candies from the sidewalk. She bent over and reached for the tin.
The wall of heat hit her as unexpectedly as if she’d stepped onto the street and was struck by a speeding truck. The invisible force picked Martha up off her feet, sucking the breath from her lungs. The thunder of the explosion rang through her head. Then the dark night around her erupted into an orange inferno, engulfing her world.
Strangely, she didn’t experience any pain.
CHAPTER 9
PUNAKHA DZONG, BHUTAN
RECLINING ON THE THRONE at the far left end of the temple was a rotund monk about thirty years old. Unlike the crimson-robed monks Grant had seen during his stay, this monk wore orange, just like Kinley. Who is this other senior monk? Grant wondered. He immediately worried about how this development might affect Kinley’s ability to take him to the off-limits library.
In spite of his impatience, Grant stood by Kristin and watched as the villagers received a ritual blessing from the orange-clad monk. When the villagers approached the throne, they prostrated themselves three times on the wooden floor. Then they rose, covered their mouths with their left hands, and bowed their heads in front of the holy man. He reached out with a lemoncolored staff and touched their heads while mumbling a blessing with the bored expression of an assembly worker in the middle of his shift.
“Reminds me of when I was thirteen,” Kristin whispered in his ear, her hair falling on his cheek, “dressed in a frilly white confirmation dress, which made my mom happy. I knelt at the altar in the cathedral. When I bowed my head, the bishop blessed me.”
Grant turned to face her. “You know, many rituals of the Church and its monasteries were patterned after the monarchies they existed under.”
“So the bishop’s pointy hat is like the king’s crown?”
He nodded. “The bishop, as well as the most senior monk here, also carries a pastoral staff, just as the king would carry a royal staff; each wears unique royal robes; each sits on thrones elevated above their minions; subjects kneel in deference to them and bring offerings in the form of tithing to the Church and taxes to the king.”
Ten minutes later, the drumming from the young monks in the center of the temple ceased. While the blessings from the holy man on the throne continued, Kinley nodded to the students, who opened the Buddhist textbooks lying beside them. Grant knew that the books were four inches wide by twelve inches long and printed in Tibetan, and that each page contained a single verse from an ancient Buddhist text, which the young monks would repeat until they knew it by heart. He’d seen Jigme’s textbook on several occasions. As he and Kristin stood there, a few, including Jigme and Ummon, turned to smile at them, but most stole curious glances at Kristin.
With the students occupied, Kinley strode over to the temple doorway where Grant and Kristin waited. Grant tried unsuccessfully to suppress his excitement.
“You must be feeling better today.” Kinley gave Grant’s arm a fatherly squeeze.
“I can climb steps safely now.”
“Ah, but I see you’ve brought a lovely friend to visit,” Kinley said, bowing to Kristin.
He’s avoiding me, Grant thought.
“Well, if Grant won’t introduce me,” Kristin said, extending a hand. “Kristin Misaki.”
“Kinley Goenpo.” The monk bowed again, taking her hand. “Japanese?”
“My father’s family was from Okinawa, but my mother is pure New England Catholic.”
“The combination suits you well.”
Kinley smiled. Grant noticed that when Kristin shook the monk’s hand, she used both of hers in a familiar embrace. He recalled the thrill he received in the courtyard when their hands touched for a moment longer than was necessary. She’s the touchy-feely type, he thought.
Grant opened his mouth to suggest that they move outside where they could speak in private, but Kristin spoke first. “Who’s he?” She pointed to the throne.
“Lama Dorji. He arrived today. He’s the fifth reincarnation of a holy lama who lived several hundred years ago. These people have come to receive a blessing from him.”
“Will he be staying here long?” Grant asked.
“Only until the Je Khenpo arrives in two weeks.”
“Who’s Jay Kembo?” Kristin asked.
Kinley chuckled. “No, the Je Khenpo is the head abbot of the dratshang, the central monk body; he’s our country’s spiritual leader, and a friend. Soon, he and several hundred monks will move from the Thimpu Dzong in our capital, where they’re based during the summer, back to Punakha. Our lower altitude provides a more temperate climate in the winter months. Lama Dorji and I usually meet a few weeks before to go over logistics.”
Grant felt the handles of his crutches become slick with the sweat from his palms. First, some reincarnated holy man had drawn crowds of villagers into the monastery and next hundreds of monks would be returning. He might only have a brief opportunity for Kinley to sneak him into the library.
Then he sneezed. The incense that had seemed pleasant ten minutes earlier now seemed to restrict his oxygen intake. A number of the villagers turned their heads and stared at him.
“Excuse me,” Grant said. “Maybe we should step outside?”
Instead of following his request, Kristin stepped further inside the temple, stopping at the wall on their left. She brought her face right up to a section of the mural that covered the wall’s entire fifty-foot length. “Hey, this looks familiar.”
Kinley moved to her side. “A poor country’s version of stained glass.”
“Sarnath,” Kristin said. “India. A temple there has a similar mural. Down the road from Varanasi, where I was writing my last article.”
“Yes, that one is also lovely.” The monk waved a hand across the fresco. “The life story of the Buddha.”
A coughing behind them drew their attention. Grant felt the stares. Turning his head, he saw that the lama had paused his blessings and was now glaring across the hall toward them. Kinley exchanged a look with him that Grant couldn’t interpret, but he felt distinctly uncomfortable.
“Maybe we should move,” Grant said.
The lama gestured to the three of them with his staff.
“We’re being summoned,” Kinley said.
Kristin started off with Kinley in the direction of the throne. “I’ve never met a reincarnated lama before,” she said over her shoulder to Grant, as if that was why she had traveled to Bhutan.
Unsure of the proper protocol when he reached the altar in front of the lama, Grant bowed as best he could without falling over his cast. Kristin did the same beside him. Lama Dorji was indeed about Grant’s age but much shorter and at least forty pounds heavier. His round face with its smooth head sat on top of his orange robes
