Secret of Shambhala Read online

  “Yeah,” I said. “I know what you mean.”

  His look penetrated me. “If you are going to find Shambhala, you must learn how to do this consciously.”

  “Shambhala? What are you talking about?”

  Yin’s face grew pale, exuding an expression of embarrassment. He shook his head, apparently feeling as though he had overstepped himself and let something out of the bag.

  “Never mind,” he said lowly. “It is not my place. Wil must explain this.” The line was forming to enter the plane, and Yin turned away and moved toward the ticket steward.

  I was wracking my brain, trying to place the word “Shambhala.” Finally it came to me. Shambhala was the mythical community of Tibetan Buddhist lore, the one that the stories about Shangri-La had been based on.

  I caught Yin’s eye. “That place is a myth… right?”

  Yin just handed the steward his ticket and walked down the aisle.

  On the flight to Lhasa, Yin and I sat in different sections of the plane, giving me time to think. All I knew was that Shambhala was of great significance to Tibetan Buddhists, whose ancient writings described it as a holy city of diamonds and gold, filled with adepts and lamas—and hidden somewhere in the vast uninhabitable regions of northern Tibet or China. More recently, though, most Buddhists seemed to speak of Shambhala merely in symbolic terms, as representing a spiritual state of mind, not a real location.

  I reached over and pulled a travel brochure of Tibet from the pouch on the seat back, hoping to get a renewed sense of its geography. Lying between China to the north and India and Nepal to the south, Tibet is basically a large plateau with few areas lower than six thousand feet. At its southern border are the towering Himalayas, including Mount Everest, and on the northern border just inside China are the vast Kunlun Mountains. In between are deep gorges, wild rivers, and hundreds of square miles of rocky tundra. From the map, eastern Tibet seemed to be the most fertile and populated, while the north and west looked sparse and mountainous, with few roads, all of them gravel.

  Apparently there are only two major routes into western Tibet—the northern road, used mostly by truckers, and the southern road, which skirts the Himalayas and is used by pilgrims from all over the region to reach the sacred sites of Everest, Lake Manasarovar, and Mount Kailash, and farther on to the mysterious Kunluns.

  I looked up from my reading. As we flew along at thirty-five thousand feet, I began to sense a distinct shift in temperature and energy outside. Below me, the Himalayas rose in frozen, rocky spires, framed by a clear blue sky. We practically flew right over the top of Mount Everest as we passed into the airspace of Tibet—the land of snows, the rooftop of the world. It was a nation of seekers, inward travelers, and as I looked down at the green valleys and rocky plains surrounded by mountains, I couldn’t help being awed by its mystery. Too bad it was now being brutally administered by a totalitarian government. What, I wondered, was I doing here?

  I looked back at Yin seated four rows behind me. It bothered me that he was being so secretive. I made up my mind, again, to be very cautious. I would not go any farther than Lhasa without a full explanation.

  When we arrived at the airport, Yin resisted all my inquiries about Shambhala, repeating his assertion that soon we would be met by Wil, at which point I would learn everything. We caught a taxi and headed toward a small hotel near the center of town, where Wil would be waiting.

  I caught Yin staring at me.

  “What?” I asked.

  “I was just checking to see how you are adjusting to the altitude,” Yin said. “Lhasa is twelve thousand feet above sea level. You must take it easy for a while.”

  I nodded, appreciating his concern, but in the past I had always adapted easily to high altitudes. I was about to mention this to Yin when I caught sight of a huge, fortress-like structure in the distance.

  “This is the Potala Palace,” Yin said. “I wanted you to see it. It was the Dalai Lama’s winter home before he was exiled. It now symbolizes the struggle of the Tibetan people against the Chinese occupation.”

  He looked away and remained silent until the car stopped not in front of the hotel, but down the street a hundred feet.

  “Wil should be here already,” Yin said as he opened the door. “Wait in the taxi. I’ll go in and check.”

  But instead of getting out, he stopped and stared at the entrance. I saw his look and gazed in that direction myself. The street was busy with Tibetan pedestrians and a few tourists, but all seemed normal. Then my eyes fell on a short, Chinese man near the corner of the building. He held a paper of some kind, but his eyes were carefully surveying the area.

  Yin looked toward the cars parked on the curb across the street from the man. His eyes stopped on an old brown sedan containing several men in suits.

  Yin said something to the taxi driver, who looked nervously at us in the rearview mirror and drove toward the next intersection. As we drove on, Yin bent over so as not to be seen by the men in the car.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  Yin ignored me, telling the driver to turn left and head farther into the center of the city.

  I grabbed his arm. “Yin, tell me what’s going on. Who were those men?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “But Wil would not be there. There is one other place I think he would go. Watch and see if we are being followed.”

  I looked behind us as Yin gave the taxi driver more instructions. Several cars came up behind us but then turned off. There was no sign of the brown sedan.

  “Do you see anyone back there?” Yin asked, turning to look for himself.

  “I don’t think so,” I replied.

  I was about to question Yin again about what was happening when I noticed that his hands were shaking. I took a good look at his face. It was pale and covered with sweat. I realized that he was terrified. The sight sent a chill of fear through my own body.

