PROPHETS REBORN
Prologue
Kōyasan, Japan: 1607
Turpin sat cross-legged outside the open-walled shrine, staring in wonder at the spiritual drama playing out not ten feet away. A raptor floated above the mountain then swooped down to keep him company as he listened to the Shingon Buddhist monks chanting. The guttural drone filled the still air and shadows of Kongōbuji, the temple where he sat observing the ceremony.
The impossibly-old and frail abbot of the monastery—a wizened, bushy-eyebrowed gnome of a man—sat on his haunches in seiza, his brown and yellow robes pooling around him, planted in his pit of the shrine. Thick clouds of incense, clinging like gauze sheets from the dark wooden beams of the temple, hung over a spiritual cacophony of Buddhist idolatry.
The prayer chants intensified. The abbot, with ceremonial hand movements and words of power, began performing the esoteric Buddhist practice of mikkyō, or “the secret teachings,” a spiritual alchemy in pursuit of enlightenment within one’s lifetime. , He grasped a sacramental instrument from the shinji, or shrine. With the golden dorje, the thunderbolt tool used by the Shingon, in one hand, he uttered the power words and rang, with a thunderbolt handle, the vajra bell. Gongs pealed through the thick air, punctuating the ever-increasing chant.
Cicadas shrilled in the moist summer evening. A sigh of wind whispered through the umbrella pines and cryptomeria, as if reluctant to disturb the monks of the Kōyasan monastery as they pursued Buddhahood in this lifetime.
Samuel Turpin was a privateer with British papers of mark. Some five years before, Turpin had encountered a drunken samurai, who had demanded his obedience. Turpin refused to yield. He barely avoided the lightning-fast strike of the samurai’s katana, or long sword, as he dove into a low street fighter’s tackle. The quick reaction knocked the wind out of the samurai and the sword out of his hand. Turpin promptly snapped the samurai’s neck.
For his deficient etiquette, Turpin had spent six hellish months in a pit before the Jesuits recognized him as a possible asset to their business with the Japanese. He was freed to the mission and now lived in a small cottage outside the Jesuit compound at Osaka.
Finding a sort of cultural equilibrium among the Japanese bugeisha, or warrior class, and the daimyō, or samurai overlords the bugeisha protected and served, Turpin prospered. He had found gainful employment with the Roman Catholic Church—serving the Jesuits’ needs for secular intervention and problem-solving. Samuel Turpin was among the first mercenaries employed by the Vatican in Asia.
Turpin heard rather than saw at least two dozen monks assemble around the worship area of the altar. Unseen, a shadow floated from the observatory area of the rectory toward the center of the shrine.
Turpin heard a sharp cry of pain as the abbot lunged for an ancient box wrapped in silver filigree and adorned with jasper and turquoise—more Tibetan than Chinese or Japanese in design. Blood burst from the abbot’s mouth, as the shadow swept past the altar. The box was spirited away. The monks’ chanting broke and lost focus. The abbot—eyes staring, fixed in death—lay across the shinji. Crimson pearls seeped from the corners of his eyes, nose, and mouth and cascaded down his face to spatter onto the shrine. From Turpin’s perspective, the shadow had barely touched the abbot. Yet, the priest was mortally injured—clearly hemorrhaging from all his body cavities.
Turpin unconsciously searched the silk obi, or sash, of his robe for his Japanese flintlocks. They weren’t there. He lunged into the center of the worship area—trying fruitlessly to sweep up and control this dark assailant with his arms. Turpin found a large dorje on the shrine and grasped it to reinforce his fist. He crab-walked across the worship area, in search of the killer shadow. Turpin felt a blow to his liver—devastatingly heavy and intense. The shadow skirted past his eyes. Turpin felt himself fall, as his energy drained away.
Breathing laboriously, Turpin lay on the tatami, woven straw mats, of the temple floor. The abbot lay unmoving, his dead eyes—two orbs in a bloody sunset—staring at the ceiling.
Turpin slowly rose to his knees and then stood, wavering among the clouds of incense. The shadow slipped over Turpin again. The pain was excruciating. He fell to one knee and tried to breathe.
The specter was at the opening of the side rectory. Like black smoke, it floated out of the entryway and into the inky shadows of the night. Turpin struggled to his feet and took two unsteady steps forward. Before him, the apparition bobbed and weaved as a shadow’s shadow. Turpin gathered himself for the chase.
They ran across the rock garden. Turpin stumbled on the boulders beside a gravel sea. Springing up, with the palms of his hands peppered with fine gravel from the suiseki garden, Turpin ran on. His long legs pumped like pistons and he gained ground on the shadow man. Not fifteen feet separated them as they exited the torii gate and ran down the symbolic 108 stone steps, each representing a defilement to be overcome. Turpin was just behind the shadow when they reached the final gate, with its foot-square beam thrown as a deadbolt.
The thief then ran up the wall, like a squirrel, as Turpin fished his tantō, a small dagger, from his kimono sleeve. The shadow man had gained purchase on the top of the huge wooden gate and was nearly free as Turpin leaped forward and plunged the tantō into the thief’s hamstring. A horrendous scream, like a demonic typhoon wind, issued from the top of the gate. Turpin was thunderstruck. He found himself lying flat on his back, looking up as the bejeweled box fell onto his chest. The shadow melted away over the gate.
The cicadas had lost not a beat as they sang in the humid night. Out of breath, Turpin rose to his feet and brushed the dust off his kimono. He bent, picked up the box, and studied it in the poor light of the moon. He heard many men coming his way. Turpin tucked the box securely under his left armpit, inside his kimono. He collected himself and breathed in and out slowly. A knot of monks descended the steps and encircled him.
A particularly large monk asked Turpin, “Did the assassin escape with the Gift of the Stupa?”
Turpin studied the monk and calmly replied, as he pressed the box close, “He didn’t leave anything behind. I think I hurt him, but he made it over the gate.”
The monk spoke in what to Turpin sounded like grunts and growls. The junior adepts issued forth from the monastery and out into the dark of night. Turpin took his leave and made his way to a ryokan, a country inn, outside Kōyasan.
The oil lamp cast shadows on the wall of his room. A cool pitcher of mugicha, barley tea, sat on the enameled table, along with a sweet cake. Beads of sweat adorned the pitcher. Turpin drank deeply. He placed the box on the table and sipped his barley tea as he studied the elaborate filigree, semiprecious stones, and design of the cask. He exhaled and opened the silver, jewel-adorned box. He was puzzled.
It was a human skull. Some teeth were missing—mostly back molars. It was clearly old. A yellowish-bronze patina glossed its surface. Turpin studied the skull uneasily. The wind had picked up and was bending the cryptomeria and pine. He quickly hid the box and its grisly contents under his rucksack of clothing and personal belongings.
He slipped into his yukata, a thin cotton robe, and placed his head on the pillow, which was firmly stuffed with buckwheat hulls. The wind blew Turpin’s sleep away, as clouds danced across the rising moon. Turpin began to feel drowsy some time after midnight. He slept fitfully. His dreams were filled with wraiths that were men. The cicadas continued their singing in the summer night.
The words of the large monk echoed in his dreams. “The Gift of the Stupa.”
