Immortal Memories In Lost utk'Irtana: Lost utk'Irtana, #1

By Peter Genovese

Immortal Memories (In Lost utk'Irtana)

By Peter Genovese

IMMORTAL MEMORIES is an extraordinary journey to a land lost in time.

It is the year of 1905. Luke Murdock, an American, has joined a scientific expedition crossing the Himalayas on its way to Khotan a city set on the old Silk Road. The caravan never reaches its destination. Luke is stranded, left alone in the extremes of the great mountain range. After struggling for days to survive, by some miracle, he chances into a valley where he finds people  engaged in a pilgrimage involving a mystical learning.

 

Thus begins Luke's introduction to a strange country totally unknown to the outside world.

He travels across utk'Irtana, to Akshi, its ancient capital built inside a holy mountain. He explores Akshi's Great Archive and its ancient records, meets a woman who he is deeply drawn to, engages in esoteric ceremonies using a sacred blue water called Azu that transports him back into time. He joins a dangerous mission in an attempt to avert war with the primitive Tai'je.

 

Immortal Memories is an adventure story in the tradition of the Lost World genre of H. Rider Haggard, Michael Crichton, and James Hilton.It is a voyage across an unknown land, with travels back in time, and a man's search for his destiny in Lost utk'Irtana.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Aj Tz''ib Publishing
• Release date: Feb 25, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393007142

Peter Genovese

Peter Genovese is a writer, musician, global consultant, off the path traveler, academic, and Librarian. He has created Karmic Debris so that the words contained within would not be lost, nor those years of striving and growth be forgotten. His novel is entitled  Immortal Memories In Lost utk'Irtana  

Book preview

CLUES

THE COLLECTIVE UNCONSCIOUS is a type of genetic memory shared by individuals with a common ancestor or history. According to Carl Jung, the collective unconscious consists of implicit beliefs and thoughts held by our ancestors and retained by living individuals.

Berit Brogaard D.M

THE THEORY OF MUSIC traces its roots to the earliest intellectual pursuits of human species. When humankind sought to understand the cosmos, it did so through a science of harmonic tone relationship. It sought to both explain and experience the universe as a fundamental vibration, a Primal Sound, which manifested itself in the human world through a relationship of tones.

Nada Brahma, The Ancient Science of Sound

WE HAVE DRUNK THE SOMA and become immortal; we have attained the light that the Gods discovered. O Pavarnana, place me again in that deathless state, in an un-decaying world wherein the light of heaven is set and an everlasting luster shine.

Rigveda 8.48.3

ONE WHO HAS ACQUIRED the ability to perceive the spiritual realm comes to know past events in their eternal character. They do not stand before him like the dead testimony of history but appear in full life. In a certain sense, what has happened takes place before him.

Rudolf Steine

Part One: Lost and Wandering

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Figure 1  Luke Murdock

1 // From the Journal of Lucius Murdock

THE WINTER STORMS ARE just beginning. Soon they’ll explode out of the Jade Mountains and sweep down into the valleys of utk’Irtana, leaving a stark and frozen landscape in its wake. Ahead of these storms, the people of utk’Irtana will begin the annual migration to the Hidden City of Akshi where they will harbor through the freezing days ahead... as they have for ages.

As I endeavor to write about what I have seen here and experienced... I know it will be difficult for anyone who might read these words to believe ... there are times it is hard to accept myself... but every word will be true. This country is real, the wonderous events I have experienced actually happened, and the people I have come to know... some to love... truly do exist.

And so, I begin this tale of lost utk’Irtana...

IT WAS LATE SUMMER of 1905, and our train was climbing through the foothills of Northern India toward our destination, Srinagar. It was hot and stuffy, so I got up and walked to the back of the train car, stepped outside onto the iron back or the gangway as they call it, to have a smoke, try to cool off and watch the countryside slip by. There was an older Sikh gentleman already out there with the same idea.

We introduced ourselves, and talked for a while, exchanging various pleasantries, during which time I mentioned that I would soon be crossing the Himalayas on an expedition. He was a rather elegant, well-educated man and was quite interested in what I had to say. He told me of his own experiences in the mountains when he was younger. It was a good conversation and before he left to go in, he turned to me and said something quite sincerely.

Mr. Murdock, you are young, and I expect both brave and well-prepared for the many dangers you will undoubtedly face in those peaks. But I will presume to advise you if I may, to be conscious of one additional danger, perhaps less obvious... specifically it is the nature of the wind in those high elevations.

