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"And I will come down and speak with thee there; and I will take of the spirit which is upon thee, and will put it upon them; and they shall bear the burden of the people with thee, that thou bear it not thyself alone."

• Numbers, 11:17

"Every one that is called by My Name, and whom I have created for My Glory, I have formed him, yea, I have made him."

• Isaiah, 43:7

"With 32 mystical paths of Wisdom engraved Yah . . . . And He created His universe with three books (Sepharim), with text (Sepher) with number (Sephar) and with communication (Sippur.)"

• Sefer Yetzirah, 1:1

"Ten Sefirot of Nothingness and 22 Foundation Letters: Three Mothers, Seven Doubles, and Twelve Elementals. "

• Sefer Yetzirah, 1:2

"He makes His angels of breaths, His ministers of flaming fire."

• Psalms 104:4

"A pan of merit, a pan of liability, and the tongue of decree deciding between them."

• Sefer Yetzirah, 2:1

"He engraved them, He carved them, He permuted them (CRP), He weighed them (SQL). And with them He depicted all that was formed and all that would be formed."

• Sefer Yetzirah, 2:2

"He placed them in a circle like a wall with 231 Gates. The Circle oscillates back and forth. A sign for this is: There is nothing in good higher than Delight (ONeG); there is nothing evil lower than Plague (NeGO.)"

• Sefer Yetzirah, 2:4

"Twenty-two objects in a single body."

• Sefer Yetzirah, 2:6

"A frog in a well cannot be talked with about the sea."

• Chuang-tzu, 'Autumn Waters'

My life had become a 24-hour-a-day nightmare. My wife was dead, my house was unlivable, my position with the University was in limbo, and I was paranoid that at any moment I could be terminated with no mistake. On the other hand I wasn't even sure whether they wanted to kill me or intended to kill Ping first. Worse, the package had been mailed from New York on Monday. That meant that I was a suspect in the minds of the police, since I had been in New York on Monday. Maybe I was really going out of my mind and had mailed the package and then blocked off memory of the deed like the two-headed Zaphod Beeblebrox in The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. Of course, anyone on the Warrior course or in the Rinpoche's crowd - perhaps the same terrorist who had beaten me up Saturday night - could have sent the package. Sabutai's men could be anywhere. Or were they Sabutai's men? The whole thing was maddening.

I felt despair, alienation, and resentment emanating from Dan, and what could I say? He blamed me because it was my involvement in whatever it was I was doing that drew this disaster onto Ping. He never really paid much attention to what I was doing. Now he positively avoided me. Joy in New York was crushed, even though she and her mom had never really been the best of buddies. She came to the funeral with her husband and the kids. We hugged and cried together.

Then there was Ping's family. She had a brother and two sisters living in the States with their families, and her parents and another brother back in Taiwan. Needless to say they were extremely upset. First there were incessant phone calls, and then they arrived, and I didn't know what to do or say that could assuage their grief and anger.

It was all a magnified reflection of the emotions I felt inside. Now my physical bruises were long forgotten, overwhelmed for the first time in my life by an experience of deep emotional pain. It was as if an irresistible force was tearing my loved ones from me. Almost as an afterthought, it was also destroying my possessions and career. I began to feel what it must have been like to be a victim of Jenghiz Kakhan or of a pogrom or other ethnic cleansing.

The arrangements for the funeral, dealing with the media and the incessant investigation seemed an endless slow motion procedure. The body could not be displayed. It was too seriously mutilated - basically blasted to shreds. They decided that the dental records were conclusive, and it was not necessary to expose me to the trauma of viewing the remains.

As Ping had requested in her will, her body was cremated. The ashes were to be scattered from the top of the Great Buddha on Eight Trigram Mountain, a place we had often visited during our courtship. This request miffed the family, which was very active in the Taiwan Christian Church. They had always been under the impression that I was a Buddhist and was dragging their daughter away from the True Faith back to old Chinese pagan religion (despite the fact that Buddhism came from India and I was not a Buddhist, though I studied it and practiced meditation.)

