Chapter 28

Kreeger accepted the bottle and tried to look inside—first through the glass, then through the neck. He sniffed at the contents, grimaced, then put the bottle to his lips. A sip was more than enough—it was warm, and very bitter. He spat at once, handing back the bottle. ‘I prefer sweet things for energy,’ he said.

Lee grinned and tipped the warm liquid down his throat. A trickle out of the corner of his mouth told the doctor its colour—blood red.

Twenty minutes later, the two men, bathed in perspiration, fell at the monastery’s entrance. Despite his exhaustion, Kreeger could not keep his eyes off the two stone pillars. He marvelled at the carving that had turned the rock into fierce guards; his eyes climbed to their tops where he saw turrets, each with a small, ornate covering, a kind of roof that would keep the midday sun out of the sentinel’s eyes.

‘Wonderful, aren’t they?’ Lee said, noticing Kreeger’s interest.

‘Yes, extraordinary.’

Kreeger rose first, doubting the potency of Lee’s energy drink. ‘Come on, let’s find somebody.’

They set off together and the instant they walked between the statues, a bell sounded—it was as if they had triggered some kind of medieval alarm. Lee stepped in front and led the way into the monastery. Another chime rang out, and as it dissipated through the stonework, Kreeger was suddenly aware of the pervading silence of the place. Gone was the chainsaw-buzz of the cicadas that had pierced his ears for most of the way up. Gone were the finches that had twittered beside them on the path. It was as if nature had been refused entry by those mute guards. All he heard was the distant screech of a kite. ‘Where is everybody?’ he whispered to Lee.

The sentinels had filled Kreeger with the expectation that he would behold something fantastic within. But splendour began and finished at the entrance; beyond, he saw only ramshackle buildings, plain and ugly. Tiles had slipped leaving holes in roofs and smashed clay on the paths. Walls were black and mossy and covered by snaking vines. They walked over uneven courtyards whose cobblestones were at war with a hidden, subterranean enemy.

They passed a pagoda and turned into a square, whose aspect allowed the late afternoon sun to fill it with brilliant light; Kreeger shielded his eyes and Lee lowered his sunglasses. Long roots from a nearby tree snaked through the stones beneath their feet. A grinding creak turned both men’s heads in unison, away from the falling sun, towards a dilapidated building. An ancient wooden door had swung on its rusty hinges, letting sunlight stream into its shadowy interior; but nothing came out. It was as if the sleepy old building had opened its own door to yawn.

‘So good of you to come.’ A voice from behind made the two men jump; they turned again, completing the full circle.

Kreeger screwed up his eyes, trying to shield them as best he could. He made out the figure of an old man standing there, his head blocking the sun, which formed a halo of brilliant light. He squinted but saw nothing besides straggly long hair flying in the breeze.

‘Master Long,’ Lee said, cupping his hand over his sunglasses, ‘I wish you wouldn’t do that.’

The old man said something to Lee that the doctor could not understand then floated back towards the shade of the pagoda; the two visitors followed.

‘Docta Kreega, please meet Masta Long.’

Kreeger at last had a chance to look at the old monk and gazed into his wrinkled face, unperturbed by his piercing black eyes. He expected an arm to shake but instead the old man raised both of his hands to his chest, clasped in a prayer-like gesture. He genuflected gracefully, leaving the doctor awkwardly wondering how to respond. Lee saved him:

‘We were just at the murder scene and the docta insist on coming up here to meet you, Masta Long. He wants to ask you a few questions. About the boy.’

‘Of course, of course.’ The words floated from between his wispy lips, drawn out into extended sounds. He hissed the final s of the second and fourth word. ‘So unfortunate. Come let’s drink tea together.’

Kreeger was not sure if the old man’s feet actually touched the ground beneath his long white robes as he moved away from them. The visitors followed, Kreeger becoming aware of his own big feet trapped inside tight leather; heavy steps, his body moving awkwardly with each weighty footfall.

Long sailed around a few corners and out of sight, but Lee seemed to know which way to go. The stonework became less and Kreeger could sense that they were approaching the edge of the monastery. A giant banyan tree with an immense girth of vertical roots loomed up in front of them. The roots dove into the black earth and snaked away from the tree, knitting together the side of a ravine, holding it firm, as if they were powerful fingers. Long had perched himself on a root that meandered from the tree, leaving two stools free for his guests. A steaming clay pot sat on a small cane table next to three upturned glasses. Prepared and waiting.

As Kreeger and Lee took their uncomfortable seats, Long leaned forward, flipped over each glass, and poured tea.

‘Do you like tea, Doctor?’ A calm and even voice. ‘Please drink.’

Kreeger accepted the offer and went for the glass in front of him. He already had it off the table before he realised it was far too hot. He quickly put it down, spilling a few drop on his already scorched index finger. As he waved it through the air, Long said:

‘Green tea, Doctor Kreeger. It will clean your body.’ He wrapped his spindly fingers around another steaming glass and lifted it to his lips. ‘Mmm, very delicious, very cleansing.’

