water the horses as well as check their hooves and tighten the packs. He wanted no incidents on the trail itself.

As the soldiers started the climb to Sing Gompa, they passed a trio of chattering langur monkeys and spooked a small herd of deer who fled crashing through the oak forest. Raj ordered his men to dismount and lead their horses through the steepest sections of the switchbacks. Even the youngest recruits had stopped their chatter, saving their breath for the ascent. As they passed through the forests comprised of fir and rhododendron, Raj felt some of the weight lift now that the humidity gave way to the air perfumed with the scents of the high country.

The men exclaimed as they spotted eagles soaring almost at eye level. The eagles rode the warm currents of air rising from the Langtang Valley, circling as they patrolled their own kingdoms. The trail seemed even steeper than Raj remembered and rose relentlessly to the ridge line. As they climbed higher still, they were rewarded with vistas of the high peaks of the Langtangs, their snowy crowns streaked with gold and rose as the sun began to set behind them. And there, in the distance, they saw the prayer flags waving in the breeze. They had arrived at Sing Gompa.

Raj remembered the monastery as larger. It seemed diminished in size from his last visit, as it sat huddled against the hillside. Like many of the mountain monasteries, it was built of rough stone and coated with a mud plaster before being whitewashed. The main Prayer Hall had a slate roof, but the few outbuildings were roofed with split wooden shingles held in place with slats and weighed down by rocks.

The only alarm sounded was by the cawing of the ever present crows as the soldiers rode into the courtyard, their horses’ hooves clattering over the paving stones. Raj realized that they were expected, however, by the presence of a lama, his faded russet robes stirred by a strengthening breeze blowing from the southwest. His face was like one of the cast buddha images which lined the altar, but his eyes held reserves of humor that brought life to his expression.

Namaste, Gelong. Raj bowed deeply enough to convey his respect, but also to reinforce the official nature of his visit.

Namaste, Captain Raj, he replied, indicating that he knew something of Raj’s mission. I am called Dorje Kunchen Rinpoche. Have you eaten?

We are well, Raj said and bowed again. Although it feels like we have climbed halfway to heaven.

The lama’s eyes twinkled. Some would say that heaven is at your doorstep and there is no need to climb at all. He waved to take in the milling crowd of soldiers and horses. Father Abbot invites you and your men to stay in the guesthouse although we hadn’t expected quite so many guests.

Raj kept his own counsel. This close to the border, it’s wise to travel in strength.

Or have the Lord Buddha by your side, the lama rejoined.

Raj bowed to acknowledge the lama’s reminder. When might Father Abbot be available to see me? The sound of chanting reached his ears, and he realized it was later than he thought, that evening worship was underway.

Father Abbot will send for you after worship is completed. Cook has prepared the evening meal for you and your men.

Raj had a vision of the cook, red-faced and swearing under his breath, as he raced to stretch the food he had prepared to feed this unexpected horde that had descended upon him. He suspected that the daal and vegetables would be thinned with additional water. Likely the fires in the clay stoves had been banked for the night, but cook would have the novices fetch fresh firewood. Well, the soldiers carried their own rations and could supplement what they received. Thank you for your kindness, Rinpoche. With your leave, I will see to my men and the horses. I will await the summons from Father Abbot.

In the end, cook managed as cooks usually do. The food was brought in and placed on a table in the larger guest room. The daal was thin, but cook had liberally added cayenne pepper to compensate. Cook had made momos, dumplings filled with mixed vegetables but no meat. Some of the soldiers grumbled, but had they been in their quarters in Bhaktapur, there would have been no meat either. Meat was reserved for festivals. Or the wealthy. Raj’s own meal was brought separately and placed on the rickety table in the single room that served as his quarters.

The guesthouse was small as might be expected for a monastery of this size: two larger rooms, one for men and one for women, and two smaller rooms. It seemed there were no other guests that evening. Still the guesthouse would provide sufficient space for the men to sleep indoors even if they would sleep head to foot. This, too, was nothing new. Privacy, like meat, was largely reserved for the nobility.

No sooner had the last spoonfuls of spicy daal and the last of the momos been consumed than the soldiers cleared the table to make room for a noisy game of dice. Well, they were young, Raj smiled to himself. The young needed constant entertainment. Raj left the men to their gambling, the shouts of the winners underlain by the groans of the losers. He had learned that it was better to tolerate a certain amount of vice. In the absence of women and alcohol, gambling would serve as a sufficient diversion. His feet took him out to the courtyard where he strolled around the monastery. The murals that decorated the exterior walls of the Prayer Hall were faded, but the columns of the entrance porch had recently been painted a vivid crimson.

