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Sergii Sheludchenko
The Warriors Of Shambhala
G2V – A star of main consequence also called by space navigators “Yellow Dwarf”. The centre of the system consists of 13 planets placed on the spheres borders. It only gets mentioned in navigational charts or in space spying reports . This is the only inhabited planet and it is of no interest to military or industrial companies. The planet situated on the galaxy boundaries becomes a base for biological research. Viruses created in secret laboratories are being tested on the planet’s inhabitants of different races living in the Far Cosmos. The main characters by accident find themselves in an alien base hidden away in the Himalayas – Shambala. The scientists identify a new deathly virus which can threaten Inhabited Spheres. The representatives of the Earth civilization turn out to be in the centre of events connected not only with biotechnologies but also with the intrigues the ultimate aim of which is to take control over the planet system. Challenging and dangerous travelling, space fights, pirate ships and the Exot fleet are all those things which our characters are to face. The crew of the frigate “Spirit” leaves Earth and goes ahead to see the unknown.
Translated by Samuel Hawes
“In the midst of the high mountains there are hidden enclosed valleys. Many hot springs nourish the rich vegetation. Many rare plants and medicinal herbs are able to flourish on this unusual volcanic soil. Perhaps, you have noticed hot geysers on the uplands. Perhaps, you have heard that only two days away from Nagchu, where there is not a tree or plant to be seen, there is one valley with trees and grass and warm water. But who may know the labyrinths of these mountains? Upon stony surfaces it is impossible to distinguish human traces. One cannot understand the thoughts of people and he who can is silent! Perhaps, you have met numerous travelers during your wanderings — strangers, wearing simple clothes, walking silently through the desert, in heat and cold, toward their unknown goals. Do not believe, because the garments are simple, that the stranger is unimportant! If his eyes are half closed, do not presume that his glance is not keen. It is impossible to discern from which direction power approaches. In vain are all warnings, in vain are all prophecies, but only by the one path of Shambhala can you attain achievement.”
(N. Roerich "Shambhala Shining")
* * *
A strong gust of wind from the mountains tore off the veil of the morning fog, revealing a landscape of hidden glaciers of high plateaus and a river. Alexander, reined in his horse at the water's edge, and beckoned to Hephaestion, who was slightly behind the king. The Commander worried about the upcoming crossing. The army was exhausted by long marches and heavy fighting and had lost its former stability. Great Conquerors dreamed to reach the borders of Oecumene,[1] which were becoming increasingly an illusion. According to rumors, a rich country was lying beyond the river, which was unknown of before the bloody wars and numerous natural disasters. It was the last mythical frontier of the World.
The king dismounted near the masters, who had constructed some rafts. A minute after watching their precise coordinated work, he headed downstream. After a few steps, he saw Aristander, the soothsayer, who accompanied the army on the march. The old man was animatedly discussing something with a man dressed in a strange yellow garment. Seeing the approach of the king, the parties respectfully bowed. The strangers had little slanted eyes. They were dispassionately looking at the young commander. Alexander felt somehow insecure and wanted to hide his confusion, so he turned to Aristander:
‘I hope you received the blessing of the gods, didn’t you?’ The Prophet started talking instead of the stranger. He was a master of the Macedonian native tongue. It was a smooth and melodic voice that did not naturally go together with the strange appearance of the guest.
‘Great king, I have come from a distant country, behind the high mountains. It is called China. Sages who sent me know about your intentions to reach the Eastern Ocean. They were asked to tell you that when you were reaching its shores, but you will not reach the edge of the earth. The land is spreading over the waters of the Eastern Ocean again. And if the sky be favorable to the traveler, who went on a long journey, having made many thousands of steps, he will return again to the place where his journey began. It will take many years to overcome this distance. The land of the Great Mahatma, known as the Roof of the World was forty thousand stades[2] away in the east, surrounded by mountains. It is the country of higher knowledge, giving birth to the gods. Not one mortal can reach its borders. And while your way lies on the side of its borders, the Great Teachers patronize the land where you are going. And what gardener will destroy what he nurtured? Only the impunity of the trees could do this. What kind of farmer will allow the trampling of his crops?’
