Scene-53

In this scene theTark calls upon his shaman Jambala to enact a curse ritual against Rana Tenpai. This ritual stands in stark contrast to the Tantric rite of initiation experienced by Nala later in the scene. - JS

Whisper of Night

The man moved quietly in the dark, a shadow against the night as he made his way to the rear entrance of the Tark’s hold in Charchan. He approached the doorway, his dark robes gathered close about him; his face shrouded by a conical hood. The guard at the doorway seemed to shrink back a bit as the figure approached, his eyes betraying an inner fear, hands unsteady on the shaft of a long spear. Still, he forced himself to speak, calling a hoarse challenge that was barely a whisper.

“Who comes to the hold of the Tebu Tark?”

The spectral figure drew near, his footsteps slow and deliberate, and the guard saw that he carried a long bundle wrapped in woven hemp and bound with twine. The cold of the night seemed to redouble itself as the shape approached, and the guard fought to repress an involuntary shiver. Then a thin, scratchy voice emanated from the dark figure as he gave answer.

“I am Jambala, summoned here by the First One of the Tebu Clan. Is this the way?”

The guard strained to see the man’s face, but it remained masked in shadow. He stood head and shoulders above the man, but still cowered before the visitor, shirking off to one side and pointing out the way to the door. The figure advanced to the open portal. As he slid inside the guard turned his head away from the man, eyes averted, as if he wished to hide his face.

The gray room within was empty and cold, lit only by a single torch on the far wall. The light from the torch fell on the hulking shape of the Tark where he sat cross legged before a freshly dug fire pit. The pit was piled with half burned wood branches, black with char and dappled with fresh, wet oil from the fat of a butchered animal. The earth removed from the floor to create the pit had been piled to one side, shaped into a small mound, and crowned by a flat stone. The Tark’s body was framed by the torchlight behind him, a murky silhouette, which was approached by the shadowy figure of Jambala when he entered the room. As the shaman drew close and seated himself before the makeshift altar, it seemed a joining of two kindred souls in the thick stillness of the room, a shadow coming into darkness and finding welcome there.

“My lord Tark,” the shaman spoke, his head inclined in the barest greeting of a bow.

“You are come, Jambala,” said the Tark. “Do you bring the gift I asked of you?”

“It is here, lord Tark.” The shaman extended the twine bound bundle, laying it upon the flat stone of the altar. Bony hands emerged from the drooping sleeves of his robe and knotted fingers twisted and tugged at the cords, until they gave way and the brown woven hemp was carefully laid open to reveal yet another bundle. It was wrapped in white scarves that concealed a long twisted shape—But the shaman did not loosen them yet. He let the parcel lie, noting how the Tark’s eyes caught the red and yellow of the torchlight when he leaned close to look at it.

“Patience, my lord Tark. Have you a bone for me?”

“There, in the fire beneath the wood.” The Tark pointed a thick hand at the fire pit. “Shall we light the flame?”

The shaman bent over the pit, striking a flint on one of the rocks that formed its outermost circle. Bright sparks flashed in the dark and the oiled wood ignited in a small flame that soon spread over the thin branches and blazed up, filling the room with yellow light. The two men stared at the flames, transfixed by the subtle movement of the light. The wood was quickly consumed and the fire settled down around the blackened shape of a bone that had been placed in the center of the pit.

“It is human,” the shaman breathed. “This is a death watch then?” A gaunt hand gestured at the shoulder blade where the flames began to lick at its edges now, and the bone began to yellow under the assault.

“A curse,” said the Tark. “I wish a curse.”

“A curse? Then you have brought me effects?”

“Only this,” said the Tark, extending a small bag and letting it settle into the shaman’s hand as the man reached past the low flames to receive it. The shaman squeezed at the bag, exploring with gnarled fingers to discover what it might be.

“Ah yes,” he whispered. “Earth from the place where the victim has late set foot. It is enough. Have you written the words of the binding?”

The Tark hesitated, then drew out two wood slips from the many he would receive from the daily messages that Mémo would read to him. He had scored the slips with the edge of a knife, scraping away the letters that had been drawn there to create a new space for writing. “I am not one for words,” he said. “My hand is unsteady. You write.” He extended the wood slips, a silent offering to the shaman.

“If another’s hand fashions the words, then it must be by the blood of the seeker.” The shaman took the woods and laid them on the slab of stone next to the bundle.

