The Year of Rice and Salt

'Yes. And elsewhere again, it says, "His body falls off like the shell of a crab, and he forms a new one. The person is only a mask which the soul puts on for a season, wears for its proper time, and then casts off, and another is worn in its stead. – Kang stared at him, mouth open. 'I can scarcely believe what I am hearing,' she whispered. 'There has been no one I can tell these things. They think me mad. I am known now as a…'

Ibrahim nodded and sipped his tea. 'I understand. But I am interested in these things. I have had certain – intimations, myself. Perhaps then we can try the process of putting you under a description, and see what we can learn?'

Kang nodded decisively. 'Yes.'

Because he wanted darkness, they settled on a window seat in the reception hall, with its window shuttered and the doors closed. A single candle burned on a low table. The lenses of his glasses reflected the flame. The house had been ordered to be silent, and faintly they could hear dog barks, cart wheels, the general hum of the city in the distance, all very faint.

Ibrahim took Widow Kang by the wrist, very loosely, fingers cool and light against her pulse, at which sensation her pulse quickened; surely he could feel it. But he had her look into the candle flame, and he spoke in Persian, Arabic and Chinese: low chanting, with no emphasis of tone, a gentle murmur. She had never heard such a voice.

'You are walking in the cool dew of the morning, all is peaceful, all is well. In the heart of the flame the world unfolds like a flower. You breathe in the flower, slowly in, slowly out. All the sutras speak through you into this flower of light. All is centred, flowing up and down your spine like the tide. Sun, moon, stars in their places, wheeling around us, holding us.'

In like manner he murmured on and on, until Kang's pulse was steady at all three levels, a floating, hollow pulse, ber breathing deep and relaxed. She truly appeared to Ibrahim to have left the room, through the portal of the candle flame. He had never had anyone leave him so quickly.

'Now,' he suggested, 'you travel in the spirit world, and see all your lives. Tell me what you see.'

Her voice was high and sweet, unlike her usual voice. 'I see an old bridge, very ancient, across a dry stream. Bao is young, and wears a white robe. People follow me over the bridge to a… a place. Old and new.'

'What are you wearing?'

'A long… shift. Like night garments. It's warm. People call out as we pass.'

'What are they saying?'

'I don't understand it.'

'Just make the sounds they make.'

'In sha ar am. In sha ar am. There are people on horses. Oh there you are. You too are young. They want something. People cry out. Men on horses approach. They're coming fast. Bao warns me ' She shuddered. 'Ah!' she said, in her usual voice. Her pulse became leathery, almost a spinning bean pulse. She shook her head hard, looked up at Ibrahim. 'What was that? What happened?'

'You were gone. Seeing something else. Do you remember?'

She shook her head.

'Horses?'

She closed her eyes. 'Horses. A rider. Cavalry. I was in trouble!'

'Hmm.' He released her wrist. 'Possibly so.'

'What was it?'

He shrugged. 'Perhaps some… Do you speak any – no. You said already that you did not. But in this hun travel, you seemed to be hearing Arabic.'

'Arabic?'

'Yes. A common prayer. Many Muslims would recite it in Arabic, even if that was not their language. But.

She shuddered. 'I have to rest.'

'Of course.'

She looked at him, her eyes filling with tears. 'I… can it be why me, though ' She shook her head and her tears fell. 'I don't understand why this is happening!'

He nodded. 'We so seldom understand why things happen.'

She laughed shortly, a single 'Ho!' Then: 'But I like to understand.'

'So do I. Believe me; it is my chief delight. Rare as it is.' A small smile, or grimace of chagrin, offered for her to share. A shared understanding, of their solitary frustration at understanding so little.

Kang took a deep breath and stood. 'I appreciate your assistance. You will come again, I trust?'

'Of course.' He stood as well. 'Anything, madam. I feel that we have just begun.'

She was suddenly startled, looking through him. 'Banners flew, do you remember?'

'What?'

'You were there.' She smiled apologetically, shrugged. 'You too were there.'

He was frowning, trying to understand her. 'Banners…' He seemed lost himself for a while. 'I…' He shook his head. 'Maybe. I recall it used to be, when I saw banners, as a child in Iran, it would mean so much to me. More than could be explained. As if I was flying.'

'Come again, please. Perhaps your bun soul too can be called forth.' He nodded, frowning still, as if still in pursuit of a receding thought, a banner in memory. Even as he said his farewells and left, he was still distracted.