came over the intruder. So he reached down and tightened the wire that was still wrapped around the scholar’s neck. The intruder’s hands were strong, and the sudden tension cut off almost all but the beginning of the scholar’s sudden gasp. The wire cut into the flesh and muscle of the neck, cutting off the old man’s air. Then the blood flow stopped to the brain, diverted as the wire cut the artery. The scholar finally lapsed into unconsciousness and the blood pooled, faintly steamy in the cool cabin.
The killer finished the job and then stood up, curiously calm in the golden wash of morning. He looked out over the rolling hills that stretched away from him, the valleys still churning with mist. As always, the mountains offered a promise of serenity. He would wait and watch. The diligent seeker would be shown the way.
9
DARK VALLEY
There are different types of pain. My sensei has shown me that. Is there a benefit to the insight? Sometimes I wonder. Years ago, I had once protested, but Yamashita looked coldly at me. “What did you expect when you took up the sword?” he asked. It was something I tried to remember daily. It tends to put things in perspective.
Yamashita called me that evening with a cryptic request: we were to meet in Midtown. He gave me the time and the location, but there wasn’t even the hint of explanation. I’ve grown used to it: the teacher-student relationship is pretty cut and dry in Japanese culture. Yamashita wasn’t asking me to meet him. He was telling me.
“Do I need anything?” I asked. Sometimes he takes me to other dojos and we put the locals through their paces. I wanted to know whether I needed a uniform. Weapons.
“Your presence will be adequate,” Yamashita replied. Then, as an afterthought, “Bring your credit card. Perhaps we can have dinner.” On my end, the phone went dead.
He was standing at the address he’d given me, but he wasn’t alone. Seeing Yamashita in street clothes was slightly disorienting: I always pictured him in the dojo, a solid, grounded figure swathed in the ritual robes of the martial arts. But now my teacher stood there amid the less hurried crowds of Sunday Manhattan with another Asian, a somewhat larger man draped in a tan raincoat against the intermittent drizzle. It was Changpa Rinpoche.
“Hello, Dr. Burke,” the lama said. He didn’t shake hands, just inclined his head and torso slightly forward. His eyes crinkled from the half-smile he gave me.
“I didn’t recognize you for a moment,” I admitted to him.
He held his arms up slightly at his sides, displaying the coat. “My robes of office can sometimes be a distraction for people. I thought this would be better.”
I nodded.
“Besides,” the Rinpoche continued, “it made it easier to slip away from my assistants.” He looked at Yamashita. “It was like the old days, Sensei. I’m glad that you reminded me.”
My teacher nodded and closed his eyes briefly in acknowledgement. The light, misty rain caught on the stubble of his shaven head. Dark spots peppered the Rinpoche’s raincoat as well. My teacher gestured toward a restaurant door. “Tea?” he suggested.
I followed the two men inside, totally clueless as to what was going on. It was a familiar sensation: time spent with my sensei was routinely composed of confusion. Or terror. So far, the evening was shaping up nicely.
The Rinpoche sat there, his hands wrapped appreciatively around a teacup, comfortable with the silence. I merely watched. We had gotten tea, but the waitress came by again to ask if we needed anything else. I saw Changpa’s face cloud over, as if he felt an unexpected stab of pain. The waitress went away. He watched her with a sad look, and then caught me staring at him.
He shrugged. “The Buddha’s compassion at times seems inadequate for all the pain in the world.”
I turned to watch the woman as she worked the room. I saw nothing out of the ordinary and my face must have shown
The killer finished the job and then stood up, curiously calm in the golden wash of morning. He looked out over the rolling hills that stretched away from him, the valleys still churning with mist. As always, the mountains offered a promise of serenity. He would wait and watch. The diligent seeker would be shown the way.
9
DARK VALLEY
There are different types of pain. My sensei has shown me that. Is there a benefit to the insight? Sometimes I wonder. Years ago, I had once protested, but Yamashita looked coldly at me. “What did you expect when you took up the sword?” he asked. It was something I tried to remember daily. It tends to put things in perspective.
Yamashita called me that evening with a cryptic request: we were to meet in Midtown. He gave me the time and the location, but there wasn’t even the hint of explanation. I’ve grown used to it: the teacher-student relationship is pretty cut and dry in Japanese culture. Yamashita wasn’t asking me to meet him. He was telling me.
“Do I need anything?” I asked. Sometimes he takes me to other dojos and we put the locals through their paces. I wanted to know whether I needed a uniform. Weapons.
“Your presence will be adequate,” Yamashita replied. Then, as an afterthought, “Bring your credit card. Perhaps we can have dinner.” On my end, the phone went dead.
He was standing at the address he’d given me, but he wasn’t alone. Seeing Yamashita in street clothes was slightly disorienting: I always pictured him in the dojo, a solid, grounded figure swathed in the ritual robes of the martial arts. But now my teacher stood there amid the less hurried crowds of Sunday Manhattan with another Asian, a somewhat larger man draped in a tan raincoat against the intermittent drizzle. It was Changpa Rinpoche.
“Hello, Dr. Burke,” the lama said. He didn’t shake hands, just inclined his head and torso slightly forward. His eyes crinkled from the half-smile he gave me.
“I didn’t recognize you for a moment,” I admitted to him.
He held his arms up slightly at his sides, displaying the coat. “My robes of office can sometimes be a distraction for people. I thought this would be better.”
I nodded.
“Besides,” the Rinpoche continued, “it made it easier to slip away from my assistants.” He looked at Yamashita. “It was like the old days, Sensei. I’m glad that you reminded me.”
My teacher nodded and closed his eyes briefly in acknowledgement. The light, misty rain caught on the stubble of his shaven head. Dark spots peppered the Rinpoche’s raincoat as well. My teacher gestured toward a restaurant door. “Tea?” he suggested.
I followed the two men inside, totally clueless as to what was going on. It was a familiar sensation: time spent with my sensei was routinely composed of confusion. Or terror. So far, the evening was shaping up nicely.
The Rinpoche sat there, his hands wrapped appreciatively around a teacup, comfortable with the silence. I merely watched. We had gotten tea, but the waitress came by again to ask if we needed anything else. I saw Changpa’s face cloud over, as if he felt an unexpected stab of pain. The waitress went away. He watched her with a sad look, and then caught me staring at him.
He shrugged. “The Buddha’s compassion at times seems inadequate for all the pain in the world.”
I turned to watch the woman as she worked the room. I saw nothing out of the ordinary and my face must have shown
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