“Then receive the blood of the seeker,” said the Tark. A knife gleamed suddenly in his right hand. He clasped the sharp edge of the blade with the flat of his left palm and cut himself. Thick droplets of dark blood spattered down onto the stone next to the wood slips.

“So be it.” The shaman took a small twig from the edge of the fire pit and dipped the thin tip into the Tark’s blood. His skeletal hands grasped at the woods, and he began to write, tracing strange markings as the Tark looked on. The big man’s breath was heavy as he watched the shaman write, his eyes held fast by the subtle characters traced out in his blood on the wood.

“What does it say?” The Tark leaned close, beguiled by the cursive figures the shaman was writing on the woods.

“The chains of the curse are scored in these signs,” said Jambala. “The body be cut…” He read each line as he wrote now. “The heart be cut…The life be cut…The power be cut. Such is the power of the curse on this man.”

When Jambala finished he set the woods aside, noting how the Tark licked at his bloodied hand, oblivious to the pain he must have felt as he waited patiently for the shaman to proceed with the ritual of the curse. Jambala did not disappoint. He had come well prepared for this meeting. This was not the first time that he had visited the Tark in the night. Though he seldom walked openly among the Tebu clansmen, Jambala was never far from the Tark. He was always ready to answer the call for interpretation of signs and oracles, and the making of black magic to further the desires of his master’s heart. He reached into his dark robes and produced a horn of a yak. He opened the bag that the Tark had given him, and carefully poured the loamy earth into the hollowed horn. Then he reached in his pocket and drew out the shriveled remains of a human scalp, which he stuffed in after the dirt to form a stopper. He held the talisman before him now and spoke strange words in a low voice, chanting while the Tark looked on with rapt attention.

“The chain is forged,” he whispered to the Tark. “Take this horn and the two wood slips. Bury them somewhere in the camp of the one you would bind. The closer the better. Only thus will the power creep upon your enemy to entangle him.”

The Tark reached out and received the horn with an eager look on his face. He made a thankful bow, tucking the horn away in a pocket of his iron-riveted coat. “And what of the burning shoulder? Can you read the tale of the bone?”

The shaman leaned and peered down at the fire pit, though the Tark could not see the other man’s face beneath the shelter of his hood. He took up a stick in his withered hand and poked at the flames, prodding the singed shoulder blade as if testing it for some sign of readiness. The fire had yellowed and cracked the bone, and it was these lines that he now stooped to regard.

“What do you ask of the bone this night?” His voice was a whisper.

“If a man has been slandered, is it not his right to seek vengeance?”

“That is the way of things,” said Jambala. “The bone does not protest.”

“Does a man have the right, even if his enemy speaks words of another—acts as another commands?”

Jambala studied the shoulder blade for a long while before he spoke. “If such an act gives slander, then it may yet be avenged. Yet you must be wise in this, and cautious. See how the bone is split?” His wrinkled finger pointed at the fire pit. “Your enemy may be felled,” he breathed. “But not by your hand, lord Tark. He must be stricken by the hand of another. Such is the tale of the bone.”

“Another?” The Tark’s eyes seemed to search the fire pit for the unseen answers, but he was blind to them. Only Jambala could see the subtle weaving of destiny in the cracks of the bone.

“Have no fear in this omen,” said Jambala. “I will speak this secret to the desert hawks and the ravens of the night. They will carry the message away with them and whisper it to the sky. Omens and signs will appear to the one who must do this thing. It is given only to you to deliver the horn of the yak, and bury the message of the woods. Then let patience guide you. In time your curse will be heard. This is the way of it.” Jambala waved his hands over the flames of the pit in a air of finality. He gestured to the altar slab where the bundle still lay wrapped in the silken scarves.

“This is a gift,” he said pulling the scarves aside to reveal the twisted metal blade of a sword. It was bent into curled spirals, and caught the firelight with strange effect as Jambala laid it bare. “This is Rudoje m’dud pa, the knotted bolt of thunder. Take it as a talisman. It is very powerful! It was once struck through the chest of a mighty shaman, much greater than I. His will is upon it, and it guards you against the evil intentions of your enemies. You must never be without it while you wait out the making of this curse. Keep it close by your side when you sleep, or hang it fast above the door to your room or tent. So will you be guarded.”

“My thanks to you, Jambala.” The Tark eyed the twisted blade with elation. “Tell me, how I may reward you for these services?”

