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The Himalayas. Night is breaking into Sunday. The young William Shakespeare reading poet has just arrived in old Kathgodam, near the base of that part of the range which shares the Ram Dass and Yogananda ashrams and sanctuaries, among others. He is not looking for Salinger. Not this time. Not here. Not now.
The poet, a chela, a disciple, a pilgrim, is now heading up away from Kathgodam to Dwarahat, taking the westward route up the steep, mountain cliff-side roads in a small, white taxi-cab. He is not feeling so well. Sea-sickness swayed from on the shoulders of the giants. Om.
The ashram is up in "tiger country," what the locals call the place, as there are still wild tigers roaming around the village outskirts. The taxi-driver stops a few times on the way up. Cigarettes. Tea. More cigarettes.
Wonderful, yes, the view was.
The view was sacred. Once they reached the top, where the sanctuary hid nestled in its bucolic wonderment and a steady freshness of newair and the heights, the poet-chela checked in and took a good, long nap in his airy-smelling apartment cell. Blue walled and blue furnitured and blue chela'd.
His stay there was a holy of holy happenings, not to be enumerated upon.
Weeks later, on his way back to northwest New Delhi from his lofty Himalayan quarters, weeks later, he found himself in a strange predicament.
He had before him a fourteen hour bus-ride. He also had within him a seemingly unbreakable sense of peace and God-residue. The first four hours or so of the bus ride were bearable, but then, but then, he began to grow weary. Tired. His eyelids began to slover down and droop, and his shoulders began to wedge closer and closer to his neighbor's in the bus, a Himalayan "charter" bus which was stacked like a pack of sardines with Indian families and citizens from a wide variation of backgrounds, many wide-eyed and kind-hearted and astute and curious and smiling citizens, all of them and the poet, a sore, foreign, simple American thumb.
The man next to the poet tapped his shoulder, and this was sufficient to wake the poet completely up.
The man, it seemed, did not want to just say hello, but wanted, so it seemed to the poet, by his gestures, for he had one hand covering his mouth, and the other, which he had used to tap the poet's shoulder, he was using to point out the window, beside which the poet was sitting, to switch seats with the poet so that he could more easily vomit his guts out the window there, not desiring to spill any of his spiced fodder on our poor poet. Our poet had the window seat; our poet always got the window seat.
The poet, of course, obliged, and gave the poor to-be-vomiter the window seat. After the vomiter vomited, the poet also, out of the dear nature of his bosomheart, took out from his bag the single bottle of water which he had brought along with him for the long ride, and gave it to the vomit-bespackled Indian fellow. Brothers they were. Then they had the time to and so really did smile at each other.
So, the poet, looking forward, resumed the languid pleasant attitude of the bus-rider. The bus's windows, they stayed open.
No, the vomit was not the predicament. The predicament came, as we were saying, about four hours into the ride, right after the vomiter vomited.
Going back over the years, the writer finds himself enthused enough to go grab his old journal from the times of his India trip.
That night, back in New Delhi, after weeks in a Himalayan Hermitage, seeing as how he could not, no matter how hard he meditated on it, sleep, he tried writing a sketch, a first sketch of the memory he cherished, a fresh memory- of his first bursting through the beds of jungle-land landscape which made up the land between the city and Delhi, and Kathgodam at the Himalayan Range's foothills. The sketch.
And the bus broke out of the jungle, seemingly discharging itself from the density of tall, lightly grouped trees and the invisible yet solid darkness of the endless brushwork, and sped on into another density, that of human housing and all of the various colored lights therefound, it being so early in the morning still- just before the first hints of twilight reach their loudest sky whispers.
The streets showed some people already awake, rustling about their front gates with ruffled shoulders and necks cringed, rubbing their hands together and skewing the airs with vapors.
The young man, awakened in his spirits by the breaching of the jungle, peered out the bus's window with a newfound intensity. The bus had left Delhi hours earlier, and though the traveling by bus was not as hard on his psyche nor his body as the twenty-two hour plane-flight was, he was nonetheless beginning to feel exhausted again.
