We Are Not Eaten by Yaks: An Accidental Adventure

ON AN ICY PEAK high in the mountains of Tibet, a group of men sat in a circle of thrones beneath a giant statue of a ferocious creature with a dozen arms and a dozen snarling heads. Some of the men wore the yellow and maroon robes of Buddhist monks, others were in the black robes of priests and some wore business suits. There was even a man in blue jeans and a T-shirt, with a baseball cap pulled low over his face. Candles flickered in front of the giant statue, casting strange shadows on the walls.

The men watched the floor in the center of their circle, where a man stood in a trance. He wore the sparkling robes and giant banners of the protector-spirit, the warrior-god, Dorjee Drakden. When the spirit entered the man’s body, he rose taller in his shoes, his chest puffed and his voice grew loud and deep.

“Who calls me?” he bellowed. Bells at the top of his helmet jingled. He held a shining sword, and his eyes, wide and full of fury, darted around the circle of men. He saw the powerful monks of the Yellow Hat sect sitting on the floor behind him, each frozen in meditation, yet alert to his every move. He saw the priests and the men in suits and the shadows dancing on the walls. The spirit searched for the only being to whom he would bow, the highest lama in Tibetan religion, His Holiness the Dalai Lama.

Dorjee Drakden swung his arms and swept around the circle. He did not see the Dalai Lama; he did not see anyone he considered worthy of his friendship. He arrived at the center of the circle, face to face with a little man on the largest throne, a little man whose feet did not even touch the floor.

“Greetings,” Sir Edmund said as the god hissed and snarled in his face. Dorjee Drakden’s helmet rose several feet above Sir Edmund and his sword could have easily sliced the little man in two, but Sir Edmund was not alarmed. He snapped his fingers, and immediately, two young monks appeared at his side and gave him a long white scarf, which he presented to the spirit. “I bring the respect of the Council, and gratitude for your service to us.”

“I serve the ancient ways, beyond time and form, beyond good and evil.” As the warrior-god spoke, a secretary scribbled every word he said onto a scroll. “I obey no master, but see and hear the crumbling of the universe. I protect the dharma and guide those who stray beyond the hope of kindness. I am fire, light and air. I bow to none but the—”

“Yes, thank you,” Sir Edmund interrupted. “That’s lovely and we are very glad for you. We’ve called you here to tell us what we need to know.”

“Insolent little man! You dare to speak to me in this way! I spin the Wheel of Protection and bring demons to despair!”

“In the name of the Council, I demand you answer me, Drakden. You may be immortal, but that little monk who you’re living in isn’t. He’s our prisoner. So tell me: Where is the Navel family? Where have they gone? They were supposed to land in Beijing. Why aren’t they on the plane anymore?”

Dorjee Drakden drew back from Sir Edmund and swayed and swooped around the room, hissing and growling, nearly falling under the weight of armor and robes, before stopping in the middle of the circle of men.

“They are out of your control. They fall toward the gorge and the Hidden Falls. Great power is with them, though they know it not. Great evil too!”

“They should have landed in Beijing,” Sir Edmund muttered to himself. “This was not the plan. How will our agents intercept them?”

“If someone else finds them,” said the man in the baseball cap, while texting on a tiny cell phone, “then your whole plot is in danger of falling apart, Ed.”

“My plot is perfect!” Sir Edmund objected. “This is just a wrinkle. My people will come through.”

“Relax,” said Sir Edmund. “I always have a backup plan. They are headed into the realm of the Poison Witches.”

“Heresy! Damnation!” shouted Dorjee Drakden as he rushed at Sir Edmund, waving his sword and shouting. “These witches do not respect my authority. They are unholy creatures, whose souls are black and screeching owls. Murderers! They will not bow to me!”

“Oh, hush,” Sir Edmund snapped. “Get over yourself. Do you want Shangri-La to be found? Turned into a tourist attraction? An amusement park?”

“I do not,” said Dorjee Drakden with a swipe of his sword through the air, trying to regain his impressive composure. “I have protected it since before it existed.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Sir Edmund said. “Now stop being cryptic. I need to make sure they find their way to this place.”

Sir Edmund pointed to a map on the wall that was unlike any other map in the world. It was old and faded, and would not have been so useful for getting from place to place. It showed the deep valleys and high mountains of Tibet, but it also showed other dimensions, realms of gods and devils, ghosts and saints. There was no north or south or east or west. It was a map of the unseen and the unseeable.

Sir Edmund was pointing to an area that showed a hill with a collection of small round huts. In the center of the huts burned a fire. Wide-eyed ghosts with many heads and many clawing arms scrambled from the flames, tiny versions of the giant statue behind the monks.

Dorjee Drakden looked at the strange map, then yelled and hissed, and with a roar, he tossed his sword at Sir Edmund. The blade spun through the air end over end. Sir Edmund did not move. The blade missed him by centimeters and slammed into the map.

“Except for this,” the spirit continued. Sir Edmund rolled his eyes. “I am the Great Oracle and this I prophesy: The greatest explorers shall be the least. The old ways shall come to nothing, while new visions reveal everything. All that is known will be unknown and what was lost will be found.ʺ

He finished with a long hiss into Sir Edmund’s face, and, with the sound of a gong, the spirit left the monk’s body, and he collapsed to the floor. Young monks rushed to him, untying the armor and the helmet, which weighed enough to crush the little monk now that the god no longer filled his body. The monk would be exhausted for days and sleep the soundest sleep of his life, with no memory of the things he said or the dark predictions he made. He would wake up in a prison cell.

The scrolls on which the spirit’s words had been written were quickly tied closed and rushed from the room to be copied and hidden in the depths of the monastery, where thousands of years of prophecies were stored.

“We will deal with the Navels first,” Sir Edmund said. “This oracle has given me great cause for hope. ‘What was lost will be found.’ Most excellent for us. The foolish explorer and his dull children have no idea what they’re in for. I knew they would do exactly what we wanted. We just have to find them again.” He smiled and hopped down from the throne. The other monks looked at each other with worry in their eyes.

“Stop being such cowards,” said Sir Edmund. “Dorjee Drakden will do as we ask. What choice does the old god have? He’s our prisoner, after all. The Poison Witches will take care of the rest. Trust me. The Lost Library is as good as mine.”