The Stranger and the Path (Recovery Part 6)

After a thorn-riddled, impossible trail in which I found myself all but buried in a murky swampland and suffocated by impenetrable mangroves, I finally shoved my way violently through a thicket wall, breaking open into a grove that was home to several ancient structures. At immediate glance it appeared to be a long-abandoned shrine with, at its centerpiece, a humble stone Buddha enshrouded by wild vines and white waste from the intimidating herd of overgrown birds that made this landscape their hunting ground.

This Buddha struck me as a particularly serene one. Something about posing comfortably in the middle of this patch, hand raised, swathed in natural knife-edges larger than my own palms, seemed more than appropriate under the circumstances. There he was, pleasant in his eternal equilibrium, with a modest altar before him. Several other concrete fixtures surrounded him, lost to history and impossible to reach.

As I approached the statue, however, I noticed that his altar was not, in fact, forgotten; old candles sat smudged and waxed, and a girthy ceramic pot rested in the middle, impossible to ignore, its belly studded with bundles of bamboo that had, not too long ago, been coated with incense. A couple coins lay there as well, although superstition held my hand from thieving them. This place had been visited in the recent past, and by a person or persons with intense commitment.

"Hey, I got the receiver on this thing to work," announced Rooster from my hand-held. His voice wasn't as weak and hopeless as it was yesterday, but I could tell his grip on sanity was still as frail as mine. "I can't reach anybody, but I caught a broadcast signal last night."

I lifted my radio. Every time I heard his voice, it was like a call from heaven, and anything I could do to foster it was evidence that my time on this planet wasn't over. "That means you're near a base," I responded. "That's good."

"Unless it was just a convoy passing through," he whimpered. "Let me scan the channels, see if I can find something."

Smartly, I had wrapped my bloodied wrist with a set of fresh gauze left over in the ruins of Delta-6. It was a tight field bandage, and for the moment the wound's hot protests were limited to a quiet throbbing.

Less smart was the limit of self-control that went to such a garish gash. The emotions burning in my chest that had produced it picked constantly at my conscience. I felt compelled to weep again - but instead, I assumed command of my senses for a second and instead knelt before the Buddha. There was no one to blame, no one to rail against. But something different had to happen.

"I'm not looking for answers," I pleaded of the mystery monument, its torso a tower in this clearing yet hidden from above by endless miles of foliage, its eyes neither closed nor open, its ears hidden by vegetation yet undoubtedly present. "I know there aren't any. I just want- No, I need-"

Who was I kidding? I didn't have a clue what I wanted. I wasn't sure that being found was high on the list. Hell, I didn't know if living was. If my only friend in the world was close to being rescued, it diluted most of my will to seek out the same end. What was his name? Tony? I couldn't remember. I felt stupid, like an infant.

Just then, a young boy appeared. Dark-skinned and bare-chested, he manifested at the edge of the clearing like a ghost. Carrying a bucket.

I saw him, and he saw me. Neither shocked.

No panic. "Hello," I muttered meekly, helplessly.

He didn't run. Conversely, he approached the Buddha, a continued stare remaining on me throughout.

The idea of fighting wasn't present - but neither was fleeing. I simply remained, on my knees. And when it was apparent the visitor carried no firearms, I looked back up at the statue. That's when the impulse to cry came forth, and this time I couldn't hold back the deluge.

"I can't do this," I sobbed to the statue. "I'm just a man. This war- this fight- it's more than any one man can carry. It's too much."

The boy seemed unmoved by my display of emotion. He walked right in front of me, dropped his bucket, and reached in.

At that moment, my radio gurgled to life again, and Rooster's excited voice punched through. "Hey, I found something!" And behind him came a ruffled, staticky sound. A sound like one I'd heard before, yet unlike anything that ever existed.

It was the sound of melody. Of music.

The native boy removed a tiny pail from inside the bucket, and with movements as graceful and as practiced as those of the birds above, he scooped water from the wooden bucket and poured them on the Buddha as high as he could reach, donating it across the monument's stomach.

There're many tall pines

I remember the oak tree

That we used to climb

But now, when I'm lonesome

I always pretend

That I'm gettin' the feel

Of hickory wind

With diligence but haste, the boy bowed several times to the statue, then moved away, back into the thicket, without ever glancing back at me. The spot he entered was indented, a path fully worn, but that would have gone unnoticed by anyone else. 

"You hear that? It's a lot clearer! Somebody's real close!" Rooster shouted.

I stared up at the statue, its gaze on eternity a perfect counterpoint to the gnarled death-mask I had witnessed, on a mortal, the day before.

Without thinking, I took the canteen of fresh drinking water and stood up.

Something inside me - or maybe outside? - gave me the steps forward. And, for better or worse, lost somewhere between life and death, I let fall half of it across the belly of the Buddha.

Then, with an image of unknown childhood flashing in my mind like distant thunder, I breathed and bowed.

And for one of those glimmers of a second, my heart and body were free of their suffering.

"Oh man! I've never loved the Byrds so much!" Rooster cried.