Years before, he had begun actively to forget his own name -- the name given him by his mother, now, too, no more than a ghostly memory. If he thought of himself -- and his Buddhist practice demanded that he do so as little as possible, for Self was no more than illusion -- it was as Brother Monk, one of many brothers at the monastery perched atop the Roof of the World, among the Himalayan Mountains, blinding white and regal against the piercing blue sky, ascending higher than the clouds.

At this particular time -- Time itself being an illusion like Self, nothing more than a series of changes to the external world, a reminder of the impermanence of all things -- Brother Monk had quite entirely forgotten himself. Balanced precariously on an aged wood plank and rope bridge strung above a fathomless chasm between two mountains, his well-trained body tensed for the next strike from his opponent, a man who had also reached full maturity, who also wore the saffron robes of a Tibetan monk.

The opponent struck out, forearms slicing the air like well-honed blades, aiming for Brother Monk's head, neck, chest: there was no point in trying to focus on each blow, for it came too fast for the eye to see. Instead, Brother Monk opened all his faculties and sensed the coming attack, repelling it flawlessly, with equally blinding swiftness, blocking arm with arm, hand with hand.

And in the midst of the battle, his mind -- after years of meditation, calm and undisturbed as a lake shining quicksilver in the sun -- noted the tiniest movement beside him. On the nearby rope -- thrashing furiously from the fighters' shifting weight -- a cocoon smaller than his finger split open, and from it a butterfly, wings damp and clinging to its body, emerged.

Brother Monk did not let himself be distracted from answering his enemy's every move with one of his own. But with his peripheral vision, he watched and appreciated the vision of the butterfly as it unfurled its wings, delicate and jewel-like, to the Himalayan sun. In the thin atmosphere, the dazzling sun dried them instantly, and the shimmering creature took flight.

Brother Monk's mind was uncluttered enough to realize that coincidence was but another illusion; purpose and meaning abounded everywhere, if one learned only to see beyond samsara, this apparent reality which was not the true, unchanging Real. He knew the butterfly was a sign: a symbol of rebirth, of enlightenment, of achieving one's ultimate purpose. He prayed only that he was ready, and worthy.

At once, his opponent, bland-faced, eyes utterly serene, managed to land a blow upon Brother Monk's shoulder -- making Brother realize that he had focused, if only for an instant, on himself, a path that always led to defeat. One foot slipped on the plank beneath him, and he clung desperately to the rope that the butterfly had just deserted.

Just as swiftly, he cleared his mind, regained his balance, and answered the blow, fiercely.

His enemy evaded his attack and in answer began to kick the age-silvered planks from the bridge into Brother's face -- launching a series of deadly wooden projectiles, each of which had borne for centuries the weight of monks' feet.

Brother Monk had no choice but to take the defensive. Sensing, not seeing, he struck first one plank, then the next, and the next, all with lightning speed, averting them. They sailed first upward, then down to their final resting place -- the deep chasm below, darkened by the shadows of the mountains.

The attack continued until at last the two combatants faced each other, breathing heavily, balanced atop two bare lengths of rope, and no more: the last plank now rested fathoms beneath them, in the shadows.

For a heartbeat, Brother Monk and his opponent regarded each other in silence.

Who first moved, he could not have said; the action of both men seemed to him simultaneous. Brother Monk launched himself into the air, feet first, flying at his enemy. At the same instant, he saw his enemy likewise come sailing toward him.

The collision would have sent them both plummeting down into the chasm.

Instinctively, Brother Monk undulated serpentine in midair, twisting away from his opponent. His body arced upward for an instant; when it came down, he immediately seized the ropes and regained his balance.

His attacker, however, went sailing down.

"Rinpoche!" Brother Monk cried out in horror to his opponent. "Master!"

He shot forth a hand and seized his beloved rinpoche's, his master's, foot.

Still dangling upside down over the ominous drop, yet as perfectly at ease as if he had been sitting over a cup of steaming tea, the Master smiled benevolently up at him.

"Good catch," the Master said lightly. "Your training is complete."