The funeral was a simple memorial service held on Saturday afternoon at the Presbyterian Church in Iowa City. The decorations were mainly roses around a water-filled pan with duckweed floating on top and a small bronze funerary urn placed like an island in the middle. I tried to keep the ceremony upbeat with some poetry and music rather than the usual panegyrics. For an additional creative touch I dangled strips of paper about the church displaying on both sides Chinese parallel couplets from The Book of Changes inscribed with the calligraphic magic of Lin-Fei-peng.

Scanning the crowd of family, friends, colleagues, media and security personnel, I noticed that Rivah Tsur had come. A wave of guilt washed over my chest. I had completely forgotten about our lesson appointment on Thursday, and of course had not invited her to the funeral. At the end of the service when she came up through the line and offered her condolences, I bleakly apologized. She dismissed my mumble with a wave and looked me in the eye. "We meet as scheduled on Sunday, no excuses. Life moves on," she confirmed. That same quiet pool of compassion opened up around her. It felt a lot like Yamada's Huna gaze, but with another mysterious quality.

The investigation continued. I constantly had to refrain from saying too much. There was speculation about a link between the Van Allen Hall murders and Ping's death because the two events involved Chinese. Some thought there was a Chinese vendetta going on, which put me in an awkward position.

Ultimately that line of reasoning tended to peter out because of the obvious fact that the Van Allen murderer had already committed suicide. And of course the public had no inkling of the conspiracy that Noah had told me about. So nobody could come up with a good reason why anyone would want to kill me. My department colleagues, and to some extent, other faculty, became very nervous about the prospect that a Unabomber type might be targeting specialists on China or university faculty.

I was therefore very grateful when the police and the FBI and the ATF began to relax their questioning of me. Partly, I couldn't really tell them much. Partly, I think Noah's people quietly asked them to back off. Although I never found out how much the CIA let them in on the details of my consulting role in the Project, I guess they decided I was not the murderer and that I had no more idea than they who had done it.

After the funeral things began to settle down. I took a walk on Sunday and noticed that spring was proceeding on schedule, oblivious to the petty human events that swirled through my life. In fact, I realized that even the moment when the blast went off was just a tiny perturbation in the Ocean of Everything-going-along-just-as-it-is. If I looked deeper into my imagination of the moment of the explosion or the memory of the bamboo cracking through my ribs, even then everything was just silently nothing more than what it was. One moment contained a living Ping. Another moment didn't contain a living Ping. One moment there was no pain. Another moment there was pain. Another moment again there was no pain. That was all.

It was time to go. I would shift my attention. I would step completely out of my former existence. I would get to the bottom of this crazy Terrorism thing. I would find out why these people chose to create murder, and terror and mayhem in the midst of those of us - the majority I believed - who strove to live orderly, meaningful, and creative lives.

With that decision taken, I said goodbye to the last of the departing family members and set out for my Hebrew lesson.

It was obvious to Rivah from the moment I walked in the door that I was too distracted to study. So she settled in to merely share with silent appreciation the space of my grief. My mood seemed to resonate with the general cultural grief of the Jews and some personal experiences that she had in her life. Little by little I found myself revealing to her my intention, which was not to seek revenge on a deranged killer or fanatic organization, but to get to a complete resolution of the whole issue of organized terrorism.

"How do you plan to do that?" she asked.

"I don't know," I replied. "I think it has to do with the fundamental beliefs and communication systems of ancient civilizations. That's why I am here studying Hebrew with you. The Jews have been the recipients of a great deal of organized terrorism down through history and are part of the fixations in the Middle East.

"My next step is to go visit one of the old Grand Masters of traditional China, who just happens to be living as a hermit near Ophir, Colorado. That's a spot south of the ski resort at Telluride. Actually you have to hike up into Lizard Head Pass to reach his alpine cabin."

"What is so special about him?" probed Rivah.

"Master Zhao is in his eighties now. I studied with him about thirty years ago when I was travelling in China. He is amazing - a total Renaissance man. Zen master, Tantric Lama, Taoist adept, Grand Master of martial arts, poet, philosopher, alchemist, teacher, you name it. He has traveled all over China and knows who's who. He is one of the great masters of the I-jing, you know, The Book of Changes. If anyone can tell what is happening, it is him."

