I am not making any money with this. I do not own Lara Croft, Tomb Raider
etc.
Only to be archived at Fanfiction.net and 'Lara Croft's Tales of Beauty and Power'. All other sites email me first to gain permission.
===================================== Tomb Raider: The Sadhana by Heidi Ahlmen (siirma6@surfeu.fi) =====================================
Chapter Four
Early the next morning, I snuck out of the monastery for a morning run - my first for months. In Egypt a special morning run was not a necessity - I did plenty of running anyway.
The plain behind the monastery was frozen, but snow wasn't everywhere. I had heard wind howling the previous night, so it must've blown away some of the thick cover of snow that had trampled down from the skies. A lonely stupa was slumped about forty feet from the left monastery door. It was made of a white suibstance - white rock perhaps. It had a double-raised dais, very unusual for a Tibetan stupa. I've seen thousands of stupas in my career - perhaps even a greater number than that of tombs. They are always a peculiar sight and despite all my readings and research into the matter, I still don't have a firm grasp of their full meaning and function. They are landmarks, placed in the most obscene locations of the world - next to ancient roads, for instance.
This stupa's pinned head had aslanted.
Once a stupa had been a comforting sight. I just couldn't quite put my finger on the occasion - it must've been Tibet, fifteen years ago, otherwise it wouldn't probably felt like such a strong memory.
I continued my run across the frozen, dark-brown plain towards the mountains. Tokakeriby lies on the floor of a very large valley, surrounded my quite soft-shaped mountains. My feet left no marks in the hard ground. My breath followed me as clouds of diffusing water, and my sweater felt sweaty and cold. I wondered if there was any possibility of a shower or an other kind of wash-up in the monastery. After an hour's run I returned back, walking. I few monks greeted me silently as I squeezed past them when going through the doors.
I got inside and left my boots beside outdoor. I tiptoed to the first hall - the floor was cold and dusty and I only had a limited amount of warm, clean tennis socks. A two-metre wide ray of yellow light came through the window.
I heard silent clattering of feet and other particles on a stony floor. You know, the kind of sound one could hear in a tomb with flowing water. I walked between the thin, crooked columns and enjoyed the silence. The ceiling was made of thin treetrunks and the floor was sand and stone. I loved the simplicity of the hall - it's ascetic charm. On the other side stood the same fat, smiling buddha that I had seen when entering the monastery the night before. I started wondering what it would feel like living in a place like that all my life. To me, it would mean a struggle of getting used to just being quiet, remaining in one place for a long time. The thought frightened me. I've walways respected monks - many people seem to have the same kind of respect for this silent brotherhood, they just pray, and... exist. Their existence is so simple, yet so incredibly powerful. It seems that they achieve just by thinking and praying what we westerners try to achieve in a lifetime of fighting, worrying, working and suffering and almost positively fail.
I had to face it - Lama Dorje had made me feel miserable. To him I was probably an impatient, anxious and overly curious person. He was patient, wise and experienced in life. I couldn't help but wonder if I'd made a fool of myself by demanding him to give me answer to my questions. Can you make a fool of yourself in front of a monk? Aren't they supposed to be tolerant and peaceful? What a sterotypic.
I stopped by a wall to inspect more closely a wooden shrine that had been sunk in the wall when building the hall. It had two very highly-detailed, carved doors. I pushed the other one open with my forefinger, carefully not to injury the intricate laquering.
Inside the shrine, there stood a six-handed buddha statue made of copper. It was beautiful, and I couldn't help but let my gloomy mood fall on it. I have spent a lifetime recovering and protecting such treasures, yet I can never understand the full significance of those peacefully smiling faces, and I could never even learn. I was born Christian - the secrets of Buddhism and the significance of a smile, a certain form of The Buddha could only manifest themselves as raw, cold texts and pictures in books.
Secretly, I envied the monks for their faith in something so beautiful it must've been too complicated for my poor mind.
Archaeologists are archaeologists. We pretend to know everything about things that will never even be at an arm's reach. I closed the shrine doors, and backed away too steps. I did a karate bow towards the shrine, and became mildly amused by my actions afterwards.
What I didn't know was that I had been watched by Lama Dorje, who laid a hand on my shoulder when I was just about to turn and return to my bedchamber.
