TWENTY ONE
"Eight-thousand and counting," said Lama Chophal, letting the door close behind him. He was now standing on the side balcony of the monastery, which looked out over the valley cradling Lhasa. Lobsang Samten had been standing there for over an hour, gripping the guardrail with white knuckles. The Lama knew that the younger monk had attempted to meditate this morning, but it was a lost cause.
Lobsang Samten nodded, just barely. The city hadn't looked so alive and teeming with life, ever in his memory.
"I can't believe this many people have turned out in just twenty-four hours," Lama Chophal commented. He put his hand on Lobsang's shoulder. "They're here. Are you ready for this?"
"No," he answered simply.
"You must finish what you started, Lobsang Samten. You chose to get involved. You know that that carries with it a price, no matter how noble your actions."
"Yes," he answered, again, simply.
The Lama led him back through the monastery, past the curious stares and well-wishes of their bretheren, and through the front door. They walked in silence down the path to the road where the BBC van was waiting. He was nervous, though Fitzpatrick had assured him that all he had to do was show up and do what he did before. Lobsang bowed to his Lama, and then crawled into the van with Daniel Fitzpatrick, Li Dao-ming, another monk, and the driver. He shook hands with the westerners and the Chinese woman, and bowed to the monk.
Dao-ming was first to speak, in Tibetan. "Good morning, Lobsang Samten. Did you sleep well?"
"I didn't sleep at all."
"Are you nervous?"
"Extremely. Last I heard, there are eight thousand people out there."
Dao-ming said something to Fitzpatrick in English which he didn't understand. Then she said, "Actually, that was four hours ago. Now it's closer to fifteen thousand."
This was not helping Lobsang Samten's nerves. "Fifteen thousand?"
"Yes, well," she said, almost apologetically. "Every affiliate of the BBC broadcast your address, which means Bombay, Beijing, Toronto and about twenty others. And every major network in America has picked it up, Canal Plus in Europe, satellite networks in South America and Japan, and it's a viral e-mail video spreading in the Middle East. Youtube has had more than a hundred thousand hits on it. Your speech has been translated into eighty languages and aired round-the-clock. It's big."
Lobsang looked at her with a mixture of awe and complete terror.
She smiled. "Don't look so surprised. You are offering the only help, Lobsang. No one, anywhere in the world, has spoken up, except for you."
He sighed. That's what he'd been telling himself the day before about Martha Jones and her Doctor. Little did he know then that he'd wind up as their living mouthpiece to the world.
"Don't worry, brother," said the other monk. "I will be right by your side."
"Who are you?" Lobsang asked politely.
"Chogyal Jinpa. I will be your interpreter when you speak to the people."
Lobsang looked at Dao-ming.
"I thought it would be better if another monk delivered your address in English, instead of a staid-looking Chinese woman in a suit," she said, smiling. "It's better this way, yes?"
"Yes, it's a lovely idea," Lobsang Samten agreed. "It's more authentic for the people who do not understand Tibetan. Do we have any other languages?"
Dao-ming, again, spoke to Fitzpatrick. Then she replied, "We're working on it. We may have a Catholic priest from Colombia who is willing to do English to Spanish translation, which is promising. Only he's been held up at the aeroport."
Lobsang nodded.
Fitzpatrick asked Dao-ming a question. She translated. "Is it all right with you if he's Catholic? Apparently, we've had a huge Catholic turn-out, mostly from Argentina and the U.S. for some reason."
"Of course," he said. "The message is love. Every religion preaches love."
"Exactly," she said, sitting back. "We're also working on Arabic and French, but I'm not sure we'll get that done in time."
Lobsang looked at Chogyal Jinpa directly, and said, "Thank you for agreeing to help."
Chogyal Jinpa replied, "Martha Jones came to my monastery yesterday searching for you. When I saw her photo on the television, I recognised her, and was horrified to learn she had been afflicted. I had to get involved, in spite of the price."
Lobsang Samten bowed subtly in understanding and thanks. Then he looked out the window to his right and his breath was sucked out of his lungs by the sight of fifteen thousand people from all over the world, gathered round a stage in Lhasa's town centre. He held his breath as they made their way down the last of the hill into the cleared area behind the stage.
They exited the vehicle. Something caught Lobsang Samten's eye. "What's that blue thing?" He pointed at it with a quizzical expression, such that Fitzpatrick simply answered the question without being told what he was asking.
"It's peculiar isn't it? Those used to be dotted throughout Great Britain as a place to keep a suspect while a police officer called for backup. They disappeared in the 1960's, though, and hell if I know what it's doing in Tibet, of all places! Anyway, we had to move it out of the way when we put up the stage."
Li Dao-ming translated for Lobsang. He nodded absently and walked toward it and pushed on the door. It was locked – he'd expected as much. But the funny thing was, though Fitzpatrick had told him that it was a British artefact, the words "Police Public Call Box" were written in Tibetan. Lobsang simply shrugged at the curiosity, and turned his attention back to the task at-hand.
"I don't understand what we're doing here," Francine Jones exclaimed. "We should be looking for Martha!"
Leo rolled his eyes. "Mum, would you just relax? We came here to help. These people believe that our love and prayer will help them, so let's give them everything we've got, all right? We can't just traipse through their city and give nothing back."
"But we're not religious!"
"So? They are. Let's help them, come on!"
Francine sighed heavily, and in spite of herself, followed her son. She was obliged to latch her fingers through his belt buckles in order not to lose him in the crowd of, last she heard, twenty thousand. She looked back, and luckily, Tish was still hanging onto her backpack, and behind her, Clive had tight hold of Tish's wrist. They formed a chain and weaved their way through the throng, hoping to get as close to the stage as possible.
