The Enlightened (Mind Dimensions #3)(34)

We’re sparring with our more experienced sister. We much prefer no-contact practice, but the Master frowns upon it. He calls no-contact ‘flowery fists and embroidery kicks.’ The Master says that no matter how pleasing it is to the eye of the spectator monks, or cleansing for the mind of the monk performing the movements, no-contact practice can never take the place of sparring.

The sister we’re fighting is amazing. Being a woman of small frame, she’s supposed to be weaker than us, but we can barely keep up with her. We know small bruises will appear tomorrow where her punches land. And what impresses us the most is that we know she’s holding back the intensity of those punches.

I, Darren, eventually disassociate from the training, but not before I get a compressed month’s worth of sparring sessions, and triple that of the stylistic, dance-like solo training. I don’t bother remembering the fancy names for the stances, though I guess it would have been cool to show Bert a move and say, “Yup, that was the ‘Fierce Tiger Descending from Mountain.’” My goal was to learn the strengths and weaknesses of the style in case I need to fight the Master, who’s frozen in the process of running toward me.

Fighting lessons out of the way, I allow myself an indulgence. I try to zoom in on a very specific memory—that of the Reading-resistant meditative technique these monks possess. The young monk was thinking about it while sparring and practiced a version of it during his solo training, but I wasn’t focused on it enough to really understand how it works.

I jump around in his head and come up empty. I don’t see anything specifically relating to this mysterious technique. All the monks ever taught my host was a type of meditation, which I doubt is special in any way. None of the meditation techniques are qualitatively different from the focused concentration we all think of as meditation. No secret sauce that I could glimpse. These monks simply meditate a lot. Either this monk wasn’t entrusted with the special technique, or blocking someone from entering your mind doesn’t involve some kind of special trick.

Could it be that regular, vanilla meditation—with enough practice—can make you resistant to Reading and Guiding? Or is it more likely that these monks have special genetics? Like a breed of people who are naturally capable of resisting us? This last theory is flawed. It doesn’t explain how I can Read this monk, which suggests blocking people like me is a skill he hasn’t yet mastered. Or maybe there’s another alternative that I’m not considering.

I file this away as something I can talk to Eugene about someday. I also make a mental note to Read the next ‘regular’ Buddhist monk I come across, which could prove or disprove my vanilla meditation theory. Not sure where I’d find such a monk, but one time, I did see the Dalai Lama near the United Nations Headquarters. He’s a Buddhist.

Damn, I wish I’d known about Reading then. Reading the Dalai Lama would’ve been cool, but it could’ve ended with him joining me in the Quiet. How do I know he’s not one of us?

Realizing I’m getting sidetracked, I mentally smack myself into focus and exit the young monk’s head.





*





“It’s amazing,” Eugene says as soon as I’m out. “I can’t Read him. I wonder how—”

“Zhenya, focus,” Mira interrupts. “Now’s really not the time for your science.”

“I had better luck Reading than the two of you, but the information I gleaned doesn’t give me much hope,” I say, preventing Eugene from arguing with his sister. “Caleb is here, as well as more of these monks.”

“Damn it,” Mira says. “Let’s go find the tiny one and figure things out from there.”

Finding Hillary is a great idea, so I lead the charge.

She and Bert are in the Starbucks where I told him our secrets. I can’t help but smile when I see my friend holding another cup of coffee. He had two while we were chatting less than an hour ago, but he has an extremely high tolerance for caffeine. I think he can drink coffee all day long without getting even a little jittery. Or maybe it’s hard to tell the difference between normal Bert and jittery Bert, given how keyed-up this kid normally is.

I pull Hillary in, and a moment later, she’s looking up at me with concern written on her small face. Her eyebrows furrow even deeper as I explain the situation.

“Give me a second,” she says.

She walks over to Bert and does that kissing thing to him again. Mira and Eugene look away while I just look off to the side, unsure what etiquette says to do in situations such as these.

“Ready,” Hillary says when she’s done with whatever it is she was doing to Bert.

“You Pushed him?” Mira asks.

“I Guided him to go straight to the plane and not look back or start any trouble,” Hillary says.

“Good call,” I say. “One less variable for us to worry about.”

“My thoughts exactly. Now follow me,” Hillary says and walks away. Mira and Eugene exchange questioning glances, then look at me. I shrug. I have no idea what my aunt has in mind, but since she looks as though she knows what she’s doing, I decide to follow her for now.

She approaches a man in uniform. He appears to be a TSA agent. Without hesitation, Hillary frisks the guy.

“No weapons,” she says with obvious disappointment.