The Eleventh Sage

By Bret Burquest

To become the first Sage, you must first become the eleventh Sage. And to become the eleventh Sage, you must embark on a journey of impenetrable purpose, abounding with unknown peril, beckoned by enigmatic vehemence, driven toward unfathomable destinations.

Wade Burton regains consciousness in an ambulance, then passes out again. He enters a sanctuary of transcendental training where he rapidly ascends various levels of achievement and learns that he was Wild Bill Hickok in a previous life.

Within reach of the highest level attainable within the sanctuary, he suffers a head injury and regains consciousness back in the ambulance.

In the hospital, he learns he has been charged with murder. The only problem is that he cant remember anything except his experience in the sanctuary. To make matters worse, the sanctuary apparently doesnt even exist.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 18, 2000
• ISBN: 9781462805754

Bret Burquest

Bret Burquest is the author of The Dogman of Topanga, Goomba in Montana, A Bad Run of Fate, The Eleventh Sage. He lives in rural Arkansas where he writes novels and keeps a single-minded lid on the Lord of the Wings.

Book preview

1

THE NEXT THING

The next thing I knew, I was in the back of an ambulance.

Carlos? I asked.

Eddie, responded the attendant who was busy working on me.

What happened?

Relax.

I passed out again.

*   *   *

The next thing I knew, I was somehow floating above my body, watching Eddie trying to stop the bleeding.

I counted three wounds. They looked like bullet holes.

Eddie had large hands that worked swiftly, yet with the firm grace of a fine sculptor. His first concern was the wound on my forehead. He placed a large gauze pad over the entry point, wrapped a bandage several times around my head and secured it tightly.

Next, he went on to the bloodiest wound, my left shoulder, and quickly stopped the bleeding.

Then he treated the one in my lower right belly. Again all he could do for now was minimize the bleeding.

Good job, I told him, hovering directly overhead.

Thanks, he said, then looked every which direction, except up, to see who had just spoken to him.

I floated above the ambulance.

Higher and higher.

Soon I found myself standing before a brilliant white light.

I felt euphoric and fearless and forgiven. I was no longer in the world of pettiness and greed and pain and the six o’clock news. I was at the gateway of eternal bliss.

The white light became blinding. It felt like pure love. I drifted toward it, compelled by an indescribable desire to become one with its absolution.

You must go back, something awesome announced. It sounded unwavering, as if it had been pronounced by some almighty entity that had created man in its own image just so it could be fruitful and multiply. You must finish it this time.

I wanted to stay but instinctively realized I had to finish it this time. Whatever that meant.

*   *   *

The next thing I knew, I was back in the world of pettiness and greed and pain and the six o’clock news, in the back of an ambulance.

Carlos? I asked.

Eddie, responded the attendant.

I passed out again.

2

THE GROTTO MOUNTAIN SANCTUARY

Three of us were seated in the rear of the van.

One passenger was a large man, both in height and girth, who appeared to be about sixty years old and looked as if he were in a constant state of discomfort, like he had a colony of fire ants making a home in his shorts. He proudly displayed a tag on the lapel of his brightly checkered sport jacket that read: BOB. He reminded me of one of those haunted men who had been scarred for life by some bully back in fifth grade.

The driver spotted Fat Bob’s nametag as he returned from loading the luggage in back. He ripped the nametag from Fat Bob’s lapel and tossed it in the ashtray.

You all know the rules, said the driver as he slipped behind the wheel. No talking.

The other passenger was Asian, probably Japanese, and closer to my age, near forty. Fit, trim and confident.

Basically, he was a shorter, oriental version of me. I was over six feet tall, athletic and also quite sure of myself. He was a foot shorter.

We started in Eugene and headed west on state highway 126. A half hour later, about five miles past Walton, we turned north on a county road. Eight miles to Swisshome. Another two miles to Deadwood. Ever deeper into the dense forest. Ten minutes later we arrived at the gate.

The Grotto Mountain Sanctuary was nestled high in the Siuslaw National Forest in western Oregon, about five miles from the ocean. It consisted of sixty acres surrounding Grotto Mountain. The view of the Pacific, if you happened to be standing on a spot where you could actually see it, was magnificent.

The driver punched a series of five numbers on the security box mounted on the steel post and the two massive gates slowly swung open.

As we drove through the gates, which seemed about eight feet high, matching the rock wall surrounding the entire acreage, the gates automatically closed behind us.

We pulled up to the Administration Building.

The three of us got out of the van.