Brother Monk stood in an attitude of humble reverence as his master raised a prayer flag, bright yellow for spirit, atop a high pole. He watched as the wind caught hold of the flag and whipped it tautly, echoing the prayer upon it in his own mind:

Om ah hum vajra guru padma siddhi hum....

The words were Sanskrit, but even in his mind, he pronounced them with a Tibetan accent, as he had been taught by his master: Omya hung benza guru peme siddhi hung....

Oh, Vajra Guru, may you bring us both ordinary and supreme blessings and attainment....

This was the mantra of the Vajra Guru, the one also called Padmasambhava, meaning the Lotus-Born, for it was said that he was born on a lotus blossom. Padmasambhava had brought the teachings of the Buddha to Tibet millennia before, and as such, he was revered as its Most Beloved Master, Guru Rinpoche.

His real name had been long ago forgotten.

Of all prayers, the Vajra Guru mantra was the most powerful, bringing with it siddhis, or magical abilities and blessings, in order to achieve enlightenment. The prayer was never uttered lightly in hopes of attaining something as foolish as external powers or wealth, or even to relieve one's physical suffering or difficulties in the world of samsara. It was to be used only for the holiest purpose: to free one's mind from grasping, to move toward liberation of the spirit, and to assist others in doing the same.

"This prayer flag symbolizes the ending of my destiny," the Master said, watching it flap for an instant in the strong wind; and then he looked down and smiled his serene smile at his protégé. "And the beginning of yours."

Brother Monk felt a wave of humility, then dismissed it as merely another form of self-involvement. It mattered not that he, among all in the Sangha, the community of believers, had been chosen to replace the Master; it was merely his karma, but his heart, his mind, was no different from his fellow monks', no worthier of compassion. He sensed them behind him, as they sat -- a mere fifteen of them, though in earlier centuries, the monastery had been crowded -- in lotus position on the ground before the temple, and he knew that each of them was silently repeating the prayer inscribed on the flag, invoking Padmasambhava.

Om ah hum vajra guru padma siddhi hum.

The monastery was utterly silent, save for the sound of the Master's voice, the flapping of the prayer flag, and the occasional chatter of the monkeys who milled about, searching for food scraps.

As Brother Monk watched, his mind empty, a brilliantly colored butterfly flitted about the prayer flag, then slowly sailed downward and lit atop the Master's shaved head. Brother Monk's studies of mental concentration permitted him to recognize the precise coloration on the wings, and to know that this was the same creature that had emerged from its cocoon while he and the Master had been fighting on the rope bridge.

The Master's dark eyes warmed at the sensation on his scalp; he raised a hand and gently prodded the butterfly onto a finger, then lowered it so that he might admire its beauty. As he watched it, he told the man standing before him:

"When you first came to me you were the most undisciplined youth I had ever laid eyes on." He gestured at the monks sitting in front of the temple. "I could hardly believe what my brother monks said -- that you had fulfilled the three noble prophecies." He drew in a breath before listing them. "You had 'defeated an army of enemies while a flock of cranes circled above,' you had 'battled for love in a palace of jade,' and you had 'led the brothers you never knew to the family you never had.' " He paused, then lifted the butterfly to his lips and blew gently on its back. It fluttered its wings, slowly at first, then more swiftly, and at last flew away.

The Master glanced up and met his protégé's gaze directly. "Now you must make the final sacrifice by casting off the last worldly possession that remains to weigh you down. You must give up... your name."

Brother Monk fell to the cold earth and prostrated himself at his master's feet, nodding his shaven head. "I've already forgotten it, Master."

The Master led him inside the Temple of Sublime Truth, a structure as ancient as Buddhism's arrival in Tibet. Windowless, its walls hewn from dark wood, the temple was shrouded in perpetual gloom, eased only by the rows of flickering butterlamps and candles set upon the shelves of a simple shrine. The lamps signified the illumination that burns away the darkness of ignorance; in their center rested a statue the size of a man's arm from fingertip to elbow, rendered of gleaming gold. This was Avalokiteshvara, the Buddha of Compassion, whose mantra was om mane padme hum. If Padmasambhava, the Vajra Guru, was the mind of Tibet, then surely Avalokiteshvara was its heart: he could be called upon to pour out the blessings of compassion on any situation, giving freely, using love to transform evil intent to good, purifying hearts; and it was he who led the recently dead safely to the realm of the buddhas.