The sun was setting swiftly to the west, its last rays illuminating the vista of the mountains, even as darkness settled in the valleys below. It was Raj’s favorite time of day, this brief moment where the world was suspended between light and dark. It was occasionally a time when he could enjoy a taste of solitude, away from the constant demands of his duties. His orders… Raj chided himself. He had neglected to open the sealed orders that he had brought from Bhaktapur. As he turned to retrace his steps to the guesthouse, the lama appeared before him.

Namaste, Captain Raj. He bowed, his hands held together.

Raj smiled and bowed in return. Namaste, Rinpoche.

Father Abbot will see you now. If you will follow me. The lama turned and headed in the direction of the Prayer Hall.

The orders could wait, Raj decided. Hopefully the abbot would shed light on the real purpose of this visit. They reached the main doors to the Prayer Hall where the ferocious guardian demons flanked the entrance. Raj followed the lama inside the Prayer Hall, whose interior, with its riot of color, stood in sharp contrast to the faded exterior of the gompa. From the ceiling drooped banners of silk, in shades of magenta, saffron and peacock blue, their hues vibrant even in the dim light of the butter lamps.

Colorful thangkas strung in rows were hanging on the walls and fluttered gently on hidden currents of air, while the Wheel of Life thangka rippled as though it were actively revolving. The columns and beams were richly carved and painted in bright shades of red, accented with vibrant greens, blues and yellows. Offerings of millet, flowers and torma—conical dough cakes—were on one side while on the main altar sat the golden images of the Buddha Sakyamuni flanked by Avalokiteshvara, the Bodhisattva of Compassion and Maitreya, the future Buddha, rising above the abbot who sat on a bench at the foot of the altar.

Namaskar, Father Abbot. It is a great joy to see you again, Raj said, his eyes lighting up.

Namaste, Raj-ji. It does my heart good to see you. How long has it been? Fifteen years? You were but a tadpole when last I saw you. Now look at you, a man full-grown.

Much water has flowed down the Bagmati since last we met, Father Abbot. They both smiled, remembering old times when the abbot had served at Swayambhunath. He was older, of course, and the silver in his cropped hair glistened where it caught the light of the butter lamps, but the smile was the same, a smile that had warmed many hearts over the years.

The abbot’s smile faded as he covered Raj’s hand with his own. I was saddened to hear of the loss of your wife and daughter. May the Buddha bless them and grant them safe passage to their next life. Raj bowed his head and closed his eyes while the abbot intoned the blessing for the dead.

The abbot finished his blessing and sat back, his face composed. How are you otherwise, my son? You have not remarried?

Raj shook his head. No, Father Abbot, I… His voice failed momentarily and trailed off.

How thoughtless of me. I see that your heart is still filled with sorrow. The abbot motioned to one of the novices who stood in attendance. Let us have tea and speak of happier times.

Forgive me, Father Abbot, but could we speak instead of the reason for my visit? Commander Chandra indicated that it was a matter of much urgency.

The abbot nodded. Of course. You have ridden far and your orders have weighed upon you. What do you know of this mission that has brought you to Sing Gompa?

Very little, I’m afraid. Only that I was sent to secure an object that you hold at the monastery. The Commander was not specific as to its nature or why I was to retrieve it. Or why it required an escort of twenty men, Raj thought to himself.

What else did he tell you?

Raj paused to recall the conversation. He said it was a sensitive matter. And of utmost importance to the kingdom.

The abbot sighed and leaned back. To the kingdom… Yes, I suppose that would be his first priority. The abbot sent a wordless signal to the lama who was standing in the shadows. What you have been sent to recover is not an artifact per se. We believe it serves as a map of sorts, a map that could reveal the location of a sacred relic, a relic once held by the Buddha himself.

Raj’s eyes narrowed. You believe this map to be authentic? Raj searched the abbot’s face, looking for signs of confirmation. Can you show it to me?

The abbot hesitated and then leaned forward, having reached a decision. First allow me to tell you something of the history of this map and how it came to be here. Raj nodded his agreement with a slight twist of his head to the left and back. Better to have the full background.

What I’m about to tell you happened thirty years ago. I learned of these events from Brother Denpo who was at that time the oldest monk at Sing Gompa. He died six months ago and asked to see me before he left the body. I was expecting to hear the usual confession, but his story came as a complete surprise.