The driver opened up the rear compartment and handed each of us our luggage. The Asian and I each had small duffle bags. Fat Bob, ever the outcast, had a suitcase the size of an Oldsmobile.

Thank you, said Fat Bob.

Shhh, the driver sternly warned, putting his index finger up to his lips. He hopped back into the van and drove off toward the gate.

The three of us stood there, careful not to speak.

After a couple of seconds we made eye contact and somehow signaled each other that we should enter the building.

Inside, we were greeted by a friendly lady wearing a pink nurse uniform. She had short blond hair, blue eyes and leathery skin like she had been out in the sun too often in her fifty or so years. Her name plate read: ADMIT.

Hello, gentlemen, she said. Welcome to the Grotto Mountain Sanctuary. My name is Admit. Please follow me.

We followed her into a small office that was basically a lone desk, barren except for three file folders, surrounded by file cabinets.

I was the last one in and closed the door behind me.

Admit sat down on top of the desk and proceeded to go through each of the three file folders, verifying our applications by our initials only.

Then she started with the rules.

As you know, the first rule for all Initiates is no talking. However, as long as you are in the Administration Building or the infirmary, you will be allowed to speak. Anywhere else, as long as you are a Level One Initiate, any breech of this rule will have dire consequences.

She paused, as if to see which one of us would ask the obvious question.

Dire consequences? asked Fat Bob.

As stated in the contract, you will be banished from the premises and your deposit will be forfeited.

No exceptions? Fat Bob needed to know.

Of course there are exceptions. In extreme emergencies for example, by all means speak up. The rule is meant to promote self-discipline. If you can’t demonstrate self-control, you don’t belong here. Level One starts in the Compound of Silence. There, you are all considered to be Initiates with no name. You will be expected to follow instructions from the Guides who wear green robes. If you manage to reach Level Two, you will be given a name and allowed to speak.

Admit went on to explain the basics. Self-discipline, humble conditions, modest manual labor, plus four levels of transcendent teachings. Nearly forty percent never advanced beyond Level One. Over ninety-five percent never made it past Level Three. Success or failure depended upon the body, mind, soul and determination of the individual. For some it would be heaven. For others it would be hell. No matter what, few would ever be the same once it was over.

After she finished her speech, Admit escorted us to the adjacent building, the infirmary. She left us at the side door and returned to the Administration Building.

My name is Smokey, bellowed an impressively muscular black man as he opened the door and grabbed the closest one of us, Fat Bob, by the shirt and jerked him into the building.

Smokey was dressed in green fatigues and was wearing a Smokey the Bear hat, looking very much like an Army drill sergeant.

Any discomfort Fat Bob had been having from the ants in his pants was no longer his major concern.

The Asian and I looked at each other, trying to decide if we were supposed to follow or wait our turn to be led in like sheep to slaughter.

The Asian gave me a quick efficient bow.

I automatically returned the gesture.

Then we both entered the infirmary, determined to endure whatever hell the Grotto Mountain Sanctuary had in mind for us.

3

COMPOUND OF SILENCE

We spent about two hours in the infirmary. Once we passed the physical examination, the hair on our head was pruned down to a buzz cut and we each took a hot shower.

All that we brought with us, including what we were wearing at the time, was put into storage. We were issued what I would describe as monk outfits: sandals, loose underwear, a brown hooded robe.

Smokey secured four safety pins, one below another forming a series of four parallel, equidistant lines, on the left chest portion of our robes.

You are now Initiates, Smokey proclaimed after all three of us had been pinned. You are about to enter the Compound of Silence. You will not speak until all four pins have been removed and you are no longer within the compound. May you dwell in the bonds of silence until you have something to say.

Smokey snapped to attention and gave us a crisp salute. Then he ushered us out the door and led us to a small green building a short distance away. The sign above the door read: LEVEL ONE.

A Guide, wearing a green robe, met us. Smokey released us to his care and marched back to the infirmary.

The Guide led us into the Compound of Silence, all the way to the base of a magnificent tree.

He gave us a short talk, almost whispering. All those in green robes were called Guides, which was almost irrelevant since we weren’t allowed to speak. The tree, which looked older than life itself, was called the Tree of Commitment and considered to be a highly spiritual object. The four pins attached to the robes designated our progress, or lack thereof. Once all pins had been removed, we advanced to Level Two. If we screwed up, pins would be added. Seven pins were the limit. Instead of an eighth pin, the Initiate would essentially be evicted from the premises. We also had a time limit of twenty-two days to reach Level Two or we would be tossed out of the program. Once again, we were warned not to speak. It would be the final warning.