On the shelf below the Buddha of Compassion were small golden bowls filled with clear water, symbolizing the clarity of mind that came with meditation and right thought; on the shelf above sat a humble-looking bamboo case. It was the case that at once caught Brother Monk's gaze as he stepped inside the temple, behind his master. So focused was he on what was to come that he did not notice the youngest monk -- Brother Sogyal, a lad, still a good five winters away from being a man -- duck into the temple behind him.

But the Master noticed all. He turned, blocking the boy, and in a voice infinitely firm yet still filled with good humor, said, "Not so fast, little one. Your big eyes have already seen enough for one day."

Brother Monk smiled inwardly. Sogyal was as sincere a monk as any, but his youthful curiosity often got the better of his desire to be obedient. During his final competition with his master, Brother Monk had had the suspicion that a third pair of eyes had been watching the entire spectacle: Sogyal's, from one of his many hiding places. And now the Master's comment confirmed that suspicion.

The blush on Sogyal's cheeks did the same. The boy quickly bowed to the Master, then shot a slightly envious look up at Brother Monk.

Brother Monk fixed a hard, impenetrable gaze on the lad... then softened it with a wink.

Sogyal scurried out the door -- to another hiding place, no doubt, where he could see what was about to pass between Brother and the Master.

Brother Monk let go of any thought of Sogyal and instead regarded the ancient mural painted on one of the temple walls, from the minerals found in the mountains, in shades of crimson, saffron, gold, deep blues and greens. The image itself was terrifying: he felt the effects of fear in his own body at the sight, and breathed deeply until they passed.

The mural showed men, women, and children, all violently attacked by the four elements of air, fire, water, and earth. Brother knew it represented the utter destruction of all civilization by violent storms, flames, floods, and earthquakes. If the power of the four elements ever fell into grasping hands, hands whose heart was not filled with compassion for humankind, such would certainly be the result....

Master Monk spoke next to him. "The nightmare of this picture is the reality against which our brotherhood has stood guard through the centuries...." He reverently lifted the bamboo case from the shelf, opened it, and withdrew from it a delicate, age-weathered rice-paper scroll. "The Scroll of the Ultimate," he said, and for the first time since Brother Monk had come to the monastery, he saw the good humor fade from his master's eyes, saw a shadow creep into them. "If its words are spoken aloud, they have the power to turn this world into a paradise... or destroy it completely."

Impossibly, the air in the temple began to stir in a circular fashion, slowly at first, then faster; Brother Monk felt a tingling in his body, as if the wind contained unspent lightning. As odd as the occurrence was, he felt no fear: he knew he had been destined for this moment.

The Master faced him. In the Master's eyes, Brother saw the compassion and enlightenment of the Buddha, the wisdom-mind of Padmasambhava. In his heart, he knew that the knowledge he was about to receive had been passed on from master to student for thousands of years, from Padmasambhava on. And in Brother's eyes, his master was no less than the Buddha himself.

The wind swirled, so strong that had Brother tried to drop to the floor, he would have been held upright.

The Master spoke, his voice strong, ageless. "Five times the Year of the Ram has passed since I became the Next for my honored predecessor... and his master before him and so on and so on. Now it is your turn."

The once-gloomy temple blazed with sudden light as the air itself became filled with brilliant, shimmering energy.

Bathed in light, blinded by it, Brother Monk saw nothing else, but felt the Master's powerful grip as he seized his student's forearms and held them tightly.

Brother's body shuddered slightly as it filled with a power so sacred, so intense that the doors to the Temple of Sublime Truth were blown open.

Copyright © 2003 by Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Pictures Inc.