  Before I could speak, Yin pointed out a parking place for the taxi driver and pushed me out of the car with my satchel, leading me down a side street and then into a narrow alley. After walking a hundred feet or so, we leaned against the wall of a building and waited for several minutes, our eyes glued to the entrance of the street we had just left. Neither of us spoke a word.

  When it appeared as though we were not being followed, Yin proceeded down the alley to the next building and knocked several times. There was no answer, but the lock on the door mysteriously opened from the inside.

  “Wait here,” Yin said, opening the door. “I’ll be back.”

  He moved silently into the building and shut the door. When I heard it lock, a wave of panic filled me. Now what? I thought. Yin was scared. Was he abandoning me out here? I looked back down the alley toward the crowded street. This was exactly what I had feared most. Someone seemed to be looking for Yin, and maybe Wil too. I had no idea what I might be getting involved in.

  Perhaps it would be best if Yin did vanish, I thought. That way I could run back to the street and hide among the crowds until I found my way back to the airport. What else could I do then but go back home? I would be absolved of all responsibility to look for Wil or do anything else on this misadventure.

  The door suddenly opened, Yin slid out, and the door was quickly locked.

  “Wil left a message,” Yin said. “Come on.”

  We walked a bit farther down the alley and hid between two large trash bins as Yin opened an envelope and pulled out a note. I watched him as he read. His face seemed to grow even whiter. When he finished, he held the note out toward me.

  “What does it say?” I demanded, grabbing the paper. I recognized Wil’s handwriting as I read:

  Yin, I’m convinced we are being allowed into Shambhala. But I must go on ahead. It is of utmost importance that you bring our American friend as far as you can. You know the dakini will guide you.

  Wil

  I looked at Yin, who glanced at me for a moment and then looked away. “What does he mean, ‘allowed into Sh
ambhala’? He means that figuratively, right? He doesn’t think it’s a real place, does he?”

  Yin was staring at the ground. “Of course Wil thinks it’s a real place,” he whispered.

  “Do you?” I asked.

  He looked away, appearing as though the weight of the world had been placed on his shoulders.

  “Yes… Yes…,” he said, “only it has been impossible for most people to ever conceive of this place, much less get there. Certainly you and I cannot…” His voice trailed off into silence.

  “Yin,” I said, “you have to tell me what’s going on. What is Wil doing? Who are these men we saw at the hotel?”

  Yin stared at me for a moment and then said, “I think they are Chinese intelligence officers.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know what they are doing here. Apparently they have been alerted by all the activity and talk about Shambhala. Many of the lamas here realize that something is changing with this holy place. There has been much discussion.

  “Changing how? Tell me.”

  Yin took a deep breath. “I wanted to let Wil explain this… but I guess now I must try. You must understand what Shambhala is. The people there are live human beings, born into this holy place, but they are of a higher evolutionary state. They help hold energy and vision for the whole world.”

  I looked away, thinking about the Tenth Insight. “They’re spiritual guides of some kind?”

  “Not like you think,” Yin replied. “They aren’t like family members or other souls in the afterlife that might be helping us from that dimension. They are human beings who live right here on this Earth. Those in Shambhala have an extraordinary community and live at a higher level of development. They model what the rest of the world will ultimately achieve.”

  “Where is this place?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you know anyone who has seen it?”

  “No. As a boy, I studied with a great lama, who declared one day that he was going to Shambhala, and after days of celebration, he left.”

  “Did he get there?”

  “No one knows. He disappeared and was never seen again anywhere in Tibet.”

  “Then no one really knows whether it exists or not.”

  Yin was silent for a moment, then said, “We have the legends…”

  “Who’s we?”

  He stared at me. I could tell that he was restricted by some kind of code of silence. “I cannot tell you that. Only the head of our sect, Lama Rigden, could choose to talk with you.”

  “What are the legends?”

  “I can only tell you this: The legends are the sayings left by those who have attempted to reach Shambhala in the past. They are centuries old.”

  Yin was about to say something else when a sound toward the street drew our attention. We watched closely but saw no one.

  “Wait here,” Yin said.

  Again Yin knocked on the door and disappeared inside. Just as quickly he emerged and walked over to an old, rusty Jeep with a ragged canvas top. He opened the door and waved for me to get in.

  “Come on,” he said. “We must hurry.”

  2

  THE CALL OF SHAMBHALA

  As Yin began to drive out of Lhasa, I was silent, looking out at the mountains and wondering what Wil had meant by his note. Why had he decided to go on alone? And who were the dakini? I was about to ask Yin when a Chinese military truck crossed at the intersection in front of us.

  The sight gave me a jolt, and I felt a wave of nervousness begin to fill my body. What was I doing? We had just seen intelligence officers staking out the hotel where we were supposed to meet Wil. They might be looking for us.

  “Wait a minute, Yin,” I said. “I want to go to an airport. All this seems too dangerous for me.”

  Yin looked at me with alarm. “What about Wil?” he said. “You read the note. He needs you.”

  “Yeah, well, he’s used to this kind of stuff. I’m not sure he would expect me to put myself in danger like this.”