He motioned for us to wait there, then he wandered off and disappeared around the corner of the main building at the far end of the compound.

The compound was basically a huge rectangle with individual adjoining huts forming the long sides of the rectangle. I counted thirty-two huts on each side, sixty-four in all. Each hut appeared to be less than seven feet wide so I figured the compound to be approximately two hundred feet in length.

At the far end, the west end, one main building about sixty feet across, the width of the rectangle. There was a walkway on each side of the building, the only access points into or out of the compound. From the aroma emanating from the building, it was probably the mess hall or whatever they would call the dining area.

At the near end, not far from where we were standing, stood three adjoining buildings, each about twenty feet across. The one in the middle obviously contained toilet facilities. I guessed another to be a laundry and the third perhaps a storage room.

The three of us remained there. Waiting.

No activity in the compound. Just three Initiates standing under the Tree of Commitment, waiting for a sign from above, or elsewhere, so we could get on with our lives. Just like three wise wanderers in ancient times, trying to figure out whether to bring something politically correct, like frankincense or myrrh, to a baby shower.

Probably a test of some sort. Remain silent, I thought to myself, and don’t do anything stupid. I wondered if we were supposed to conjure up with some sort of personal commitment standing under the acclaimed tree.

I could tell the Asian was more or less thinking the same.

Fat Bob, on the other hand, didn’t strike me as being monk material. He needed a nametag and a large dose of small talk to get through life. I considered him my ticket to staying out of last place in the monk pecking order. No matter how badly I screwed up, I knew Fat Bob would find a way to top it.

We waited some more, avoiding eye contact. I wondered why anyone would want to come to such a place.

The Grotto Mountain Sanctuary was one of the most expensive retreats in the world. Mostly corporate executives and Wall Street tycoons enrolled in the program which was guaranteed to relieve its clients of stress, as well as a generous portion of their liquid assets. The further one advanced, the less one was required to pay per diem, thereby creating an additional monetary incentive for serious participants to push themselves.

The program contained four levels, each of which could only be attained by satisfactorily completing a previous level. Each level had its own criterion for completion. The first level required silence for a minimum of four full days plus compliance with assigned menial tasks. It seemed simple enough.

Each level supposedly became more complex and more lengthy albeit less expensive. Those few who actually surpassed Level Four were free to remain as one of the staff of trainers. Most of those who flunked out were welcomed to try it again after a year but they were required to start with Level One Initiate status regardless of how far they had advanced. Those who had been pinned out, exceeding seven pins, were barred for life.

Many of the participants were repeats, some making it an annual event in their hectic lives. Even though the sanctuary was less than four years old, the waiting list was already up to six months with repeats getting high priority.

We waited and waited and waited.

As the sun finally dropped to rooftop level, a Guide emerged from around the corner of the mess hall, between the mess hall and the south row of huts, and walked up to the bell mounted on the side of building, near the entry door to the mess hall. He rang the bell twice, then twice again.

Initiates emerged from sixty-four of the sixty-four huts and stood by their doorways. One initiate per hut. All apparently occupied.

It seemed surreal. The entire time the three of us had been standing under the Tree of Commitment, we were totally unaware any of the huts had been occupied, much less all of them.

A few seconds later, a second Guide emerged from around the opposite corner of the mess hall, between the mess hall and the north row of huts. He walked up the middle of the compound, all the way to the three of us at the far end.

Welcome Initiates, he said rather quietly. "Here’s the drill. At two and two bells, all Initiates line up outside their abodes for evening meal. A Guide will go down the line and go through the ceremony we call rankling the pins. After your pins have been rankled, those with no pins remaining will take a step forward. Those exceeding seven pins or completing twenty-two days without advancing will also be asked to step forward. After all Initiates have had their pins rankled, those who have stepped forward will be led off. The pinless to Level Two. The others are returned to the processing center. Applause is appropriate in either case. Then wait for your bell. At one bell, those with one pin line up for dinner and so on. After five bells, all those with six or seven pins will fall in behind."

He paused, then walked up to Fat Bob and secured a fifth pin, above the other four pins in the same horizontal scheme, without any explanation.

After dinner, the three of you will return to the tree, he concluded, then walked back to the mess hall and nodded to his fellow Guide in the green robe who had been waiting by the bell.