"Hmm," she muttered. "I don't know much about the I-jing, but my impression is that it is to Chinese culture like the Kabbalah is for Jews. It is the mystical key around which all Chinese cultural expressions are organized. Sounds like it would be fun to meet him. Do you think I could come with you? We could explore the connections between Kabbalah and I-jing with him. Is he a monk? He doesn't have any problems dealing with women does he?"

"Oh, no," I replied. "He was married and has a couple of grown children, and grandchildren too, I believe. He was always a down-to-earth householder. It's just that at certain periods of his life he chooses to withdraw and live alone. But I'm going to try to see him, and you are welcome to come along. Your viewpoint may be useful, actually."

"Thanks. I'll join you. This could also be very helpful for my thesis. My residency's done, and I'm mostly focussed on research right now. My motivation is to study the long-term frictions between the Palestinians and the Israelis, a phenomenon that goes back at least to the times of David and Goliath. And, of course, their territorial disputes are a major unresolved issue in the current world scene. This angry bedfellow relationship is a good model for the patterns of violence that regularly occur in the Middle East. But why not get to a solution of the whole thing? If there's something we can do, I'm ready to go for it. I'll call it part of my research."

So we agreed. And then she spent about an hour introducing me to the principles of the Kabbalah. She particularly showed me the Kabbalistic coding systems.

The Gematria treats letters as numbers. Words have the numerical value of the sum of the letters that compose them. So, for example, Messiah (MeShiYaH) equals The Serpent of Moses (NaHaSh.)

^ M + S + Y + H = N + H + S

^ 40 + 300 + 10 + 8 = 50 + 8 + 300 = 358.

Since Kabbalistic addition like our ordinary arithmatic is commutative (that is, a + b = b + a,) any words with the same letters, regardless of how their order is rearranged, have the same Gematria value. For example, she demonstrated that HaSheM, The Name, has the same value as MoSheH, Moses. With a shudder she realized that it also equals HaShaM, 'to terrify.'

The commutativity of Gematria leads directly to TMURaH, or permutations, one aspect of which is that words with the same letters have some semantic relationship. This makes sense if there is meaning in each letter, as my investigations were already leading me to suspect. As an example, we looked at OeBeR, the patriarch of the Hebrews, and OaRaB, the name for Arabia. We also looked at another example of TMURaH substitution codes where you substitute between the first and last eleven letters with the mapping:

The first letter of the alphabet maps to the last, the second to the next to the last, and so on. So, for example, the place name BaBeL becomes by the substitution code, SheShaK. Rivah opened a Torah and showed me an occurrence of that code as it appears in Jeremiah 25:26.

Then she demonstrated Notarikon, a form of acrostics. She showed me that the Hebrew name for this code, CheRVPhaH is itself a permutation of our word 'cipher' - which means 'code.' I wasn't sure whether this was so, and wondered whether perhaps it was derived from the root SPR, for numbers and books. She showed me how the phrase in Deuteronomy 30:12, "Who shall go up for us to Heaven?" (MY YOLeH LNV HShMY-LeH) gives the first letter acrostic MYLH, 'circumcision.' The last letter acrostic for the same phrase gives the Tetragrammaton, 'YHVH', the four-letter name of God. According to some Kabbalists the question, "Who shall go up for us to Heaven?" contains the cryptic Kabbalistic answer that the circumcised go to God. Then she showed me the layout of the Hebrew alphabet in the form of a Rose - the Shoshanah. Three letters form a triangular core of the known, knowing process, and knower (SMA). Then the seven doubles (letters with hard and soft pronunciations) form a second layer (BG, DK, PR, and T - three axes in space in which to play around a center point); and 12 simple letters on the outer fringe cover the range of sensory experience - VYH#@Z$LNOQC.)

Finally she introduced me to her menorah. "Here are the seven chakras." And then she took me to the picture on her wall and gave me a brief tour of the OeCh HaYYiM, or Tree of Life, pointing out the 10 Sephiroth and the 22 pathways. She counted them up for me and then said with satisfaction, "See, 10 + 22 = 32, which is half the number of hexagrams in the Book of Changes. Let's see what your Master Zhao can do with that!"

[Tree of Life]

Suddenly I noticed that in following the fascinating discussion of Kabbalistic codes with Rivah as she moved about the room handling books and sacred objects, I had forgotten about all the pain and sorrow of the past few days.

