A warm and suffocating rain was cascading down heavily, drenching them to the skin, flowing down the ground. Though, the embankments sheltered them from the wind.
Illya Kuryakin paused for thought, considering the flood of mud which had replaced the path. Deliberately, he held out his jacket to Napoleon Solo, took his shoes off, tied the laces together and threw them over his shoulders. Then, he put on again the jacket, slipped the damp socks in his pocket and rolled up his pants, under his partner's inquiring eye.
"If you lose your shoes in this mud, Napoleon, you'll never get them back..."
Water streamed down the blond locks, sticking them to the Russian's face. Napoleon Solo sighed – the man was right - and followed the suit.
They groped their way along, barefoot, staggering, slipping, walking aimlessly through a gray mixture of rain and mud, darkening as night was coming. At least they hadn't to worry about tracks, were any malicious winged creature crazy enough to stroll around there. On the contrary, so clever, so witty Uncle agents... The feeling of a hand on his arm gave Napoleon Solo a start.
"Look!"
Illya Kuryakin was pointing at something invisible.
"What?"
The Russian repeated.
"Look!"
The dark haired man caught sight of a faint light at a distance, flickering through the streaked with rain darkness. The Uncle agents exchanged a look, nodded at each other, and started to climb up the embankment, crawling in the mud.
Suddenly the wind struck them, taking their breath away. The light flickered frantically. They got up, and much to his surprise, Napoleon Solo saw his partner open his arms, spread out his fingers...
"What..." He gave up, as the wind was howling around them. Illya Kuryakin smiled, and tilted his head backwards, obviously delighted. Of course... The dark haired man chuckled, opened his arms, leaving the rain to wash the mud away.
The light was still flickering, at a distance.
They stood in front of what looked like to be a wooden barn. A storm lantern rocked by the wind hung down next to the door under a sort of canopy. Napoleon Solo got his gun, staring around but the damp darkness engulfed everything and the rain was lashing him mercilessly. The Russian came up to the entrance and laid his hand flat on the door weathered by water and wind, pushing tentatively the leaf which gave way against all the odds. The two men froze for a few seconds, on the watch. Nothing. Illya Kuryakin took the lantern down, shooting a glance at his partner. The flame danced on his face, causing droplets to glitter. Amazing, Napoleon Solo thought. The blond frowned inquiringly, shook his head, the droplets flying around. He turned then to the doorway and entered without a word.
The place was deserted. Napoleon Solo had followed his partner close on his heels. Wooden floor, wooden walls, for all he could see, as Illya Kuryakin was running the lantern over the room.
"Here." The Russian's voice sounded strangely, almost muffled.
"What?"
The beam of light had fallen on a table – a wooden one - Solo felt exhausted and he couldn't help sneering.
"That's a table, Illya, and..." He stopped as he saw his partner kneeling down.
"What the hell... ?"
Illya Kuryakin was drawing something back from under the table. It was a box. Napoleon Solo bent over his friend's shoulder.
"Candles?"
"And matches." The Russian struck a match and lighted a candle.
A few minutes later, they could scan their refuge, a huge room, poorly furnished except for the table, a big bamboo chest, and some mats rolled in a corner. Oil lamps hung down the walls. Napoleon Solo brushed back the hair plastered against his forehead. He felt like he had just been pulled out the washing machine. Rivulets of water streamed down him and formed puddles around him.
He muttered for himself.
"I'm soaked to the bones..."
"Are you hungry?" Illya Kuryakin turned to him, with a bright smile. He held a strange round thing. "That's a sort of cookie. There are plenty here, and..." He bent over the chest again. "...nuts, sugar, dried fruits..."
Napoleon Solo felt exhausted, soaked, and ...yes, hungry. Though, he creased his brows.
"Er... I don't like that. Too good to be true."
Illya Kuryakin smelled the cookie, his eyes half closed, and smiled.
"It's a refuge, my friend, just a refuge."
Napoleon Solo sneered again. To be so young... He replied ironically.
"A refuge, yes, a refuge for soaked and ravenous Uncle agents lost in the storm, of course! It sounds as a miracle and... "
Illya Kuryakin pushed back his bangs, rolling his eyes, pursing his lips in a very meaningful way.
