Karma: The Crosswinds

By Edwin R. R. Floyd

The Crosswinds is a story of adventure and discovery. It tracks the life of the main character from his early years growing up in rural Texas to his experiences as an enlisted member, an officer in the military, and the challenges and events that lead him to search for understanding of his life and destiny. The title, The Crosswinds, is an allegory of life and flying as a pilot that details the unexpected, inexplicable, and mysterious events of existence in a world of excitement and wonder. A key to the perplexing nature of his search are the unexpected events that take him to places rarely visited by those with conventional careers and those who do not experience unique spiritual and paranormal events.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 8, 2020
• ISBN: 9781645446651

Book preview

Chapter One

As I struggle down the narrow ledge, I see where our pony fell. It was old and scrawny when we bought it from a ragtag vendor in Kabul. The vendor stated that its Siberian heritage would ensure good service. I doubted his words but discounted its appearance, ignorant of the hardships we would face.

In the cold and lack of sustenance, its infirmities combined with the difficult terrain render it unable to negotiate the uneven, slippery trail. It missteps, loses its footing close to the edge of the trail. The crumbling rock and ice of the catwalk collapse. It struggles momentarily, whinnies in distress. Then falls in frozen-frame speed, hooves scraping rock, rasping of hide on ice, and plummets into the ravine, legs flailing, finding no firm purchase, silently. So silently!

I hear the impact, the rush as the collision forces air from the lungs. I hear the gasps of my companions. We watch in dismay. We know the implications, finally, of this strange traverse.

That has been ten days ago.

Now, I am colder than the last time I remember being cold, a day guarding the perimeter of an air base in South Dakota. There, the weather moved over the plain in dark, dense clouds delivering feathery, irregular snowflakes that precede blizzards. Then it drove into my face like needles, propelled by the gale-force north wind. I was cold, but not hungry. Now I am cold and hungry. Very hungry. And very tired.

*****

The first days of the trek are uneventful, easy, full of sights and sounds of the country. We trek up the huge high valley of Kabul, fording the river several times as the road and the stream follow the gentle slopes of the valley. Finally, we branch off onto the trail that leads us eastward toward that long finger of land pointed directly at the heart of China. Old and weary, our pony walks behind us.

We pass fields of vines climbing stakes bearing grapes to dry in the sun, later to be consumed with rice. Fields are prepared, where melons, potatoes, and corn are sowed for harvest. Occasionally we pass pastures with goats and enclosures with horses tethered with ropes.

The country is green, fresh from water provided by late snow. In depressions along the trail, the water runs clear and fast, flowing over low places that will be bridges when dryness of desert defeats deep snows of the mountains. We stroll through villages. Houses are under repair from the winter. There are brick yards where men toil with wet clay and straw, creating bricks to repair damage to houses and compound walls.

Trees are in bloom. The pink and white flowers of apple and pear are splashes of color against the red earth and incredible blue sky.

We climb gradually, across dry, rocky hills where cactus and desert plants flourish in uncommon varieties of prickly leaves and flowers. Scrawny limbs of trees holding blooms of pink and blue display leaves of powdery green like desert sage in West Texas.

The days become long strolls, like ones I took long ago in the forest and hills of Bastrop park.

We rise with the sun dim on the horizon. Ahmed and Raami place prayer rugs on the ground, face east, and submit. We consume tea and naan, a native bread, with yogurt, and slices of melon haggled from a farmer. We suck our tea across lumps of sugar held between our teeth.

Our travel is leisurely. There is no sense of urgency. We are sure our goal’s inaccessibility will make our journey little more than a stop along a mountain path.

We gain the deep mountains, ease by a range of snowy peaks reflecting sunlight of early morning, high desert air sweet and pure.

At day’s end, the mountains are with us. Castles of the sky, formed by wind, rain, snow, and ice, they emphasize our insignificance. At dawn and dusk they are green, purple, colored by shadows tinted by minerals and remains of sea animals captured by heavy seas on ancient seabeds. Always, in the morning, at noon, in the evening, the peaks reflect light like diamonds displayed on dark velvet, predicting the incredible beauty of stars shining through thin atmosphere, a sea of light pointing toward forever.