  “You are already in danger. We must get out of Lhasa.”

  “Where are you going?” I asked.

  “To Lama Rigden’s monastery near Shigatse. It will be late when we get there.”

  “Is there a phone there?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Yin replied. “I believe so, if it’s working.”

  I nodded and Yin turned back to concentrate on the road.

  That’s fine, I thought. It wouldn’t hurt to get far away from here before making arrangements to get home.

  For hours we bounced along on the badly paved highway, passing trucks and old cars along the way. The scenery was a mix of ugly industrial developments and beautiful vistas. Well after dark, Yin pulled up into the yard of a small, concrete block house. A big, woolly dog was tied to the side of a mechanic’s garage to the right, barking at us furiously.

  “Is this Lama Rigden’s house?” I asked.

  “No, of course not,” Yin said. “But I know the people here. We can pick up some food and gasoline that we might need later. I’ll be right back.”

  I watched as Yin walked up the board steps and knocked on the door. An older Tibetan woman came out and immediately pulled Yin into a full embrace. Yin pointed at me, smiled, and said something I couldn’t understand. He waved for me, and I got out and walked into the house.

  A moment later we heard the faint squeaks of car brakes outside. Yin darted across the room and pulled back the curtains to look. I stood right behind him. In the darkness, I could see a black unmarked car sitting on the side of the road across from the rutted driveway, a hundred feet away.

  “Who is that?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” Yin replied. “Go out and get our packs, quickly.”

  I looked at him questioningly.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “Go get them, but hurry.”

  I walked out the door and over to the Jeep, trying not to look toward the car in the distance. I reached through the open window and grabbed my satchel and Yin’s pack and then briskly walked back inside. Yin was still watching out the window.

  “Oh my,” he said suddenly, “they’re coming.”

  A blast of car lights lit the window as the car raced toward the house. Grabbing his pack from me with one hand, Yin led the way out the back door and into the darkness.

  “We must go this way,” Yin yelled back at me as he led me up a path into a group of rocky foothills. I glanced back down at the house and, to my horror, saw plainclothes agents piling out of the car and encircling the residence. Another car we hadn’t even seen sped around the side of the house, and several more men jumped out and began to run up the slope to our right. I knew if we kept going in the direction we were going, they would cut us off in minutes.

  “Yin, wait a minute,” I said in a loud whisper. “They’re heading us off.”

  He stopped and put his face very close to mine in the darkness.

  “To the left,” he said. “We’ll go around them.”

  As he said that, I caught sight of the other agents running in that direction. If we followed Yin’s route, they would see us for sure.

  I looked straight up the most rugged part of the incline. Something caught my eye: A dim patch of the trail was perceptibly lighter.

  “No, we have to go straight up,” I said instinctively, and headed in that direction. Yin lagged behind me for an instant and then hurriedly followed. We made our way up the rocks, with the agents closing in from the right.

  At the top of a rise, an agent seemed to be right on top of us and we ducked between two large boulders. The area around us was still perceptibly lighter. The man was no more than thirty feet away, moving around to where he would soon see us clearly. Then, as he approached the edges of the slight glow, seconds from seeing us, he abruptly stopped, started to walk forward again, then stopped again, as if suddenly having other ideas. Without taking another step, he turned and ran back down the hill.

  After a few moments I asked Yi
n in a whisper if he thought the agent had seen us.

  “No,” Yin replied. “I do not think so. Come on.”

  We climbed the hill for another ten minutes before stopping on a stony precipice to look back down at the house. We could see more official-looking cars driving up. One was an older police car with a blinking red light. The scene filled me with terror. No doubt about it now, these people were after us.

  Yin was also looking anxiously toward the house, his hands again shaking.

  “What are they going to do to your friend?” I asked, horrified at what he might say.

  Yin looked at me with tears and fury in his eyes, then led the way farther up the hill.

  We walked for several more hours, making our way by the light of a quarter-moon that was periodically obscured by clouds. I wanted to ask about the legends Yin had mentioned, but he remained angry and sullen. At the top of the hill, Yin stopped and announced that we must rest. As I sat down on a nearby rock, he walked off into the darkness a dozen feet or so and stood with his back toward me.

  “Why were you so sure,” he asked without turning around, “that we should climb straight up the hill back there?”

  I took a breath. “I saw something,” I stammered. “The area was lighter somehow. It seemed the way to go.”

  He turned and walked over and sat down on the ground across from me. “Have you seen such a thing before?”

  I tried to shake away my anxiety. My heart was pounding and I could barely talk.

  “Yeah, I have,” I said. “Several times recently.”

  He looked away and was silent.

  “Yin, do you know what is happening?”

  “The legends would say we are being helped.”

  “Helped by whom?”

  Again he just looked away.

  “Yin, tell me what you know about this.”

  He did not respond.

  “Is it the dakini that Wil mentioned in his note?”

  Still no response.

  I felt a rush of anger. “Yin! Tell me what you know.”

  He stood up quickly and glared at me. “Some things we are forbidden to speak of. Don’t you understand? Just mentioning the names of these beings frivolously can leave a man mute for years, or blind. They are the guardians of Shambhala.”