Lee touched his glass but decided to wait.

‘Mister Long,’ Kreeger began, ‘Did Nathan Blye seem strange to you before he died.’

‘Strange, Doctor? Why of course. We are all very strange, are we not? The way we struggle through our pitiful lives, from one crisis to the next, accepting that this is the only way to live—as if there were no alternative.’ He waited, allowing his words to sink in. ‘But I know what you mean, Doctor; and no, Mister Blye was not more strange than anyone else I have met.’

Kreeger wished he had not asked that question and thought more carefully about the next one. ‘I know Blye had a . . .’ He looked at Lee, as if he had forgotten something, but Lee was staring off into the ravine. ‘I want to ask you about Blye’s . . .’

‘He’s gone, Doctor,’ Long interrupted. ‘Blye’s friend, Novice Song. He left us yesterday.’

Kreeger took a moment to realise what had happened; the shock came later. ‘But . . . where? Eh . . . where has he gone?’

‘Wherever his mind takes him. Where do we all go, Doctor? We all end up in the same place, do we not?’

Kreeger was suddenly very uncomfortable; he touched his glass again, warm; he sipped, but stopped immediately, allowing only one small mouthful of the bitter tea to trickle down his throat. He tried not to spit. Still uncomfortable. ‘Mister Long, did Nathan Blye have any enemies here in the monastery?’

The old monk smiled and clasped his hands in his lap. ‘Of course he had an enemy. Do you know who your enemy is, Doctor?’

Kreeger shrugged and said that he did not have any enemies. Jon Lee looked furtively between the two men.

‘Wrong, Doctor,’ Long said, ‘wrong. You yourself are your own enemy. Your very worst enemy. That tricky mind of yours always trying to deceive you.’ He waited a few seconds, still smiling. ‘Now, if you mean did Blye have any enemies besides himself, well I am sure he did, but not here in our little monastery.’

‘What did he do here, in the monastery?’

Long drained his glass and poured himself another.

‘Mister Blye came here to learn, Doctor, but I could not teach him anything. I simply helped him to understand his own mind, to see its deceiving ways. I help all the monks die to the known, Doctor, lose what they have. Without effort of course; the force of one’s will is very harmful—so in a sense we do nothing here; he, Mister Blye, did nothing.’

Kreeger moved uncomfortably on his stool. ‘You know it seems to me that . . .’

Long raised his hand . ‘What you perceive is not what-is, Doctor; clear your mind to cut the illusion.’ He smiled then drank again.

Jon Lee stood up and put his hand on Kreeger’s shoulder. ‘We should go now; many things to do, eh Docta?’

Kreeger flinched. Asian hands were still a touch too familiar for his liking—he had never got used to them. Many a time he’d had to brush away Dr. Yap’s straying, liver-spotted fingers.

‘Just one more question,’ he said, returning his attention to the old man. ‘Mister Long, when did you last see Nathan Blye?’

‘I left the monastery on the Sunday; so I suppose the last time I saw him was on the Saturday, in the dining hall. But he was here until the Tuesday, some of the other monks saw him go to bed on Tuesday night.’

Kreeger looked at his full glass before he got up, ‘Thanks for the tea,’ he said.

‘So soon, so soon,’ Long said as he arose from the smooth root that had held his body for the past ten minutes. ‘Never enough time.’ He left the words hanging with the two guests as he floated away, back into the monastery. Lee threw a stone down into the stream before they both followed.

‘Don’t worry, Docta, Masta Long is a very good man, you know, trust me,’ Lee whispered.

Kreeger, eyes wide, tried to record the surroundings as they retraced their steps towards the pillared exit with its foreboding statuary. He peered through broken windows, over collapsing walls. He wondered at ornate roofs topping colourful pavilions then dismayed at broken beams over asymmetrical doorways. It all flooded in, everything besides its human occupants—not a monk in sight.

Their host stopped at the exit and bowed as his two guests crossed the threshold. ‘You are welcome any time, friends; but next time please leave your troubled minds here at the gate. It is always open.’

Kreeger raised his chin and walked through, but Jon Lee faced the old monk and returned the sign of respect, thanking him. He caught up with Kreeger and the two men started off down the path. Suddenly the doctor stopped and turned back to the monastery.

‘Sorry, just one more thing, Mister Long,’ he called up.

Long, robes flapping, reappeared, gliding back into the entrance. He stood framed by the black basalt columns, his wispy white hair blowing in the breeze.

‘It seems so dry everywhere.’ Kreeger said, ‘when did you last see rain up here?’

Long lifted an arm, his big sleeve dropping into the wind like a wing of an ancient windmill. ‘Why, a week ago, more. Maybe nine or ten days.’

Kreeger turned and stepped forwards. ‘Thanks,’ he called back without looking.