“I am old,” said Jambala, considering thoughtfully. “Yet not so old as some might think. Still, the night is cold where I lay at the edge of the desert, not far from this place. Hunger plagues me.”

“I will give orders,” said the Tark. “My men will bring you fresh roast mutton, and one to warm your tired bones tonight. Linger by this doorway. You may lead them to the place where you sleep. She will be young, and stilled with chang. You will be richly rewarded, I assure you.”

“Gracious thanks, lord Tark. Even the old will remember the days of their youth in such a gift. I will receive your offering at the time of the third watch. Now we must chant.”

The shaman began, in a thin voice that was soon joined by the Tark as the two shadows whispered a dark mantra in the night. The shoulder blade cracked and withered in the pit, and the room was filled with the smell of burning bone and wood.

___

Far to the north the light of many torches illuminated a wide chamber carved in heart of a mountain. It was the sublime center of a network of holy caves that had been hollowed in the hard, red stone on the slopes of the Tien Shan, the ‘celestial mountains’ north of the Taklamakan. For ages past this place had been known as one of great power. It was here that the pure cold waters of the Malgus River wound down from the heavenly heights above and reached to the lands of common men, offering a bounty of life. It was here that the heart of the mountain was turned outward, and the stones of the earth itself were tinted red as though infused with the blood of the gods. It was here that a Master had come of old to read the signs on the land and complete the first great circumambulation of the place, actuating and opening its virtue to men, sanctifying and separating it forever from the profane landscape around it. It was now the nechen, a place of power. Over the years since the coming of the Master, monks and devotees had ably quarried the rock and stone, delving into the mountain as if to seek out its vital center.

The walls and ceiling of this centermost chamber were emblazoned with ornate figures of holy devas, Buddhas and bodhisattvas with oval faces, the clinging drapery of their gowns colored with the pale green of lapis lazuli. The hems of their garments were traced in ochre and vermilion red, and they were circled by images of flying figures, aspara spirits bearing garlands of silky flowers. The image of Hariti, the goddess of fecundity was attended by five such figures, her face a picture of mingled sadness and sweet regard, eyes heavy, as though lured by sleep and dreams. In one hand she held a lotus flower with a flaming jewel at its heart. In another she gestured at an image of the sun, embraced by the sliver of a sickle moon. An image of Vajira thunderbolts were drawn nearby, a symbol of some great awakening power that she called upon and wielded with sure handed grace.

The chamber was wide and high, and now its walls reverberated with a chorus of wondrous sound; rich, low tones emanating from long qamo horns and harmonized with the sonorous chants of many monks. Their deep voices pulsated in tune with the horns, timed out by the holy rhythm of damalu drums and the occasional clap of curious wooden fish that some monks held in either hand. They were a sign to the monks from the creature who never closed its eyes while sleeping, a reminder that they should maintain a constant vigil of awareness as they chanted. The monks sat in a wide circle about one wall of the rounded chamber, their robes of flowing burgundy and ochre draped gracefully from one shoulder. The smooth bareness of their heads caught and reflected the light of many torches, as though they were each crowned by the sacred fire of some inner enlightenment.

On the far wall of the chamber seven women, all anointed courtesans, swayed and danced to the rhythm of the chant. They were the embodiment of the ‘Dakini Sky Dancers,’ the guardians of the light and bringers of magic and realization. At the feet of each woman was a silver coated bowl shaped in the fashion of an upturned human skull. Each bowl was filled with an offering.

The first held pure water, set there so that the Buddha might have no thirst in this place if he should come. The second held water and scented oils for the washing of his hands and feet. The third was dappled with garlands of flowers to adorn his head and hair. The fourth held sweet incense, burning softly and filling the chamber with the fragrant scent of perfumed Sang, and juniper twigs. The fifth held a butter lamp that the Buddha might easily find his way here. The sixth held sweet nectar, and the seventh was an offering of wholesome food. It was hoped that these gifts would be received and returned in kind by the grace of his enlightenment. The Buddha’s blessings would be dispensed through the wisdom of the great Yogi Master who sat in the center of the room on a golden stool.

The Master was draped in robes of white silk and a necklace of blue sapphire hung about his neck beneath the silver gray of his flowing beard. Both hands were clasped at the front of his breast, the tips of his index finger and thumbs gracefully touching one another in the mudra sign of the Dharmacakra, the gesture of teaching. He was the seventh Master to take up residence in this holy place, and it was through his holy personage that the true power of the nechan site was manifest and brought into focus. But even the Master seemed to sit in awe and reverence before the last and most central figure occupying that room.

