The Breath of God. Jeffrey Small

of her gaze made him forget about his internal censor. Admitting a weakness like that was not the way to impress a woman.

      “A speaking phobia,” she said, as if turning over in her mind what this said about him.

      “Oh, it’s not a phobia, I mean, I’m not even that bad at it. I just prefer one-on-one discussions where I can delve into the issues deeper with a person.”

      She smiled at him like she wasn’t totally buying it.

      He decided to change the subject. “So, Kris, how did you end up here?”

      “I’d prefer you not call me that. Only my sister called me Kris.”

      “Sorry, Kristin,” Grant said, taken aback. He noted the use of the past tense but decided not to pry.

      She tossed her hair from her face and toyed with one of the silver elephant earrings that dangled from ears that, to Grant’s surprise, only contained a single piercing each. “Travel writer.”

      “Professionally?”

      “Freelance for several magazines.”

      A writer. So, he was correct. The artsy type. “Must be a tough life, never in one place for long.”

      She shook her head. “Don’t have to answer to anyone, and I can pick up and go at a moment’s notice.”

      “Isn’t it lonely?”

      “Never needed someone to take care of me.” She winked at him. “Plus, I meet interesting people everywhere.”

      “Sounds liberating.” Actually, Grant couldn’t imagine a life so unstructured.

      “We have something in common.” She touched his forearm. “Before coming here, I was in India too. I’m doing an article for Vanity Fair on Eastern religious rituals and celebrations.” She moved her hand to his cast, where she tweaked a bit of the torn plaster. “Late as usual for my deadline, though.”

      Grant found the final piece of information unsurprising—attractive and creative, but disorganized. Then he remembered the state of his own work.

      “Here, take a look,” she said. “Photos of my travels.” After fiddling with a few buttons on the back of the Nikon, she handed it to him. “Hit the right arrow to scroll.”

      Grant stared at the three-inch LCD screen. Although the image was small, the rawness of the emotion grabbed him. An Indian girl in her early teens gazed at him. Her face was feminine, beautiful but smudged with dirt. The expression in her eyes, however, affected him most—a melancholy resignation, the result, no doubt, of having grown up in conditions he couldn’t even comprehend. The subsequent photos all featured girls and young women—some introspective portraits and others just details: a hand with dirty nails but intricate henna designs painted on it, the back of a woman whose sari was flowing in the wind like a colorful sail while she bent over to wash her laundry on the banks of a river. He and Kristin had both just traveled in the same country, but she had seen a completely different side of it than he had.

      Grant was unexpectedly moved. When he handed the camera back, their fingers touched. Her skin was smooth and warm. “You could be a photographer,” he said.

      “Just a hobby. I take some shots for my articles when the magazines don’t send a professional along.”

      “So after India, you came to Bhutan?”

      “I traveled here to report on the annual Thimpu Tsechu.” She brushed her hair from her eyes again. “Heard of it?” She continued without pausing for a breath or an answer. “A festival of elaborate costumes, masks, and dances in Bhutan’s capital city. Then I hooked up with a tour group to come here to check out the dzong; it’s the country’s largest, you know.”

      As he observed her speak with her hands as animatedly as with her mouth, a realization struck him. This attractive woman and her expensive digital SLR camera could be the answer to one of his conundrums: documenting the discovery that he couldn’t take with him.

      But he immediately questioned whether he could trust sharing such an important archaeological find with a woman he’d just met. And a journalist, no less. Then he realized that he didn’t have to trust her fully, or even confide in her, to get her help. He took a chance. “When you were in India, ever hear of an ancient saint named Issa?”

      She shook her head. “Even in my writing, it’s difficult to keep straight the bewildering array of Hindu gods and goddesses. Part of your dissertation research?”

      “Related to it. The library here may have some manuscripts helpful to me.” He didn’t need to reveal the true importance of Issa to enroll her in this project. “Want to meet a friend of mine? The monk who runs this place is in one of the temples right now.”

      “Sure.” Kristin surveyed the courtyard. “Looks like my tour group abandoned me anyway.”

      Grant saw that the only other people in the courtyard were local villagers. He recalled Kinley mentioning that some Bhutanese holy man was visiting the monastery to give blessings in the main temple that day. Kinley had invited Grant to watch, but Grant had thought a breath of fresh air would do him more good than participating in the superstitious ritual.

      Kristin zipped her camera into the small daypack slung over her shoulder and jumped to the ground. “Here, give me your hand.”

      “No, I’ve got it.” Grant attempted to stand, but the weight of his cast swinging off the wall caused him to stumble. He would have fallen to the ground, but she caught him without flinching.

      “Sorry about that.” His face flushed red. As she straightened him onto his good leg and handed him his crutches, he caught the scent of her hair.

      She put her hand on his upper arm. “Might as well earn some good karma by helping out a cripple.”

      Her teasing felt comfortable to him, as if they’d known each other much longer. Enjoying her touch, Grant led her to the perimeter of the courtyard, which was enclosed on all sides with the two-story dzong building. The top floor contained dorm rooms like his, while the elaborately painted woodwork and large decorative doors on the first floor led to the various temples in which the monks worshipped. Now that the time was upon him, he felt his stomach twist.

      With his crutches clicking against the stone pavers, Grant fell behind three elderly ladies with sun-weathered faces. The women walked hunched over from decades of tilling fields. Each carried items of food—bags of rice, fruits, even soup cans—in one hand and Buddhist prayer necklaces made of sandalwood beads in the other. Grant noticed that each woman’s lips moved silently as she walked.

      “Like praying over rosaries.” Kristin nodded toward the ladies.

      “You Catholic?” he asked.

      “Raised that way.”

      “But no longer?”

      “Not since my sister’s death.”

      “I’m so sorry,” Grant said quietly. He contemplated sharing the story of his father’s death, but then he quickly shut off that idea. He never discussed that event with anyone.

      They followed the women, climbing five stone steps at the end of the courtyard. A pair of ten-foot-tall carved doors, finished in a metallic gold, flanked exterior walls that depicted a mural done in luminous primary colors: an epic battle raged between sword-wielding gods and fiery demons. The women removed their shoes and disappeared inside the temple. Kristin stooped to unlace her hiking boots, while Grant kicked the single sandal off his left foot.

      Kristin tilted her head. “What’s that?” A rhythmic beating of drums and chanting spilled out of the open doors.

      She walked inside the temple, and he followed. Inside, the pungent smell of incense wafted across the room to greet them.

      “It’s the Mantra of Compassion,” he said a little louder than he intended. The harmonic chant of twenty young monks dressed