"This is a refuge, Napoleon, for any human being lost in the hurricane. That's ... just solidarity. The owner didn't locked the door. He lit the storm lantern, and left food. People know about hurricanes, here. Speaking of light and food... while I'm going to get dinner ready, you could manage to see about lighting those oil lanterns..."
The infuriating "Fortunately-I'm-here" Kuryakin's tone. Napoleon Solo took a deep breath, narrowing his eyes. He could have opened hostilities, but thought better of it. By the way, the blond was already rummaging again in the chest.
The room was amazingly silent, despite of the rain still pouring outside. It was a refuge, eventually. He picked up matches.
"Mm mm... Our guardian angel is very efficient! There are clothes!"
Napoleon Solo lighted the last oil lamp, then turned to his friend.
"We've pants, tunics... Napoleon?"
Illya Kuryakin's face darkened. His partner was looking at something – some one? - over his shoulder, and the Russian knew this expression. He dropped the clothes and got his gun, his lips articulating a silent "what?"
The room was filled only with the sound of rain and the muffled howling of the wind. The two men stayed motionless, barely breathing. Napoleon Solo fixed an unblinking gaze on something, behind Illya Kuryakin. Illya Kuryakin looked intently at Napoleon Solo. The dark haired man's eyes had narrowed, his mouth half open, his upper lip slightly rounded, the wings of his nose quivering imperceptibly. Time had frozen.
Eventually Napoleon Solo breathed out slowly, his jaws relaxed and he sighed.
"Something moved, I thought. But it was play of light. Or a draft."
Cutter's litany occurred immediately to Illya Kuryakin's mind.
"There are no mice in the attic, in a good UNCLE agent's world. "Good" means "alive". Not rats in the cellar, no old stairs creaking, no draft causing curtains to move, things to fall down, doors to close or open. No unexpected delivery, no..."
He shrugged his shoulders, bursting into mocking laughter.
"Play of light? You're afraid of shadows on the wall? Napoleon, my friend, you're getting old..."
Still sneering he bent forward naturally as if to pick up the clothes. Simultaneously he ducked down, and rolled behind the chest. A familiar choreography they mastered so well... But Napoleon hadn't moved. When Illya Kuryakin eyed at his partner, he gasped with daze. The man stood his arms at his side, screwing up his eyes. Then he raised a hand apologetically.
"No, Illya. At the back of the room, there are tapestries. It was a draft. The place is deserted."
The Russian sat down, leaning back against the chest, his legs tucked up. The older agent pursed his lips, expecting his friend to jest about it, but Illya Kuryakin hold out his hand, with a gentle smile. Napoleon Solo helped him up, adding sheepishly.
"I know... "No draft causing curtains to move..." Sometimes, nevertheless it's just a draft..."
The Russian took a candle from the table and stepped up to the said tapestries.
"Wall hangings... Look, Napoleon. They're beautiful. This is batik, and this is tie die. Those patterns..."
Napoleon Solo had closed his eyes, resigned. He'd have to attend one of the famous Kuryakin's lectures. He deserved it.
"Those patterns... Wait."
"Mmmm?"
"Look, this one is thicker. It's a crafted tapestry."
Illya Kuryakin brushed the fabric hesitantly.
"Illya?"
The Russian exerted a slight pressure on the tapestry which gave way. He raised it and hissed softly, considering the dark entrance which was obviously leading to another place. Napoleon Solo got his gun back, as Illya Kuryakin was craning forward.
"Gun is no use, Napoleon. This is just another room..."
Another room. Yes. And? Napoleon Solo bent over his partner's shoulder. Another room, deserted, apparently very like the first one.
"There is something on the floor..."
They could hardly make it out by the dim candlelight, and Illya Kuryakin took some steps forward.
"Oh..."
The voice sounded filled of amazement. Of wonder.
"Don't move, Napoleon. We're still dripping water. Let's dry ourselves and change our clothes, first."
Napoleon Solo frowned.
"Illya? What is this about?"
The Russian pushed him gently back in the first room.
"Do you know about mandalas, Napoleon?"
"Er... yes. Mandalas are Buddhist patterns. Sand drawing? Are there mandalas in this room?"
Illya Kuryakin nodded.
"Yes, sand drawing... and yes, there are mandalas. Mandala is a Sanskrit word. It means "circle". Mandalas have some spiritual significance in Buddhism and Hinduism. The basic form is a square containing a circle which contains a square... And so on. You get a concentric configuration of geometric shapes. Sometimes, in each of them, you can find an image of a deity or... Napoleon?"