The abbot paused again, his face clouded briefly, and then the strength returned to his voice. "His story began on a cold day, cold even for late December. A heavy snow was falling. The monks were gathered in the Prayer Hall for evening worship. The Father Abbot who headed the gompa was leading the chanting. He was a stickler for ritual and tolerated no interruptions.

"It was during the evening service that the doors to the Prayer Hall burst open. The monks thought at first that it was a gust of wind, because the wind had howled all day as the storm approached from the north. But it wasn’t the wind that had flung open the doors. It was a monk with flakes of snow clinging to his hair. Brother Denpo said that he realized later that this monk wasn’t old, but he looked old, his face lined with fatigue. The monks were shocked at this intrusion and the chanting faltered.

"The monk looked at Father Abbot and… Father Abbot stopped worship. Just like that. Something he had never done before. He dismissed all the monks except for their healer, and had this unexpected visitor carried to his quarters. Father Abbot apparently spent much time with the monk, and the brothers assumed he was hearing his confession. The monk lingered for several days. For a while there was talk that he might recover.

But it was not to be. The monk died some time during the third night. Apparently there was fluid build up in his lungs. Since they could not spare the wood to cremate him, Father Abbot ordered the body sealed in a nearby cave. Father Abbot never mentioned the monk nor the purpose of his visit again. Time passed and the incident was forgotten.

But your Brother Denpo knew something more, Raj concluded.

The abbot nodded. It seems that the monk had brought something with him, something that has hung on the walls of this Prayer Hall for the past thirty years. He nodded to the lama who brought the object forward and laid it into the abbot’s outstretched hands.

Raj peered closer, puzzled. The light from the butter lamps created as many shadows as illumination. As the abbot carefully unrolled the object, Raj could see that it looked less like a map than…

The abbot noticed his puzzlement. Yes, your eyes do not deceive you. It is a thangka, beautifully rendered. Raj nodded, but said nothing. Father Abbot was like the Commander, the type of person who revealed more when asked less. At first glance, the thangka was typical of its kind, painted on fine cotton fabric and mounted on silk brocade. It was of a size that was portable and could easily be rolled up and carried from place to place unlike the huge thangkas, some the size of large buildings, which were brought out for display during high festivals.

There was an expectant pause, and then the abbot cleared his throat and continued. Brother Denpo said that this thangka was brought by the monk who arrived that night long ago. You see the Buddha here at the center? Raj nodded again and listened closely for this would be important. Do you recognize this Buddha?

Raj leaned in closer. He wished it were daylight. He shook his head. My eyes are not as sharp as when I was young.

The abbot smiled. Sharp eyes do not always see what lies before them. This image is of the Buddha to be, Maitreya.

Maitreya… Raj repeated, wondering where this road would lead.

We are told that Maitreya will be the fifth Buddha of this age and will appear in the world at a time when the Buddha’s teachings have been forgotten. His birth will signify the end of this present age and the beginning of a new world, a time when humans will live to be eighty-thousand years old and the world will be one. Maitreya will reintroduce the true dharma to mankind and has been prophesied to appear five thousand years after the death of Sakyamuni Buddha, the Buddha of our age.

Raj had waited for things to become clear, but they seemed cloudier than ever. What did a thangka and a future Buddha have to do with his mission? Raj wondered why the Commander would have chosen him to become involved in what appeared to be a theological concern. There was always talk of future Buddhas, and it wasn’t that uncommon for some poor unfortunate to descend upon Bhaktapur loudly proclaiming himself the long-awaited Maitreya.

A young novice approached with tea, bowing and offering a bowl to the abbot and then to Raj. It was butter tea and Raj savored the salty taste. In the valley, chiya was more common, similar to the chai masala of India. Raj had to admit that he preferred chiya, the black tea boiled with milk, heavily sugared and flavored with cardamom, ginger, and black pepper. But butter tea was a staple in the hills.

The abbot seemed content to sip his own tea, and the presence of Maitreya, who had filled the Prayer Hall only moments before, seemed to fade into the background. Raj waited quietly himself. There were subtleties at play, and the best he could do was to listen without interruption, or worse, interpretation.

The abbot looked up from his tea bowl and smiled again. Where was I? Ah, yes, Maitreya. Brother Denpo told me that this monk who stumbled into our gompa so long ago was possessed. Oh, he said seeing the look on Raj’s face, not by a demon or evil spirit. No, to my mind, by something worse. He was possessed by a belief. A belief that this world was altogether an evil place and that only in some future time, with the appearance of Maitreya, would the world be cleansed of evil. So he hid something, some powerful relic that awaits the return of Maitreya.

You said this monk who arrived was not old… Raj said and then stopped.

