Eliot Pattison - Beautiful Ghosts

“When Surya came to us that first day, it was like the sun had come out after years of storm. He put a hand on all our heads-everyone, even the children-then he came inside the workshops. He spent two hours inside, alone, studying our work. Afterwards he told us to take everything away, to empty this entire chamber. Then he put a little stool in the center of the room with a little bronze Buddha on it, saying after he left we had to meditate on that Buddha, do nothing but meditate on that Buddha, and the Buddha inside us, night and day, stopping only to eat and sleep, until he came back.

“When Lodi found out he was furious because we had stopped working, because his order was not ready on time. But we did not stop the meditation. Two weeks later Surya returned and began teaching us how to paint, starting with us as if we were children. He painted this for us, finished it on his last visit. He said soon the world would change.…” Her voice fell away and she looked up, blinking away tears. “Liya told us what happened. He labored to help us find our deities and then lost his own.”

There was a long silence as they stared at Surya’s painting. Something opened in the back of Shan’s mind and he heard Surya’s voice reading one of the old sutras. When he finally walked away, Lokesh at his side, Yao still stood staring, not at the painting, but at the painter.

The second chamber of the long building seemed to hold most of the population of the village. The woman who had served them tea was there, half a dozen children, and perhaps twenty more adults, standing in a tight knot at the center of the wood-paneled chamber, quiet murmurs of excitement rippling through the assembly. Shan and Lokesh eased their way to the side of the group. The villagers were gathered around Corbett, some of them venturing to pat Corbett on the back, a woman offering him fresh berries, another tea.

“He was outside in the garden,” a small voice whispered. Dawa had found Shan. “There was a tablet of parchment, a brush, and some ink. I saw it happen. He dipped the brush in the ink and made a few strokes, smiled, and did it again. It was a flower on a branch, a perfect little flower with only six strokes. He saw me and motioned me to sit by him, then an old woman came to him and gasped when she saw the flower, saying it was as if it was growing from the paper. She laughed for joy, and started giving prayers of thanks. She cried out that this one is born of the rainbow. People started running. Soon someone starting blowing that long horn.”

“What old woman?”

Dawa pointed to a woman in a brightly colored apron who sat at Corbett’s side, showing him a collection of old paint brushes.

“The head of our painting halls,” Liya said over Shan’s shoulder. “The oldest of our painters.”

“What did she mean, Corbett was born from the rainbow?”

She welcomed the question with a broad smile. “Many saints were said to have passed through here in the early centuries, going on to live at Zhoka. They taught that art was a spiritual practice, that the best artists, like the best lamas, were those who had benefited from many prior lives.”

“Surely you don’t mean he says Corbett is reincarnated from one?”

“Not exactly. It is more like art is a spiritual power, Corbett has the power of many prior artist lives focused in him. Not one specific artist. Our old teachings say the rainbow is the vehicle for passing the power, that where a rainbow touches down, an artist is born in that spot.”

Shan looked at Corbett. “And he’s been told this?”

“Oh yes. It pleases him. He is part of the prophecy, that the world is changing,” Liya said. She glanced at Shan and flushed with color. “I mean people are saying that.”

“He is an agent of the United States government,” Shan pointed out.

Liya shrugged. “He is an artist, a translator of deities. The rest is unimportant.”

Shan watched Corbett and the villagers, the American awkwardly accepting gifts of food and paint brushes, the lama grinning, the children singing.

“When I met you, you were with the purbas,” Shan said. “I never saw you with a paint brush.”

Liya offered a smile that was somehow grateful. “I was going to be an artist, as all of us are brought up to be. But after my mother died and Lodi left there was no one to watch out for everyone. He calls me-he called me-the village business manager.”

“That’s not what I would have called you when you were helping the monks with the festival.”

Her smile seemed sadder now. “That seems like a long time ago. That was when Surya was going to open Zhoka again, and I was going to bring new art for the temples.”

“What was Lodi’s business with Ming?” Shan asked abruptly.

“We make art and Lodi sells it. Punji introduced him to Ming, who helped him learn about art markets. She got him assigned to some of Ming’s expeditions.”

“Was Ming buying art from Lodi?”

Liya frowned, and did not answer.

“Was he stealing from Ming?”

“Lodi was no thief.”

“Yes he was, Liya.” Shan explained what he knew about the theft of the Dolan collection, and murder of the young American woman.

Liya stared at a row of lotus flowers carved into the wall near the ceiling, her eyes growing moist. “I don’t believe it. He was no killer, no thief. He had reverence for our art, he would not steal sacred things, it would be disrespectful.”

“People change. He had money. He traveled, he had friends in the West. Bumpari was part of his life, but not all of it.” What would she say, Shan wondered, if he told her that Corbett had proof that Lodi visited casinos? She would not even understand what a casino was. And stealing from a rich American might not seem disrespectful, especially if Lodi was indeed bringing the artifacts back to Tibet.

A lonely despair grew on Liya’s countenance. “All I want is for things to be the way they were, the way they are supposed to be.” She gazed at the children playing at Corbett’s feet as she spoke. “We spoke about looters, Lodi and I. There have always been thieves looking for treasure. He always thought he could protect Tibetan things while still-” Liya searched for words, “still conducting his business in the West. But then I saw him at Zhoka before dawn on the festival day. He was upset. More than upset. Remorseful. He said nothing that was about to happen had been his idea, he wanted me to believe that. He said we should seal some of the old shrines and he vowed that he would find something that would make up for everything, something wonderful for the people of the hills, something Surya had been seeking for months. He had that statue of Manjushri with him, and gave it to me before dawn the day of the festival, to protect it. I hid it in the ruins and brought it back with his body.”

She grew silent again, and moisture filled her eyes again. “I feel responsible for his death. I took him there, months ago. I asked him to go to Zhoka with me because Surya was going to show us how to make it live again, and I wanted Lodi to be part of it. He didn’t want to go at first, but when we began finding things he seemed to change, and did not protest.”

“Did he assemble the skulls on the table?” Shan asked. “Did he make the writing beneath them, about being taken by beauty?”

“We both gathered the skulls. There were old chambers where they were scattered about the floor. All these years, and everyone has been too frightened to return to pay homage. We weren’t sure what to do with them. Lodi wrote the words. It should have been a prayer but we know so few,” Liya added in a whisper.

“Ming was his partner. Don’t you think he would have told Ming about Zhoka? They had dealt with ruins before, for the museum.”