One Great Year (34 page)

The first week of their quest had ended and they had had almost no human contact, except for one small tribe of Tatars who had passed them, heading north, on the fifth day. Borte was worn out and her lips were cracked from exposure, despite her best efforts to heal them with thick animal fat. At the end of each day she had dropped, exhausted, into her coverings and fallen deep asleep.

Chilger was growing more concerned that, despite the fact that she should still be expanding, Borte had already visibly lost weight. They had not suffered for food as of yet, but the journey was taking an obvious physical toll on her. Chilger left the shelter and went out into the darkness of the evening to study the glowing skies for answers.

Two hours passed, then three, as he struggled pitifully, unable to call upon his totems and enter a trance-like state. The harder he searched for the answers, the more elusive they became, and it had been two days since he had felt connected to the Great Spirit at all. He had observed carefully, watching for a sign—animals, trees, plants, birds, all of the world to which he was so naturally attuned—but for the first time in his life he felt shut out and closed off. The tingling energy of Tengri that had vibrated through his skull and his center, humming in each chakra since his earliest childhood, was distressingly still and silent. The whispers of the wind, the trees, and the birds that had always spoken to him and soothed him were suddenly empty sounds, hollow and dead in his ears. The harder he listened and looked for answers and the more doggedly he sought direction, the less clarity he found.

Chilger's mind was clouded by the added complication of Borte's pregnancy, and he was growing desperate. The dark energy that fed on his desperation and guilt multiplied and wove its way in and out of every thought and instinct, threatening to hinder the shaman completely. His bright energy was diminished, filtered by fear and doubt that billowed like a sinister fog around him. Though he did his utmost to remain outwardly positive, Borte felt the change in him, and his bleak desperation made her shiver.

Chilger's Marcus-brain tried to lead him and soothe him, but he was beginning to panic, wondering if he had taken Borte on an expedition that would never succeed. His faith in himself and his abilities was shaken, and he worried that they would fail and die on their journey. He wondered if he had been deluded, duped by his own dreams and selfish agenda to awaken Theron. Perhaps he was a victim of the tricky evil spirits that so liked to play with mankind and watch them flounder. Borte remained optimistic and hopeful, and Chilger prayed he would not fail her.

Wandering the perimeter of their camp in the frigid starlit night, Chilger lit his pipe and longed for the altered state that it offered. He had taken only two puffs when he heard a deep vibration that originated somewhere close by. The horses whinnied and stamped in fearful response. Immediately his heart leapt and pounded in his chest. His blood raced instinctively in response to the absolute imminent danger that the growl represented. With increased panic, he realized that he had left both his bow and his knife uselessly in the ger. He turned toward the shelter to retrieve them and to place himself between the unknown threat and Borte.

It was then that he saw it: directly between him and the unsecured tent flap paced a fierce snow leopard. Clear in the bright evening moonlight she growled again, and Chilger's blood quivered at the sound. Her white fur bristled like shackles on her neck, and her silver ears jumped and twitched at the myriad sounds unheard by the inferior human. Chilger was close enough to see the blue of her eyes, and his body trembled instinctively.

It is a sign
, he told himself.
It is your death!
his mind cried in response. She did not look like an apparition or a dream. She was all heat and fur and breath, and she exposed her teeth and growled once more, deep and threatening.

“I am no enemy to you, beast,” Chilger began. “We seek Shambhala and nothing more.”

“That is everything!” an unearthly, growling voice replied from deep inside the creature. The cat began to pace, never taking her piercing cobalt eyes from Chilger.

Back and forth, she blocked the opening behind which a vulnerable, unaware Borte peacefully slept. “We come in service. We come to help the world,” Chilger said simply. His fear managed now, he knew what he must do, and he was elated that their journey had finally met a fresh turn.

“We see all …
she
comes in service … with a pure heart,” the snow leopard said, nodding deliberately toward the ger. “
Your
intentions are not so clear. There is a selfish air around your journey that holds you back. You seek Shambhala for both selfish and unselfish reasons, and yet you expect to succeed?”