Throughout the crowd, every now and then, people would recognise the Jones family from the photo they'd seen on the television. A few people had reached out to touch Francine's shoulder to offer what she assumed was condolance or support, but mostly, she couldn't understand them. When it happened, she would mutter "Thank you," and keep moving.
When they could absolutely not advance a step further, they stopped. The four of them joined hands and waited for something to happen. A photo of the two monks housed in the monastery with Mad Red was looming on a giant screen above the stage, and three microphones were set up. Music had been playing in every language imaginable, and when Francine listened, she heard at least six being spoken in the immediate vicinity, and that's only if she didn't count her own family's native English.
Suddenly, the crowd began to go quiet and the music went away. Twenty thousand people were silent as Daniel Fitzpatrick of BBC News appeared on the stage in his blue suit, white shirt and pink tie. Behind him, a monk followed. Each took their place at a microphone, and as Fitzpatrick spoke, the monk translated each line into Tibetan, a second or two behind.
"Hello friends. What a beautiful turnout – thank you for coming this morning, most of you from far and wide. This is truly a sight to behold, and a wonderful example of how the world may come together when we find ourselves in human turmoil. My name is Daniel Fitzpatrick, and I work for BBC News as a foreign correspondent. Yesterday, you were made to be familiar with two Buddhist monks, brothers from right here in Tibet, and their parents, who are afflicted with Mad Red." He gestured to the photo on the screen above. "You were also made familiar with a westerner named Martha Jones who came here with a friend, looking for answers, only to be taken with the disease themselves."
A picture of Martha and the Doctor appeared on the screen, a photo that the Jones family had never seen. Francine's hand flew to her mouth, stifling the whimper that was bubbling in her throat. Leo pulled her close for comfort.
"You were also introduced to a man called Lobsang Samten, a monk of the same order as the two afflicted sons. Though we are here for the sake of those who have fallen ill, he is the man whose voice has brought you here today, has moved you to do something when it seemed that nothing could be done. And he's here, so let's welcome him."
Lobsang Samten appeared at left, and walked to the middle of the stage slowly, shaking. He was greeted with cheers and applause, and at this, he smiled gratefully. A Catholic priest followed him and took his place at the third microphone as Daniel Fitzpatrick stepped out of view.
When he spoke, he spoke Tibetan, line-by-line. The translation to English from the second monk followed, and then the Spanish from the priest.
"Good morning. Mr. Fitzpatrick is right – this is, indeed, a wonderful example of how the world comes together when there is a human crisis. And that is what this is, my friends. A human crisis. This exists outside of nations, outside of territory or language or class or anything we have created as men. This exists in our very humanity, this sickness. It is unique to us as a species, and it is ravaging, not distinguishing. And that makes us one – all the same. Buddhism teaches us that we are, literally, all as one. From one atom, from one consciousness we sprang, and to one consciousness we shall someday return. Christianity and Judaism and Islam teach us that the cosmos and all consciousness was created in the image of a single God. Is this not the same teaching? We are one in our beliefs, and we are one in our minds and bodies and hearts! Today, we shall prove it. I ask you now to turn to your loved ones and link hands or link arms."
As each language unfurled this message, twenty thousand bodies, in waves, turned slightly to face people with whom they had arrived. The Jones family put their arms around each others' shoulders, and their heads together. Francine and Tish were crying – the men were not far away.
"How much do you love the people you're facing now?" asked Lobsang Samten. "Feel it fully. Look at them. Be one with them. Think about the time you've had together. Think about being apart. Think about your life without these people, the loneliness you would feel, and how grateful you are that they have saved you from that! Aren't you grateful? Aren't you blessed, just unbelievably lucky to have them?"
All over the crowd, people were crying, hugging, muttering things into the shoulders of their mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, spouses and children. In a million languages, love was being spoken. But in a single signal, an unspoken language of sorts, love was hovering in the air above in tight concentration. The fifth element.
And to Lobsang Samten's utter horror, as he spoke and continued to encourage the throng, Mad Red began at the corners of the crowd. Right in front of the stage, he watched with nausea as an entire family fell to their knees and went swiftly insane the way Martha Jones had. And then another family, and then another. Complete chaos ensued as Mad Red victims rushed the stage and overflowed the side barriers of the town centre. The place was now flooded over, and he could see people, completely crazed, heading into the hills, further down the valley, anywhere in search of food. They were battling, families thirty seconds ago immersed in love now clawing at each other like mountain lions.
But then, so quickly, all of the newly afflicted patients began convulsing. They stopped in their tracks and simply began to shake. Most of them found themselves on the ground in fits of seizure, and there were terrible, horrible cries coming from all over the valley. It was deafening, occupying his entire head and body.
Lobsang Samten closed his eyes and removed himself. A deep mystic meditation found him, for the first time in more than twenty-four hours, and he could see it all. It wasn't just here, it was all over the world. Egypt, Colorado, Brazil and Tahiti – those with the disease were on the ground, siezing, their families and doctors watching in terror, closing their ears against the screaming. Their consciousnesses were calling out for freedom, their humanity dying to climb out from behind the cloak of sickness. All of their cries, all of their misery was becoming one now, and Lobsang swore he saw all of it ball up into itself like a great dark cloud. It seemed to amass, grow dense like a black hole and writhe with evil.
And just as quickly as it had begun, the black hole turned itself inside-out. A lip seemed to come from within and swallow the great ball whole, leaving nothing but air.
When Lobsang Samten opened his eyes, the city centre was filled again with human beings, loving, caring, confused, but with healthy pink and brown faces. Those who had fled were coming back to find their families, those who had stayed began helping each other up off the ground, muttering, asking questions, hugging once more. And without having to sink into a mystic state again, Lobsang Samten knew that it was not just here, it was everywhere.