18
Shanti followed Connor and the monk through the cave, its jagged, rocky walls eventually giving way to smooth surfaces. “This must be the part the monks built.”
“Yes, yes.” Dempo stopped, raised his phone so they could see paintings, colors of ochre and saffron and royal blue swirling together to depict fanged supernatural creatures, scenes of skulls and destruction, and images of Buddha attaining enlightenment. “These were painted by monks in the light of butter lamps hundreds of years ago.”
Shanti took it all in. “Amazing. They’ve painted a different world.”
“Or a metaphor for the brutality of our world.” He moved on. “I was a soldier once. The army came to my family’s village, and I was conscripted as a child. I’ve held a rifle in my hand, and I have killed those I was told were my enemies.”
Shanti knew colleagues who’d prosecuted warlords over the conscription of children. “Why did you become a monk?”
“Killing sickened me. When you take a life, you are wounded, too. No soldier comes home without injuries.”
Shanti was stunned to hear him echo the words Elizabeth had said to her just days ago. She glanced up at Connor, wondering if he would say something, but his expression was closed, his jaw tight.
“What about killing in self-defense?” she asked.
“That may be different, though as a monk I am forbidden to kill, even in that circumstance. I find peace in that.”
“I’m an agent of karma,” Connor said at last. “I find peace in that.”
Dempo chuckled. “And very well you might be.”
The tunnel seemed to go on forever, the entire length covered with paintings. Gradually, Shanti began to relax. It was a relief not to be listening for helicopters, not to be scrambling to get beneath Connor’s rain poncho, not to wonder whether someone was pointing a rifle at them and about to shoot them in the back.
And snakes—it wassonice not to worry about snakes.
“You must be very important if Naing has sent his army after you, Ms. Lahiri. The BBC says you work for the International Criminal Court.”
Shanti thought through her response, careful not to reveal anything. “I’m also an agent of karma.”
Dempo chuckled again. “Then I must do all I can to ensure that you succeed. Who am I to stand in the way of ripening karmic fruit?”
At last, they came to some stairs. Up and up they climbed—Shanti lost count somewhere after one hundred twenty—until they came to a small, underground room with five doors in its walls, one dark set of stairs winding upward.
“From here, one can use any of these tunnels. This area is off-limits to all but the most trusted monks.” Dempo pointed. “Should you need to leave quickly, this tunnel will take you west out beyond this valley and toward the river. It is marked with a fish.”
Shanti could just make out the little fish painted above the door.
“Good to know.” Connor glanced around. “How far are we from the border?”
“Only thirty miles.”
Thirty miles.
It was both a thrill and a little scary to be so close—and still so far away.
“I’ll take you up the back stairs to my private quarters so that no one will see you. Being an abbot has its advantages.”
Connor started to speak, but Dempo cut him off. “There is no need for you to surrender or conceal your weapons. No one will see us.”
Connor nodded. “Good.”
More stairs led them to a simple wooden door.
“I need to clear the room,” Connor told Dempo, raising his rifle, standing to the side of the door. “Shanti, stay here. If there’s any trouble, run down and get the hell out of here.”
“I assure you there will be no trouble.” Dempo pushed the door open and let Connor move past him.