The donkey stumbled, interrupting his musings and he saw that they had come to a winding valley with a flat floor. A shallow river meandered through and around a bend there was a little village, dominated by the pagoda of a monastery. The party drew closer; above the nestling trees there was a bluff stretching away and in its vertical face were regular square holes that must be the caves. At least a couple of dozen.
The monks disappeared into the monastery. Nicander found the path up to the cliff face. Stepped walkways projected out that led to the caves and he made his way along one.
In the first cave a scraggy, shaven-headed monk looked up and smiled. He was at work with a brush and a pot of pigment and stood back for Nicander to admire it.
It was a busy painting, full of detail. A Buddha with colourful haloes sat cross-legged, and flying above him were heavenly beings trailing swirling ribbons. Not angels as Nicander knew them, but much more full of life, so different to the static piety of Christian works.
On other walls were contrasting scenes of the Buddha’s life, which meant nothing to him but which held the same vitality.
He murmured some words of praise but the monk shook his head in incomprehension then returned to his work.
The next cave along was more spacious, with several separate chambers. Sunlight flooded the outer one but the inner room was in deep gloom, relieved by just a single lamp. There was no painter at work here, only a solitary figure sitting cross-legged in the centre, motionless.
The atmosphere was stark and mystical and something reached out to Nicander. He moved closer to one of the murals. The figures came to life in the flickering illumination of the lamp. The central Buddha was posed on a lotus blossom, a look of utter serenity on his face, hands raised in a blessing. Around him were maidens in flowing gowns, mythical beasts and leaping and flying ferocious demons and warrior gods that seemed to come out from the wall at Nicander personally.
A movement behind startled him. It was the man he’d seen when he entered.
Was he a monk? His face was in shadow but he had a full beard and thickset build.
The man growled some words at Nicander that he couldn’t understand. Shaking his head he said in Chinese, ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, lao na.’
The man came out of the shadows and replied in Chinese, ‘I said, what does this hold for you?’
‘Why, it’s very well done.’
Nicander edged toward the doorway to the outer chamber, disturbed by the man’s aura. Pretending to admire the other frescos he emerged into the light. The man followed and stood watching him. Nicander glanced at him, meeting fierce blue eyes.
‘This one – I rather like the chorus of-’
‘They worship the bodhisattva.’ The voice was deep, commanding.
‘Ah, yes.’
‘You have no knowledge, no understanding of these mysteries?’
He moved closer, inspecting Nicander keenly. ‘You’re an outlander as I’ve never encountered before – and I’ve travelled to the edge of the world where the four winds do spring, and never have I met those who do not fear and respect these teachings.’
Nicander returned his gaze. ‘And I’d say you’re not a son of Han yourself.’
‘You interest me, barbarian. Where did you first draw breath? What do you here, that so few set eyes on these wonders?’
‘I’m – I’m a holy man from a far southern kingdom. I seek truths.’
‘The south, is it!’ the man whispered, then declaimed,
‘O Soul, go not to the South
Where mile on mile the earth is burnt away
And poisonous serpents slither through the flames;
Where on precipitous paths or in deep woods
Tigers and leopards prowl,
And water-scorpions wait;
Where the king-python rears his giant head.
O Soul, go not to the South
Where the three-footed tortoise spits disease!’
‘Well…’
‘That is my own land, the south. I’d be curious to know what part…?’
‘More to the west, I’d say.’
‘You seek after truths yet you show no desire to imbibe of the wisdom of this place.’
‘I’ve not yet begun to search.’
‘But truth is everywhere, as philosophers of every breed do attest.’
‘Sir. I came here for my own reasons. I do not wish to spend my time in wordy dispute.’
The man bowed. ‘Do pardon me, wanderer. You may know me as Dao Pa and like you, I have an unquenchable desire for truth.’
‘I’m called, in China, Ni K’an Ta. I have travelled far and now return to my homeland.’
‘Ni lao na, forgive my importuning but I sense in you a different spirit, one unaccustomed to the ways of the Middle Kingdom, unsure of the patterns of life in our existence here. The inescapable conclusion is that in the compass of your own world, you are. You will have an understanding of earthly and heavenly matters that satisfies, but which will be either in agreement with us or at variance. The answer to this is of great significance to my understanding. It would gratify me beyond saying should we walk together for a space.’
Outside he found his staff, and hitching his cloak – little more than a blanket – he and Nicander descended the cliff face to the flat sandy ground next to the river.
There was something in his manner – the intensity yet dignity, the tigerish gaze with unsettling insight, that Nicander felt stripped him bare.
They paced slowly then Dao Pa said, ‘Tell me, Ni lao na. What is your origin?’
There could be no evasion with this man. ‘I am a Greek, from a place so far I cannot tell even in what direction it lies.’ He had no idea of the word for ‘Greek’ in Chinese, even if there was one, so used the actual word.
To his surprise Dao Pa nodded wisely. ‘In India they still speak of a Hellenica, a great warrior teacher they call Aliksa Nada who many centuries ago conquered territories right up to the gates of the kingdom then received a sign from heaven and turned his back on them.’
Nicander felt the hairs at the back of his neck stand on end – he could be speaking only of Alexander the Great!
‘You’ve been to India?’
‘Certainly. There is an infinity of wisdom to be learnt in that far country, worth all the pains of the travel. Know that the caravans that ply the deserts and mountains are brought on by merchants for their own purposes but have served for time out of mind as a river of knowledge and enlightenment for those who seek truth in distant lands, such as I. These caves, the teachings of the Buddha, all these have come from India.’
‘Are you – is it that you are a Buddhist teacher yourself?’
Dao Pa stopped. ‘I will not tell you what I am.’
He looked once at Nicander then drew a square in the sand. ‘If I do, you will have a form of words you believe perfectly describes both me and the structure of my thought.’
He stepped into the square. ‘And by this you have made a prison for me. I cannot escape. You have confined me here and will make measure of every word I utter, every truth I reveal by the bounds of this prison for evermore.’
‘Then you are a teacher.’
‘I have my disciples, whom I needs must from time to time abandon for the pleasures of solitude. But now you are my teacher. Tell me – what is the essence of the Greek mysteries?’
Nicander felt unreality creeping in. Here he was, about to convey what he knew of Pythagoras and the rest to an oriental mystic at the edge of the wildest desert in the world.
‘There are many philosophy masters in Greek thought, Dao Pa. Yet I believe you will find the greatest of these is Aristotle. At the heart of his teaching is one truth that to me lies at the centre of all things.’
‘Do continue, I pray you.’
‘Well, this is the prime thing we hold so precious. That nothing, no idea or belief can be accepted, without we have evidence for it. And if there is evidence in our hands, we are obliged to admit it as a truth.’