No one said a word. No one interrupted him. An interesting thing happened as he spoke. The moment Colonel Tan entered the story, the men shared a common look, as if each had his own history with Tan and the national police. Not a pleasant one if judged by the scowls on their faces.
When he’d finished, the men exchanged words in their native tongue. Now that he needed her, Helen Mirren had gone missing. He was unable to decipher what they were saying. By their heated tones and varied expressions, they either wanted him shot at dawn or nominated for sainthood. Simon hoped for something in between. The best word to sum up their collective mood was “confused.” Simon was not a problem any of them had come across in a textbook.
A knock at the door interrupted their bickering. Steve rose and opened the door. Simon was surprised to see him place his hands together and bow. The other men shot from their chairs and followed suit. A clean-shaven head peered around the door. Intelligent eyes appraised Simon. The man said something that made the others laugh, then he entered the room. He was no more than thirty, clad in an orange-saffron robe draped over one shoulder, and sandals. A Buddhist monk.
“My nephew,” said Steve. “From the local monastery. I called him as soon as I saw you there in the floodgates. To be honest, I thought you were certainly dead. I hoped he might help your spirit find its way to the next plane.”
The monk bowed his head, greeting each man in turn. Their reverence was apparent. Finally, he came to Simon, who was standing like the others. He took Simon’s hands as the other men spoke to him, no doubt offering a summary of the story he had just told them, some believing him, others not so sure.
“His name is Chamron,” said Steve. “He is pleased to meet you and apologizes that his English is poor. However, if you speak Tibetan…”
Simon said that he did not. The monk smiled. Touché.
“Chamron will tend to you,” said Steve.
Simon did not believe he had a choice in the matter. It was not a question of his health, but of some kind of psychic appraisal.
The monk turned his attention to him, still clutching his hands. “Is okay?”
Simon said, “Yes.”
Chamron looked into his eyes and whispered for the others to be silent. He began to chant, a monotone, loud and repetitive. The atmosphere in the room grew still. Simon felt a sense of lightness and well-being come over him. He could not understand the words but acknowledged some type of bond being formed, a bridge between them, as if this man were privy to his thoughts and, more, to his soul.
The light in the room seemed to change, as if a sheer had been drawn across the windows. Simon felt himself relax and be at peace. Yes, he answered, you know me now.
The chanting ceased. The monk released Simon’s hands. At once, Simon felt a current leave him, was aware of his body again, of his fatigue and discomfort.
The monk spoke softly to Steve, who translated.
“Chamron says that once you were a bad man. You were far from the healing spirit. The gods were not happy. They punish you. They put you in a dark place for long time. You came close to other side, close to the final darkness, one foot over, to leaving this plane. But you changed your ways. Inside…in your heart…you desired to be good, to do what is right. For you, this is still not always easy. You struggle.”
Simon looked at Chamron. “When I was young, I did bad things, but no more. How do you know this?”
“Your friend.”
“My friend?”
The monk’s eyes closed as he answered. “He says that you must continue to struggle. The path is long. You are not there yet. This world needs you. Does this make sense to you?”
Simon saw that Chamron had opened his eyes and was gazing at him. “How do you know this about me?”
“He tell me,” said Chamron, speaking himself.
“Who told you?”
“Your friend.” Chamron raised a hand to indicate the world beyond them. “He is looking after you. Even now, he sees us. He make sure your head above water last night, no? He tell Steve to look for you.”
“Did he say his name?”
“No name.”
Simon nodded. Of course there was no name. There couldn’t be. The monk couldn’t possibly know about him. About Simon’s time