He sat back, munched on some sunflower seeds, and tried his best to assume a mental quietude, but an excitement in his spirit overtook him. He thanked his Guru, and took to a prayer book which he brought-"
The writer stops his transcribing here, as the scene was becoming much too intimate of spirit. Between him and his Godsearch, let it stand.
He will divulge, though, the following: a quaint description of the hardbound journal which holds the excerpt just transcribed here.
It was given to me by my dear, dear cousin. She has been a friend, an inspiration, and a beacon of light all of these years. The journal, which she gave me for Christmas one year, very proud of herself, has a J on the cover, for James, representing my first initial. The journal's binding is a deep brick-red color, with a gilded flair enprinted around the letter J.
Inside, on the line where journal-owners usually keep their name, the following is laid down in a soft-tiered, flourished hand-style:
Astrid inspected the two massive wooden doors for any hidden triggers or booby traps while considering which one to open. Both barriers were wrapped in studded bands of iron, and both were securely locked. Her two companions sat on an outcropping of rock impatiently awaiting her decision. One was an iron-helmed warrior wearing battered, rusty, splint-mail armor and sharpening his two-handed bastard sword with a well-oiled whetstone; a nasty gash on the side of his face, recently delivered by a goblin's crooked spear, still oozed blood. The other, an old gray-bearded sage dressed only in a rune-covered and somewhat tattered robe, leaned heavily on his gnarled staff after expending a vast amount of magicka in order to reveal the doors upon which the toothsome rogue pondered; her tight-fitting leather armor only served to enhance her shapely curves.
?Well?? huffed the soldier peevishly, ?we're waiting.?
The rogue drew her two matching stilettos and cut him off. ?Haven't done anything? Are you serious? I should finish what those goblins started!? she fumed.
?Hold on there, girl. I meant no offense. I merely meant that tricks and traps are your bailiwick, not mine,? the tactless soldier backpedaled.
The wizened sorcerer spoke up, ?Why don't we just review the rune riddle again, so we can make an educated guess?no?? From the folds of his robe, he pulled out a ragged cloth parchment covered in sigils and symbols and began his recital?
?Into the labyrinth the three shall go;
A knight, a mage, and a maiden so fair.
Two lefts, a right, and a wide river flow.
Once across must vanquish a deadly foe.
A right, a left, and a magickal rite,
Unveils two oaken and iron bound doors.
Even leads to the gold and soaring heights,
Odd leads to darkness and a fatal fight.?
For quite some time, the only sounds in the foyer outside the two mysterious doors were of moisture seeping from the cave walls and dripping into shallow puddles. Bjorn was the first to express his opinion. ?The three of us entered these caves together as the legend instructed, ?Ingvar is the mage, I'm the knight, and I guess you, Astrid, are the beautiful maiden,? he quipped with a satirical wink.
Astrid crossed her arms, annoyed, her fists still clenching her twin daggers, ?I'm not sure we followed those directions carefully enough, because you're not a knight, Bjorn; you're a callow barbarian?and, contrary to your opinion that I've done nothing spectacular so far, it was my nimble traversal of the river's rapids to anchor the rope, that allowed Ingvar to get his feeble bones, and you to get your heavy arse across.?
Bjorn shrugged and continued his primitive analysis, ?Fine, but once across, you two would've been overwhelmed by that goblin horde had it not been for my mighty sword.? He pocketed the whetstone, and spun his hefty blade for emphasis.
Bjorn scratched the whiskers on his chin, wiping away some congealed blood. ?But?if we take the right door, and we've taken three rights and three lefts, then the number of rights and lefts are equal, or even. If we take the left door, it gives us four lefts to two rights, or an unequal, or uneven number of lefts and rights. So maybe we should take the rightmost door.? Bjorn grinned stupidly at his cleverness
As was typical of a thief, Astrid threw a wrench into the works. ?But?but?the verse says we've taken three lefts, two rights, and performed a rite. So we've already navigated three lefts and three rights, making the next choice even no matter whether we choose left or right.?