"Admiring our Kye Dorje, are you?" he asked politely, stepping to my side to take a look at the shrine himself.
"I apologize. I know I should not have opened it."
"Do not worry. I came to have a word with you," he explained, and I turned to face him. I made a mental note to shut my mouth and let him do the talking. He coughed, and his dark-bourgogne-red robes made a quiet swish.sound as he raised his hand to cover his mouth. His hand were old, thin and wrinkled - the hands of a very old man. Then he continued.
"You asked me why you have come. But have you asked yourself this?"
I smiled at the Buddha in the shrine. "I'm a little too impatient to do that, Lama Dorje."
"Ah, I know your impatience," the old man said. He took my hand in his and smiled, probably his widest smile. "Sitting around seems too much for you. I saw you take a run this morning."
"Running is my zen, Lama." I joked midly, hoping that I didn't touch the wrong subject.
"We all have our zens, Lara."
I sighed. Lama Dorje carefully shut the shrine, and we set out walking on the corridor towards the kitchens.
"I will answer all of your questions now," Lama announced, leaving me silent again. Now, that I just calmed down in a way, he gives me all the opportunities to do what I always do - get the facts and run.
"Lama Dorje, have you spoken to John Gilliam since 1989?"
"Yes, I have. He and his wife come here every second year."
The Gilliams hadn't told me this. I couldn't help but wonder if it had anything to do with me. Then I shushed myself - I was being very selfish. Not everything in the world had to do with me.
"They come every second year to ask if you've visited us."
There went a good excersize of self-restraint down to the sewer. "I met them in Kathmandu."
"It must've made them very happy," Lama Dorje commented politely, and made me think again about all the films featuring Tibetan monks who, with every single word they said, seemed to outrun all the Greek philosophers at once in religious wisdom. Was there supposed to be something of wisdom greater than life in Lama Dorje's last comment? I was angry at myself for letting Lama Dorje make me feel so frustrated. I never knew what to say when speaking with him.
"Lama Dorje, why am I here?"
"We have something to ask from you, Lara."
"That's not what brought me here. I don't believe in telepathy."
"You came here to pay a debt, did you not?" Lama Dorje asked, his tone almost a little reprimanding.
"You saved me. What should I say?" I didn't notice soon enough that my noise had become a little louder.
"Please do not raise your voice here. This is a house of prayer. You are very impatient. And full of life."
What was that supposed to mean? Isn't everyone in the world full of life? What else can you be than either full of life or dead?
"Impatience and intolerance are signs of fire, Lara. You feel you have so much to do, so much to see, you're in an ever-accelerating hurry. You shall not worry, I will tell you everything you want to know."
I hoped he would relieve me from my unholy impatience by telling me how I was supposed to help the monks.
"There is a relic we're all hoping you to find. It will be difficult."
"What is this relic? A Buddhist one?"
"It is a relic that every human being could consider a piece of their religion. It is priceless. It is called The Sadhana."
Lama Dorje put him hands inside his robe sleeves. It was cold in the kitchen, where a young boy, a monk also, was preparing some kind of porridge made from rice and dry vegetables.
"The Sadhana?" I asked. I had never heard of it - except... That box in my hotel room in Kathmandu! Sadhana had been the word that had left me puzzled.
The young boy smiled and nodded at me and gave me a cup of rice. I united my palms in a greeting manner. Lama Dorje looked at me, pleased.
"We are confident that only you can find this Sadhana. The journey will be long and appalling in ways."
"Where should I begin? I know the Sadhana's in West Tibet."
"How do you know?"
"I saw something, a box of some sorts with the word carved on it with a map of West Tibet."
Lama Dorje just smiled mysteriously and changed the approach to the subject.
"Dvesagniprashamani's Lara, the Sadhana is located near Lake Manasarovar, the Holy Lake next to Mount Kailash."
I thanked Lama Dorje, finished my rice and returned to my bedchamber, passing my driver and guide on the way, on their way to breakfast. The location of the plane crash. I would have to return there and see it all again. The thought made me heavy-hearted.
