Kim Robinson - Forty Signs of Rain

“Yeah, thanks. I’ll have the usual, pastrami sandwich on rye and potato chips.”

“Flood too,” one of the cooks said.

“Oh yeah?” Charlie replied. “What, more than usual?”

The cashier nodded, still looking at the TV. “Two storms and high tide. Upstream, downstream and middle.”

“Oh my.”

Charlie wondered what it would mean. Then he stood watching the TV with the rest of them. Satellite weather photos showed a huge sheet of white pouring across New York and Pennsylvania. Meanwhile that tropical storm was spinning past Bermuda. It looked like another perfect storm might be brewing, like the eponymous one of 1991. Not that it took a perfect storm these days to make the Mid-Atlantic states seem like a literal designation. A far less than perfect storm could do it. The TV spoke of eleven-year tide cycles, of the longest and strongest El Niño ever recorded. “It’s a fourteen-thousand-square-mile watershed,” the TV said.

“It’s gonna get wet,” Charlie observed.

The Iranians nodded silently. Five years earlier they would probably have been closing the deli, but this was the fourth “perfect storm” synergistic combination in the last three years, and they, like everyone else, were getting jaded. It was Peter crying wolf at this point, even though the previous three storms had all been major disasters at the time, at least in some places. But never in D.C. Now people just made sure their supplies and equipment were okay and then went about their business, umbrella and phone in hand. Charlie was no different, he realized, even though he had been performing the role of Peter for all he was worth when it came to the global situation. But here he was, getting a pastrami sandwich with the intention of going back to work. It seemed like the best way to deal with it.

The Iranians finally finished his order, all the while watching the TV images: flooding fields, apparently in the upper Potomac watershed, near Harpers Ferry.

“Three meters,” the cashier said as she gave him his change, but Charlie wasn’t sure what she meant. The cook chopped Charlie’s wrapped sandwich in half, put it in a bag. “First one is worst one.”

Charlie took it and hurried back through the darkening streets. He passed an occasional lit window, occupied by people working at computer terminals, looking like figures in a Hopper painting.

Now it began to rain hard again, and the wind was roaring in the trees and hooting around the building corners. The curiously low-angle nature of the city made big patches of lowering sky visible through the rain.

Charlie stopped at a street corner and looked around. His skin was on fire. Things looked too wet and underlit to be real; it looked like stage lighting for some moment of ominous portent. Once again he felt that he had crossed over into a space where the real world had taken on all the qualities of a dream, becoming as glossy and surreal, as unlikely and beautiful, as stuffed to a dark sheen with ungraspable meaning. Sometimes just being outdoors in bad weather was all it took.

Back in the office he settled at his desk, and ate while looking over his list of things to do. The sandwich was good. The coffee from the office’s coffee machine was bad. He wrote an update report to Phil, urging him to follow up on the elements of the bill that seemed to be dropping into the cracks. We have to do these things.

The sound of the rain outside made him think of the Khembalis and their low-lying island. What could they possibly do to help their watery home? Thinking about it, he Googled “Khembalung,” and when he saw there were over eight thousand references, Googled “Khembalung + history.” That got him only dozens, and he called up the first one that looked interesting, a site called “Shambhala Studies” from an.edu site.

The first paragraph left his mouth hanging open: Khembalung, a shifting kingdom. Previously Shambhala…He skimmed down the screen, scrolling slowly:

…when the warriors of Han invade central Tibet, Khembalung’s turn will have arrived. A person named Drepung will come from the East, a person named Sonam will come from the North, a person named Padma will come from the West…

“Holy shit—”

…the first incarnation of Rudra was born as King of Olmolungring, in 16,017 BC .

…then dishonesty and greed will prevail, an ideology of brutal materialism will spread all over the earth. The tyrant will come to believe there is no place left to conquer, but the mists will lift and reveal Shambhala. Outraged to find he does not rule all, the tyrant will attack, but at that point Rudra Cakrin will rise and lead a mighty host against the invaders. After a big battle the evil will be destroyed (see Plate 4)

“Holy moly.”

Charlie read on, face just inches from the screen, which was now also the dim room’s lamp. Reappearance of the kingdom…reincarnation of its lamas… This began a section describing the methods used for locating reincarnated lamas when they reappeared in a new life. The hairs on Charlie’s forearms suddenly prickled, and a wave of itching rolled over his body. Toddlers speaking in tongues, recognizing personal items from the previous incarnation’s belongings—

His phone rang and he jumped a foot.

“Hello!”

“Charlie! Are you all right?”

“Hi babe, yeah, you just startled me.”

“Sorry, oh good. I was worried, I heard on the news that downtown is flooding, the Mall is flooding.”

“The what?”

“Are you at the office?”

“Yeah.”

“Is anyone else there with you?”

“Sure.”

“Are they just sitting there working?”

Charlie peered out of his carrel door to look. In fact his floor sounded empty. It sounded as if everyone was gathered down in Evelyn’s office.

“I’ll go check and call you back,” he said to Anna.

“Okay call me when you find out what’s happening!”

“I will. Thanks for tipping me. Hey before I go, did you know that Khembalung is a kind of reincarnation of Shambhala?”

“What do you mean?”

“Just what I said. Shambhala, the hidden magical city—”

“Yes I know—”

“—well it’s a kind of movable feast, apparently. Whenever it’s discovered, or the time is right, it moves on to a new spot. They recently found the ruins of the original one in Kashgar, did you know that?”

“No.”

“Apparently they did. It was like finding Troy, or the Atlantis place on Santorini. But Shambhala didn’t end in Kashgar, it moved. First to Tibet, then to a valley in east Nepal or west Bhutan, a valley called Khembalung. I suppose when the Chinese conquered Tibet they had to move it down to that island.”

“How do you know this?”

“I just read it online.”

“Charlie that’s very nice, but right now go find out what’s going on down there in your office! I think you’re in the area that may get flooded!”

“Okay, I will. But look”—walking down the hall now—“did Drepung ever talk to you about how they figure out who their reincarnated lamas have been reborn as?”

“No! Go check on your office!”

“Okay I am, but look honey, I want you to talk to him about that. I’m remembering that first dinner when the old man was playing games with Joe and his blocks, and Sucandra didn’t like it.”

“So?”

“So I just want to be sure that nothing’s going on there! This is serious, honey, I’m serious. Those folks looking for the new Panchen Lama got some poor little kid in terrible trouble a few years ago, and I don’t want any part of anything like that.”

“What? I don’t know what you’re talking about Charlie, but let’s talk about it later. Just find out what’s going on there.”