Seven
29 March, 2000, 60 miles West of Chamdo, Tibet
Logan kept his body perfectly still while his young pupil rolled his head from side to side, cracking his neck to get comfortable. Kilpatrick took a deep breath as the monks took up their chanting again. The note was pure yet rich. Took him, took his mind and lifted it, held it floating in the abyss. That great yawning abyss of loneliness and regret...
The young man sighed as he sat beside Logan, settling down into the meditation. He closed his eyes and listened to the man as he spoke, letting his mind go blank.
“There are three of you,” Logan was saying, looking at first at the young red haired man, then at the rock garden beyond, then closing his eyes altogether. “The world that is you and everything around you, this is sambhoga-kaya. It is the air, the water, the trees, the rocks and everyone you know of.” Logan paused for a moment to allowed the young man to take this in, letting the chant take him higher, letting his own sambhoga-kaya assert itself. Soon, the tricking of the fountain was heard, clearer and crisper than ever before. The beating of the wings of the bird in the tree were as loud as the thumping of his own heart. Logan took in a deep breath and continued.
“Yourself, the being that sits in this garden, that listens to my voice, that is everything defined by Oz, this is dharmakaya. It is your body, your blood, your thoughts and your mind.” The chant resonated through them both now.
Oz’s world spun in his mind through the grey mist of the void. He was shaky and uncertain, his center far from smooth and his being less than wheeling in harmony, but it was a start. “What is this mist I’m seeing?” He asked, his eyes closed, his voice serene.
“That is the sunyata” Logan replied without a beat of hesitation. “The emptiness that is outside of existence. The emptiness that permeates all things.” Logan opened one eye to glance at the young man. “Ignore it,” he advised.
“That which is deep inside you, the body of transformation, on the threshold of living and dying; this is nirmana-kaya.” Logan took in a deep breath. “To control you inner self, your self of transformation, you must all three be one.”
Oz took a deep breath and concentrated. He would do anything to control his ‘self of transformation.’ As his mind narrowed to exclude all in the world but his three selves, his kaya, the mist of the void in his mind dropped away. Slowly, like a curtain of rain, the haze of the sunyata trickled away, revealing the gently floating plane that was Oz.
Oz made a small sound like a gasp and Logan opened one eye again. “I see it,” the young man whispered. “I see... it.”
“Focus your mind,” Logan counseled, “stretch your being out into all corners of existence, all places, all times, all persons-” he drew in a deep breath through his nose, smelling the array of scents the garden had to offer. “Stretch out and take hold. This is your sambhoga-kaya. Do you see it?”
Oz’s breathing deepened. In his mind’s eye, his life began to cross before him, in no order, just places, things, people, events. “I see it,” he answered, breathing deeply. The people were talking, laughing, crying. The events were happening, loud and interrupting. Birds were chirping, babies were crying, wolves were howling. “It’s very loud,” he commented, his brow furrowing slightly.
“You have control,” Logan assured, “quiet the noise. Quiet the voices. Quiet the colors.”
Oz made a small nod and concentrated. Sure enough, the colors themselves seemed to quiet down as he ordered them. The sound of the sambhoga-kaya had lessened, significantly.
Logan nodded, satisfied with Oz’s expression. “Good. Very good. Now you will take this self, take all that is before you and-”
The monk’s hand came down on his shoulder. This time is was no mere monk. He wore not the red robe and head crest of the lamasery, but the simple brown of the Order of Dagon. The monk leaned in very close to Logan’s ear before speaking. “The Council is recessed. Haargan has requested you.”
Logan licked his lips, then found his jaw tight with anticipation. “Let us,” he began, addressing his pupil as the monk left, “let’s call it a day,” he suggested. “You’re doing very well. Tomorrow we will focus on bringing your kaya together, unifying them and extending your control of one to the others.” He stood from the small patch of grass and Oz did likewise.
“Thank you, Master Loki,” Oz made a small bow and arranged his own robes as Logan did, so as not to trip over them.
“No thanks are needed,” Logan smiled. “Instructing meditation is as relaxing and enlightening as practicing it myself. And don’t worry,” he added, placing a supportive hand on the young man’s shoulder. “All processes of the body and soul can be controlled. Mastery of them is limited only by the depth into ourselves which we are willing to gaze.”