We sleep outdoors. Layers of cloth enfold us. We wrap in the clothes and blankets used during the day to protect us from the sun and to cover our body when privacy is needed. Mornings, we shake thin layers of frost from our blankets and packs.

We move toward our destination with measured steps. Streams of white water crash down ravines, roaring a powerful song, grinding granite with stones captured above, the water barely above freezing. I take my blanket from my head, unfold it, place it over one shoulder. As the chill of evening flows down from the heights, I wrap it around my shoulders, imitating Ahmed and Raami in their efforts to stay warm.

Occasionally, there is a village. Isolated, the inhabitants have the tools for self-sustenance. Small shops display herbal remedies, clothes made from wolfskins, vests made of wool and fox fur, black and gray hats of finely curled sheep wool sewn with bone needles. There are sewing materials, trinkets, small purses with mirrors the size of pennies stitched into embroidered fabrics. The villages contain makers of pots, men who work in metals and wood and construct guns, knives, and implements for trade.

High sun is time for Pashtun fare. We stop at the teahouses in the villages. We enter, adjust our blankets over one shoulder, take seats on the edge of the rug, and await recognition. The occupants are hospitable, willing to show their virtue as hosts to travelers and strangers.

This teahouse is a covered, packed-earth patio, hung with rugs and skins to shut out the wind. Its walls have small windows covered with hide scraped thin, allowing bright desert sun to penetrate interior gloom. The best have large tribal rugs on dirt floors, colored in dark maroons, pinks, blues, greens, often showing the ravages of rainy, wintry days. The worst have reed mats worn through with holes caused by great use, infested with fleas.

A wood fire in a tin container provides heat for the samovar boiling water for tea. There are eggs poached in butter from the goats corralled in the caravanserai. Lamb roasts outside over a bed of coals, filling the air with an aroma of promised deliciousness. That promise is kept.

Always there is the tea. Ahmed and Raami rinse their glasses, then dump them before filling anew with dark, strong tea. Not knowing really why, taking it as customary like some libation to the gods, I do the same. The tea is hot and aromatic. Some of the diners have holders for the glasses, hammered from silver and filigreed with floral designs. One can look through the designs to admire the tea’s deep amber. Sugar is a lump on a metal plate. I break off a chunk, place it between my teeth, imitate the others, and sip the strong, aromatic, delicious brew between my lips.

Flat corrugated bread I have become accustomed to is served with flat, very thin bread. I pull a strip from the loaf and dip into the eggs viewing me on chipped pottery. I marvel as the wonderful taste calms the rumblings of anticipation.

They are curious. We are cautious. We respond to their questions, give the impression we are travelers and writers exploring the wondrous ways of their valley. Afghans, curious but proud, suspicious yet naive, accept our story and present the hospitality required by tradition.

Food is served in a huge aluminum bowl. There are platters of meat, vegetables arrayed on both sides, and rice. We eat with our right hand. I break thick brown chunks of rice from the bowl where heat has burned it to toasty crispies. Ahmed and Raami laugh, knowing my preference for tadiq, a favorite of children in Asia.

*****

As we struggle to save ourselves in this harsh environment, my mind dwells on the past, the emotional and physical encounters of my life. The intense cold takes my thoughts to warm places in my mind where wonderful things exist. I remember the bitter finalities of loves I experienced. The warmth and the joy, the anticipation and the excitement, all congeal in the cold as my thoughts reach the end of it all. We push through boulder-strewn terrain always upward, at times in snow waist-deep, at times in quick storms of amazing intensity, blowing snow with finely ground granite in our faces. I seek to understand my feelings. I track them through my mind as I track deep footsteps in the snow. I ponder this odious time as my mind drifts back to days and events that brought me pain, that brought me joy, thoughts that sap my survival effort, my mental and physical energy. I am powerless to put them aside. The stress, the lack of oxygen, places me in this dreamlike trance. Then there is the question: What the hell am I doing here? Why am I here?