India is a land of deep spiritual beliefs; we are perhaps a more sensitive people in certain matters than some in the west. For instance, the wind is indeed a powerful force. Its gales are quite capable of pushing a person literally off the mountainside, but that is obvious and not what I wish to warn you about.  

Rather it is the mystical qualities inherent in the wind that you must beware of.

"Mystical? I said.

Yes... you see, we believe the wind has sacred qualities... that it is in fact, a deity and as such, it can exert it’s influence on a person. This can be in the form of subtle assistance, guiding, sympathizing ... or the wind can trigger serious difficulties, danger, even death. It is said to drive some people mad.

You must be careful my friend, stay conscious and aware of this mystical nature... respect it and acknowledge its power.

He looked at me with a strange look in his eyes.

I thanked him for his advice and concern, although at that time I can’t say I grasped his warning

However, now as I look back on what I have endured in the emptiness of the great heights and the outcomes I’ve accrued, his words ring strangely true.

I have sensed the power in the wind he spoke of and I have felt shadowed by its silent, mesmerizing influence.

OUR TRAIN MADE ITS way through the hills of Kashmir until we arrived at the bustling town of Srinagar, where the British Raj escape the torrid summers of the Indian plains.

It was to be the starting point of our expedition.

My colleague, Dr. Richard Fallon, an American archaeologist, was the leader of our effort and also my traveling companion. He was well-known in his field and hoped to be the first American to make a name in the race for discovery of antiquities. Our aims in coming to Srinagar were essentially to outfit the expedition, hire a competent guide and bearers, purchase pack animals and equipment, and then, obtain the necessary travel approvals from the government.

Richard had selected me to serve as orientalist and linguist, giving me my first opportunity to use the knowledge I had acquired studying classic languages and ancient history at the University under the tutelage of the fine scholar and family friend, Professor Andor de Koros.  

It was Professor Koros who had instilled in me my intense passion for the past, and it was his reputation that presented the prospect for me to meet with Dr. Fallon, which led to my joining the expedition.

Strange how the dominoes of fate fit together to shape a person’s destiny.

THREE DAYS AFTER WE succeeded in completing all our tasks, we began our march towards the Himalayas, leaving Srinagar far behind. We followed the Jhelum River into the countryside, passing through a lush, green land of picturesque villages and manicured tea plantations. The sun was warm on our backs and our expectations were high.

Once past the foothills, we began our ascent into the great heights, trekking upward toward the far side of the range, pushing ever further into the Kush. Each day filled with challenging climbs, magnificent vistas, and once we reached the upper elevations... long, cold nights.

Dr. Fallon’s plan was to cross over the great range and journey down to the far side, where we would use the regional city of Khotan on the edge of the Taklamakan Desert as our home base. From there we were to begin our search for the ruins of ancient trading cities that had once thrived along what is called the old Silk Road.

These cities had been perfectly positioned to exploit the bounty of the caravan route and also blessed with a rich soil, fed by glacial runoff, that produced bountiful crops... advantages that had lasted for centuries.

But as the glaciers retreated and the overland trading route was replaced by a cheaper, faster sea route, the rich cities began to wither... and eventually were abandoned, many disappearing even from memory, buried beneath the blowing sand of the Taklamakan.

In those early days the influence of China and India had been significant, but it had been a crossroad for ages, a melting pot, populated not only by Chinese and Indians, but by numerous other ethnic groups: Persians, Tocharians, Parthians, Steppe people, Tibetans all benefitting from trade and exchange.

Greek conquerors had come under Alexander leaving profound pieces of culture and influence planted all across the region, as had the Turks and the Mongols; even the Romans had passed along the route.

This diversity of people and beliefs resulted in an intermixing of races, fueling the rise and fall of city-states and societies: forming, warring, absorbing, blending, leaving seeds of art, thought and religion everywhere.

In the evening, after a day’s march, Dr. Fallon and I would sit in his tent and discuss this rich complex history, reading diaries of ancient Buddhist travelers and monks who had passed along the Silk Road ages ago, hoping their accounts might lead us to buried cities. I felt I was living a scholar’s dream.

Each day we climbed higher, marching ever deeper into the blank spaces on the map.