“It is true … I do not desire to fool anybody. I bring her here so that she will know me, our ancient souls so long apart. I crave her recognition and recall, but that is not the only reason … we have been called by the great King of Shambhala, who has visited me in my dreams. I know I am an imperfect mortal—there is no other kind—but she has a purpose, that I am sure of, though I don't fully understand what it is. We come to Shambhala to learn. To stop the red devil that seeks to bring the Darkness to this land.”

“Perhaps
he
is meant to do as he does, just as you are,” the feline purred, and fear flowed through Chilger. He could not save them if the leopard chose to attack.

“Perhaps,” Chilger agreed diplomatically.

“There is a price to pay if you are to reach your destination. For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. If you agree to my terms, I will help guide you the rest of the way,” the leopard bargained.

Chilger paused, his skin prickling cautiously, suddenly reminded of the stories he had heard: hunters, shaman, being fooled and misled by evil spirits in disguise. There was a low and dark feeling about this creature that Chilger had never known before in nature. He hesitated—he did not know what to think. He had never been on such a profound journey. Perhaps the protectors of Shambhala all had a necessary and frightening energy, to weed out the unworthy. He proceeded cautiously.

“If Father Sky and Mother Earth bless this alliance and show me that you are true, I will agree. I have prayed for a guide and perhaps they have answered my prayers … how can I know that you are not a devil sent to lead us astray?”

At that moment the night split open, and the eagles soaring overhead screeched wildly as they attacked the luminescent leopard. As their claws tore into her, she hissed and growled ferociously, but in an instant she faded to black and magically became smoke and shadow, then disappeared as if she had never existed. She was gone, a mirage dispelled, and the eagles probed the dirt searching for further sign of her.

Chilger immediately understood how close he had come to entering into a doomed contract. The eagles would never have attacked a true guide. He felt sure that they had only narrowly escaped being led away from their destination to certain peril. Chilger thanked his friends the eagles, but he still felt lost and disconnected, no further ahead than he had been moments before. He finally took the warm place next to Borte but slept fitfully without helpful dreams.

When Chilger woke in the morning, Borte was already up arranging a simple breakfast for them.

“I had a dream last night,” she said hesitantly, as Chilger began to move. He waited for her to continue. “A wild beast came to guide us … and we followed it right to the gates of a beautiful crystal city.”

Chilger became rigid and she watched him, gauging his response. Immediately he feared that he had made a mistake. Had his doubt and fear chased away their only chance of finding Shambhala?

“I know that my intuition is nothing compared to yours, but it was so real and beautiful,” she smiled, remembering.

“Do not underestimate the strength of your wind horse, Borte. You have an incredibly powerful and beautiful spirit. Promise me that you will tell me if you have any other dreams or visions, anything at all. We are on this journey together,” Chilger said. Borte nodded and continued with her work.

They would be entering the mountains that day. Chilger had hoped that they would not have to venture into that treacherous terrain. Spring had brought longer days, but the temperatures were still severely cold and, when combined with wind and elevation, threatened to end their journey in tragedy.

The sun had been on the horizon for only half an hour and everything was covered with a thick, glistening, frozen crust as they prepared once again to move on. Chilger exited first, and he stopped so quickly that Borte crashed into the back of him. Fifty paces away, at the edge of their camp, was a large blue wolf. He did not growl or snarl or even react at the sight of them. His sapphire eyes examined them calmly as he sat at ease at the edge of their camp. It was not the glowing leopard apparition of the night before. This was a full grown, flesh and blood, male wolf, his thick neck and head impressive and beautiful.

“He's come!” Borte marveled, staring at the beast. She trembled slightly but she was not afraid, though all reason would dictate she should be. Chilger was more hesitant, remembering the scene from the previous night.

“Good wolf, we wonder if you are sent by Tengri … we seek guidance to our destination,” Chilger called out.