-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~
As always, comments and reviews would be much appreciated - they're the fuel that feeds this creative furnace.
siirma6@surfeu.fi
Only to be archived at Fanfiction.net and 'Lara Croft's Tales of Beauty and Power'. All other sites email me first to gain permission.
===================================== Tomb Raider: The Sadhana by Heidi Ahlmen (siirma6@surfeu.fi) =====================================
Chapter Four
Early the next morning, I snuck out of the monastery for a morning run - my first for months. In Egypt a special morning run was not a necessity - I did plenty of running anyway.
The plain behind the monastery was frozen, but snow wasn't everywhere. I had heard wind howling the previous night, so it must've blown away some of the thick cover of snow that had trampled down from the skies. A lonely stupa was slumped about forty feet from the left monastery door. It was made of a white suibstance - white rock perhaps. It had a double-raised dais, very unusual for a Tibetan stupa. I've seen thousands of stupas in my career - perhaps even a greater number than that of tombs. They are always a peculiar sight and despite all my readings and research into the matter, I still don't have a firm grasp of their full meaning and function. They are landmarks, placed in the most obscene locations of the world - next to ancient roads, for instance.
This stupa's pinned head had aslanted.
Once a stupa had been a comforting sight. I just couldn't quite put my finger on the occasion - it must've been Tibet, fifteen years ago, otherwise it wouldn't probably felt like such a strong memory.
I continued my run across the frozen, dark-brown plain towards the mountains. Tokakeriby lies on the floor of a very large valley, surrounded my quite soft-shaped mountains. My feet left no marks in the hard ground. My breath followed me as clouds of diffusing water, and my sweater felt sweaty and cold. I wondered if there was any possibility of a shower or an other kind of wash-up in the monastery. After an hour's run I returned back, walking. I few monks greeted me silently as I squeezed past them when going through the doors.
I got inside and left my boots beside outdoor. I tiptoed to the first hall - the floor was cold and dusty and I only had a limited amount of warm, clean tennis socks. A two-metre wide ray of yellow light came through the window.
I heard silent clattering of feet and other particles on a stony floor. You know, the kind of sound one could hear in a tomb with flowing water. I walked between the thin, crooked columns and enjoyed the silence. The ceiling was made of thin treetrunks and the floor was sand and stone. I loved the simplicity of the hall - it's ascetic charm. On the other side stood the same fat, smiling buddha that I had seen when entering the monastery the night before. I started wondering what it would feel like living in a place like that all my life. To me, it would mean a struggle of getting used to just being quiet, remaining in one place for a long time. The thought frightened me. I've walways respected monks - many people seem to have the same kind of respect for this silent brotherhood, they just pray, and... exist. Their existence is so simple, yet so incredibly powerful. It seems that they achieve just by thinking and praying what we westerners try to achieve in a lifetime of fighting, worrying, working and suffering and almost positively fail.
I had to face it - Lama Dorje had made me feel miserable. To him I was probably an impatient, anxious and overly curious person. He was patient, wise and experienced in life. I couldn't help but wonder if I'd made a fool of myself by demanding him to give me answer to my questions. Can you make a fool of yourself in front of a monk? Aren't they supposed to be tolerant and peaceful? What a sterotypic.
I stopped by a wall to inspect more closely a wooden shrine that had been sunk in the wall when building the hall. It had two very highly-detailed, carved doors. I pushed the other one open with my forefinger, carefully not to injury the intricate laquering.
Inside the shrine, there stood a six-handed buddha statue made of copper. It was beautiful, and I couldn't help but let my gloomy mood fall on it. I have spent a lifetime recovering and protecting such treasures, yet I can never understand the full significance of those peacefully smiling faces, and I could never even learn. I was born Christian - the secrets of Buddhism and the significance of a smile, a certain form of The Buddha could only manifest themselves as raw, cold texts and pictures in books.
Secretly, I envied the monks for their faith in something so beautiful it must've been too complicated for my poor mind.
Archaeologists are archaeologists. We pretend to know everything about things that will never even be at an arm's reach. I closed the shrine doors, and backed away too steps. I did a karate bow towards the shrine, and became mildly amused by my actions afterwards.
What I didn't know was that I had been watched by Lama Dorje, who laid a hand on my shoulder when I was just about to turn and return to my bedchamber.