The abbot nodded. Young people so often see the world in simplistic terms: black and white, good and evil. The solution seems simple enough. Root out evil and good alone will survive. Good alone can flourish unimpeded. He smiled at Raj. You are a soldier. Are you not tasked to destroy the enemies of your king? Yet what happens if you do?

It seems that new enemies appear.

The abbot smiled. Yes, destroy one evil and a new one rears its head. It is a great temptation, this temptation to change the world, especially for the young. What did our Lord Buddha say?

The words seemed to spill out of Raj without thought. If you wish to change the world, begin with yourself.

Just as he did. Raj bowed to acknowledge the lesson. The abbot pointed to the image of Maitreya. Brother Denpo had been entrusted with this story by the former Father Abbot and passed on the particulars to me before he died. What I know is that in some manner this thangka points to the location where the monk has hidden the relic. I have spent months meditating on this thangka, hoping to understand its secrets.

Father Abbot, forgive me, you have mentioned an ancient relic, but what exactly is this relic?

The abbot took another sip of tea. It grows late, my son, and you must be weary from your journey. Perhaps we should postpone further explanations until morning, when we can examine the thangka by daylight.

Raj curbed his impatience. Father Abbot clearly knew more than he was saying, but the rest of the story would have to wait. Raj bowed low and the abbot set down his tea bowl. We are most grateful for your hospitality, Father Abbot.

Perhaps you will join us for worship in the morning.

I would be honored, Father Abbot. Namaskar.

Sleep well, Raj-ji, and if you have any need, please let the Rinpoche know. We will speak again of this matter shortly.

The lama escorted Raj to the courtyard where Raj had expected to hear the sounds of the diehard gamblers echoing in the night, but it seemed that the sergeant had put an end to the merriment and sent the men to their beds. It was just as well. Raj felt the tiredness in his bones. But he could not sleep without making rounds. He bid the lama good night and strolled to where the horses were picketed. They shifted and whinnied as he approached, stretching their necks so that he could rub their velvety noses as he moved among them, calming them with a word. He looked for the sentry, but did not see him. He was likely patrolling the perimeter. Raj considered adding a second man to sentry duty, but decided that they were safe enough. What enemy would expect to find them perched on this hillside at Sing Gompa?

Satisfied that all was secure, Raj strode toward his own quarters where he found that the sergeant had left a butter lamp burning on the table. He was tempted to undress and lie down on the mat, to close his eyes and let the responsibilities of the day drift away. Only there was the matter of the sealed orders, and he knew he could not rest until he examined them. Those orders had weighed on him since the start of the trip. It was the seal that bothered him. He recognized it as the seal belonging to Prince Rajkumar, cousin to the king. The orders carried the stink of political intrigue, not military expediency.

Raj had not risen to the rank of captain by questioning orders. In his fourteen years in the army, he had seen his share of battle. Even death. But when he broke the seal and read the orders, he felt a growing sense of disbelief turn into horror. He read the orders again, slowly this time:

You are ordered to secure an artifact from the Abbot of Sing Gompa. Once the artifact is safely in your possession, you are ordered to put to death every monk and any servants. Leave no survivors. Burn the monastery and drive off the livestock. If your soldiers question these orders, tell them the monks are agents of the Khasas who are planning an invasion. Return with the map as quickly as possible to Bhaktapur.

Raj’s tiredness evaporated in an instant. He thought back to his meeting with the Commander who had seemed distracted, not his usual self. Now Raj understood why and the burden the Commander had placed upon him. He must act, and act swiftly.

The thangka… That was the key that would unlock this mystery. He must speak to the abbot, and it could not wait until morning. He started for the door and paused, as a sudden realization arose. Perhaps there were other watchers in place. He might already be under observation. He blew out the butter lamp and waited quietly in the dark, listening to the night. The only sounds from the rooms were the steady breathing of the young soldiers, already asleep. There was a snort, and then the sound of the sergeant’s infamous snoring reached his ears. The men joked that if you didn’t get to sleep before the sergeant, you would pay the price of a sleepless night.

Raj went to the shuttered window, but there was nothing out of the ordinary. Quickly, but quietly, Raj slid along the wall to the door. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness and peered out, looking for signs of movement. Hopeful that it was clear, he kept the building between himself and the sentry on patrol as he circled back to the gompa. He was not certain where the abbot’s quarters were, but he would find them.

