Nirvana Effect (18 page)

“My
Onge
,
I have provided it to you:
I have called down a nectar from the heavens that makes us
invincible
to our foes.  This is my grea
test miracle, one that will take us to our destiny
.”

There was quite a din of back and forth discussion in the crowd.  They’d lost all discipline in their ecstasy, though they had no idea yet what he meant.

Manassa had made sure a small circle in front of the tree remained clear.  One of Manassa’s inner circle of priests stepped into the ring.  He was experiencing “the lightness” - what Manassa called the effects of drinking the substance, rather than injecting it.  The priest walked to a basket in the center of the ring.  

“Behold, I have blessed m
y loyal priest with the nectar!”
shouted Manassa.  The priest pulled the top off the basket.  Six birds flew out.  They scattered in the air.  Another man stepped into the ring and handed the priest a semi-automatic rifle. 

The priest pulled the weapon up and spun in a circle.  He squeezed out six shots from the rifle as he did so.  Many of the Onge were taken aback at the loud spit of the gun - very few had seen such a weapon fired before. 

All six of the birds dropped nearly simultaneously.  Each had been an impossible shot on the fly.  For a moment, not a soul was breathing in the clearing.  Then absolute pandemonium broke loose.  The crowd was in uproar. 

Manassa bellowed at the top of his lungs, riding the wave of their exultation, “BEHOLD, THE POWER OF THE NECTAR!  THE POWER OF MY MIRACLE, MY GIFT TO YOU, MY PEOPLE!!!!!”  The Onge
jumped
up and down, screaming blessings and curses.  They settled into a chant.

“Manassa!  Manassa!  Manassa!”

Their god could not help but smile.  For the first time in living memory, his people were excited, happy, empowered.

Manassa had planned another demonstration, but he’d save that for later.  He could not get them into a higher foment than this.  “JOIN ME IN MY VISION!” he screamed. 

They roared back at him once more.  “Manassa!  Manassa!  Manassa!”

Manassa jumped down from his perch, flipping from branch to branch and finally reaching the ground.  Behind the tree, no one could see him leave.

When Manassa returned
to
his temple, not a soul was in the village.  And yet, he could hear his people’s voices
shouting
in unison all the way from the clearing.
“Manassa!  Manassa!  Manassa!”

Edward hiked to the port town of
Lisbaad
, the only “civilized” district
on the island. 
Lisbaad
had a small church run by two Jesuits, and a few Catholic nuns instructed a school
,
so once he arrived Edward
took no chances with the main
streets
and
cloaked his head
.

The roads were narrow, made for carts, but a few cars kicked up dust here and there. 

Aside from the occasional anachronism, the town was a full century behind Western civilization.  For Edward, who had lived with the Onge for months, it was a mighty advance. 

He arrived late
at night and purchased
board
at a run-down inn on the southern outskirts of the town.  Of course, everything was run-down, not just the inn.

A few merchant
seamen
manned the bar, each sipping on something unhealthily brown.  Edward asked the small Oriental innkeeper for a room.  The man led Edward up the stairs and unlocked a creaky door. 

The innkeeper showed him around.  The wire frame under the mattress had stray springs falling out, and the room stunk of mold, but to Edward it was quite an upgrade from his straw pallet. 
Not that it matters
.  Edward’s mind was fixated on what the future held, not on the inconveniences of the present.

In any event, Edward had
never much cared for material things. 
Knowledge, on the other hand…

“You come from the south?” the old man asked in
Tamil, which
Edward fortunately understood.

“I do.  I have a question for you,” said Edward.

“What is that?”  The man stroked the wispy white hairs that languished on his chin.

“If I were sick, where would I go?”

“To the doctor,” answered the little old man.

“Well, yes.”  Edward smiled.  “But where in this town would I go?”

“To the east end.  You are white, so you would see the white woman.  She has the clinic.  You wouldn’t want to see the brown man.”

“No?”

“No.”  The man did not el
aborate
any further on that point.  “She charges whites,” he continued, “but you have rupees, so she would help you.”

“Thank you.”

“What is your illness?”  The old man’s eyebrows furrowed.  He actually cared.  Edward stifled a laugh.

“I appreciate your concern,” Edward answered.  He ushered the innkeeper out.

Once alone, Edward took a deep breath, checked the
room and locked the door. 
He lay
down on the mattress.  It sunk in the middle and felt divinely comfortable. 
A room all to myself. 
He slept deeply for the first time in weeks.

Nockwe sat behind the closed door of his hut, staring into the fire pit.  The chief’s hut was one of the few dwellings with its own cooking fire.  His wife stood behind him, also watching writhing of the flames.  He had her stand behind him so she could be there and yet not distract him from his meditations.  His three children were sleeping in the bedroom, which was only divided off by some bamboo hanging from the ceiling of the house.  His second children and second wives lived elsewhere.  He was responsible for the three families of the men he’d slain.

The chanting of his people played over and over in his mind. 
Manassa!  Manassa!  Manassa! 
He did not yet know what to think of it.  It was something new, something he was ill-prepared for.

In all his time as chieftain, he’d operated o
n
the rule that if something was surviving, only change could destroy it.  Only change could improve it, this was true, but all too often one was disappointed.

This boy is change. 

Nockwe had not yet made a judgment on what that change meant.

This boy fulfilled the prophecies of our forefathers.  He is a leader, and inspires the people.  These things are good. 