"Admiring our Kye Dorje, are you?" he asked politely, stepping to my side to take a look at the shrine himself.
"I apologize. I know I should not have opened it."
"Do not worry. I came to have a word with you," he explained, and I turned to face him. I made a mental note to shut my mouth and let him do the talking. He coughed, and his dark-bourgogne-red robes made a quiet swish.sound as he raised his hand to cover his mouth. His hand were old, thin and wrinkled - the hands of a very old man. Then he continued.
"You asked me why you have come. But have you asked yourself this?"
I smiled at the Buddha in the shrine. "I'm a little too impatient to do that, Lama Dorje."
"Ah, I know your impatience," the old man said. He took my hand in his and smiled, probably his widest smile. "Sitting around seems too much for you. I saw you take a run this morning."
"Running is my zen, Lama." I joked midly, hoping that I didn't touch the wrong subject.
"We all have our zens, Lara."
I sighed. Lama Dorje carefully shut the shrine, and we set out walking on the corridor towards the kitchens.
"I will answer all of your questions now," Lama announced, leaving me silent again. Now, that I just calmed down in a way, he gives me all the opportunities to do what I always do - get the facts and run.
"Lama Dorje, have you spoken to John Gilliam since 1989?"
"Yes, I have. He and his wife come here every second year."
The Gilliams hadn't told me this. I couldn't help but wonder if it had anything to do with me. Then I shushed myself - I was being very selfish. Not everything in the world had to do with me.
"They come every second year to ask if you've visited us."
There went a good excersize of self-restraint down to the sewer. "I met them in Kathmandu."
"It must've made them very happy," Lama Dorje commented politely, and made me think again about all the films featuring Tibetan monks who, with every single word they said, seemed to outrun all the Greek philosophers at once in religious wisdom. Was there supposed to be something of wisdom greater than life in Lama Dorje's last comment? I was angry at myself for letting Lama Dorje make me feel so frustrated. I never knew what to say when speaking with him.
"Lama Dorje, why am I here?"
"We have something to ask from you, Lara."
"That's not what brought me here. I don't believe in telepathy."
"You came here to pay a debt, did you not?" Lama Dorje asked, his tone almost a little reprimanding.
"You saved me. What should I say?" I didn't notice soon enough that my noise had become a little louder.
"Please do not raise your voice here. This is a house of prayer. You are very impatient. And full of life."
What was that supposed to mean? Isn't everyone in the world full of life? What else can you be than either full of life or dead?
"Impatience and intolerance are signs of fire, Lara. You feel you have so much to do, so much to see, you're in an ever-accelerating hurry. You shall not worry, I will tell you everything you want to know."
I hoped he would relieve me from my unholy impatience by telling me how I was supposed to help the monks.
"There is a relic we're all hoping you to find. It will be difficult."
"What is this relic? A Buddhist one?"
"It is a relic that every human being could consider a piece of their religion. It is priceless. It is called The Sadhana."
Lama Dorje put him hands inside his robe sleeves. It was cold in the kitchen, where a young boy, a monk also, was preparing some kind of porridge made from rice and dry vegetables.
"The Sadhana?" I asked. I had never heard of it - except... That box in my hotel room in Kathmandu! Sadhana had been the word that had left me puzzled.
The young boy smiled and nodded at me and gave me a cup of rice. I united my palms in a greeting manner. Lama Dorje looked at me, pleased.
"We are confident that only you can find this Sadhana. The journey will be long and appalling in ways."
"Where should I begin? I know the Sadhana's in West Tibet."
"How do you know?"
"I saw something, a box of some sorts with the word carved on it with a map of West Tibet."
Lama Dorje just smiled mysteriously and changed the approach to the subject.
"Dvesagniprashamani's Lara, the Sadhana is located near Lake Manasarovar, the Holy Lake next to Mount Kailash."
I thanked Lama Dorje, finished my rice and returned to my bedchamber, passing my driver and guide on the way, on their way to breakfast. The location of the plane crash. I would have to return there and see it all again. The thought made me heavy-hearted.
-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~
As always, comments and reviews would be much appreciated - they're the fuel that feeds this creative furnace.
siirma6@surfeu.fi