IN AN ISOLATED VALLEY HIGH in the Himalayas stood a stupa, a great white-washed dome topped by a gilded tower. From each side of the tower, painted eyes stared out at the snow-capped mountains, eternally watching over the followers of Buddha. On ropes that stretched from the tower top to the base of the dome, brightly colored prayer flags waved in the breeze.
The Rimpoche, head of the monastery that cared for the stupa, gazed from the window of his study. From the temple below, he could hear the monks chanting their prayers and the chiming of the windbells that hung from the eaves. It was late afternoon, and most of the monks had returned from the fields for their afternoon prayers.
As the Rimpoche watched, a young monk hurried into the courtyard, his red robes fluttering as he ran. He carried a bowl of rice and a handful of flowers. Following close behind him were three of the sacred monkeys that lived around the stupa.
The young monk set his offering before the shrine of Ajima, the goddess of health. As he prostrated himself in devotion, the boldest of the monkeys snatched a handful of rice and leapt to the lowest roof of Ajima’s pagoda to eat. Before the young man could finish his devotions, the bowl was empty. The monkeys perched on the roof of the pagoda, pelting the monk with flowers that they had taken from the offering and found to be inedible.
The population of monkeys was up to its former levels. The Rimpoche regretted that the Americans would not be back to take more of the beasts away. He smiled and rubbed his bald head, thinking of the Americans. He had liked them enormously—they were so intense and impatient and convinced of their own importance. So much like children. The Rimpoche was fond of children.
The Americans had come to him to confirm a legend that they had heard about the monastery’s monkeys. With the help of a Peace Corps volunteer, he had told them the story. Yes, the monastery was called the Mountain of Peace. Centuries ago, a powerful warlord had brought his army to the monastery. The warlord had acquired many lands by conquest, but he was weary of fighting and wanted to maintain his kingdom in a peaceful time. He had demanded that the Rimpoche bring forth the secret of peace.
“I bowed respectfully and declined,” the Rimpoche had told the Americans. “Peace is not something that can be taken by force.” The Americans had nodded, exchanging glances of wonder and doubt. The Rimpoche knew that they did not believe that he was the reincarnation of the Rimpoche of that time, but they did not speak of their doubt.
“The warlord offered silver and gold for the secret of peace, but I refused again. Peace cannot be bought for money. Finally, he drew his sword and threatened to cut off my head unless I told him the secret. I asked for seven days to consider the matter, and he agreed.” The Rimpoche glanced around at the serious young faces as the translator relayed his words. “On the seventh day, I met with the warlord again, and told him that I could not be forced to give him the secret. He raised his sword to behead me, and something very strange happened. As he raised the weapon, he stumbled and closed his eyes. Right there, he fell asleep, collapsing to the ground at my feet. All around us the soldiers fell, unable to lift their weapons. Peace came to them, whether they would have it or not.”
The Americans nodded eagerly as the translator passed on his words.
“The monkeys laughed and chatted from the temple roofs, and the soldiers did not fight. The monkeys, you see, are the keepers of the peace. If they were to leave the monastery, peace would come to the world. Though it might not be the peace you expect.” The Americans had been happy with the legend. They had smiled at each other and had spoken quickly among themselves.
The Rimpoche smiled, remembering their enthusiasm. They had asked his permission to capture some of the monkeys.
“You wish to bring peace to your country?” he had asked them, and they said that of course they did. They told him, through the translator, of what the monkeys would mean to the world, what a powerful symbol they would be.
“It will change your country,” he had advised them. “It will change the world.”
They had smiled and nodded. “Yes, yes. It will be a wonderful thing.”
In the end, he had granted his permission willingly. Keepers of the peace or not, the monkeys were mangy, ill-tempered beasts and the stupa had entirely too many of them. If the Americans wanted to bring peace to their country, they could take them.
Zoologists had come with nets and cages. They had captured dozens of monkeys and taken them away. After they left, the Rimpoche had never heard from them again. From a traveler who had come to the monastery from Katmandu, the Rimpoche had heard about the Plague that struck in San Francisco, Moscow, Washington D. C., Tokyo, London, and all the other places that the monkeys had traveled.
The Plague had not affected the monastery. The monks still grew barley and corn in their terraced fields. The wedding of a woman in a nearby village meant more than the deaths of thousands in America.
Sometimes the Rimpoche wondered about the Americans. Had they understood what they were doing when they took the monkeys away? Certainly the legend was clear. He had told them that the world would change, and it had.
He turned away from the window. On the altar, a golden statue of the Buddha stared serenely over his head. Taking an orange from the bowl on the table, he placed it on the altar. An offering for the Americans, he thought as he placed it beside the flowers and food left by the other monks. He hoped that all was well with them.