Napoleon Solo was listening attentively. Too attentively. The Russian rolled his eyes, sighing loudly. He held out the clothes and a towel. The dark haired man noticed the expected pouting lips. Okay, he had to fix it.
"I've always wondered about mandalas. People are wasting time in drawing wonderful patterns, just in order to destroy them..."
Illya Kuryakin ignored the comment. At the moment, he was taking his clothes off; soon he stood stark naked by the warm light of the oil lamps. Napoleon Solo bit his lip. He had often marveled that such a self-contained person, so aloof could be amazingly so relaxed, so comfortable with nakedness. It wasn't neither exhibitionism nor self-importance, just ... naturalness. And... well, it was worth the sight. The blond man had grabbed the towel and he was drying his hair.
"Illya? The mandalas?"
The Russian pulled on the linen pants, tightening his belt with an obviously affected composure. Napoleon Solo grabbed his own towel.
"It's an aid to meditation. Mandala is a sort of sacred place, separated from the outer world. Symbols, patterns, colors... It helps to access progressively deeper levels of the unconscious. But it's a meditation on impermanence, too. After days of creating the sand mandala, the sand is brushed together, in a specific order, collected in a jar, and released in moving water... Napoleon?"
Napoleon Solo smiled.
"I wondered... You certainly know a thing or two, my friend, don't you?"
Illya Kuryakin glanced at him ironically while spreading out his clothes on the floor. Napoleon wasn't prying. At least, not really: he was a crafty one.
"I studied in Cambridge, Napoleon. You can't but know that India was part of the British Empire, and of course you heard about The Commonwealth?" He smirked gloatingly."I had a very good Indian friend."
Though it wasn't much of a confidence, Napoleon Solo appreciated it at his proper value: a very good Indian Friend... The Russian threw the tunic over his shoulder, holding out a pair of thongs to him.
"Are you ready?"
The dark haired man tucked his gun under his belt and took a candle.
"Let's go."
As they entered carefully, the blond man motioned his partner to light up the oil lamps. The floor was partly covered with heaps of colored sand, purple, pink, white, blue, red, yellow... in wooden trays. Illya Kuryakin whistled delightedly. The mandala, obviously uncompleted, spread out in the middle of the room.
"What's this?"
"Colored sand, gypsum, ocher, sandstone, charcoal..."
Next to the mandala, Napoleon Solo considered a bowl full of straws and small metal tubes, and asked again.
"What's this?"
"Chak-pur... It's a cone-shaped funnel. You run a metal rod on its grated surface. The sand flows like liquid."
"So, we're in a Temple?"
"No, this is a sort of workshop, I think. Perhaps... a school."
The light was revealing a stunningly rich image. Napoleon Solo felt entrapped in its endless complexity; entwined squares and circles formed a breathtaking spiral which dragged the eyes along towards the central part of the drawing, a white disk surrounding diamond-shaped figures, yellow, red and orange. Around, there were swirls of blue, green and brown.
"It's amazing..."
"Mandalas tell stories, Napoleon. Look. The center is the sun, and the white disk..."
"The moon?"
"Yes. Blue, green and brown are water, plants and earth. Here..." The Russian knelt down. " ... Here, you see, all those areas contain elements, symbols. There are deities, human beings, women, men, and children, animals, human activities... This is a mandala of community, of friendship. It tells about seasons, everyday life, work... faith... A model of the universe which helps minds to become enlightened... Napoleon?"
The dark haired man shook his head. A model of the universe? An extraordinary, beautiful one, but a very wrong one. They had been within a hair's breadth of failure. They had miraculously escaped death, and they might as well get a visit from their enemies.
"Napoleon?"
"Nothing is further from our universe, Illya. It's beautiful, but..."
He paused, considering his blond partner – blond? Golden. By the candlelight, he was... golden - " It's an utopia world. At least, not our world. There is no place for evil, here, and..."
Illya Kuryakin got up lithely.
"Look at those black areas. Black symbolizes the primordial darkness. The darkness became light, the shadows colors, the colors sound, and the sound forms."
"Illya, please..."
The Russian smiled.