Do Raami and Ahmad have such thoughts? Does their culture preclude them? Their treatment of women, the studied disdain except for physical pleasures, makes me think not. Is sex, curiosity, selfishness, egotism, want, and need what has driven me into the arms of others? Over and over, it is always the same. The search for knowledge. The satisfaction of curiosity, the conquest, not always initiated by me but involving me in a ritual of physical exploration and revelation. Why does it begin so early? What makes children wander to some quiet, hidden porch and disrobe, probe with curious eyes, gentle fingers, the differences of physiology, form, smell, texture? I will never forget those childhood happenings. Has she forgotten me? Does she remember, with some blush of knowledge or guilt, what we learned from each other? Does she wonder, as I do, the impact this has on relationships with others?

Raami and Ahmad struggle ahead of me. Their penetrations in the deep snow make my way a little easier. Soon I must lead. Soon the intense effort will force my brain to step-by-step achievement, blotting out thoughts except to breathe in this atmosphere, at this height, in this cold, somehow to keep warm and dry. This has been the pattern for days. It will remain the pattern for two more if we are lucky.

If we are lucky.

In two days the black box will be ours. Then the descent. Now, I struggle. I dream of childhood discovery and the wonderment of children at curious play.

*****

We are lost.

Uncertain of our direction and progress, in disillusionment, hopelessness, and panic, I pray. I pray the pony is there. It is!

Its carcass is a hundred feet below the ledge. Frozen. Legs broken, extended at odd angles into the subfreezing air, grotesque in a hideous vision of death, yet promising. I killed it where it landed with a single shot from the ledge where we now stand, once again, this time in remorse and fear, wretched and ragged in profound shock and debilitating misery, overwhelmed by a knowledge of failure and hunger.

The black box is gone. Our food is gone. The snow we eat for moisture weakens us even more.

Desperate in ways hunger makes men desperate, we descend the frozen, slippery embankment to the last chance we have, holding on to one another’s ragged gloves, sharing what strength is left in us, fearful and shaking.

I touch the horse with my hand, feeling the rough ice of frozen hair and hide, look into the crystal pureness of frozen eyes. I wonder if, through clarity of the lens, it is aware of our presence, our desperation, our intent. Somehow, I expect the pony to pull back as it sometimes did, with a toss of its head on early morning, protesting the blanket and the saddle.

I pull my knife from the scabbard to penetrate the hide, steellike from the cold. It does not yield. In panic, with the strength of hunger, I stab it. The pain of impact courses up my arm, tells me that action is senseless. With determination I saw at the frozen hide.

This is more than I can handle. We are going to die here.

Chapter Two

Saffron?

I am awake.

Saffron? Golden light?

It comes in glimmers of subtle shades.

A brightness of sun on ice.

A clearing of high mountain clouds opens, and light shines through wooden shutters in streams of molten gold, hung with moats of dust, with filaments of brightest fiber, iridescent, reflecting the spectrum, violets, blues, greens, yellows, oranges, reds, pinks, magentas!

I am in a room!

A cold room.

Slowly my eyes penetrate the dark corners, no longer captured by brightness that causes my pupils to contract.

There is a chair. Not much of a chair. No back. More of a stool. Rough cut. Utilitarian. Leather for the seat.

A rug. Of no great merit, rusty and brown, coarse-woven, stained, or perhaps of different colors of wool, more like a mat of woven hair than a rug.

The bed creaks as I move.

It is low, scarcely a foot from the floor, high enough for crisscross of ropes to suspend a thin mattress above the floor.

My body sags with the curve of the ropes.

The floor is stone fit closely, with no mortar. A fine veneer of grit, barely visible, rests upon them.

I shift again.

The bed creaks. The ropes make noise ropes make when stretched.

There is a chest. Rough-hewn. Sturdy. The planks are thick and splintery. Old, very old.