It was time for action. Monday morning we each began wrapping up our Iowa City business. It all went fast and smooth. I instructed my lawyer to divide my portion of Ping's estate evenly between Dan and Joy. I also had him do the same with all my possessions except for my books, papers, and personal effects, which I stored at Magic Lin's. Many of Ping's personal effects went to her family, a few to the children. I only kept a few pictures. I basically liquidated down to the bare essentials. The police had been screening all my incoming mail and keeping a close eye on my neighborhood to keep me from harm. I told them my intention was to leave Iowa City and travel for a while to get my mind off the loss. I would take responsibility for my own safety, and that of my family and friends was probably best served by my not being around. My landlord kindly allowed me to drop my lease. His insurance covered the repairs, and he was happy to have the space free to renovate.

I booked a Thursday early morning flight for us both from Cedar Rapids to Denver and then a puddle jumper to the Telluride Regional Airport. During the flight I went over with her some of the fundamentals of the Book of Changes. From Telluride we rented a cab to Ophir. It was a beautiful afternoon when we arrived, but the higher altitude meant that spring was a little further behind and the air a good deal cooler and dryer than out on the mid-western plains. The mountains were turning green and most of the snow was gone, except for gullies and shaded spots.

We were travelling light with backpacks for the hike. We brought some changes of clothes, and a few books -- my copy of the Hebrew Scriptures, the Ben-Yehuda dictionary, the Wilhelm/Baynes translation of the Changes and a handy Chinese text of the same that I had in my library. We also each had a small pop-up tent, sleeping bag, and other outdoor gear and food supplies, intending to camp out if necessary on the trip.

When we reached Ophir, it was already after 2:00 o'clock in the afternoon, Mountain Time. We debated whether to stay the night there in the village or to start hiking. I estimated our hiking time at about three hours, so we could press on and reach the cabin before sunset, barring the unforeseen. Since we had our camping gear and could set up along the trail if need be, we decided to start out right away.

At the south edge of the village we picked up a trail that moved through some valley meadows carpeted with grasses and wild flowers and then began winding up ridges through forests of pine and aspen. The air was fresh and lively with spring and had a piney smell from the extra moisture in the needle carpet from the melted snow. After working our way over several ridges, we followed a mountain stream, source waters of the San Miguel, heading upstream to the east. The water in the stream was crystal clear and mostly shallow enough that one could wade in it. Sometimes it flowed fast enough to produce rapids in the wake of large boulders that it coursed around. In the smoother sections we could see trout moving their tails just enough to compensate for the current, so they seemed to hover in the clear water. The pass we were climbing reached elevations of over 10,000 feet, but my understanding was that the cabin would be along the stream in between Red Mountain Pass to the east and Lizard Head Pass to our south. To the west was magnificent Mount Wilson, stretching up to over 14,000 feet. Our trail now generally followed the course of the stream.

At around 5:30 we caught sight of the log cabin nestled into the rocks and surrounded by pine forest. It was on a ridge looking south over the source of the stream, which was a small cascade that emerged from a rocky cleft and fell about twenty feet into a pool with a large boulder holding the water. The water eventually spilled around its side and tumbled along through a jumble of rocks to form the stream. We turned onto a path leading from the trail up to the cabin. Next to the cabin I saw a wood shed, and further away was a tiny outhouse. We reached the cabin and knocked on the door. There was no answer.

"Uh-oh," I said. "Nobody home. I hope he hasn't left for good or gone on a long trip."

Rivah put her hands to the sides of her face and peered through the one window into the cabin. "It looks as though someone has been here recently. He may have gone for a hike or to pick up supplies. We can wait or leave a note."

"It's going to get dark soon, and he may not be back tonight. So I think we better get set for the evening. We can continue east about twenty minutes or so and stay at the South Mineral campsite over near Red Mountain, or we can set up somewhere around here . . . Hey, I've got an idea. I'm going to write him a note and leave it on his door. He'll love this. Then we'll find a spot nearby and set up camp."

I took a scrap of paper and wrote in Chinese the following Tang poem by Qiu Wei:

On the absolute peak there is a single thatched hut.

It's thirty miles straight up.

I bang on the door, but there is not even a young servant.

I peek into the room, but there is only a tea table.

If he hasn't taken his sling to haul firewood,

Then he has certainly put his hook into the autumn waters.