"It's the conquest of evil, Napoleon, not by annihilating, but by turning it into good..." As his friend rolled his eyes, Illya Kuryakin pointed at the tapestry. "Mmmm... you look exhausted and hungry! Come on."
They had put out the oil lamps, and left the mandala room.
A thin silhouette walked across the wooden trays.
The blond man sat effortlessly in the lotus position, his eyes closed. Napoleon Solo remained motionless, pretending to be asleep. He should have been. He had thought he would fall asleep at the very moment he would lie down on the mat. Illya had volunteered to go on ward and he hadn't argued about it.
He felt exhausted, fairly impervious to his partner's meditative mood.
Their long and frustrating quest for the Thrush base, the destruction of one more evil device, the fight against a malicious mad scientist, their lucky – more than lucky – escape, the hurricane – helpful... - the threat, improbable but conceivable, of some pursuer's arrival turned over and over in his mind. He tried to make himself see reason, though: they were alive, they have defeated Thrush, they were safe, in the dry, in a perfect refuge – so perfect... Illya was right. Probably.
He peeped again at the golden silhouette through his eyelashes. Still bare chested, Illya Kuryakin rested his forearm on his thighs, his palms in an offering – receiving? - gesture. People usually undervalued the slim, skinny Russian, until they had to face him or until they noticed the muscular arms and the powerful hands. In this dim place, he looked serene, irritatingly serene.
The voice came, low and smoothing.
"You'd try to relax, Napoleon."
Relax? Napoleon Solo was known to be the easy-going one, smiling at ease, whatever happened. His so efficient adaptability was legendary. Usually. At the moment, the Section 2, Number one of the New York UNCLE HQ encountered a very unpleasant and unfamiliar feeling: he wasn't at his place. He didn't understand. Thanks to his partner's lead, he was able to... to do what? Illya was obviously in his element. He...
"You've knots in your mind. You'd try to untie them."
The dark-haired man cursed and turned his back to his partner. The hell with Illya and his damned knots... He was fully awake. Exhausted, but fully awake.
"Color symbolism is very important in this country."
As in a shadow theater, on the wall, he could see long fingers dancing by the candlelight.
"Saffron is the most sacred color, you know? It represents fire, and purity. Wearing the color symbolizes the quest for light."
The fingers stroked literally the flame, massaging it. Amazingly, the gesture appeased gradually his tension.
"Yellow is the color of knowledge and competence. It means happiness, meditation and peace. White is a mixture of seven..."
Napoleon Solo felt blissfully dozy. The mesmerizing voice was talking about colors, primordial sound, mantra...
He woke up, lying in the dark – why the hell did Illya blow the lamps out? -, sharpening his senses.
The visitor crept along slowly, as silently as he could, but the treacherous wooden floor betrayed his presence. The Uncle agent listened intently, keeping motionless. He teased out the faintest sound, knowing for sure that next to him his partner was doing the same. Illya. It struck him that something was all wrong. His partner wasn't one to fall asleep while being on guard. The room was absolutely silent, at the moment. No creaking, no footstep. No breathing. No more rain, outside.
"There are no mice in the attic, in a good UNCLE agent's world. "Good" means "alive". Not rats in the cellar, no old stairs creaking, no draft causing curtains to move, things to fall down, doors to close or open."
The room was silent and obviously deserted. Sometimes, there were mice in the attic, rats in the cellar. Sometimes old stairs creaked...
Napoleon Solo groped for the flash light he had left next to the mat, and got his gun. The moment of truth, he thought, as he put on the light.
The pencil of light which shone from his torch swept the place again and again. The room was deserted: no visitor, no malevolent intruder. Napoleon Solo went rigid in disbelief for a moment. No Illya, neither meditating nor sleeping.
He felt an inexplicable feeling of coolness, his fingers numb with cold to the point where he dropped the torch on the floor. It rolled noisily. The UNCLE agent held his breath, all senses in alert. There was no sound, no enemy taking advantage of the situation. No partner.
He knew that he had to move on, to grope for the torch or some candles, but he was ground down both by exhaustion and freezing cold. "Old age is creeping on..." He thought bitterly. Where the hell was his friend? Would he call him? He weighed up the pros and the cons. The room was deserted. Was it really? There was nothing to see. Darkness surrounded him. Darkness and silence.
Black... The voice sounded in his mind.
"Black symbolizes the primordial darkness..."