Our caravan included several men we had hired to guide us, manage the animals, and set up or pack the camp each day. They were all hard working, experienced caravanners who mostly kept to themselves ... two were Jats from Bharatpur, one was a Kashmiri, and there were three Pathans, along with a Chinese cook.

One evening after a hard day’s climb, the men were unloading the animals and setting up the tents. I sat watching as Samoor al-Bokhari, our lead guide, a Pashtun man, was directing them, something he did very efficiently each night.

Samoor and I had become comrades of sorts, often sitting by the campfire late into the night, drinking tea, discussing life, laughing. He’d tell me about his family or quote the Koran to prove a point. I’d explain the aims of the expedition or something about my life back in the States. He was a fine, curious man with a good grasp of history and a mind capable of brilliant moments of deduction.

Like many Pashtuns he was tall and thin, with greying black hair and a neat Muslim beard, a man of devotion and discernment.

He and his wife Ashura and their three children lived in Kashmir on a houseboat moored on the lake near Srinagar. Samoor had served many caravans over the years, acquiring a reputation for diligence, capability and trust. We had been lucky to get him.

On that fateful night, a great wind suddenly kicked up and started to howl, causing all the men to struggle desperately trying to stop the tents from blowing away.

As the wind intensified, a ferocious snowstorm collapsed on us from the mountain tops with cascading waves of snow and ice.

It was brutal; the storm enveloped everything, tearing the camp apart with arctic cold winds and sharp, frozen pellets.

So intense and painful was it, that I had to give up my efforts helping the men and was forced to curl up in a ball for protection against the onslaught... snow piling up around me. The sound of the storm became deafening.

WHEN THE TERRIBLE SOUND at last abated, it was replaced by a total silence almost as frightening as the sound.

Picking myself up and shaking the snow off, I looked around and saw... nothing... just an endless flat plain of snow... surrounded by nearby mountain tops.

I couldn’t understand it.

Where is the camp? Where are the men and the animals? How could everything just disappear without a trace? I thought.

I began shouting, calling out to my companions. Samoor are you there! Dr. Fallon? Where are you?

No replies came.

Running through knee-deep snow, I began searching for any small sign or debris left of the camp, but I found nothing, not a scrap, not a hat. I asked myself, Could I have wandered so far from the camp? It seemed to me that I had hardly moved.

I wondered, Had there been an avalanche?

I thought in bewilderment, Which way could the camp be? I searched everywhere, in each direction.

But I found nothing...

The desperate reality of my situation then suddenly became absolutely clear. I fell into a kind of shock from that realization.

Everything is gone, everyone has disappeared, and are probably dead!

I’m totally alone... lost!

These thoughts all collided in my mind!

I lay down on the snow... retreating inwardly, subconsciously avoiding the hard truth. I lay that way for some time in a kind of stupor... with the wind blowing around me.

Finally... with immense effort, I picked myself up, although I remained in a semi-detached state, becoming more observer than participant. I saw myself from a distance, heard a steadier voice in my head... that seemed to say...

You mustn’t give up!

I had no compass and only the vaguest idea of where I was. As the snow began to fall again, there was nothing left for me to do but begin moving in some direction, and in that way, fight my way forward.

I walked for a time until darkness began to fall. I knew the frozen nighttime cold would soon be upon me and I had nothing to protect myself from it, so I began searching for any kind of shelter.

I finally chanced upon a circle of rocks wedged against a low hill and thought, maybe the stones could at least be windbreak.

By that point, the blowing snow with its constant whiteness had caused me to become partly snow-blind, my vision was impaired and I was nearly exhausted.

So, I climbed into the protection of those rocks, curling up in the empty space in middle of the stone circle. As I lay there, I noticed under one large rock there was a sizeable hole. Clawing more dirt out of it, I sought to make it a bigger space, which I succeeded in doing.

Compressing my frame into a tight ball, I wedged myself into the hole, huddling inside the cavity, shivering, until my body slowly began generating a modicum of warmth in the tight space.

With the wind howling above the rocks, I lay there shaking. After a while my body succumbed to exhaustion and I fell into a frozen sleep of oblivion.

2 // Stranded and Lost!

DAWN EMERGED; THE STORM subsided.

Luke stirred. His diminished sight had mostly returned. At first light he took stock of his situation.

There was no sign of the expedition, not a single comrade had appeared. He was utterly alone with only the clothes on his back and a small rucksack he had with him when the storm hit, holding a few possessions and a tiny bit of food. His situation was transparent and dire.