We are out of synchrony and simply didn't meet.

I did my best, but made an empty-handed visit.

"There," I said, "That says it, except for the 'autumn waters' which is the wrong season. That's an allusion to an essay of that title by the Taoist sage Chuang-tzu. Here, I'll change it to 'spring waters.' He'll get a kick out of that." I drew a line through 'autumn' and wrote 'spring' over it.

"Well, before we go camp, I'm going to borrow his outhouse to release some of my spring waters," said Rivah. And she did.

"Good idea," I replied. And I did too.

We scouted around for a bit and decided rather than climbing further along the trail, to go back down a ways where there was a wider space between the stream and the steep ridges. Before going down, however, we decided to take a short swim in the pool under the waterfall. So we dropped our packs on the rocky ledge by the pool, stripped, and gingerly lowered ourselves into the water, which was ice cold. One thing about Rivah, she had no shyness. Ping would have felt very self-conscious exposing herself in front of a man she had only briefly known, and in a public location, however remote, where hikers might come by at any moment. Rivah boldly stepped into the stream and swam over under the cascade. She gasped for breath as the weight of the icy water came down on her head. I knew why when I joined her. It was exhilarating, but barely tolerable. In a minute or so we finally capitulated and ducked under the surface, moving away from the pummeling falls into the misty spray, and then back toward the ledge, which was already coming into shadow as the late afternoon sun moved past the ridge. Rivah climbed out onto the rocky bank and stretched her tawny limbs. Her thighs and breasts were firm and shapely. Her dark nipples stood out hard from the stimulation of the cold water, unlike my genitals that had shrunk almost back into my body to avoid the icy temperature. Her black hair clung to her back in wet ringlets. She reached into her pack, pulled out a towel, and rubbed it over her bronze skin. Then she tossed her head, swinging her long hair around her shoulders, and leaning forward, gently patted the towel along its length to catch moisture without causing tangles. I also toweled off, and we both re-clothed ourselves.

Totally refreshed and cleansed of the day's travel dust we trudged down to the spot we remembered, cleared a little space in the grass, and popped up our tents and installed our sleeping bags. Then, before darkness set in, we prepared and ate some of the fresh food we had brought. I strung our knapsacks up high from a limb of a pine tree to avoid raccoons and bears getting into our supplies.

That night, in spite of the chilliness we slept well. In the morning I crawled out of my bag to find Rivah already down at the stream brushing her teeth. I came down to join her at the morning ablutions. She looked up, and then her attention went over my shoulder, and she pointed with her toothbrush. I turned to see a thin column of smoke curling up over the trees from the direction of the cabin. "He's back," I confirmed.

We scrambled to strike our camp and then hiked back up to the cabin. My note was gone and there were definite signs of life within. I knocked, and after a minute's pause the door opened, and there was Master Zhao, looking much like I remembered him from nearly thirty years ago, except that his hair was now white, though slicked back as always. He was a tiny man, about five feet tall, with a slight build. He was impeccably dressed, as always, in a dark blue long scholar's gown with the collar knot-buttoned. The white Chinese shirt he wore underneath showed, as its broad sleeves of white linen rolled over the gown's sleeves. He had on black cloth shoes, and was holding a cigarette in his left hand, with a warm, knowing smile on his face. I marveled that this man in his eighties had such shiny pink cheeks with smooth child-like skin.

At a glance I took in the one room. It was very spare. There was a little wood stove, near which was a wide bench along the wall for sleeping and meditating. A couple of futons were rolled up at one end and a pillow was at the other end. Next to that was a small chest of drawers on top of which was a box, a stack of bowls, and some chopsticks. Near the door some long gowns and a heavier winter coat hung from pegs, a wooden walking staff with a gnarly knob on top leaned against the wall, and a pair of Chinese leather pull-on boots sat neatly on the floor. In the corner was a chest like a footlocker, and in the middle of the room was the tea table with its four stools. A few pans hung on the wall near the stove, which he apparently used for both heating and cooking. That was it as far as I could tell. I saw no books.