She sat on a gilded cushion, her body cloaked in a sheer, silken gown of pale green. The dark oiled braids of her hair were adorned with pink blossoms of flowers, and a circlet of pearls lay upon her head, crested with a fiery diamond. Jeweled earrings inset with dazzling gems sparkled in the torchlight. A silver necklace with a talisman of a slender crescent moon surrounded her neck. But of all these ornaments, none shone brighter that the effulgent blue of her eyes, and the pure stone of sapphire that sat like a glittering third eye upon her forehead. She was a goddess incarnate, chosen from among all others who had come to this place for the lotus feast, endowed with the most sacred of missions. For she was to be the spiritual consort of the Master himself, and the union forged between them would open a vast and mysterious gateway to enlightenment and nirvana. Such was the belief of all those who looked upon her now with reverence and holy worship.

The chanting monks droned on, completing the tale of a thousand mantras until their voices softened and faded into stillness. Silence enfolded the room when three monks emerged from a low arch in the wall. The Dakini Sky Dancers fell into prostration, their bodies stretched out on the tiled floor, all pointing inward to the place where the chosen one sat upon the high cushion. Each monk held a long knife, clasped hard with both hands and extended out before them in a pose of readiness. These were the Dharma Protectors, the earthly guardians charged with the safe keeping of the chosen one. They had sought far, over vast empty tracts of the desert to find her, and pluck her from the ocean of sand to fulfill the destiny that had been prepared for her. She had been rescued from the demons of the desert that sought her life and the unworthy who dared to impede her had been punished with death. She had been brought to this place in great secrecy, one of many who traveled here on the last year in a cycle of seven—the time of the Lotus Festival, when it was told that a great enlightenment would be revealed to the world of men. It was a time when a sacred quest would be undertaken so that all future generations might benefit from the grace and power of the Buddha’s wisdom.

The three monks approached, their eyes fixed fast upon the blades of their swords. One stood behind the woman in satiny white, and one to each side, heads lowered with reverence. Then the Yogi Master opened his right hand in a subtle movement to extend the palm outward toward the woman, the varada mudra, a sign of a compassion as a gift bestowed upon the one before him. As if in answer, the woman pressed her palms together, pointed upwards in the gesture of willful prayer. The Yogi Master spoke, his mellow voice the only sound in the hushed stillness of the room.

“Not to all or to any should this hymn be revealed,” he began. “For if it were made known to one who is unworthy, great ill would befall this world. Therefore it must be carefully concealed, guarded, as you would guard the innermost flower of your body—For is not this body a great delight?”

Nala sat upon the high cushion, her eyes alight as though bathed in moonlight and her soft voice speaking in answer. She had learned the words over many long nights, for they had been whispered to her by her guardian teachers, one after another, until they had become an inner reflex, an echo in reply to the voice of the Master.

“I have visited in my wanderings many shrines and places of holy pilgrimage, but I have not seen any so blissful as my own body.”

“Therefore eat, and drink,” the Master returned. “Indulge yourself in the play of the senses and receive these gifts of food and drink.”

At these words the two monks flanking Nala’s place rose to take up the bowls containing nectar and food offerings. They returned, gliding to her side again and kneeling as they extended the bowls in offering. Nala’s hands parted. She reached out to take a sliver of the sweet, spicy meat in her fingertips, raising it to her lips to eat. Then she took the bowl of nectar in both hands while the Master spoke.

“Even as water entering water has the same savor, take now the holy mead and sweeten it further by entering your body. In this way know that fault and virtue are mingled as one, accounted the same, and that there will be no opposition between them.”

Nala raised the bowl and drank the sweet liquid, hot and energizing on her palate, warming her with a giddy fire that soon rose to her head. The effect of the brew was almost instantaneous. Her senses keened up and yet seemed strangely muted at the same time, like fire within ice. The voice of the Master wrapped itself about her now, resonant and comforting in its tone.

“Enjoying the world of the senses, one is undefiled by them. One plucks the jewel from the heart of the lotus flower, but is not beguiled by it. So the Yogi who has gone to the root of things is not enslaved by the senses, though he may enjoy them. For in this joining there will neither be passion nor absence of passion.”