When Oz nodded, Logan returned with a bow and strode away to the Council’s meeting chamber. Logan, himself was not invited to the meetings of the Order of Dagon, but he was usually one of the first outside the Order to be informed of their decisions.
He strode now to the very depths of the lamasery, around a descending spiral staircase into the belly of the mountain. The only light was the torch he now carried and the ever fading glow of sunlight behind and above. Soon, however, he emerged into the hall leading to the council chamber. The hall was lit with many torches and there were many candles set upon tables around which stood many monks, all in brown attire. They whispered in quiet tones, becoming quieter as the conjurer passed. They did not try hard to conceal their looks of suspicion and ridicule for this mere wizard.
Logan ignored them, feeling much the same for each of them. They dedicated their lives, their work, not to any goal, not to any purpose, but to a simple thing: to keep what was already theirs and to keep it from him.
Logan pushed open the two wooden doors and strode into the council chamber. He turned and closed the doors behind him. With a bow before the only monk who still sat at the great circular table, Logan spoke in reverence. “Master Haargan,” he said.
Haargan was scribbling with a quill pen at something on the table, quite ignoring the conjurer who stood across the table from him. For several minutes he scribbled away, certain that Logan would not leave before he was dismissed.
Logan’s eyes shifted in uncertainty. He knew he was not well liked in this corner of the monastery, this corner that he coveted more than any other, but he was willing to put up with disrespect because of the opportunity presented. Logan made a polite cough. For several more minutes, however, there was no indication that the monk was aware of his presence.
Finally, without hesitating in his scribbling, Haargan cleared his old throat. “What do you think of us, Logan?” He asked, raising a bushy white eyebrow, though never looking up.
“You are a relic,” he replied, bluntly, “you and your dusty monks are archaic holdovers from a long dead empire. Your faith has been corrupted and your creed is a sham.”
Haargan was smiling, wide and full. “Finally some honesty,” he laughed. “Try getting that from my ‘dusty monks.’ They tell me exactly what I want to hear,” he coughed loudly, bringing his quill away from the page, “most of the time,” he added, sadly.
With a deep, rasping breath, he stood, walking uneasily around the large table in the torchlight to sit on a stool nearer to where Logan now stood. “Something has come, my friend,” he said, the smile gone from his eyes.
“Uh oh,” Logan picked up some trace of sarcasm, “I’m only ‘your friend’ when your cult is in danger. What is it now? Is it the Gentlemen? It’s not the Gentlemen again is it?” He was shaking his head with a trace of a sardonic smile.
“It is a beast,” Haargan was saying. There was no trace of amusement in his voice. But then again; there never was when he was recounting some new menace. What he said next brought all trace of smile from Logan’s face. “It has been forced from its own dimension. It wishes to return.”
Logan slowly looked up to the frowning monk. “What type of creature is this beast?” He asked evenly. If it had come for the Key, then he would do anything in his considerable power to hinder it, or destroy it.
“I know what thoughts are in your head, Logan. Or is it Loki now?” Logan swallowed. The monk continued. “This time, we cannot fight it. It is beyond all powers of this good earth.” He slowly rose, as if the mention of it was to be done with reverence. “It is a hell god.”
“It knows of us?” The conjurer asked, slowly clasping his hands behind his back. Without waiting for a response he continued. “It will come here soon, looking for it.”
Haargan turned, his robes sweeping across the smooth stone floor, making the torches sputter as he passed, returning to his spot at the table. “That is why we must hide it. Remove it from this place and conceal it as far away as possible.”
Logan frowned, scratching his eyebrow with his finger. “It’s... not exactly inconspicuous. How do you intend for it to be concealed?”
Haargan cocked his head, pausing in his perusal of the documents on the table. “You don’t know of it then? Of its origins on this good earth-” he sighed, deeply. “No, I suppose my monks have been doing a fine job keeping it from you.” He let the papers fall back to the table and slowly sat, inviting the conjurer to sit as well.
“I invite you, then, to listen. The year of our Lord eleven seventy three; the Turkish princes are waging constant war against Christendom in the near East and the declining Byzantine Empire...
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