He welcomed us in, directed us to drop our packs near the door, and showed us to two of the four square stools that surrounded the rustic tea table, on which were three large glasses, one already filled with tea, and a thermos. He moved like a cat with slow, deliberate, flowing gestures. He balanced his cigarette carefully on a small ashtray. Then he reached into an octagonal box on a shelf near his seat, and placed a pinch of tea leaves in each of the empty glasses, set them in front of us, and then filled them with steaming hot water from his thermos. From the same shelf he brought a dish of fried peanuts into the middle of the table and supplied us each with a pair of chopsticks. Then he sat down on his stool, carefully picked up his cigarette, took a leisurely draw on it, and slowly exhaled, all the while smiling as if at a cosmic joke that was constantly amusing him. Finally he spoke in Chinese with his usual Chekiang accent. I translated on the fly as much as I could for Rivah and filled the rest in for her later.

"Lao 'Wa, how are you? It's been a long time," he said. My name in Chinese is Hwa Ko. With his version of Mandarin it always came out 'Wa, which is actually closer to the correct pronunciation. "Lao' means 'old' and is a term of familiarity and endearment used by Chinese.

"I'm fine, Master Zhao. It's good to see you again. You look well."

"And who is this with you?" Zhao continued questioning.

I introduced Rivah and explained that she was a scholar at the university, currently doing some research with me, and we had come to ask some questions.

"And where is Ping?" he continued with a curious phrasing, ignoring my explanation. I told him the news of what had happened. He nodded, taking another slow drag on his cigarette and then just as slowly expelling the smoke.

"Why have you come to see me?" he went on, following his own sequence of questions. I told him of our concern about China's role in international terrorism and how I feared that it was involved with Ping's death.

"Mmm," he nodded. "Lao 'Wa, you know I'm retired." He gestured with his cigarette at a bucket I hadn't noticed in which two trout were swimming and recited a Tu Fu quatrain:

"His triumphs covered the Three divided Kingdoms,

His fame produced the Octagon Deployment Chart.

The River flows, but the stones remain unturned,

Bequeathing regret for failing to swallow Wu."

He let out a long breath. "I first met Sabutai in Lhasa years ago. That was back in 1950, just before the Chinese Communists invaded Tibet. He was just a young boy of 14 then, and was a study companion with the Dalai Lama who was his own age. When the Dalai Lama fled south, Sabutai went north and joined a motley group of mountain guerillas. His headquarters now are deep in the Pamir region."

"Mmm." He shook his head. "You better leave, and 'I'll keep on dragging my tail in the mud,'" he said, quoting 'Autumn Waters' to echo my note.

"Nowadays I come here under the pines,

And sleep with a lofty stone pillow.

In the mountains there is no tracking of the days,

When the cold season ends, who knows what year it is?"

I decided to switch topics and try a different angle. "Rivah and I have been looking at a comparison between the Jewish Kabbalah and the Chinese Book of Changes. Kabbalah is Jewish esoteric mysticism. You are an I-jing master and an expert in Buddhist and Taoist esoteric teachings. We thought you might help us get a deeper understanding."

"Bu gan dang. You are flattering me," replied Zhao formulaicly, but I knew that I had piqued his interest. Another long pause. "Hao. (OK) Tell me what you are studying, and I'll comment from the viewpoint of the Changes, which is the Ch'an position, which is no viewpoint at all."

Rivah and I took pen and paper and described with examples the Kabbalistic principle of reading Hebrew as Gematria numbers and the concept of Temurah permutations. Zhao nodded and responded by demonstrating the four major ways of interpreting the changes: as numbers, images, symbols, and oracles. Then he showed how the hexagrams were all the permutations of yin and yang to six places. When he finished, Rivah drew a sketch of the Tree of Life with its ten Sephiroth and twenty-two paths -- representing 10 numbers and 22 letters -- adding up to 32, which is half the hexagrams of the I-jing.

Zhao laughed. "How about the 22 letters all permuted in pairs. Do you have that?"

"Yes," replied Rivah. "In the Sefer Yetzirah it talks about placing the 22 letters in a circle and connecting them in pairs. The number of paths, or Gates as they are called, is 231. By Gematria the name YSRAeL can be interpreted as YeSh RAL 'There are 231.'"

