The Fourth Rule of Ten: A Tenzing Norbu Mystery (A Tenzing Norbu Mystery series Book 4) by Gay Hendricks Page B
Authors: Gay Hendricks
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equipment! You remember how, when we were boys, we worked with worn-down little pencil stubs? Now all the novices want to read the scriptures on iPads.”
“Huh,” I said. “I seem to remember the Buddha saying something about change being inevitable, Mr. and Mr. Skype. Better watch out. Next thing you know, you’ll be on Facebook.”
My friends exchanged an embarrassed glance.
“Don’t tell me.”
“The Dorje Yidam page goes live next week,” Yeshe admitted. “Twitter, too.”
“Apparently we need to build our platform, whatever that is, if we want to generate enough donations to finance the new roof.” Lobsang frowned.
“Not to mention all those new iPads,” I said, and Lobsang’s scowl deepened. I laughed at his familiar expression of outrage. I’m pretty sure he was born with it.
The conversation had taken a very different direction than I’d imagined, to great effect: I’d forgotten why I felt the need to talk to them in the first place. But like a reverse blessing, the realization of the absence of pain brought the pain right back, and the Bohannons’ struggles, Julie’s return, even Roland’s unearthed skeleton of shame triggered a fresh flood of unease. I shuddered, as if aftershocks from long-ago fault lines had shifted under my feet. Yeshe and Lobsang had been the only stabilizing factors during the hardest, most vulnerable years of my life.
They still were.
“Let me tell you what’s been going on,” I said. I sketched out the Bill situation and his ill-founded decision to go to Bosnia. I added in the human trafficking angle, and touched on Martha’s pain, and my own fears around the situation.
“Also, uh, Julie’s in town. You remember Julie, Martha’s sister? Anyway, she’s here to, you know, to help Martha. Her sister.”
“Ahh,” Yeshe said, “and so we reach the core. Your heart is attached and therefore expectant, and with that comes unease.”
“What core?” I said. “There’s no core. I’m pretty much over her.”
They said nothing.
“It’s been more than two years,” I added, irritated for some reason. “Anyway, a lot’s been going on. And so, yes, I’m tired, but not the kind of tired sitting with my eyes closed will cure.”
Yeshe bowed his head, deep in thought. He raised his eyes to meet mine. “You once told us that you live near a park, a place where you can be in nature, yes?”
“Good memory. Yes, Topanga State Park.” I hadn’t been there in a few years.
“I think you would benefit from getting your feet off city streets.”
Lobsang’s face broke into a grin, as if cheered by his own thought. “ Hon, hon— yes, yes! Take a hike! Isn’t that how Americans say it?”
They had zeroed in on something, for sure. Suddenly, I couldn’t wait to get outside. “Thank you.” I touched my forehead. “ Chagpo nang, take care, my brothers. As always, you bring clarity to my muddled state.”
“Chagpo nang.”
Fifteen minutes later my feet were pressing against Topanga Park’s crumbled earth, baked by the summer sun, yet somehow fragrant with life. The sun was low in the sky, and a golden wash painted the woods with an air of warm mystery. Rather than running, I had driven the short distance to the park and left my car at the Trippet Ranch lot.
I stepped onto Musch Trail, and into a swarm of memories as thick as mosquitoes. At first, I tried to outpace the pesky thoughts. Walking briskly, I wound in and out of the sun and shade, my path dappled with subtle shifts of light. Two miles in, I hit Eagle Junction and hiked up the looping trail toward Eagle Rock. I longed to soothe my eyes with the sweeping panoramic view looming over the canyon.
I stood, panting, at the high outcrop of boulders, the park bathed in a golden sheen below me, when a thought swooped, hawk-like, into my consciousness: I had stopped coming here because I associated this place with Barbara Maxey, the catalyst for my first case as a private investigator. My first
“Huh,” I said. “I seem to remember the Buddha saying something about change being inevitable, Mr. and Mr. Skype. Better watch out. Next thing you know, you’ll be on Facebook.”
My friends exchanged an embarrassed glance.
“Don’t tell me.”
“The Dorje Yidam page goes live next week,” Yeshe admitted. “Twitter, too.”
“Apparently we need to build our platform, whatever that is, if we want to generate enough donations to finance the new roof.” Lobsang frowned.
“Not to mention all those new iPads,” I said, and Lobsang’s scowl deepened. I laughed at his familiar expression of outrage. I’m pretty sure he was born with it.
The conversation had taken a very different direction than I’d imagined, to great effect: I’d forgotten why I felt the need to talk to them in the first place. But like a reverse blessing, the realization of the absence of pain brought the pain right back, and the Bohannons’ struggles, Julie’s return, even Roland’s unearthed skeleton of shame triggered a fresh flood of unease. I shuddered, as if aftershocks from long-ago fault lines had shifted under my feet. Yeshe and Lobsang had been the only stabilizing factors during the hardest, most vulnerable years of my life.
They still were.
“Let me tell you what’s been going on,” I said. I sketched out the Bill situation and his ill-founded decision to go to Bosnia. I added in the human trafficking angle, and touched on Martha’s pain, and my own fears around the situation.
“Also, uh, Julie’s in town. You remember Julie, Martha’s sister? Anyway, she’s here to, you know, to help Martha. Her sister.”
“Ahh,” Yeshe said, “and so we reach the core. Your heart is attached and therefore expectant, and with that comes unease.”
“What core?” I said. “There’s no core. I’m pretty much over her.”
They said nothing.
“It’s been more than two years,” I added, irritated for some reason. “Anyway, a lot’s been going on. And so, yes, I’m tired, but not the kind of tired sitting with my eyes closed will cure.”
Yeshe bowed his head, deep in thought. He raised his eyes to meet mine. “You once told us that you live near a park, a place where you can be in nature, yes?”
“Good memory. Yes, Topanga State Park.” I hadn’t been there in a few years.
“I think you would benefit from getting your feet off city streets.”
Lobsang’s face broke into a grin, as if cheered by his own thought. “ Hon, hon— yes, yes! Take a hike! Isn’t that how Americans say it?”
They had zeroed in on something, for sure. Suddenly, I couldn’t wait to get outside. “Thank you.” I touched my forehead. “ Chagpo nang, take care, my brothers. As always, you bring clarity to my muddled state.”
“Chagpo nang.”
Fifteen minutes later my feet were pressing against Topanga Park’s crumbled earth, baked by the summer sun, yet somehow fragrant with life. The sun was low in the sky, and a golden wash painted the woods with an air of warm mystery. Rather than running, I had driven the short distance to the park and left my car at the Trippet Ranch lot.
I stepped onto Musch Trail, and into a swarm of memories as thick as mosquitoes. At first, I tried to outpace the pesky thoughts. Walking briskly, I wound in and out of the sun and shade, my path dappled with subtle shifts of light. Two miles in, I hit Eagle Junction and hiked up the looping trail toward Eagle Rock. I longed to soothe my eyes with the sweeping panoramic view looming over the canyon.
I stood, panting, at the high outcrop of boulders, the park bathed in a golden sheen below me, when a thought swooped, hawk-like, into my consciousness: I had stopped coming here because I associated this place with Barbara Maxey, the catalyst for my first case as a private investigator. My first
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