‘Barbarous nations that you conquered lived in ignorance and vice. Heaven bestow on thee a victory over them as a punishment. Then there is no way. Come home. You won’t cross the river. The land begins behind the river that is not subject to the force of arms. Death is waiting for you there. That's all that the sages were asked to convey to you.’ The words of the stranger shocked Alexander. Apparently, the king of kings was a barbarian for the ragged tramp. Mahatma, country of gods, governors of the world! These were undoubtedly some ravings of a madman.
‘Kill him!’
The lifeless body of the messenger collapsed at the king’s feet.
‘Let’s start the crossing immediately! The detachment of Hephaestion will go first!’
The rafts were launched onto the water. The patrols of mounted archers were sent up and down the river. Alexander, Ptolemy, Seleucus and Kenos were attentively watching the movement of troops. The army of many thousands began moving.
The morning fog had finally cleared. Twelve people were dressed in white, wearing woven threads of pure mountain snow clothing, stood on the opposite bank of the river. The wind ruffled their head wraps, hearing the sound from a distance. Is it any wonder that in the mist before dawn they merged with the river mist? It seemed as though they had been carved out from stone statues of the Olympian gods, majestic and silent, suddenly emerging from the haze.
Soldiers, who were preparing for the crossing, finally noticed the strange visitors. An unimaginable noise began, whistling and howling through the roses. In rafts they cluttered, which interrupted the loading of the advanced detachment. Alexander sent Ptolemy to restore order immediately. Hephaestion appeared at the raised platform.
‘Alexander, do you see people on the other side?’
‘I do!’
‘Maybe they are ambassadors, aren't they? I thought you'd like to talk to them.’
‘Occupy the crossing!’
‘They are unarmed, most likely they come in peace.’
Alexander thought for a moment. Hephaestion was right, you can try to negotiate and avoid bloodshed with the peace embassy.
‘Seleucus, deliver these people to me! If they will resist, kill them!’
Seleucus went to the raft, accompanied by ten hoplites.[3] As soon as the Macedonians pushed off from the shore with long poles, one of those who stood on the opposite side came forward. He raised his hands to the sky, and then stretched in a forward direction. The fact that the Macedonians saw in the next moment, shocked even the experienced warriors. A gust of strong windswept hoplites of Seleucus came from the raft, throwing them into the water. Then the man, dressed in white robes, pointed his finger at the river, while the raft was floating away, a tree broke in two as if it had been burnt. Exclamations of surprise and fear burst from the soldiers, who had come to the shore.
‘Hit them with arrows!’ Alexander was now raging.
The detachment of mounted archers-Bactrians[4] rushed to the crossing. A man in a white robe raised his hands again. Horses shied back, as if they were running into an invisible barrier. A rider flew into sharp coastal rocks, which, however, did not stop the Bactrians, who were hardened in battle. A moment later, the arrows whistled through the air. Hitting the target at a distance was very easy for these tight Bactrian bows. But the arrows, magically, changed the trajectory and speed of flight.
Alexander stood in a daze. Aristander touched the hand of the king:
‘We can’t cross the river. The messenger did not lie to you. There is a Celestial warrior of the country, who gave birth to the gods. Stop, Alexander!
With the force the commander clenched the old man, gazing into the eyes of the soothsayer.
‘Ptolemy, take the warriors! We will not cross.’ This was the last phrase Alexander said quietly to himself.
People on the other side lined up in a row again. As soon as the last warrior retired to a distance of five yards from the water, Alexander heard a voice louder than the clap of spring thunder. It was coming from the sky.
‘We are the warriors of Shambhala, Messengers of the Great Mahatma are glad that you, Alexander, king of Macedon, prevented bloodshed. Come back home. Your fate is now in the hands of Heaven.’
At the same moment the fog tightened around the banks of the river again, hiding the people on the opposite side.
The army was now leaving. They waited for a difficult way home. Alexander ordered to erect on the banks twelve stone pillars symbolizing steadfastness and fortitude of the heavenly host in remembrance of his meeting with the ambassadors of Shambhala.
Alexander was the king of Macedonia, conqueror of nations and peoples, who died at the age of thirty-two under mysterious circumstances. Some of his colleagues argued that the night before the death of their commander, they saw not far from his quarters a strange man, dressed in yellow clothes.