"Right," said Zhao. "The circle is a fundamental arrangement. From there you connect them in pairs. So if you have four letters (and he drew four dots on the paper), you take one and connect it to the others, getting three possible lines. Then you take the next dot and connect it with the others, and you get two lines. Each time you get one less until on the last one you get none at all. See? That's 3 + 2 + 1 + 0 = 6 possible paths. He lettered them ABCD. That's AB, AC, AD, BD, BC, and CD. So for 22 letters you have 21 + 20 + 19 + . . . and so on. Add them and you get 231 paths. The general formula for paths is

n (n-1)/2 = number of paths.

"Double that to get the total number of two-letter words possible in Hebrew. If we count doubled letters, paths that stay looped on the same letter, like BB, then the formula is simply n squared.

"You see," he continued, "the Tree is interpreted all wrong. No, it's not really all wrong, it's just that the esoteric rabbis hid the true understanding by teaching the information, but tangling it up a bit so no one could figure it out properly without getting the key from a master. That's what makes it esoteric - trade secrets you might say. You see these paths here? (He pointed at the lines on Rivah's sketch." That's all sloppy. They took Daat out and put Malkut down here and drew lines some places and left them out other places. It's luan-qi-ba-zao, a mess.

"The paths must all be there. Now do this." And he reached over, took the pen and redrew the Tree as two interlocking hexagrams with Malkuth underneath, separate and unconnected. Then he drew a vertical polar axis down the center and horizontal lines connecting each side Sephiroth. Where the pole was intersected he drew a dark circle. Then he counted them up - 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7 with Malkuth separate. "These are the seven chakras. That one at the bottom is the world of experience. Connect up the seven all possible ways. You get 21 paths - plus Malkuth, which is the reflection of the unmanifest Oayn Soph that you have above - that gives you 22. Malkuth is the world, and Oayn Soph is the Higher Self. That is a complete set."

Rivah's eyes had widened, and she was nodding her head. I had lights going on. "But how does that integrate with the Changes, or is it a different system?" I pursued.

Zhao replied without hesitation, "The seven chakras that form the interlocked hexagons plus the Oayn Soph/Malkuth extra one are the same as the eight trigrams. You can look it up in the appendix on the trigrams (section 4) in the Book of Changes. It's all there. Qian is the crown - the brain that directs and coordinates. Dui is the 'mouth - that's the openings of the perception organs on the face: eye, ear, nose, mouth. Sun is the throat and lungs - the respiratory system for qi exchange. Li is the heart and circulatory system, the body's chemical delivery and heating system of cell metabolism. Kan is the kidney and other internal organs of the belly that digest food and discard waste. Zhen is the genitals and organs of motion - muscles and tendons, hands and feet. Gen is the root - the buttocks, spine, and skeleton that holds the body solid. Kun is emptiness - Kung, the illusion of the world. If you take the seven chakras plus emptiness and pair them all possible ways two at a time, that gives you 8x8 = 64 basic ways two people can interact.

"I have not studied the Kabbalah. But it seems to me that if you take all the possible paths between the 7 major chakras, you get 21, plus the Kingdom of Emptiness, the magical Oayn Soph Malkut 0, that is separate from all and interpenetrates all, you get a total of 22 possible paths. Play around with that."

He paused and smiled. Then he reached over to a pack of unfiltered Camels on the table and slowly and deliberately took out a fresh cigarette. He produced a silver lighter from a pocket inside his gown and flicked it. He lit the cigarette and replaced the lighter in the pocket. Then, with his left arm across his chest, he held the cigarette in his right hand and took a long leisurely drag. He paused for a long moment, and then he gradually exhaled, still smiling. Finally, he spoke again.

"The question is, 'How do you know what constitutes the enjoyment of fishes?' People are willing to play the role of victim and prisoner. It's part of a game. It's tied to the breath. Study your breath. And to understand your resistance about pain and destruction, study your judgments about sex. That's all. Goodbye."

He reached over and snuffed out his cigarette in the little ashtray. Then he got up and walked to the door. He slipped his feet from the cloth shoes to the leather boots and picked up the walking staff, humming the quatrain,

"Beneath the pines there's no one left - just a hopeless endgame,

And pine cones from the deserted hill drop onto the chessboard.

It seems the immortals still have immortal moves to make,

And the wins and losses of a thousand ages will go on forever."

With that he stepped outside and closed the door.

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