He had two options: give up... or walk.

He walked ... but as he did, he began calling out the names of his companions in a hopeless chant, his mind teetering on the edge...

Dr. Fallon!! ... Samoor!! he cried!

The mountains echoed backed...

Samoor... Samoor ... Samoor.

He walked on till sunset, crossing one plateau after another, each devoid of life, passing mountaintops with no names or numbers.

Time pasted, semi-hypnotized, his meagre supplies depleted, he ate snow or chewed any stick or plant he might chance upon... in a vain attempt to subdue the gnawing hunger growing inside of him.

When darkness fell, he’d crawl behind another rocky protrusion and spend the night in a state of shivering, half sleep, his mind full of jumbled thoughts.

DAYS PASSED IN SLOW motion.

Each morning he’d pick himself up and walk on, empty of thought, moving ever forward, one foot following the other, without conscious direction. The act of moving forward his sole mission: not to escape, not for rescue, just to keep moving!

Step, step, one more step... past the bleak granite peaks enclosed by low hanging clouds, past the unchanging white landscape. This became his world.

Step, step, step...

Then... late one afternoon, as he crossed a high pass, he spotted the mere shadow of a trail, worn by some forgotten feet.

On instinct, he followed it through a crack in the mountain. In his mind he began to fan a tiny ember of hope.

Could this lead somewhere, to somebody? he wondered.

The trail followed a long, narrow canyon, its walls stretching straight above him.

He walked on, the path curved, narrowing ... until it opened up into a wider area with more high walls; he kept walking until he arrived at the far end, where he found... a solid wall!

It was a blind canyon!

Frantically he searched in every direction. It leads nowhere! he shouted.

He stood, hopelessly staring at the wall, finally he fell on his knees, his head in his hands, the slight hope that he had clung to now extinguished. His composure evaporated. Complete hopelessness overwhelmed him; he lay on the ground and wept... uncontrollably.

But then, just as his spirit was about to reach a breaking point, a revelation, he chanced to glance up and noticed a dark spot on the side of the mountain above him.

What is that? he asked.

Desperate for even a temporary relief from the elements, for any improvement to his condition, he frantically climbed towards the shadow, scrambling upward until he reached an opening in the cliff side.

Entering it, he discovered the cocoon of a cave.

Free at last from the wind, free from the blistering cold, the cave transformed into a healing balm. He crawled next to a wall, curled up and closed his eyes.

3 // Discovery

THE HOWL OF THE WIND woke him... always the wind, he thought.

Another blizzard was revving up outside, but he had no intention of struggling against it today. Although weak from hunger, at least for the moment he felt secure.

Getting up stiffly he decided to explore the cave. He walked towards the back of the cavern and realized it was far larger and deeper than he’d thought. As he went further in, the cavern narrowed and became a low shaft about three feet above his head, tunneling into the mountain.

Luke’s heart jumped when he noticed something attached to the darkened wall.  It appeared to be some sort of wooden frame primitively attached to the wall. No doubt a relic of some bygone time. He guessed it might have been a torch holder.

But why was it here in this obscure cave?

Who could have built this and for what reason?

He kept walking deeper into the inky darkness.

As he did, he kept his right hand touching the wall, guiding him. He moved slowly and cautiously forward, feeling his way along the murky passage, holding his left arm out in front of him, in case he encountered a sudden wall.

How deep can this go? he wondered, inching into the darkness.

His left arm hit a wall, the cave angled sharply to the right, then, again to the left.

He inched painstakingly forward.

Finally... far ahead of him, he began to see... something?

What is that...? Then he realized it was the faintest pinpoint of light! His mind began racing.

Hope reawakened. It’s a tunnel!

He rushed towards the light.

When he reached the far end, he stepped out of the cave and into bright sunlight, and he was immediately caressed by a gentle gust of warm breeze.

His first thought was. Where’s the storm?

Above him the sun was shining almost at its zenith and the bitter weather that had been howling outside the cave on the far side was nowhere to be found.

Then Luke saw a miraculous sight!

A few hundred feet below him, down a path, was a valley, with trees, plants and grass growing.

He immediately descended towards this wondrous mirage until he finally reached a grove of trees at the bottom, verdant with living things... and a brook... water!! He cried out!