Bjorn's head was swimming, ?Why don't we just number the left door one, and the right door two? Therefore, the even door would be the right door, and that's the way we should go.?
Ingvar the mystic chuckled eruditely, ?However, these particular runes on this rare parchment are read right to left, rather than left to right, so in that case we should number the right door one, and the left door two. The even door would then be the left door, and that's the way we should go.?
?This is stupid!? proclaimed the fighting-man. ?Why can't we just open both doors and see what is beyond before we all go crazy!? He stood up and charged, putting his shoulder into the right door. With a thud, the door remained steadfast as Bjorn rubbed his sore right arm.
?Ha! You should've used your head, brute,? Astrid laughed as she proceeded to use her stilettos as tools to unlock the left door. After a few moments there was a rattle and then a series of clicks; with a flourish and a bow, the thief swung open the left door. Beyond the threshold, a wide stone stairway spiraled down into darkness; foul, stale air assaulted her senses and she paused. ?Let's see what the other door hides,? she remarked and she went to work on the second latch. Just a few moments more, and the right door was likewise opened; it revealed a similar, but dimly lit, stone staircase that spiraled upward. However, the air smelled no better.
Bjorn sheathed his sword and clapped his gauntlets. ?Well that ices it. Right it is!?
?Why right?? both Ingvar and Astrid responded in unison.
?The runes said, even leads to gold and soaring heights! That's clearly up! Odd leads to darkness and a fight, so that'd be down. I was right; no more talk; let's go!? Bjorn took a step towards the right door.
Astrid hesitated. ?I'm still unsure. I think Ingvar's original arguments were fairly sound.?
Ingvar propped himself up on his staff. ?Thank you for your vote of confidence, Astrid, but if the muscle is going up, then the prestidigitator is going up as well.?
?Because you're a trained cutpurse,? the wizard explained. ?Besides, I would only slow you down, and Bjorn,? Ingvar looked up and down at the fighter's metallic carapace, ?Bjorn, would be a clanking liability.?
Astrid reluctantly agreed, ?Fine; stay here. Give me a half an hour. If I'm not back, go ahead and assume I chose poorly.?
After forty minutes, without any sign of their companion, Ingvar suggested, ?Maybe we should go down and check on her??
Bjorn shook his head, ?No way old man She knew what she was getting into when she signed on with us. No matter how pretty she is, there's no way I'm risking my neck for her. Obviously, up is the way to soaring heights; up is the way to treasure; up is the way; let's just go up!?
For some reason, the sage couldn't deny the savage's crude logic, so up they went with Bjorn leading the way.
After about fifteen minutes, when they finally reached the pinnacle, they realized the error of their ways. In an enormous dead-end cavern, there reclined a hungry, colossal, wingless, three-headed black dragon. Its obsidian scales reflected the fiery sunlight coming down from an exit hole in the roof that was far too distant for anything but a gang of dwarven miners, outfitted with ropes, pulleys, scaffolding, and ladders, to reach. One of its heads opened its serpentine eyes, rose up, and grinned a mouthful of dagger-like teeth before uttering a single deep and menacing word, ?Dinner.?
The two adventurers fled back down the staircase, but for every two steps the warrior descended, the sorcerer only managed one. ?Wait for me!? Ingvar shouted with the drake close on his heels; the stink from the snake's three putrid maws nauseated him.
The two managed to slam the right door closed, and then once through the left door, Ingvar took a moment to seal it behind them with a wizard's lock spell. They knew it wouldn't hold the monster for long, and there was only one way to go now?down. When they reached the base, they found a similar dead-end cave. However, this cavity was completely deserted, and there was no sign of Astrid. There was a gigantic opening on the far wall that breached the side of the mountain, and the pair ran to it.
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