Nala heard her quiet voice whisper in answer, though she could not discern the will that directed the voice. She seemed to listen to herself as she spoke, as one might hear the disembodied voice of a spirit. “Seated here before you, my mind is thrown down, and made nothing as my body waits in readiness.”

“And now,” said the Master. “That blissful delight of lotus and vajra, who does not rejoice in this?”

“It is profound and vast,” Nala heard her voice answer in return.

“But it is neither self, nor other,” said the Master. “It is a moon that makes light within the black of darkness—But nothing more. Yet, in one brief moment, an awareness of supreme bliss comes that will banish all defilement.”

“When the sun of suffering has fled, only then this bliss arises, this lord of stars.” Nala extended her arms, arching them upward in a graceful movement, her head thrown back as though she sought to gaze at some hidden vision of the moon. The silver crescent gleamed at her neck, and the tips of her breasts pressed taut against the gossamer fabric of her gown as she moved.

“In this joining one may become purified,” said the Master. “For here lies the final perfection, the means by which heaven may be attained, compelling, irresistible, enveloping bliss.”

“Essence of passion, supremely compassionate,” Nala’s voice was a song.

“Oh lady of great treasure. Oh lovely giver of happiness, eyes bright with charm. Oh Mother ruling all, lay yourself bare to one now gazing, slowly gazing with turned down eyes.”

The monks at Nala’s side reached out and loosened the brooch that held her radiant gown, and the garment slid from her body until she sat naked before them, adorned only by jeweled bracelets at her wrists and ankles. The cool smoky airs of the chamber caressed her, though she was warmed by an inner glow.

“Nyasa,” the Master spoke a single word, an invocation to begin the ritual touching of the body. Nala’s hands moved in answer, gently falling to rest upon her knees and then caressing the smooth perfect contours of her thighs, upward and inward in a graceful movement. A chorus of chanting began once more as the monks intoned the sounds that would correspond to each vital center of her body, the sacred chakras. The first notes were pitched low, but as her hands swept lightly over the cleft of her womanhood, and up over the gentle curve of her belly, the sound rose higher, vibrating up in time with her movement. As her hands passed the heart, the fingertips turned upwards, and she caressed her full, brown breasts, lingering for a moment before reaching her throat—and the chant climbed ever higher. At last her hands moved to cup her face for a brief instant, then spiraled up to meet in a gesture of prayer at the crown of her head, elbows pointing outwards.

“Look now upon the beauty of the Tantra.” The chanting faded into silence as the Master spoke again. “Look, but desire it not, for to find the jewel that lies hidden within the lotus flower, one must be free of every germ of desire whatsoever. Therefore, turn your heads away from the vision of beauty now. Retire to the discipline of sadanah.”

A single cymbal clash reverberated through the room. As if on cue the seven dancers rose, and slipped silently through the low arch in the far wall. The three monks at Nala’s side bowed low, and slowly withdrew. Then, one by one, each monk in the chorus rose in silence and began to circle the walls of the room, until they filed away in a long line, vanishing into the passageways beyond.

Nala sat in the stillness, arms still poised above the crown of her head, her naked body, slender and graceful, glowing in the amber torchlight. When the last whispering sounds of the others had faded into silence, the Master spoke again, alone with Nala in the sacred solitude of that holy place of power.

“Nala of the bliss of Yoni and Linga.” His voice chanted in song. “Lovely Nala, beautiful Nala, giver of pleasure, giver of fortune, sweet with nectar, charming limbs opened wide. Reveal now the lotus throne of pure pleasure and delight.”

The words circled Nala like caressing hands, gentle yet commanding; compelling her with their power. Her hands parted and dropped slowly to her sides, resting on either side of the cushion as she gracefully lowered herself, arching backwards until her bejeweled head rested on another smaller pillow behind her. She had been sitting cross legged on the cushion, and now her knees pointed outward, revealing her womanhood to the eyes of the Master. Her arms moved again reaching back above her head to adopt the mudra gesture of willful prayer. She waited, naked and open now to the man who sat before her. Her voice began to speak, as though drawn from her without her knowing it. She listened to herself through the subtle fog of her senses, eyes closed at the edge of a dream.

“Buddha Hero of Pure Pleasure, do as you will…Guru and Lord of Pure Pleasure, with true energy and joy, I implore you…Thrust yourself upon the mandala of my innermost self…And I will guard the secret of the method with my life…”

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