Throwing himself down on his stomach, he drank deeply from it until his thirst was sated. After days of eating snow, real water tasted like nectar.

He felt delirious lying next to the brook, soaking up the sun streaming through the trees. The soothing sound of the water whispered to him, it lulled him into dozing. He lay there drifting.

When he opened his eyes again, the sun’s position had changed, it was lower in the sky, later in the day. He must have slept for some time.

Staring across the valley, he reconnoitered.

His eyes were immediately drawn to a massive granite escarpment on the far side of the forest. It stood like a stone guardian in the middle of the valley.

It was huge, easily a thousand feet high.

Gazing up at it he looked to the very top of the escarpment, where something caught his attention.

What’s that up there? Are those buildings? he asked himself; his mind reeling at the possibility.

My God! he cried out. Could there be people up there!

Looking carefully, he rejected that idea. No... how could that be? It must be some sort of ruin! Why would anyone build on such an extreme location? Why in such an isolated canyon? And how could anyone get up to the top of that giant rock?

Then he saw how.  

Running at an acute angle, leading directly up to the buildings on top, was an extraordinary path that ran along the entire cliff-face, with hair-raising drops on the open side.

My God! what a climb! he thought.

His eyes followed the line of the ledge, tracing it upward. At the beginning it was fairly wide, with small bushes and plants growing along the trail. But as it ascended higher, much higher, the path narrowed, until for the last third of the climb it appeared to be drangs as they are called by the Tibetans, narrow ledges that are constructed on mountains with little or no other way up.

Drangs were made of wood, earth, and rock, carefully pinioned to the cliff face, sometimes no more than a few feet wide, going upward... in this case, for hundreds of feet to the top.

He sat down again, staring at the escarpment.

A memory began surfacing in his brain. And although his mind was clouded by fatigue, something was there.

What is it! He asked himself. Try to remember! Blurry thoughts emerged...

Wait! he thought... I remember now; it was a story the Professor had told him about the myth of Manu... and the ancient Rishis! The sages in the Vedas.

The professor had said, The holy books tell us that during the earliest times, a great flood came, with rains that fell unceasingly. And the sea rose up and a great wave crashed in, covering the land. The sea kept rising as the rain fell.

Luke’s memory began filling with the Professor’s words. It pulled him back to the library in his parent’s home during his days at the University. He’d spent many hours there, reading holy books in their original languages: Sanskrit, Greek, Old Persian, Hebrew. It had been a magical time for him, reading words written by ancient souls.

Manu was like Noah, the professor had explained, a chosen one who built a boat as the Gods directed him and on it, he took the seeds of mankind, along with seven wise men, the sacred Rishis. 

"For many days the rains continued to fall, covering the land. The boat was buffeted by waves nearly overwhelming it, until at last, the storm ceased, and the waters slowly began to recede.

Finally, the boat came to rest on land."

It has been said, the Professor explained, that Manu landed somewhere in the ancient Sarasvati River Valley, near the Great Range. The siddhas in India say that was over 10,000 years ago.

Luke had raised his eyebrows briefly at this comment.

The Professor had looked at him disapprovingly, and said, Luke, you shouldn’t doubt. This is not a myth to them, what the Vedas say is history.

After this Great Flood, he went on, a new home of mankind developed, built with other survivors and guided by the Seven Rishis. Sacred texts teach us that the people multiplied, and great cities were formed. A high culture of spirit grew. It is said that all Vedic literature, yoga, wisdom-seeking, wisdom-ruling, sprang from this golden age and from that place.

Luke’s memory began fading.

His mind was racing. He felt dizzy; he lay down on the grass still caught up in the recollections of those days with his family. He could almost hear the sounds of their voices outside the study, feel the warmth of the fireplace burning in the city of his birth... now so far away.

Abruptly, the Professor’s voice materialized again, as if he was sitting right next to him.

Luke, the professor had said. The myth says that the holy rishis sensed their work was complete and they left the cities on the plains, with each Rishis going in a different direction, carrying a message of wisdom to the outside world... with the exception of one solitary Rishi. He climbed into the great mountains and was followed by his devotees. They traveled higher, deeper, further, across the frozen range climbing for endless days through perils and challenges, going ever higher.

The Rishi sought a sanctuary of peace, a place away from the noise of the world, until at last he found such a holy place.

