The Riddle (A James Acton Thriller, Book #11) by J Robert Kennedy Read Free Book Online Page A

effort involved, Asita had already jumped to
the conclusion that more than one had survived.
    “How do
we find them?” asked Channa, tears of joy and hope staining both their cheeks.
“Where could they have gone?”
    Asita
rose and looked about for some indication of where the survivors might have
fled to, but saw nothing. “We must assume they went east, away from their
attackers.”
    “Half
the world is ‘east’,” said Channa, sounding discouraged. “I can’t believe they
would leave without knowing what happened to you and your father.”
    Asita
strode around the funeral pyre. “Perhaps they were certain we were dead, or
told we were by their attackers.”
    Channa
now rose, looking at the sky. “It is getting late. We should set up camp.”
    Asita
stopped. “Here?” He looked around, a shiver climbing his spine. “It doesn’t
seem right.”
    “No, but
I don’t think there is any danger in remaining, and there are supplies here,
though few.”
    “Few.”
Asita barely whispered the word, it sending another surge of hope through him.
He raised his voice slightly. “You said there were only a few supplies
remaining.”
    Channa
seemed to pick up on his train of thought, but shook his head. “Parasites from
other villages probably took what was left.”
    Asita
wagged his finger. “No, parasites would have taken every thing. Word
would have spread and nothing would have remained.” He walked toward the shell
of what was once his home and found little inside of use, mere trinkets and
broken pottery along with some rudimentary furniture that had escaped the fire.
“Parasites would have taken this table,” he said, pointing. “It is in near
perfect condition.”
    Channa
stood by his side. “Are you thinking that they all survived?”
    Asita
shook his head rapidly. “Never would I dare hope for such a thing, but it does
appear that those who survived must have been great in number to have stripped
the village of only what could be carried. The large items have been left
behind, but the clothing and supplies are all gone.”
    “I fear
wishful thinking, Master.”
    Asita
sighed. “As do I, my friend, as do I. But perhaps wishes are all we have. We
must trust in what we see before our eyes, and my eyes tell me that some of our
village survived, that they took what they could, and left this place. And that
their numbers were not insignificant.”
    Trust
in what we see before our eyes.
    His own
words repeated themselves, and he thought of the message from the Buddha before
he died.
    Trust
in what you see.
    He
cursed, running for the stream, his eyes scanning the water for the clay bowl
he had tossed in earlier.
    It was
not where he had last seen it.
    His
chest got tight as he held his breath, scanning downstream. He sprinted as he
saw the bowl farther down, the current having managed to move it past the edge
of their village. He slipped on the slick stones, falling, painfully banging
his knee. As he winced, he grabbed the bowl before it rolled farther, and as he
leaned forward on his knees and one hand, he looked into the bowl, and gasped.
    Trust
in what you see.
    For what
looked back at him from the half-filled bowl was his own reflection, and he
suddenly realized what the Buddha had meant. Trust in yourself. He fell
back on his haunches, holding the bowl in both hands now, the pain in his knee
forgotten as he smiled to the heavens, the riddle deciphered. He closed his
eyes, picturing his father in happier times, and how excited he would have been
to understand what the great man had been telling him.
    Trust
in yourself.
    His
father hadn’t needed advice from the Buddha on how to save the village; the
Buddha was telling him that he had all the wisdom necessary to save the village
himself. He and his father had discussed many times moving the village farther
to the east. They had been ravaged by neighbors, floods, drought and famine.
The location for their village seemed cursed in recent years, and his