He realized that he was curled up in a ball, shivering, his teeth chattering. Though, there was sweat on his forehead, trailing down his jaw and his neck.
"Napoleon?
The darkness became light, the shadows colors, the colors sound, and the sound form, blurred form which turned out to be a familiar face. Napoleon Solo groaned and tried to sit upright, feeling himself restrained by a powerful hand.
"Easy, Napoleon, easy. You worried me, you know."
The Russian helped him to lean against the wall, wrapping a blanket round him.
"What..."
"You ran a fever. You were exhausted, and unusually irritable, moody. I thought you'd fall asleep quickly, but you tossed and turned, you muttered, groaned, and I realized that you were delirious... You... Napoleon? How are you doing?"
"I'm fine..."
The Russian rested his hand on the dark haired man's shoulder, scrutinizing him and eventually he chuckled.
"My lines... Do you remember the red smoke, when we blasted the base? You stopped for one second and shot the sentinel, but you breathed the gas. "
Napoleon Solo blinked and lifted his hand to his head. The room bathed in a dazzling light which was flooding in from the open door.
"It's a beautiful morning, Napoleon! The storm is gone and I think that our rescue team will be there soon. Are you thirsty?"
He held out a mug. The dark haired man frowned inquiringly.
"Our rescue team? How? Your communicator was burnt out and..."
"And you lost yours..." The tone betrayed relief beyond the banter. "Nevertheless, I managed to fix it."
Illya Kuryakin waved his communicator with a barely concealed smile of triumph. Of course. Napoleon Solo knew exactly what would happen when Alexander Waverly would take a look at their report.
"And Thrush? They could possibly..."
"Ts ts ts... They've probably been caught into their own trap. You... you took only one or two puffs at their gas. They... Well, kind of immanent justice!"
Solo's smile turned to a frown at his partner's strained face.
"Illya... You... you look..." He hesitated. "You look... fine, too."
"As usual, my friend, as usual... Want to go out for some fresh air?"
He helped him to stand upright, steadying him until he regained balance, and they headed towards the outside.
The landscape was an amazing combination of various forms available in all shades of blue and green: sky, forest, water... Napoleon Solo took a deep breath, enjoying the warm caress of the breeze.
"A living mandala, isn't it? You told me about saffron and yellow... What about green and blue?"
The Russian sat down on a wooden bench, peeping at his partner curiously.
"Green symbolizes life and happiness. It's a festive color, peaceful, calming."
He paused, apparently lost in thought. Napoleon Solo sat next to him.
"And blue?"
"Blue... symbolizes bravery, manliness... Determination... The ability to deal with difficult situations, a stable mind..."
Solo chuckled, pointing at his friend's blue eyes.
"Bravery, manliness... yes. Ability to deal with difficult situation... Mmmm... yes. Stable mind... why not. Determination... well, I wouldn't say that. Perhaps... Stubbornness?"
Unexpectedly, the Russian didn't take up the challenge, leaning back against the wall with a faraway look. At least, he commented softly.
"Brown is the color of earth. It symbolizes materialistic thoughts. Dark brown represents... friendship, reliability, endurance... and comfort."
The dark haired man rested his hand on his friend's arm, both keeping silent, until they heard a familiar roaring. Napoleon Solo turned to the wooden house.
"We can't leave like that... We have to..."
Illya Kuryakin stood up.
"We just have to thank our host, Napoleon."
"How..."
"Come on."
The blond man picked up a piece of chalk, and wrote on the table:
"बहुत बहुत शुक्रिया"
"And that's...?"
"Bohut bohut shukria."
"Of course."
The Russian shook his head.
"I'm sure your mother told you that, Napoleon. That's "Thank you very much.""
As they were settled down in the Uncle helicopter which was taking them back to their world, Napoleon Solo sighed.
"We'll never meet our guardian angel..."
"A friend..."
They kept silent until Illya Kuryakin hissed.
"Napoleon? You said that I have told you about saffron and yellow... I... I didn't... I didn't tell you anything about saffron and yel... Napoleon?"
The dark haired man was soundly asleep. The Russian pursed his lips and closed his eyes, a ghost of a mysterious smile on his lips.
Long fingers put back the funnel in the bowl. Considering the blue and brown pattern he had just created, he whispered: "Bohut bohut shukria."