The Guardian

The Guardian was tired, bone-tired, claw-tired, fur-and-fang-tired. Outside the cave, the first snowstorm of winter raked the mountainside with pellets (too solid to be called flakes) of snow that could blind a man or bruise and even puncture his flesh.

Of course, the Guardian was not a man. His leathery hide and fur would allow him to walk, not in comfort, but without suffering harm, through the worst that the mountain winter might bring. Still, he hoped that the supply of dried tubers and herbs he had gathered from the lower slopes of Sagarmatha would last until the winds subsided enough that he could venture out without fear of being swept away. As it was, he might have to dig his way out — the cave mouth would soon be filled with hard-packed snow, warmed just enough by what little heat escaped his well-insulated body to stick like fresh yak dung.

No, the storm would not harm him. His people had been born in the very rafters of the Roof of the World, and had long since adapted to its climate. But his nature could not protect him from the loneliness of his vigil. Ten years he had spent guarding the small, golden statue of the Buddha, ever since it had been delivered into his hands by monks bearing a letter from the Dalai Lama himself. Ten years, with no one to talk to except the ever-smiling Buddha, no voice to hear except the keening of the wind...

"Choden!"

The Guardian shook his great, shaggy head. For a moment, I thought I heard a voice — a real voice, not just words in the wind, he thought. Perhaps after ten years, madness has come at last. Well, at least it should be entertaining —

"Choden! Are you there? Foolish woman, of course he is there —"

The dim light filtering into the cave through the swirling snow suddenly vanished, then reappeared around something large, something rounded ...

Now I am seeing things as well as hearing them, the Guardian thought. Perhaps if I meditate, I can send these apparitions back into the Void. He closed his eyes and intoned "Ommmmmmmmmmm..." in a voice that made the granite of the cave vibrate in sympathy.

"Choden, open your eyes. It is I, Khandro. I have come for you."

The Guardian closed his eyes even more tightly. He reached into a niche in the cave wall, found the metronome given to him by another lama, many years ago, and freed its pendulum. The slow, regular tock...tock...tock... had always helped him to meditate before. It was rhythm without meaning or purpose, without expectations or desire.

"Ommmmmmmmmmm—"

The metronome stopped. The Guardian opened his eyes, startled — apparently the sound of the metronome did produce expectation of a sort, the expectation of the next tock, and the failure of that sound to occur was disturbing.

"Choden, your time as Guardian has ended. Another has been chosen to take your place."

The Guardian grunted, pawed at his eyes, and stared. "It is you, Khandro. I thought I was to remain here, to protect this image of the Buddha, for as long as I lived. What has changed?"

Khandro, a female considered quite lovely among The People of the Mountain, smiled. The dim light glinted softly from her lower fangs and filtered through her fine, silky fur as if through wispy clouds on a sunlit day. "There is a new Dalai Lama. He has decreed that this duty should be shared among the People."

"Ah," said the Guardian. "But surely you are not —"

Khandro laughed. "Chosen? No, no, at least not this time."

Choden, he thought, I have a name again, not just a title. "Then why are you here? The journey from our sanctuary is long and hard even in good weather. Surely the new Guardian could have brought me the news when he came to begin his vigil."

"He will not come until Spring," Khandro said, her eyes studying a pebble on the cave floor.

"Then why —"

Khandro slithered across the few meters of icy rock that separated them and buried her face in the fur covering Choden's neck. For a moment, Choden recoiled, wondering if she intended to tear out his throat, but then he realized that, although her fangs were working their way through the fur to his flesh, they were not biting so much as — nibbling.

"Oh," he said. Then "Oh..."

He wrapped his arms around Khandro's warm, lithe body — the first really warm thing he had touched in a decade — and lowered his head to inhale the scent of her soft, rich coat.

"I never knew that you had such feelings for me," he said, as parts of him that had lain dormant for years awoke.

Khandro snickered, her body shaking in his arms. "I always knew that the Dalai Lama didn't choose you for your intelligence!"

He frowned, wondering whether he should try to come up with a clever answer. But somehow, clever words didn't seem very important (and she was right — intelligence wasn't his strongest point).

After a few moments, he reached out and gently grasped the statue of the Buddha that he had protected for so many years, and turned it to face the back of the cave.

Find more by Robert Moriyama in the Author Index.

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