III

The incessant rattle got to Jhana as much as her dreaded prescription. A Chinese medic had given her a stenchy concoction of miscelanious herbs to help aliviate her addiction, but in truth the nausiatingly sickly taste of the pungent homemade pills would have turned her back to the coke with open arms had she not by this juncture already summoned the willpower to reject such defeatist tactics. But that didn't make the whole thing easy. Worse still that her surroundings contnually reminded her of darker times. Faces and issues she associated with things that terrorfied her now, but which for some unknown reason she had formerlly revelled in. The withdrawal symptoms remained; not least the gaunt, hollow feelings that something was missing; her mind acclimatising to an umfamiliar environment. She had passed the stage where she wanted to go back, which was why her sympathetic but often tested big brother was taking her away.

Through the intricate cobweb design of the dark but no less artistic makeup around her eyes, she watched the reflections of the train wheels spinning frantically away like a child transfixed by the motion of a passing automobile. Jyishu had fought through the dosile ques in the buffet car to get them both piping cardboard cups of coffee which scourched his fingers as he jogged along the carriageway in a vain attempt to hand the things over to his sister before his burns required immediate medical attention, pondering angrily why by now nobody had come up with an absorbing synthetic which could plausably keep the heat in the cup.

"No thanks, Jish." That was like a damsel in distress kicking the knight in the teeth after he'd just slain the proverbial dragon. She rubbed her head vicorously as if it was a thick coconut plucked from a desert island tree which somehow managed to resist any attempts to release it's contents for human consumption as Jyishu sat down wearily promising himself that even now he had to drink both cups he wouldn't become an addict himself. "Headache, huh?" There was a hint of genuine concern in his tone, aside from the obvious sarcasm. Jhana had been through enough heartache, not to mention headache, this last year, and he really should have been more understanding, but being the head of the house, he'd also had to put up with her bitching while she was on the crack, not to mention the sulking and the stealing. Afterall, it was her fault she'd got into the stuff in the first place, but family is family, and she was a lot better now she was trying; now she'd conquored a few ghosts. He felt sorry for her really; she was at least a sad case in a more sympathetic way than she was before, and it had been his idea to give her a change of scenary.

The bullet train ran from Goa all the way through India and the golden triangle and ending up at the South China Sea. It was really the lazy hiker's solution to the gratuatous new age pilgrimage; if you took the trip in reverse. Goa was where all the dissillusioned and disenfranchised victims of corporate economics ended up; a safe haven for those determined to lead a communal, quasi-spiritual, minimalist life. It was truly one of the last pillars of 'the simple life', although it was carefully marketed as such; cleverly mixing ideology and profiteering in order to scramble together maximum monetary spoils. They had got on in Shwebo; their home town, which in contrast was ravished with poverty, although when it came to recreational drugs, Goa possesed the superior market.

Across the carriage, Yamyang thumbed a small volume of carfully inked scripture scrawled from what Westerners would see as bottom to top of the page in his native Tibetan. He paused for a moment as a strange sensation not dissimilar to a passive electrical surrent passing through the body caused him to look up from his studies and gaze around. The origin of the disturbance had gone by the time his wyes had left the sutras, but he was persuaded by something deep and meaningful that there were spiritual connotations to this brief experience.

If Jhana was on a journey of self rediscovery, Yamyang could be said to have been on one in whoich he intended to transcend the self. Like most incarnate lamas, Yamyang had devoted his existence to monestary life; to self cultivation; the real religious life those who frequented the Western mystical pleasure domes of Goa would rather take a tantalising pinch of than a saintly morsel. Then again, each to his own. Yamyang knew monastic life didn't suit everybody, and whatever you did, you should always go with what you feel is right. As the lofty hills of the Shan Plateau sneaked into view on the outskirts of her field of vision, Jhana pressed her head against the calm, cold double thick window which vehemently kept all the clanking, whizzing sounds of travel outside, and breathed a lengthy sigh of relief as the welcome freeze provided a far more savoury aphrodisiac. "Thanks, Yish." Her brother nodded; unseen; he'd already burned his tounge finishing off the first coffee, fearing the steady motion of the speeding vehicle might slouch unnaniunced into sloppiness and cause him to spill it over his best work suit. Though his manly demenour wouldn't allow him to acknowledge it publically, he heartily appreciated her thanks. He loved his sister really, even if she was... 'Christ, Jyishu; you're getting soft in your old age' He punished himself with another deadly sip from the remaining cup, while Jhana dropped steadily into an almost unconsciouss sleep which was highly preferable to the literal nightmare dreams often offered her. She was prone to lapse into obscure spiritual trances; to hallucinate; to fall into zombie like fits of blank depression which she could hardly recall after the event, which made her eternally greatful to the little family she had for sticking by her over. It was difficult for her, but she couldn't run away from it. It must have been difficult for Jish, too, and he could have ran away. He never had. She left the trembling window to its own mechanical devices and leant her head on her brother's shoulder instead and tried abortively to smile. She was smiling inside, at least, which for a manic depressive was a good sign. Perhaps his idea of altering her surroundings was to be a good one. Jyishu, in response, brushed aside the clumsy collection of silvery gothic trinkets which Jhana's petit and eternally aching head and neck should not logically have been able to hold as they dug like rows of impaling stakes into his flesh and watched the black clad teenager drift into an easy sleep she had better enjoy because tommorow would bring its own repatative testa for her, and it wasn't often she could enjoy such things the way her head thumped and pounded like a box of fireworks lit from inside by a dastadly match. He had spent a lot of time on his sister recently; he'd taken a lot of abuse, and though it got to him at times, he'd never let it show; never let it break onto the surface, because she was sensitive even when she was being self centred, and if he let it boil over it wouldn't help her. He'd gone out of his way every day of his life since mum died, and the drugs thing had been hell on earth, but as all the good doctors said, there's light at the end of the tunnel. That was a potent metaphor given that here they were; bound for salvation, he hoped; on the old uprooted Japanese bullet train. Jyishu skillfully concealed a cheeky manouver to drop the second bubbling coffe cup into a nearby trash can and praised whatever gods may or may not exist that at least today would pass without unwanted incident. Jhana was getting over her problems, which meant mabye at last he could get onto his; his spurned carrer, his sacrificed relationships, the basic, everyday things most people took for granted. Whatever small ammounts of money he had went on aiding his sister; every waking hour of every day. His only hobbies and recreations were ones of her preference, he only went out where she wanted to go out, and he only slept when she had already entered that unfettered realm. He comforted himself in her apparent comfort. The world's true heros are often unsung.

Sample Story Four

CHARACTER PORTRAITS FOR CHARACTERS FROM 'THE COMPENDIUM'

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