home.”
“No!” her
daughter screamed. “Home!”
She pointed
at the slate. Kate saw high mountains, capped with snow.
“Oh my God,”
she murmured.
“Home. . . .”
PART TWO: RAINBOW TARA
(a.d. 2158 )
4. Memories of a Thousand Hands
At midnight
they crossed from Mustang into the Tibetan Autonomous Region, flying down from
a tongue of the Nepalese Himalayas that protruded into Chinese territory like
an insult. The CIA jet was supposed to be transparent to Chinese surveillance
equipment, but Marianne Strauss couldn’t quite believe that. She felt anything
but invisible, floating there in the darkness above snowcapped peaks. Spy
satellites were said to outnumber the visible stars. Even Jetsun Dorje, the
guerrilla pilot, had hinted that detection was only a matter of time. If they
stayed in the T.A.R. long enough, it became a certainty.
“Like Br’er
Rabbit, we could be stuck in TAR ,” he had said
with a chuckle. “You like puns?”
“Not much.”
Now he
watched his flight board with complete concentration. The topology of the land
below appeared in three dimensions on his screen: rugged mountains were
sketched in thin green lines, settlements crossed the panel in the form of hot
red clusters. Peering over his shoulder, she watched the fragile green
mountains closing in like lace curtains as he guided the plane through a narrow
pass. He did it with the calmness of a computer operator, as if the lovely
green lines had no reality beyond what appeared on the screen. She had to
remind herself that the images represented tangible objects, walls of solid
rock, any one of which would have erased them had Jetsun flown into it. But he
was an excellent pilot and he was at ease in the terrain. Tibet, although he
had never lived here, was his home.
“Marianne,”
said a voice from the cabin behind her. “Why don’t you come sit down?”
“Listen to
Dr. Norbu,” Jetsun said without looking up from his board. “Between Zhongba and
Paryang there is plenty of traffic. Don’t make me any more nervous than I am
already.”
“Sorry.” She
pulled out of the cockpit and resumed her seat next to Dr. Norbu. “It’s those
pills I took in Jomsom. I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep for days.”
“There is no
time for sleep.”
“We have a
few hours now, don’t we?”
“Look out
the window, Marianne. That is Tibet below. You’ve done what Tashi never
managed.”
“So I can
die happy now and let my next incarnation take over from here.”
“It wouldn’t
be that simple with the nearest Bardo device in Dharamsala. By the time you
were old enough to continue the work, everything would have changed yet again.
There might be nothing left worth the effort—nothing but the struggle itself,
and the suffering. Now is the time, Marianne. Now is the best time to do all we
can.”
She reached
over and squeezed his hand; it felt frail to her, and his skin was always cold.
There was gray in his hair these days. He was her oldest friend, the friend of
two lifetimes.
“I’ve lived
for this chance, Reting, you know that.”
He nodded
with a melancholy smile. “Lived more than once.”
“I’ve fought
death and ignorance and governments. Not to mention my mother.”
“She was the
hardest.”
She smiled.
“I’ve gone through a lot to get here. I’m not going to give up an inch of what
I’ve gained.”
“Tibet is
fortunate to have you.”
She looked
out her window, down at the dark land, and shook her head. “It has been so
unfortunate, Reting. I love this land with all my heart. I would give anything
to see it liberated.”
“You sound
like a Tibetan,” called Jetsun Dorje from the cockpit.
She was
silent a moment, watching the lights of a town far away to the west. Finally
she said, “That I am.”
***
Two hours later,
the first mandala appeared. They passed to the east of it, giving Marianne a
perfect view.
It was a
wheel of five-colored light burning on the plain, composed of
“No!” her
daughter screamed. “Home!”
She pointed
at the slate. Kate saw high mountains, capped with snow.
“Oh my God,”
she murmured.
“Home. . . .”
PART TWO: RAINBOW TARA
(a.d. 2158 )
4. Memories of a Thousand Hands
At midnight
they crossed from Mustang into the Tibetan Autonomous Region, flying down from
a tongue of the Nepalese Himalayas that protruded into Chinese territory like
an insult. The CIA jet was supposed to be transparent to Chinese surveillance
equipment, but Marianne Strauss couldn’t quite believe that. She felt anything
but invisible, floating there in the darkness above snowcapped peaks. Spy
satellites were said to outnumber the visible stars. Even Jetsun Dorje, the
guerrilla pilot, had hinted that detection was only a matter of time. If they
stayed in the T.A.R. long enough, it became a certainty.
“Like Br’er
Rabbit, we could be stuck in TAR ,” he had said
with a chuckle. “You like puns?”
“Not much.”
Now he
watched his flight board with complete concentration. The topology of the land
below appeared in three dimensions on his screen: rugged mountains were
sketched in thin green lines, settlements crossed the panel in the form of hot
red clusters. Peering over his shoulder, she watched the fragile green
mountains closing in like lace curtains as he guided the plane through a narrow
pass. He did it with the calmness of a computer operator, as if the lovely
green lines had no reality beyond what appeared on the screen. She had to
remind herself that the images represented tangible objects, walls of solid
rock, any one of which would have erased them had Jetsun flown into it. But he
was an excellent pilot and he was at ease in the terrain. Tibet, although he
had never lived here, was his home.
“Marianne,”
said a voice from the cabin behind her. “Why don’t you come sit down?”
“Listen to
Dr. Norbu,” Jetsun said without looking up from his board. “Between Zhongba and
Paryang there is plenty of traffic. Don’t make me any more nervous than I am
already.”
“Sorry.” She
pulled out of the cockpit and resumed her seat next to Dr. Norbu. “It’s those
pills I took in Jomsom. I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep for days.”
“There is no
time for sleep.”
“We have a
few hours now, don’t we?”
“Look out
the window, Marianne. That is Tibet below. You’ve done what Tashi never
managed.”
“So I can
die happy now and let my next incarnation take over from here.”
“It wouldn’t
be that simple with the nearest Bardo device in Dharamsala. By the time you
were old enough to continue the work, everything would have changed yet again.
There might be nothing left worth the effort—nothing but the struggle itself,
and the suffering. Now is the time, Marianne. Now is the best time to do all we
can.”
She reached
over and squeezed his hand; it felt frail to her, and his skin was always cold.
There was gray in his hair these days. He was her oldest friend, the friend of
two lifetimes.
“I’ve lived
for this chance, Reting, you know that.”
He nodded
with a melancholy smile. “Lived more than once.”
“I’ve fought
death and ignorance and governments. Not to mention my mother.”
“She was the
hardest.”
She smiled.
“I’ve gone through a lot to get here. I’m not going to give up an inch of what
I’ve gained.”
“Tibet is
fortunate to have you.”
She looked
out her window, down at the dark land, and shook her head. “It has been so
unfortunate, Reting. I love this land with all my heart. I would give anything
to see it liberated.”
“You sound
like a Tibetan,” called Jetsun Dorje from the cockpit.
She was
silent a moment, watching the lights of a town far away to the west. Finally
she said, “That I am.”
***
Two hours later,
the first mandala appeared. They passed to the east of it, giving Marianne a
perfect view.
It was a
wheel of five-colored light burning on the plain, composed of
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