Warren Murphy: High Priestess

But not as much as he hoped that they would survive the landing at Gonggar.

THE BUNJI LAMA, it was recorded, assumed the Lion Throne without fanfare, notice or pomp, as befitted one who came to the sacred Potala in the dead of night on the selfless task of freeing Tibet from sorrow and slavery.

This was done in the early hours of the last morning of the second month of the Iron Dog Year, with no eyes but those of the all-seeing gods to witness the auspicious moment.

SQUIRRELLY CHICANE was still sleepy. Her brain felt like it had been soaked in ether. It was not a half-bad feeling, actually. She rather liked it. At least it was better than the pounder the high altitude had given her.

Looking around, she wondered where she was. The walls were painted with Buddhas, bodhisattvas and other mythic creatures. The ceiling was arched and high. The furniture was exquisite, especially the ornate gilt chair off in one corner. There were Chinese dragons or dogs or something decorating it.

Since there wasn't any place more inviting, she went over and sat down.

"Comfy," she said approvingly. Right then and there she decided that her awakening scene would be filmed on location. If the budget allowed. If not, it could probably be recreated on a soundstage in Burbank.

She wondered where she was. Her foggy brain failed to summon up the memory of how she had gotten to this place-wherever she was. Dimly she heard music-brassy, discordant, martial music. It seemed very loud, yet far away.

Squirrelly made a mental note to have the music replaced with a John Williams score-unless she ended up doing a musical. In which case she might take a fling at writing the music herself. After all, who was going to tell her no. She was the Bunji Lama now.

Footsteps came toward the closed wooden door. She arranged her robes about her crossed legs in case it was that dried-up Tibetan Peeping Tom, who had barged in while she was on the john.

"Bunji! Bunji!" It was Kula. The big Mongol barged in as if his mohair pants were on inside out.

He took one look and stopped, the alarm going out of his eyes.

Then he got down on hands and knees and began bumping his forehead on the floor. "This is a very great scam," he sobbed in English.

"What is?" Squirrelly said.

"You have assumed the Lion Throne."

"I have? I mean, I have! Where?"

"Your precious bottom sits upon it, Bunji.' "

Squirrelly leapt up. "This is the Lion Throne! Really? You're kidding me. You've got to be. Tell me you're kidding."

"I kid thee not, Bunji. The hour Tibet has awaited has come."

Squirrelly dropped tack onto the golden seat. "Wow! The Lion Throne. I'm sitting on the Lion Throne. What a moment. I can just feel myself vibrating at a higher cosmic frequency. What should I give as my first decree? Oh, I hate these unscripted moments."

"Protectoress, cause the Chinese who are pounding at the Potala gates to shrivel up into sheep dung."

"What Chinese?"

"We have been betrayed, Bunji."

"We have?"

"The, stinking abbot who gave us sanctuary has betrayed us to the hated Han."

"It's karma," cried Squirrelly, leaping to her feet.

Kula got up, too. "What have we done to reap such bad karma?"

"No. No. It's good karma. This is perfect! This is great."

"What is?"

Squirrelly spread her hands wide as if to conjure up the scene. "It's the end of the second act. No, wait, the beginning of the third act. The Bunji Lama awakens as if from a dream, instinctively taking her throne. And at her moment of perfect triumph, she is betrayed by one of her subjects. A notorious Peeping Tom, I'll have you know. In bursts her faithful Mongol servant-that's you-with the bad news."

"But you said it was good karma," Kula countered.

Squirrelly began pacing the floor. "It's bad in real life but great cinema. Don't interrupt your Bunji. Now where was I? Oh, yeah. Now she knows she has to take the yak by the horns and win the day." Squirrelly, popped her hands together. "The audience will eat this up like popcorn!"

Kula glanced toward the door. "Why are you saying all this, Bunji, when our very lives are in danger?"

"It's a plot point. We have to slip them into the script from time to time."

Kula looked blank.

Squirrelly paced the floor. "Okay, now I gotta turn the tables. But how? How?"

From beyond the door came a great crashing.

Squirrelly stopped in midpace. "What was that?"

"The gates have fallen to the enemies of the faith," said Kula.

"Perfect!" Squirrelly crowed.

"They will flood in like ants," Kula added.

"Fantastic! We're outnumbered a hundred to one. The audience will be on the edges of their seats. Perfect! I love it! I love it! I just love being the Bunji Lama!"

At that moment the Master of Sinanju flew in. "We must flee!" he said.

"Flee? Not on your life. I'm in costume, I have my Lion Throne, and I'm keeping it!"

"The Chinese will overrun us. We cannot fight them all."

"The way is blocked," said Lobsang from the door. "The Bunji must make her stand here."

"She will die," Chiun said firmly.

"If she dies," Lobsang intoned calmly, "it is the will of the gods. The people will hear of this and rise up,"

"The Bunji is under the protection of the House of Sinanju. Her death would bring shame upon my house. I will not have it."

Kula stepped up to Lobsang and laid the edge of a dagger against his throat. "We will do as the Master of Sinanju bids."

Squirrelly stamped a bare foot. "Don't I get some say here?"

"You are the Bunji," said Kula, bowing his head in Squirrelly's direction. "Of course we will obey your merest whim."

"Fine. My whim is that we-"

The Master of Sinanju slipped up and touched the back of Squirrelly Chicane's neck. Her mouth kept moving, but no words issued forth. She tried coughing. It only made her throat raw. Not a syllable came out.

My voice! Squirrelly thought with mounting panic. I've lost my voice!

Then she was unceremoniously thrown over Kula's hamlike shoulders and began bouncing with his every rolling step.

"This way!" hissed Chiun.

"This way leads to a cul-de-sac," Lobsang said unhappily. "We will be trapped."

"You may go another way, Priest," Kula said, his voice contemptuous.

At the end of a corridor there was a big brass Buddha, too heavy to be carried away by the Chinese who'd stripped the Potala. The Buddha sat on a wooden dais with his open palms cupped upward. In his palms rested a lotus flower.

Chiun seized it, wrenched it right, then left and finally all the way around. The Buddha began to sink into the floor of its own weight, dais and all, accompanied by a soft gritty hissing.

As the smiling head began dropping, Chiun motioned for the others to mount on the dais. Kula clambered aboard, one hand clapping a struggling Squirrelly Chicane to his shoulder. Lobsang followed, his thin face baffled. They rode the dais down into a cool yawning space as if it were a great freight elevator.

Down below it was very dark. Lobsang lit a yak butter candle, and its mellow light showed a dripping passage leading toward a clot of crepuscular shadow.

"Follow the passage to its end and await me there," Chiun instructed. "I must restore the Buddha in order to baffle the Chinese. Make haste!"

They complied, moving down the passage enveloped in a halo of malodorous light.

The Master of Sinanju examined the Buddha. It now sat on a pile of soft sand. The turning of the lotus had released catches that supported the idol. Its weight had caused the sand pile to spread outward and the Buddha to slip below the level of the floor. It was a secret a previous Master had learned and duly recorded in the histories of the house. He had not shown how to restore the Buddha, however.