The wolf, which had been crouched on his hindquarters, lay down flat and lowered his head as if to bow—a show of respect, peace, and deference.

The horses remained unperturbed, grazing, tethered nearby, paying no attention to the predator in their midst.

Above, the two eagles soared once more and miraculously, as if called by a master, Chilger's companion came down and landed on his outstretched arm. From there she flew across the camp and serenely landed next to the wolf, scratching at the ground before him. Mortal enemies, side by side, staring at the humans, the message was clear: This wolf came with blessings and was a gift.

Borte and Chilger embraced one another, relieved, and prepared to set out for the day. The sun shone warmer, their burden felt lighter, and as they mounted their horses, the wolf took up the lead as they expected he would, and they followed dutifully.

Chilger watched the subtleties of the world around him, searching for signs and direction, and blissfully he found them. Everywhere he looked spring was bursting from the soil, and the naked outstretched branches, speckled with fresh buds, pointed the way.

“It seems as though the whole world is guiding us now!” Borte said, after a few hours of silent reverie.

The wolf stayed well ahead of them but never out of sight, always stopping when he got too far away. Higher and higher their strong horses carried them, their breath heavy and deep.

At every pass and plateau there were stupas—cone-shaped prayer mounds of various heights. As they had done throughout their journey, Chilger and Borte dismounted at each of the sacred shrines and bid their respects. They walked three times clockwise around each man-made tower of stone, and each time they placed a rock on top and gave a small offering.

Chilger wondered if their supplies would run out, but the offerings were made in the belief that the gods would bless them and continue to provide for their needs. Borte took these opportunities to rest and take her fill of water or mare's milk.

As they climbed higher into the mountains, Chilger wrapped Borte in additional furs. She was shifting heavily on her horse; her lower back ached relentlessly, punished from the bouncing and pounding of the trail and the weight of her unborn child. She kept quiet as long as she could; she did not want to be a burden. She finally spoke when she could ride no more. The lack of support often made it preferable for her to walk, which slowed them down dramatically. When her feet and hands swelled like engorged sheep bladders she would once again try to mount, but the travel days were considerably less progressive.

Chilger chided himself for not having thought to procure a cart. He had underestimated the toll the journey would take on her. Would they die on this mountain and return into the Grid, only for Marcus to once again begin his searching? Would Helghul be left to massacre the people of the steppe and plains because Chilger had misunderstood the call of Shambhala?

From the cliffs above them a great black bear stretched and yawned, her hibernation over. With pure hearts they had crossed the Field of Reeds and now, after five days of climbing, they had reached the summit of the fabled Mountain of Ascension. Though they did not know it, Borte would not have to travel much longer. They made their way down the other side of the mountain, faithfully following the great wolf, which still guided them like a shadow in the distance.

“What is it we are looking for exactly? How will we know when we find it?” Borte asked, not for the first time, as they set out into their third week.

“It will find us, Borte.”

“I near the time when the baby will come, Chilger. I have not done this before and, though I have seen a woman bring a baby, it only makes me more afraid to do it alone.”

“You will not be unassisted, Borte, I am here. I will help you,” Chilger promised, but neither of them felt easy. The women traditionally helped bring the babies.

Borte missed her mother and grandmother more than she had in months, and the usual nervousness and fatigue of the last weeks of pregnancy drained her. Chilger offered her herbs and remedies to dampen the discomfort, but she knew that their journey must end soon because, equally soon, she would be unable to go on.

The mountain trail widened up ahead and they saw them: stupas. They were everywhere, speckling the rocky, brown landscape as they descended into the spacious open expanse. It was a sight to behold, as if pilgrims had become stone midquest and stood waiting to be liberated.

The sight caused Chilger deep concern, for if they acted respectfully and walked clockwise three times around each one and made an offering, it would delay them for hours and significantly deplete their stores. The shaman did not delay. There was no choice to be made. He dismissed his urge to forgo the proper ritualism and respect.