Clive Cussler - Treasure of Khan

"Must be difficult for them to start anew with their church relics and holy scripts long since destroyed."

"A surprising number of ancient texts and monastery artifacts were buried by alert monks in advance of the purge. Important relics are turning up every day as some of the old monasteries reopen. The locals are finally becoming comfortable that the government abuses of the past are not going to recur."

"How did you get from laying bricks to driving a school bus?" Giordino asked.

"You have to wear a lot of hats out in the boondocks," the driver laughed. "The group I'm helping with isn't simply a bunch of archaeologists but also includes carpenters, educators, and historians. Part of our agreement with rebuilding the monasteries is that we also establish schoolrooms for the local children.

The structured education available to children of the nomadic herders is pretty spotty, as you can imagine. We're teaching reading, writing, math, and languages, in hopes of giving these rural kids a chance at a better life. Your friend Noyon, for example, speaks three languages and is a whiz at math. If we can offer him accessible schooling for the rest of his childhood, and keep a PlayStation from falling into his hands, he'll probably grow up to be a fine engineer or doctor. That's what we are hoping to offer all of these kids."

The bus crested a blunt ridge, exposing a narrow valley on the other side. At its midpoint, a splash of thick grass dotted with purple shrubs added a sparkle of color to the otherwise monotonous desert. Pitt noticed a cluster of small stone buildings built in the thicket, sided by a handful of white gers. A small herd of camels and goats were corralled nearby, while several small SUVs were positioned at the southern end.

"Bulangiin Monastery," the driver announced. "Home to twelve monks, one lama, seventeen camels, and an occasional hungry volunteer or two from the U.S. of A." He threaded his way down some coarse tire tracks, then pulled the bus to a stop in front of one of the gers.

"School's in," the driver said to Pitt and Giordino as the kids clamored off the bus. Noyon burst by, waving at the two men, before hopping off the bus.

"Afraid I need to go teach a geography lesson," the driver said after all the children had departed. "If you boys head to the large building with a dragon on its eave, you'll find Lama Santanai. He speaks English, and will be glad to look after you for the night."

"Will we be seeing you later?"

"Probably not. After I take the kids home, I promised an overnight stopover at one of the villages to give a talk on western democracy. Was nice chatting with you, though. Enjoy your visit."

"Many thanks for the lift, and for the information," Pitt replied.

The driver scooped up the sleeping dachshund and grabbed a book of world geography from under his seat, then waltzed toward the waiting classroom inside the ger.

"Nice fellow," Giordino said as he stood up and then stepped off the bus. Pitt followed, noticing a placard above the driver's visor that read, WELCOME, YOUR DRIVER'S NAME IS CLIVE CUSSLER.

"Yes," Pitt agreed with a searching nod. "But he drives like Mario Andretti."

They made their way across the compound toward three pagoda-shaped buildings whose upturned roofs were layered in an aged blue ceramic tile. The central and largest of the three buildings was the main temple, flanked by a shrine hall and a storeroom. Pitt and Giordino walked up a short flight of steps leading into the main temple, admiring a pair of curvaceous stone dragons that were mounted on the corner eaves, their long tails curving up the steeply angled roof. The two men mindfully entered the temple through an immense open door, where a chorus of low chants greeted them.

As their eyes adjusted to the dim illumination provided only by candlelight, they saw two broad benches that ran lengthwise across the temple, ending near a small altar. A half dozen elderly monks sat on each bench, facing one another across the center aisle. The monks sat cross-legged, dressed in bright saffron robes, their shaved heads held perfectly still as they chanted. Pitt and Giordino tiptoed clockwise around the temple, taking a seat along the back wall and watching the remainder of the mantra.

Tibetan Lamaism is the practiced form of Buddhism in Mongolia, the religious ties between the two countries forged centuries ago. Prior to the government purge, nearly a third of Mongolian males were practicing lamas, living an ascetic existence in one of the many unadorned monasteries scattered around the country. Buddhism nearly vanished during the communist reign, and a whole generation of Mongolians is just now being reacquainted with the spirituality of their ancestors.

Pitt and Giordino could not help but feel the mystique inside the temple as they observed the ceremony, which differed little than that practiced by lamas hundreds of years before. The scent of burning incense enchanted their noses with an exotic aroma. The interior of the ancient temple exuded a warm glow from the candlelight, which flickered off the red-painted ceiling and the bright crimson banners that hung from the walls. Tarnished statues of Buddha in various incarnates dabbled the nooks and altar. Then there was the haunting sound from the lips of the noble lamas.

The craggy-faced monks repeated in unison a line from their prayer books, which lie open in front of them. The mantra slowly grew louder and louder, the voices rising in intensity, until an elderly lama with thick glasses suddenly rapped at a goatskin drum. The other monks joined in the crescendo by ringing tiny brass bells or blowing into large white conch shells until the walls of the temple shook. Then, as if an invisible hand suddenly turned down the volume, the crescendo slowly fell away to complete silence, the monks meditating in quiet for a moment before rising from their benches.

The lama with the thick glasses set down his drum and approached Pitt and Giordino. He was nearly eighty-five yet moved with the strength and grace of a much younger man. His deep brown eyes shined with warmth and intelligence.

"The Americans who wander the desert," he said in heavily accented English. "I am Santanai. Welcome to our temple. We have included a prayer for your safe travels in our worship today."

"Please excuse our intrusion," Pitt said, startled at the lama's knowledge of their arrival.

"The path to enlightenment is open to all," the lama smiled. "Come, let me show you our home." The old lama proceeded to guide Pitt and Giordino around the temple, then led them outside for a walk around the grounds.

"The original monastery dates to the 1820s," he explained. "The occupants were more fortunate than most during the great purge. Government agents destroyed the living quarters and the food stores, then drove away the faithful. For reasons unknown, the temple was left untouched, abandoned to stand empty for many decades. The sacred texts and other articles of worship were secured by a local herdsman and buried in the sands nearby. When the ways of tolerance were resumed by the government, we reopened the temple as the centerpiece of our monastery."

"The buildings look hardly the worse for wear after all those years," Giordino noted.

"Local herdsmen and underground monks secretly maintained the temple during the years of repression.

The remote location helped keep the site out of the prying eyes of the most troublesome government atheists. But we have much work yet to do to restore the compound," he said, motioning toward a stack of lumber and building materials. "We live in the gers now, but will someday have a permanent residence structure."

"You and a dozen disciples?"

"Yes, there are twelve monks here plus a visiting aspirant. But we hope to provide housing for an additional ten young men before long."