Then the Professor stopped and had laughed. He took off his spectacles, cleaned them and said, My boy, you must forgive a foolish old scholar. I’ve spent a lifetime studying these sacred texts, and I’ve come to believe everything that is written in them.

They both had laughed, and Luke had poured them each another cup of coffee.

LUKE’S EYES FELL ON the butte.

What’s up there? he asked himself.

He was weak from hunger and his mind was clouded. Those are only myths! he thought.

But as he looked back up at the building on the very top of the butte... what he saw shocked him... Smoke was rising from the building!

My God! he exclaimed out loud, standing bolt upright.

Someone is up there!

Hope exploded in him! Hope for food, for warmth.

He immediately began crossing the valley, walking and running through the green fields towards the great stone cliff face, stopping for nothing until he reached the base of the escarpment.

The sun was beginning to dip towards the mountaintops... evening would soon be approaching.

Undaunted, he began climbing the escarpment, easily at first, passing through areas where bushes and weeds clung to the wide path. As he climbed, it became steeper and higher, until his breath came in labored gasps, his lungs burned, and his legs felt like rubber.

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Figure 2  The Drangs

SUDDENLY, UNEXPECTEDLY, he looked down in  sheer terror of the deadly drop below!

He turned his back to the precipice, pushed his face into the wall and with his arms on either side of him he clung to the wall. 

I can’t do it! he said out loud, clinging for his life on the edge of the cliff. He was paralyzed with fear, starving, near physical collapse; desperate thoughts filled his mind. As he clung to the wall, the only sounds he heard were the wind, his ragged breathing, and the pounding of his heart.

Then, without any warning, something began to happen.

It was as if a veil was lifted... a new thought began to emerge in his consciousness.

It grew inside of him as he clung to the cliff wall high above the valley. Where the thought came from, he couldn’t say, but it existed, somehow, in a place beyond fear.

Something was happening!

He turned and faced the path.

Keeping his eyes cast down, away from the drop off, he started moving again, slowly, carefully, inching his way forward, until he began climbing with more assurance.

By now the sun was sinking into the embrace of the mountains. Darkness would soon be upon him.

Then he heard a sound!

It was carried on the wind... very faint, far in the distance, coming from above him!

He strained to hear it.

What is that?

There it is again! he thought excitedly.

It was a pulsating tone... It sounds like... human voices. He couldn’t be sure of what it was, but he was hearing something. He concentrated intently... 

Suddenly a sense of prescience began permeating in his mind. 

He sensed that whatever waited for him at the top of the butte was going to transform him, that it would remain with him until his last breath of life.

Why or how he thought this he couldn’t say, but he believed it!

He began climbing without hesitation now, forgetting his fear and hunger, forgetting he was near collapse, moving upward toward the summit, toward the sound of human voices.

As night fell, he approached the top

4 // At the Summit

AS HE APPROACHED THE summit, the sound became more pronounced. He had no doubt that he was hearing human voices... it was chanting.

By the time he reached the top, it was quite dark. He crouched cautiously on the edge of the precipice, his eyes scanning 180 degrees in front of him.

The dark night blended with the last vestige of sinking sun in the distance, turning everything into a sublime, blue hue.

The words L’heure bleu suddenly came to his mind, an expression he had heard in Paris. It seemed to fit perfectly: the blue hour.

The sound of the chanting was close.

Careful, he whispered to himself. Learn who they are.

A short distance from where he crouched was a complex of buildings stretching away from him, more like a small village. The extent of it had been blocked from his view down below. Low storied buildings were set on narrow streets.

The sound of the chanting stopped.

He froze, listening. There was no movement anywhere, no people.

Beyond the buildings, on the far side of the village, he could see an open field of high grass, and beyond that, a forest of pines and deciduous trees running upward towards the highest point on the butte.

Luke turned behind him and looked one last time at the impossible trail he had just climbed. The final vestige of light from the sun was disappearing behind the mountains.

He felt light-headed.

The chanting began again, louder this time. He turned and cautiously walked towards the sound that was coming from the nearest building.

Carefully approaching the low structure, he could see it was well-built, with its’ walls made of a kind of plaster and an overhanging roof. Dim light was filtering out from inside, escaping by way of several narrow openings that ran just below the roofline about ten feet above his head. 

A single, narrow window also ran perpendicularly from the ground level straight up. He edged towards it; his body pressed flat against the building. Making his way to the window, he cautiously peered inside.