Once the two Guides were in position at the far end of the compound, they each began working their way down their respective line of Initiates, one on each row of huts. Occasionally, they removed one of the pins, always the one on top. Often they left them as they were. Once in a while, they added a pin, always on the top. Whenever an Initiate became pinless, he or she took a step forward.

I glanced at Fat Bob and his five pins. He looked like he wanted to curl up into a ball and cry.

Of the sixty-four Initiates, there were about ten blacks, a half dozen Asians and another half dozen who appeared to be from India or Pakistan. Only three women, one from India or Pakistan. With brown robes and buzz cuts it was hard to believe this was a cross section of corporate big shots. It looked more like skid row in Beirut.

When the rankling of the pins had been completed, three Initiates proudly stood a pace forward with pinless robes.

One of the guides led the three pinless Initiates out of the compound as the remaining Initiates, including the three of us under the tree, applauded.

After the applause died, the remaining Guide rang the bell once.

About fifteen Initiates, each with only one pin, walked up to the mess hall entry door in a very orderly fashion and formed a line.

Then two bells. The Initiates with two pins joined the line.

Three bells.

Four bells.

Five bells.

Soon all sixty-four, less the three who had been led away to Level Two, were in line.

Finally, the three of us. Fat Bob last of course.

Those in front of us received a bowl of gruel, a piece of bread and a cup of water.

The three of us at the end of the line received only a piece of bread and a cup of water. First meal initiation, I figured.

Fat Bob stood in line behind me. I could feel the vibrations of exasperation emanating from his being. If Initiates were allowed to express their emotions, Fat Bob would probably leap over the counter, kill of the cook, then start with a hefty portion of cook thigh.

After dinner, the three of us returned to our spot under the Tree of Commitment where we once again began practicing the fine art of waiting.

We waited some more.

Fat Bob began squirming. He either wanted to say something or the ants in his pants were starting to bore a tunnel into his pancreas.

The Asian and I both sensed the tension. We gazed up toward the top of the Tree of Commitment, avoiding Fat Bob who looked as if he needed to tell us something important, like how many kids he had and where he had spent his last nineteen vacations.

Just before sunset, a Guide finally showed up. He assigned Fat Bob abode Number thirty-one, on the south side, one hut from the mess hall. The Asian was assigned number forty-four, on the north side, twelve huts east of the mess hall. And I was given number fifty-two, also on the north side, eight huts east of the Asian, with the Tree of Commitment directly across from my front door.

The Guide showed us where to go to get firewood behind the mess hall and told us to be prepared to start a new life in the morning.

You’ll have much free time on Level One, he said. Don’t dwell on the past. You’ve already messed that up. And don’t dwell on the future. You’ve got plenty of time to mess that up when it gets here. Dwell on the present. Be here now.

My hut, or abode as it was called by the Guide, was about seven feet by ten feet. The narrow entryway was covered with a brown blanket rather than an actual solid door. No windows.

Inside, it contained a wooden bed with a thin mattress, a brown blanket, no sheets, a pillow, a small stool, a small end table, a half dozen candles, some wooden matches, a two-by-four throw rug and a tiny beehive fireplace in the far corner which was opposite the beehive fireplace in the adjacent abode, number fifty-one, to take advantage of a common chimney. Thirty-two abodes and sixteen chimneys on each side of the compound. Oregon could get quite chilly, especially at night.

I lit a small fire and settled in for the night, trying hard to dwell on the present.

Be here now, I mumbled to myself, just to see if my vocal cords still worked.

4

EMBRACING THE MOMENT

I slept soundly the first night but had a very stiff back in the morning.

The first order of business dealt with a trip to the rest room or latrine or whatever one would call it if one were allowed to speak. Modern fixtures. Sparkling clean. Toilets and sinks only, no showers or bathing facilities. Liquid soap out of a wall container. Paper towels. I brushed my teeth with my finger sans toothpaste. Plenty of early morning activity in the place. Pinned Initiates only. No talking. No eye contact.

Breakfast was less formal than dinner. It seemed we could wander in over about a two-hour period in no particular pecking order. Hard-boiled eggs, cereal, various fruits, bread, milk and water.

A Guide in a green robe behind the counter watched each Initiate fill his or her tray. Intuitively, I felt moderation was in order. I took one hard-boiled egg, an orange, a piece of bread and a cup of water. As I pulled away from the counter, I made eye contact with the Guide. I could tell from the glint in his eye that he approved. Going back for seconds was out of the question.

The mess hall opened up two additional times during the middle of the day, once in the late morning