Nockwe had never seen his people so spirited.  They were so
proud.

But to where does he lead us? 

In all things the chieftain serves the tribe. 
It was a line from their oral history he often repeated to himself.  It said tribe, not god.  No matter what religious significance Mahanta assumed, Nockwe would always serve the tribe first.

Nockwe did not like to think ab
out such things.  He wished he c
ould do as everyone else and simply follow Manassa.

The white man had been right.  It had been a drug. 

Nockwe’s mind drifted to other things…to the white man who had saved his life, whom Nockwe had tipped off against his own better judgment.  Nockwe was certain that Mahanta would not let the white man live a season.  As soon as the white man was no longer useful, he would be sent to death to rejoin the Earth.  Such was the way of the Onge in times as these.

It feels like war times.  Is war upon us?

Nockwe stood up and rubbed his head with his hands.  He wiped these matters out of his mind.  It was too late at night to be dwelling on such things.

Nockwe felt fortunate that his cough had left him Saturday morning.  He had fallen asleep while in the lightness after supervising a training session, and when he awoke he felt like he had never been ill.  Disease had always left him quickly once he broke it. 
All that was left was some tiredness.

His young wife came to him, rubbing his back and his shoulders.  He felt her warm skin against his.  It was a different, richer sort of warm than the fire.  She pressed against his bare back and held him.  He sighed.  His muscles relaxed along the exhale of his breath.

I will be ever watchful
. 
But I must stop thinking.  I am a chieftain, not a medicine man
n
or a philosopher.

“Is something wrong, Nockwe?” asked his wife.

“No, my guardian.  There are only thoughts, shadows.  There is nothing wrong.”  He closed his eyes and concentrated on her skin.  “Bri,” he said, turning around to face her.  He kissed her forehead.  He said her name again.  “Bri’le
y
’na.”  It meant literally “Bright Sky.” 

She took his face in her hands and looked up at him.  Her rich chocolate eyes conveyed her concern.  “I worry about this Manassa.  You may kill me for saying it, but still I worry.” 

He kissed her forehead in an effort to soothe her but said nothing.  He did not want to betray his own doubts.  She would be able to hear it in his voice.

She pulled back again slightly, more agitated.  “You have always lived for the tribe,” she said.  “I don’t know if this is Manassa’s way, too.  Something else may be driving him.” 

He told her what he had told himself.  “I’ll be watchful, Bri.”  He stroked the long, flowing hair along the side of her face.  “I will be careful.  I will always serve the tribe.”

“And I will be careful for you.  And I will always serve you,” she said.  He smiled.

She pulled him to her gently and kissed his mouth. 

Manassa stood at his “throne”.  It was a joke to him, his chair, but it had the effect he needed on his Onge.  One day he would need a throne that would impress more than just a tribe of primitives, but also popes and kings.

One day very soon I’ll need more to impress my Onge.

Tomy knelt facing him to his left, Nockwe to his right. 
The boy stifled a yawn.  It was still several hours until daybreak.

“You were awake when I sent for you,” commented Manassa to Nockwe.

“I was,” acknowledged Nockwe. 

“Much on your mind?” asked Manassa.

“A chieftain’s mind must never sleep,” answered Nockwe.

“Please stand
and report
,” said Manassa. 

Tomy took his turn first, as had been the tradition since this temple had first been erected.  Nockwe was the only member of the tribe who ranked higher than Manassa’s messenger, and that was only within these walls.  Outside the hut, even Nockwe had to
feign
lend
ing
his ear to the boy.

“Internally, the Onge as a whole are excited. 
They talk of nothing but your sermon at the clearing, the gun and the birds
.  They are ready to do your bidding
. 
There
remains only
a small knot of dissenters.” 
Tomy
paused for a moment.

Manassa nodded, g
iving his consent.  Tomy tilted his head
to signify his understanding.  Nockwe missed it, still looking intently at the ground as was protocol.

The young man continued his report.  “Externally, we have secured seven vehicles, some guns.  I have not been to town for two days.  Our ears are slow here, in the village.  There is no phone, no way to get a message across.  I am working on this.”

We must move.  This
is no place for a headquarters
, thought Manassa.

“You are to go to tow
n.  You are to do as we planned,
”
Manassa instructed
. 

Tomy nodded.  He would follow the directions to the letter.  “Nockwe will soon have our army ready.  When it is ready,
so must the
village must be ready
, and so must Lisbaad be ready.  Lisbaad is in your hands, Tomy
.  Goodbye.”

“Yes, lord.”  Tomy turned to leave.

“My messenger,” said Manassa.

“Yes, my lord,” said Tomy, turning back.

“I need intelligence in regards to Liang.”

“You will have it,” said Tomy.  This was what made Manassa keep Tomy as his messenger.  Tomy did not know who Liang was.  Tomy would not ask him.  Tomy refused to add one single thought to Manassa’s workload - he would rather work without sleep than trouble his god with a single clarification. 

Still, it would be foolish to unnecessarily overstrain his messenger.  Manassa
took the time to explain
:  “Liang is a big figure in the Sri Lankan underworld.  He practically owns
Lisbaad
, and controls all of the trade to, from, and through the island,” said Manassa.  “I must know more, for I wish for the tribe to enjoy some of his vast resources and consideration.  This much I already know.  I leave the rest to you.”