The chanting stopped again.

The view inside was entrancing.

In the low light, he saw a large room. More than a dozen men were sitting on the floor, each on a small rug. They began chanting again; the men’s eyes were closed, and they appeared deep in concentration.

On each side of the room were raised platforms, like two small stages, set in shadows, both had colorful material, like flags or streamers hanging down from the ceiling over the stage.

On the pillars that supported the roof, symbols were painted in vibrant colors that seemed to be some kind of writing. It was a script that reminded Luke of Sanskrit, but in a language he couldn’t determine.

On one of the raised platforms, a man and a woman were sitting, accompanying the chant with musical sounds, played on a collection of bronze bowls and bells. The man gently struck a series of hanging bells with wooden mallets, while the women used a small bow-like object playing it along the edges of large brass bowls. Rich, gentle, vibrating tones radiated out into the room.

In front of the room, a man was sitting on a low, cushioned chair covered in dark red material. He wore a cream-colored robe; his greyish hair was tied in a knot on top of his head. His eyes were closed, and it seemed to Luke, although perhaps it was just his exhausted state, that a glow of light or dust was emanating from this man and spreading out into the room, surrounding and slightly illuminating each of the men who sat chanting.

The man on the chair sat silent and unmoving.

It was an unbelievable vision, a miracle at the end of such a grueling journey. Luke had been transported from abject hopelessness... to a magical apparition.

The barest of sounds came from behind him. He turned and saw three men standing behind him.

To his eye, two of the men looked somewhat Tibetan, while the third man appeared more Indian or Persian. The taller man was slimmer, his hair and beard were both jet black, his complexion was lighter, and his piercing black eyes were looking directly at Luke.

No one said anything.

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Figure 3  The Blue Hour

EACH MAN WAS WEARING a sturdy grey robe and a woven, dome shaped hat. The look on their faces was neutral, but Luke detected a hint of surprise and perhaps, even caution. 

The Persian looking man in the middle smiled at Luke, while the two other men nodded their heads reassuringly, then gave him a small bow. Luke returned the bow and smiled back at the bearded man.

He sensed no danger or threat from any of them. The tall man pointed to his left, which Luke understood to mean he should walk in that direction.

The four of them began moving down the street towards the center of the small village, still without a word having been spoken. As they walked, the chanting faded in the distance, but never quite disappeared.

Luke was glad; it gave him a sense of comfort. It was the beacon that had kept him moving up the drangs towards the summit.

The streets were deeply worn, the buildings were archaic in design; it all appeared quite ancient.

The men made a sharp left turn and continued down a small alleyway running between two buildings, finally stopping in front of a door with a blue canopy over their heads. The bearded man opened the door and motioned Luke to enter.

Luke walked into a darkish room with smooth, plastered floor and walls, colored in a greyish tone. On the floor lay a rug, woven in deep blue and purple colors with a dark maroon background. It was woven in a unique style that he didn’t recognize. It was thick and left a rich feeling under his feet. The opulent colors were stunning after days of desolate landscapes.

At the far end of the room, a fireplace was burning, the embers smoldering, with welcoming warmth pushing out towards him. A simple wooden chair sat in front of the fireplace. Cushions were scattered about the floor; there were no ornaments or pictures decorating the walls. It felt like heaven to Luke.

The men stood patiently watching him. When Luke turned towards them to speak the bearded man pointed to a short hallway with some narrow stairs at the end. Luke followed the corridor and climbed up the stairs, the three men following him. He came to a door at the top, opened it and stepped inside.

On one side of the room he had entered was a low sleeping platform. It had thick, warm-looking covers on it. On the far wall was a chair and table with a steaming bowl of food and a ceramic container, which he supposed held something to drink.

He turned to the men to thank them, but before he could say anything, they all made a kind of double fist, putting both hands in front of their foreheads, and together, they bowed to him. Two of the men immediately left the room, but the dark-haired man remained. He smiled at Luke one last time, bowed again, and then left, leaving Luke alone.

Without hesitating, Luke went directly to the table. He was utterly famished. It was a delicious stew. He noticed a robe and a change of clothing laying on the bed. Next to the bed was a low table with a basin and a large ceramic jug next to it with steaming hot water.

They saw me coming, he surmised.

He ate the thick stew hungrily, but slowly, so as not to sicken himself after days without anything. He drank the warm liquid, a sweet, buttered