Thirty Two
8 November, 2001, 60 miles West of Chamdo, Tibet
Oz’s fist struck it with a deep thunk. He and Jade had been here for nearly a month. He had expected to see results by now. He had been hoping to be there, with her, while she meditated. He was now no novice when it came to self control. But Loki had kept her all to himself.
Thunk, thunk, the tall cylender swayed gently as Oz struck it repeatedly. It was a simple exercise: get the bag to the other end of the room. The bag was cylindrical –perhaps five feet from top to bottom– open at the top and filled to the brim with dried rice. It hung from three chains which linked and attached to a track on the ceiling. The bag moved ever so slightly as Oz’s fists pummeled it. The room was fifty two feet long and the exercise demanded not one grain of rice be spilled from the bag. Oz was still five feet from the door.
Thunk, thunk... thunk. Sweat beaded on Oz’s forehead, his breath was harsh and deep. He loved Jade. He was sure of it. Not like he had loved Willow — he was sure of that too. It was a different love. No less passionate, no less intense. He knew Jade loved him too. Thunk, he knew it. But he had been prevented from seeing her while she was on this quest of hers. Thunk. Oz recalled the way Loki had been looking at her. Thunk! Maybe coming here had been a bad idea.
In Oz’s mind –the small part which always pictured the worst– he saw her sitting in the garden, on the cobbles; the same garden in which Oz had learned to control the wolf in him, but she was not controlling. She was being controlled— Thunk! Oz closed his eyes as rice rained down from above.
9 November, 2001, Tsingy; 150 miles West of Antananarivo, Madagascar
“Where are we now?” Jade asked, her eyes still closed. There was a cool breeze caressing her face.
“Not in Kansas anymore,” Loki replied. He stood behind her, his feet planted on two parallel crests of rock, as were hers, about a meter apart. His hands clasped her thin waist to keep her from falling. “You can open your eyes now.”
She did and immediately lurched — luckily she was steadied by Loki’s strong hands. “Oh my... holy... damn,” she uttered, amazed. “Where are we?”
Loki smiled, proudly. “The limestone forest, Madagascar. The only truly untouched place left in the world.” Around them, in all directions —and beneath them stretching down to the ground, far below— a vast maze of serrated spires and naturally formed walls of rock twisted and vanished into jungle on two sides, and continued out to the horizon ahead and behind. The carbonates in the rock had dissolved in millennia of torrential rains, leaving nothing but tall, labyrinthine plates of rock, towering over the tallest trees, as an impressive, karstic barrier to civilization. “Only snails live here,” Loki said quietly as she gazed out in wonder.
With a sudden start, she looked down between her feet. Then thin chasm dropped all the way to the ground, one hundred and ten feet below. Her feet shifted on the two solid edges, getting surer footing.
“Relax,” he said, spreading his fingers over the material covering her stomach. She no longer wore the robes– but then, they weren’t around monks who were trying to concentrate. “You won’t fall,” he said assuredly. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he took his hands away from her waist.
Instantly, his wrist was caught in her hand, holding him, keeping her balance. She swayed uncertainly with his support removed, but eventually let him go.
“Now what?” Her voice wavered nervously.
Loki stepped close behind her, her back resting against his chest. The wind rippled through his white silk shirt, finding his wide collar and brushing the skin of his neck and shoulders. He swallowed. “Now put your arms out.” He held his own arms out, easily, with no fear of falling. All of it was committed to the sunyata. The Tsingy around them, the jungle beyond, even the lemurs that lived there. The snails that crept by on the snaking trail of rock that tore across Madagascar. They were nothing. Mist. There was himself and his arms and the directive to extend them.
Her own attempt to extend her arms was a little less certain. Finally, her bare arms stuck out to either side of her. She was now pressed quite firmly back against him. She could feel his heartbeat.
“Now jump,” he said, as if it was the most logical suggestion in the world. He stepped back from her body, reluctantly relinquishing its warmth. “Jump,” he said again.
Oz drew the arrow back in the bow. His muscles already screamed for relief. He had been training in all the arts the monastery had to offer. None for the purpose of finding inner strength or sharpening his willpower — not for any of the reasons the exercises existed. He trained to build his muscles, his reflexes, his endurance. He had been training for weeks.
His elbow pointed straight back, his fingers just brushing the corner of his mouth. A bead of perspiration found its way down the side of his face. His red hair glistened in the cool light of the afternoon, thick with sweat.
The minutes crept by. The tip of the arrow began to quiver in the sixty five pound bow. As time ticked by, it would become harder and harder to gently relax the string, his muscles seizing. The goal of this exercise was simply not to hit the target. The archer ground his teeth with exertion.
Though his jaw was furiously tight, his breathing was calm. His fingertips burned as the bowstring gripped them tight, the nock squeezed between his index and middle fingers.
The target was the entire far wall. Instead of stone, the far wall was glass: a floor to ceiling, wall to wall window of stained glass. Oz’s eyes focused on a tiny point of silver among all the different colors. The window was a chaotic jumble of wedge shaped pieces –most likely pieced together from the last unsuccessful trainer to use this room. The pieces were held together with silver solder, a spider web of thin threads joining the shards together.
The minutes dragged on. Sweat washed over Oz’s eyes, collecting on his lashes. The arrowhead virtually rattled in the bow as his hands trembled ever so slightly from the effort.
“Jump,” he said again, as Jade stood before him, her back turned, her arms outstretched. She trembled as the wind strengthened, but did not move.
“Jump,” he ordered. “Drop off the plane of yourself into the sunyata, into the void. Only there can you find the piece of you that you are missing.” He stepped back, letting the wind draw the silk about him, caressing him. “Jump. For everything in the world that’s worth a soul. Jump, for everything Oz cannot give you but I can.” He took another step back. She looked very alone here, high atop the Tsingy. It was a surreal picture, for sure. “Jump for what you’re made of,” he urged, “and for what you don’t have.” He took a final step back into the wind, never looking back to see if there was stone to step on. The wind now made his voice almost inaudible in her ears. “Jump or be alone.”
Jade was fighting back a torrent of conflicting emotions and instincts. How could he ask that of her? Her body trembled. Jump because Oz couldn’t know her like Loki did? Jump or be alone? Suddenly she felt his warm hands on her, slide under her shirt, holding her waist. She wanted more than anything for them to be Oz’s hands. She closed her eyes and slowly opened them, knowing the hands did not belong to Oz. She let out a trembling sob as Loki’s voice was close in her ear, his breath on her cheek.
“I’ll make this easy for you,” he said in a low whisper. She shivered as his fingers interlaced over the smooth skin over he belly, now undeniably sensual rather than supportive. Her arms were still outstretched and frozen there. Her chest heaved as she let another terrified sob escape her. This was terrible loneliness and... and– she couldn’t even describe how this conjurer made her feel. “Jump,” he offered, “or don’t.”
She thrust herself forwards, out of his embrace, falling down the deep crack in the rock. Fluted limestone rushed past either side of her vision, darkness rushed up from below.
Oz exhaled. The bright sunlight of the late afternoon shone through the shattered window. His arms were like rubber. He gently set the bow against the wall and approached the pile of glass shards on the stone floor and on the stone terrace beyond, his feet crunching through it.
He looked down at the many tiny reflections of himself looking up, as he was highlighted by the setting sun, each tiny face a different color. Where was Jade?
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