Gregory Benford by The Stars in Shroud

Author:The Stars in Shroud
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

We fell into a blotch of pale orange light. The Lengen compound swam in a sea of black, humid jungle. Floodlights picked out forests of tents pitched for pilgrims, cooking areas of rough stone, wooden platforms for meditation.

Roughly in the center was a large multilayered yellow tent. We banked toward it and set down in a clearing beaten clean by trie foot traffic.

“How can you be sure we’ll be granted an audience?” I shouted to Majumbdahr as the props roared the instant before landing.

“I called ahead. They realize you have little time. I imagine there’ll be no difficulty.”

As we stepped off onto the Veden soil that was still cooling from the heat of the day a small man rushed out of the crowd gathered around the field.

“Director Sanjen!” he cried. “I have been sent to guide you to the Master.” The man was dressed in cheap robes. Most of the people standing and watching were poor, farmer class. Or else they had renounced material things to follow the Lengen.

I nodded and we walked to the large tent. The crowd parted as we approached. I couldn’t help comparing this with the behavior of the mobs I’d faced earlier in the day.

The tent was more complex than it looked. A maze of rooms kept groups of pilgrims separated and allowed the priests, clad in deep blue robes, to move in and out without disturbing meditations and rituals.

We were ushered into a warm little hexagonal room bounded by folds of cloth. We sat lotus fashion between two place settings of many bowls, plates and tumblers. There were eating sticks from several cultures, lacquered spatulas and shallow canisters. I wondered what it was all about.

Presently a low woodwind tone sounded in the still air.

A tall man walked slowly to the center of the room. His green robes covered him entirely with only a shadowed triangular slit for eyes and mouth. I could see nothing of his expression.

“Finally you come here.” The voice was deep and rich with an odd inflection.

I pressed my hands together in greeting. “I am seeking a thing and I do not know quite what it is—”

“Begin ritual. Silence. Attention.”

He produced a bowl and began pouring a thin liquid into the cups before Majumbdahr and me. A priest appeared with other foods that steamed in the cool night air.

We began preparing the food. It was to be ladled into the proper bowls, mixed in precise proportions, arranged and ordered. I gave Majumbdahr a side glance and found him watching me. He did it all smoothly.

After a few moments I noticed a rhythm to the procession of plates and odors. Salt of fishes. Tang from ripe fruit. Rough feel of the broadcloth napkins.

It was warm and soothing. I relaxed and my senses flowed out. I looked down on myself as I floated in a corner of the tent. Feeling all, knowing nothing.

There was a sudden white light. I wept.

And I was there.

Labels, you see, are meaningless. Worse, they are distracting.

Within a while I had focused completely on the exercises.

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