White.
Only white.
White as far as the eye could see.
And within that white world something moved. A small boy of seven or eight. The round face peeking out from the earmuffs and the collar of the yak hair coat was dark and sunburned.
He was in the midst of the Gangkhar Puensum range. Rising almost twenty-five thousand feet above sea level, this trio of peaks was among the highest in the Himalayas. So close to heaven, the sun beat down, mercilessly scorching human skin.
The boy was climbing a ridgeline of the mountain. Though the slope here was not steep, the ground was blanketed with snow. One misstep and he would sink out of sight, not to mention the ever-present danger of avalanche.
His ancestors had been coming here for over a hundred and fifty years. Life in this mountainous terrain was lived at the mercy of the elements. But the boy’s gait was steady and sure, because since he was born, waiting for him at the end of the road was someone he enjoyed playing with more than anything.
Before long he found the trail along the ridgeline, and climbed the rock-strewn path to a strangely flat promontory. He’d long become accustomed to it, but still felt a sense of fear and an accompanying unfathomable feeling upon seeing it, this wild plain in the mountains known as the Seat of God.
Not a single rock conformed to expectations. Triangles and cones and mallet shapes resting on perfectly round sides—a jumble of boulders that only a mad geologist would assert that nature had formed.
The large number shaped like flat-topped pedestals stood out in particular. Statues of the Buddha and the Dalai Lama sitting cross-legged, or in the seiza style, were perched atop them, contemplating the universe and Divine Providence.
This place was called the Seat of God, and was also the place to know God.
The boy wove adroitly among and between them and approached a corner adjacent the opposite slope. There a young man sat cross-legged on what looked like a very large millstone, his eyes closed in contemplation.
“I brought it, Izayoi.”
He reached into the coat and brought out a British tabloid. The young man’s face was also darkly-tanned. His bright mischievous eyes opened.
“Thanks, Tarta,” he said, taking the newspaper.
A British tabloid arrived among the supplies three times a week at a village two hundred yards directly below them, where a British-American research weather station was located. The boy — Tarta — had brought a copy. Of course, it was a week late.
Izayoi unfolded the wrinkled newsprint and devoured its contents. This Seat of God was the place where his father Genichiro once arduously studied the mysteries of yoga. Following more or less in his footsteps, approximately two weeks before, Kyoya had jetted here from Tokyo.
Though considering the devotion he gave to the tabloid’s Page Three girl, his dedication to his “studies” might be said to be something less than a hundred percent.
“Izayoi,” Tarta asked. “How is your training going? Whenever I come here, you are meditating there. Have you come to a great realization?”
“Yeah.” Izayoi nodded. “Well, that’s what I’d like to say. But sadly, no. I can see where you’re coming from. It’s gotta be a weird sight, a seventeen or eighteen-year-old kid comes all the way to the Himalayas and sits on a rock every day. On top of everything else, if I suddenly came up with the meaning of the universe or whatnot, the Buddha himself would bust a gut. Fact is, I don’t know a damned thing.”
“But Izayoi, all day and night, you have such a serious expression on your face. You must be thinking about something. Even if nothing comes to you, it’s still an amazing feat.”
“Oh, please. A kid like you, nine years old and fluent in Japanese and English—that’s a lot more impressive in my book.”
“My village hosts mountain climbers from all over the world. Anybody my age can speak the same way.”
“Then everybody in your village is a genius.” He wasn’t kidding. His eyes were drawn back to the paper. “What the hell! Second Devil Quake assaults Shinjuku!” Ignoring Tarta’s startled reaction at his loud exclamation, he continued, “All those injured from the Second Devil Quake come to three thousand seven hundred. Total damage is currently estimated at five hundred million yen.”
He read the lead out loud, and then concentrated silently on the rest of the article.
The Second Devil Quake had struck Shinjuku two weeks before at three o’clock in the morning. There were reasons enough to reject this designation. Since the first, Shinjuku hadn’t experienced a single aftershock, and the destruction and confusion was hardly on a par with its predecessor.
Before and after it, Shinjuku had experienced a strange increase in potential energies that seemed to spur on all manner of crimes and violent behaviors. According to the newspaper’s account, the Second Devil Quake emerged as an outlet for those unconstrained forces.
“Not hardly!” said Kyoya, whacking the paper against his knees. “That’s definitely not it! This Second Devil Quake may be a violent outpouring of energy, but in any case the cause is that weird castle. Babylon Palace and that masked lord. He’s up to something. Man, that guy pisses me off.”
“At times like that, I always do this!” Tarta held up a large and small pair of skis and poles. “When I get angry, this always calms me down. Izayoi, you’re the first person to beat me. Let’s do a run together!”
“That really wasn’t what I had in mind.” Kyoya frowned. The kid looked like a puppy about to whimper. Instead of brushing him off, he grinned. In a small voice he said, “Sorry, Sayaka-chan,” and nimbly slipped off the stone platform. He snugged Asura under his arm. “Well, let’s go.”
A minute later they were sliding down the slopes, the wind whistling past at an intimidating speed. Needless to say, these slopes boasted nothing so civilized as ski lifts. After dropping a hundred and fifty feet in elevation, they’d have to climb back to the ridgeline and return to the promontory.
Nevertheless, depending on their abilities, a hundred and fifty feet became a quarter-mile, their youth being willing to pay the price later.
Kyoya was a few yards behind him when Tarta glanced back in surprise. Kyoya wasn’t using the poles. Instead, he maintained his balance with Asura, and changed directions with his feet and hips.
The slope steadily narrowed on the right. The two were running practically parallel with the grade of the ridgeline. A dull sound echoed like an enormous bass drum.
Kyoya looked over his right shoulder and shouted, “Faster, Tarta! Avalanche!”
It didn’t need saying. This Himalayan kid was a hundred times more accustomed to the snow and the environment. Without looking back, he quickened his pace. Behind them came the unmistakable roar of the huge volume of snow as it tumbled down the slope, throwing up a curtain of white.
They weren’t going to make it.
“Izayoi!”
“Grab hold, Tarta!”
Mother Nature screamed her banshee’s war cry directly behind him. Kyoya reached out and pulled the boy to him, skidding sideways and slowing at the same time. The frozen tidal wave of snow reared up, the wall of ice filling his vision as it thundered toward them.