Keeping to the shadows, he slipped past the demon statues guarding the entrance to the main doors to the Prayer Hall, their ghastly faces lit by starlight. The doors were closed and would not budge, the locking bar having secured them from within. Raj turned right to circle to the back of the building when he came suddenly face to face with the lama who had materialized from the darkness. He swallowed his surprise as the lama held a finger to his lips and beckoned Raj to follow him.

Raj stayed close behind the lama, following in his footsteps to avoid any entanglements with obstacles hidden by the dark. They reached a door at the side of the Prayer Hall which opened at their approach. The interior was largely in shadows, but a few scattered butter lamps still burned at the altar. The abbot was sitting where Raj had left him earlier.

The abbot dispensed with the usual courtesies as Raj stood before him. You have read your sealed orders. It was not quite a question, but Raj nodded. By your presence I see that you do not intend to obey them. Raj nodded again. Sit, please sit. We have much to discuss. I have asked the Rinpoche to join us.

Raj moved to speak, but the abbot raised his hand. I know you have questions, but explanations must wait while we discuss what to do with the thangka. And what we are to do about your orders.

I would think the safety of your monks should be your first concern.

The abbot’s eyes flashed, visible even in the dim light of the butter lamps, but Raj did not flinch. It is not only the lives of my monks that weigh on me although I would not see any of them come to harm. It is the lives of all sentient beings that concern me should this thangka fall into the wrong hands.

What do you mean, Father Abbot?

The abbot took a calming breath before continuing. If this thangka were to come into the possession of certain individuals and used to locate the relic, it carries a potential that could lead to the deaths of thousands, if not tens of thousands.

Raj could only speculate as to that reason without knowing more about the relic, but the solution seemed simple enough. Then why not destroy the thangka? I could report that this was a misunderstanding. None of my men know of it.

The abbot shook his head. I have received instructions from the Abbot of Swayambhunath. The thangka must be safeguarded.

Why not conceal it? Surely you can find a safe place to hide it. If not here, at some other gompa.

The abbot shook his head again. That time has passed. Powerful men seek this thangka. Men with gold enough to seduce others to reveal its location. They will not stop looking and will spend whatever it takes. Including lives.

Father Abbot, how do you know this? Raj asked, alarmed by this revelation.

There was a ghost of a smile and the abbot moved on, beyond the question. Raj-ji, I must place a great burden upon you. I need you to take this thangka to our contact. You must meet him in three days time in Chisopani.

Father Abbot…

The abbot looked up to capture Raj’s eyes. I know, my son. I would not ask this of you if it were not of vital importance. And not just to the kingdom. The abbot looked around the Prayer Hall, his gaze lingering on the buddha images. This mission is vital to the future of Buddhism. The abbot caught himself and lowered his voice. I’m sorry, Raj-ji. I realize that what I ask carries the gravest consequences to you personally. If you disobey your orders, you will not be able to return to your old command. It will mean the end of the life you have known.

Raj felt like the ground beneath him had turned into quicksand, and he needed something to grab hold of before he was sucked under. Father Abbot… You speak of the future of Buddhism, an ancient relic, powerful men and the deaths of thousands; but all I see is an old thangka.

The abbot let out his breath slowly. Raj-ji, I must ask you to trust me. This is the only path open to you unless you wish to obey your orders and massacre every monk here.

For a heartbeat, Raj hesitated as that reality sunk in. Even if he returned the thangka to Bhaktapur, but failed to follow his orders to massacre the monks, he would have signed his own death warrant. Only to kill these innocents would leave a stain on his soul that could never be washed away. What had the Commander expected him to do he wondered? What of yourselves? What will you do?

We will play our part. When your sergeant wakes in the morning and summons the initiative to seek you out, we will tell him that you have been called away on an urgent matter, that you took your horse and returned to Bhaktapur by way of Dhunche.

My sergeant is an early riser.

I have no doubt, but tomorrow will be an exception. The food we prepared for your men was liberally dosed with the juice of the poppy. I suspect none of your men will wake until long after sunrise.

Father Abbot, if I deliver this thangka to your man in Chisopani, where shall I go afterward? What shall I do? As you have said, I cannot return to Bhaktapur.

The abbot gestured to the lama who turned and handed him a weighty sack that jingled as he placed it into Raj’s hands. The Abbot of Swayambhunath has seen to your needs. Once you have brought the thangka to our agent, you can take the trade route north to Tibet. Or south to India if you wish. With this money, you can start a new life.

Raj wondered what kind of life that would be. Yet what kind of life had he lived these past three years? He opened his mouth, prepared to argue anew, when he looked into the abbot’s eyes and the arguments seemed to die away. "You must know that other soldiers will return.