Anton closed his tattered paperback book, switched off the torch and came out from under the blankets. There were amusing stories, especially the last one, about Alexander the Great. The boy was interested in ancient history, but, unfortunately, there was very little information in literature in the orphanage’s library. And he found this book in the boiler room, where they helped with the men to unload coal. There was an alternative history, an ancient world through the eyes of science fiction writers; here is the name of the book. Everything is clear with fiction, but the boy didn’t understand this alternative story. "I'll ask the teacher tomorrow” Anton moved his pillow and made himself comfortable. He closed his eyes. He dreamed of battle-hardened Greek soldiers, monks in yellow robes, tropical forests and high mountains.
* * *
A ray of sunshine cheerfully rolled down the snow-covered slope. For a moment, it was paused at the edge of the abyss and chasm, jumping over the gorge and ran to a narrow cleft, departing somewhere in the heart of the mountain. Running on the gray, slimy, block of granite, blocking the entrance to a small cave, it stopped at the fire embers. A scarlet petal of the flame burst from under a pile of ashes, welcoming a kindred spirit carrying the heat in the kingdom of darkness and snow.
Manlam opened his eyes. Sunbeams were dancing on the stone arches. The noise of a mountain stream came from the depths of the gorge. The heart-rending howling of the wind was not heard and the snow did not close the curtain of the cave — the storm was over. The demons of the mountains don’t often favor the traveler in the winter months. Manlam was at a distance of one transition from the target. If he was lucky, at sunset he will be at the gates of the monastery of Maitreya Buddha, located on one of the high plateaus of Northern Nepal. The youth spent three days in a cave, hiding from the raging elements. His food reserves had ended. The only hope for salvation was the monastery, where the youth was going. Manlam knew that any delay could lead to a disaster. The mountain climate was so unpredictable.
It was so hard to force yourself to get out from under the warm blankets. Sunbeams touched the boy’s face, Manlam smiled. It was nice to feel a little bit of heat. The gods loved him this morning; the sunshine confirmed this. The young man got to his knees and in one motion dropped a felt flap. The cold pierced his body like sharp icy needles. Without a doubt, the monastic toga,[5] saved from the demons, did not protect him against the frost of the Himalayas. Throwing bush wood into the dying remnants of the fire, Manlam started preparing breakfast. A handful of rice, seasoned butter pale pink tea and stale cake were the last reserves. He thanked heaven for giving him a meal and then he hastily packed up and hit the road: a fragile young man in monastic clothes, forgotten by everyone on the cold mountain trail. He was walking solid gait, without thinking about the dangers of it. He was walking simply by the call of his heart. There, behind the mountain peaks, was lying the Land of Snows, Shambhala sparkled like a diamond in an expensive frame in his heart — the land of the Gods, the abode of the sages was forbidding possession of the great Mahatma.
Manlam heard for the first time about Shambhala when he was novice. But at that time he did not pay much attention to the stories of the old Lama. He was sent to the care of the monastery near the village as an infant like many other boys from poor families. “Servants of virtue" — the name given for the little novices, who earned their livelihood in the confines of the monastery.
Manlam endured all the difficulties, associated with obedience and dignity, and in his spare time he was engaged with the monks. He learned to read and write more quickly than his peers. Seeing the boy thrust into this knowledge, the abbot handed him over under the protection of the caretaker in the monastery library. In his initiation period Manlam spent days among the shelves and racks, littered with piles of painted hieroglyphs, and scrolls of the Holy Scriptures. There were also quite a lot of new books coming from Nepal and Sikkim[6] temples. The boy studied Sanskrit,[7] Indian astronomy and astrology, and successfully mastered Chinese calligraphy. Somehow going through semi-rotting scrolls in one of the abandoned library cells, he stumbled upon an ancient manuscript, telling the story of a pilgrimage to Gelong[8] of the Great Mahatma. The young man poring over every line, trying to understand and to present what the Lama wrote about: beautiful palaces, lovely gardens, crystal clear streams, hidden high in the mountains and heaven. His imagination painted all the charm of the Earthly Gods with the candle burning out. The young monk-apprentice, with difficulty, judged the corrosion of time and dampness the signs of the Tibetan letters. He did not manage to read the scroll. The flame of a candl
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