A candle glimmers in a shallow bowl. The bowl is gray. It looks like rock. The wick is black. The candle is short and looks used, in need of replacing. The wick smokes thinly below the base of the flame.

A smell of smoke in the air.

Not woodsmoke. Not candle smoke.

Smoke.

Smoke I have smelled in camps along our trek in the mountains.

Dung. Dung fires.

I lapse into a dream of men in long robes with cloth-wrapped heads, hands joined, dancing in a large circle, chanting, the smell of hashish, camels, and sheep in the air.

The saffron floats away.

Blackness!

*****

I awake!

The bed is made of wood. It is a frame. Beneath the thin mattress, ropes are woven to make small squares that support me.

I move.

The ropes creak.

I hear a chime, a tinkling of metal or hard, baked clay. A whir of something spins on an axis, makes a noise like tops I spun on hard-packed earth in the school yard long ago.

I move.

The bed creaks.

The room is cold, but I am warm.

The room is cold. My breath fogs above me.

The room is cold and dark, with light penetrating through cracks.

But I am warm.

The heavy blankets upon me, perhaps of wool that smells of animal, retains my heat.

Warm.

Warm!

Saffron!

It appears before me.

Saffron!

Sun on ice! Safety!

I am alive!

Open your eyes, the voice reassures. You are safe. Trust me.

All about is light from a morning sun. It seeps brightly into the room through artfully placed openings, carrying evidence of dust moats, the essence of the atmosphere, awareness. It confirms my existence, intrudes upon my complacency. I grow tense with wonder, questioning, too weak to respond.

The scent of incense follows me into blackness. Time to be, to feel, to see and understand float with me, like dreams, into the darkness.

*****

He is not tall.

The robe he wears, deep gold, glimmers like early-morning light, but softer, a promise of a fair day. There is an odor, an aroma about him, incense or a pasture freshly cut, but not quite that, an aroma from the past when Mom would burn incense to chase the phantoms from the old house where we lived.

I manage to speak. Where am I?

The response is soft, yet easily heard. Again, in perfect English. You are in Mustang, a place you may never have heard of.

How long? It hurts to speak. I am aware of difficulty breathing, a burden against my chest.

Perhaps a week. We found you and your friend struggling to find a refuge from the weather. You were all quite desperate. Your companion was healthy enough to take the plane from Jumla. He seemed in a hurry. He shared nothing with me except the need to get to Peshawar. I insisted you stay behind so that we could provide care. You were raving, quite incoherent, in no condition to travel. But your need is more than we can provide. You seem to have pneumonia. I have made arrangements for you to go to the Catholic hospital in Bombay. The mother superior is a friend of mine. Years ago we met while I was a student in the Catholic school. My ailment then is like yours. She is talkative, intrusive. She will give you proper care. Rest now. When the monsoon breaks, you will be on your way.

*****

The house is small, poorly ventilated, unlighted. I sit atop its three stories, wrapped in blankets against the chill of the mountains. The view is awesome, high peaks covered with snow gradually yielding to brown, then the green of tea bushes, finally rice paddies. The sounds of domestic stock moan upward; sheep, goats, a yak reside in stalls on the lowest level, browse from cradles filled with dried grass and hay. The odor of cooking drifts up. I rest in a reclining chair on a mud-hammered floor, newly plastered with a mix of mud and cow dung, the floor reeking from the latest repairs.

The weather is sunny, the rooftop comfortable, pleasant, but cool.

Ami tells me there will be a gathering. He wishes I listen to discussions and observe the socializing. He will translate. There will be food and beverages, some of alcohol.

I look toward other houses stacked against the hillside, towering upward like stairsteps, stratified in a hierarchy that defines itself in terms I don’t know. On some roofs I see items of value, religious icons, what appear to be accommodations for visitors, much like where I rest. On some there are pennants and flags, colorful, dancing in a mild breeze and cool sunlight. The lowest level of the village appears to be separated by boundaries of significance beyond my understanding, built of a single story.

Ami tells me I am a guest of the Loba, his name given him by a lama. It is the name of a fierce warrior who founded the kingdom centuries ago, Ami Pal. The name of the province, Mustang, is a Tibetan word meaning plain of aspiration.

When I was brought to him, he notes, I was filthy with excrement, tattered clothes soiled by attempts to consume what was available, that portions of the horse were butchered and packed as food. When they strip me to remove the accumulated filth, he notes that I am European, possibly North American, my skin conditioning faded, no longer an effective disguise, blond hair uprooting the red transformed by the henna.

He states, You have a birthmark, reddish-brown pigment on your lower abdomen. It suggests you are Tibetan! It also suggests you are remotely related to Genghis Khan, like one in seven of us on the planet. He chuckles. You are a curious one, my friend.

I recall the same mark on my brother and sister but never assigned it significance. I wonder for a moment, brush it aside.

The guests arrive. Ami greets them one by one, introduces me as his guest. His introduction consists of humorous words, assigning to me the role of a drop-in. Their reaction consists of smiles and chuckles. They are amused.

Dressed differently from my experience, I am taken by their distinctive features. I see robes with long sleeves, loose waists, high collars, and large lapels, decorated with precious fur and ornaments. The significance is beyond my understanding but must indicate personal status. Though bright in color, the deep, deep gold gives the impression of harmony; the gorgeous features capture the essence of the individual. The men are thin, short, their skin color no darker than light bronze, not yellow as one might think oriental. Each projects an air of confidence, of being in control as masters of his environment.

The evening progresses. Ami is the leader. He is tutor and mentor. He lectures at times. There are exchanges of conversation intended, I surmise, to refine small points.

The food is served by a woman of the household dressed similar to the men, but with feminine variations. She is young. She is the one who stripped me of my rags, removed the accumulation of filth, bathed me, and clothed me in Tibetan wear. I see her daily. She cleans my chamber each morning. She speaks English. I ask her name. It is Aisha, meaning alive and well. She is kind and gentle and smells of roses. I’ve begun to look for her each morning. Each day before she leaves for other tasks, she states Achchha softly.

I have been aware for several days. No questions have been posed by my host. He states entry into his country is closely controlled, allowed only through diplomatic channels. He has contacted the embassy in New Delhi, assuming that I am American. There is no response as yet.

The food is spread on a rug of elaborate design. It is an oriental weave, like rugs I saw in the bazaars of Tehran.

I do not recognize the food. It is unlike the pan and lamb that I relished in Karachi or the chicken tikka I purchased off the street. It appears to be a casserole, quite colorful, with an inviting aroma. I find it delicious, spicy, but not too hot.

The drink is something else. Milky white. Served in a small ceramic bowl that balances nicely on the palm of my hand. I taste it tentatively. While smooth on my lips, it burns as it passes my teeth. The guests drink with relish. After a while, there is a blush to their faces. I wonder if mine is the same. I feel the heat.

Names of Hindu gods are mentioned and stories told. My favorite, Ganapati, the Remover of Obstacles, and Saraswati, the Goddess of Learning, seem to occupy a special place. I hear a term repeated over and over. Bardo. I conclude it must be some kind of resting place. Part of their religion or philosophy. It reminds me of purgatory. Once in it, it takes prayers to get you out. And a lot of cash. Inwardly I chuckle. I wasn’t taught to believe in purgatory.

Conversation continues into fading light. Ami’s translations are religious in nature, detailing a philosophy and belief I have read little about. He speaks of a place called the Bardo, about reincarnation, and how the Hindi is the first to conceive of an afterlife. He traces these beliefs to other beliefs that follow and how they adopted and modified Hindi teachings. The words are new to me, like fairy tales. I am not interested. It conflicts with my teachings.

I am drowsy from drink.

Snow-covered peaks gleam brightly in the evening sun. I do not hear the guests leave.

My last memory is of warmth from a blanket Aisha places over me.

*****

The evening before I depart, Aisha comes to me.