Airship Stowaway

Stranger in a Strange Land

The face which peered around the edge of the door at her was old, she supposed, and quite hairless. But the eyes were kind, a rich brown deeper than the skin which surrounded them.

 "May I come in, Joseph?" the stranger asked.

She nodded numbly, shocked, hugging the pillow to her. The man nodded in return, a soft smile on his face. "Thank you. My name is Lopsang." He entered the cabin, a slight, bald figure in saffron robes, holding a walking staff. "May I sit down?"

"Of course," said Joanna, shaking off her surprise and sitting up. Lopsang pulled out the little desk chair and seated himself, his hands resting on his staff in front of him. He seemed to radiate calmness, and concern.

"Now Joseph, we have a number of things to discuss. In the first place, I welcome you to the Potala Palace.”

Lopsang's warm, measured tones made her feel more calm and relaxed. There was an instant connection, at a very deep, human level, with this strangely dressed man. It was as if something was reminding her that deep beneath the surface differences in appearance and age, every human being shares something in common, their very humanity. Yet even feeling this connection, she shrank from telling him that she was not Joseph, but Joanna. Some deep feeling of insecurity told her it was better to conceal her true nature. She decided to find out more about this strange place.

“Whose palace is it? The king’s?”

Lopsang smiled warmly. “No, indeed, it is the palace of the Dalai Lama. Who is our ruler, as well as our spiritual leader.”

Joanna nodded. “And are you a minister of his?”

Again the warm smile, a little shake of the head. “No, I am but a simple monk. As well as a palace, the Potala is a Buddhist monastery. I am a teacher of the young novices, and so it was decided that I should be the one to speak with you.”

Lopsang continued. “Although I suspect you are not here of your own free will, you have nothing to fear; you are welcome to stay with us as our guest."

“Thank you. It is kind of you, of course, but what I really want is to go home.”

The old monk stood up. "I understand, and of course we will do all we can to get you home. But first, you must have some proper food. Come with me." He led the way out of the airship gondola, and towards a low structure fifty yards across the roof.

The harsh sun was high in the sky, giving everything a blue-tinged, washed-out look; she squinted against the glare. There was heat from the sun, but a chill in the breeze from the thin mountain air. The walk across the roof left her feeling short of breath, and when they finally reached their goal she paused for a moment to lean against the doorpost of the entrance. 

Lopsang turned, and smiled gently. "Until you are used to the altitude, you will feel tired and out of breath in Lhasa. We are 12,000 feet above sea level here!"

Joanna nodded, too tired to answer in words. She managed a few more steps into the room, then collapsed onto a bench at one end of a long table. A few minutes later, Lopsang returned with a plain wooden tray containing flatbreads, a bowl of some stiff white creamy substance, and a mug of a steaming milky liquid. 

"This is tea," said Lopsang, handing her the mug. Even though it was steaming fiercely, it was not boiling hot, and she sipped it gratefully. It was very milky, rich and sweet, and she felt the warmth flow through her. It perked her up enough to try the creamy stuff, which was plain and sour, a pleasant contrast to the tea. 

Soon enough, she was happily munching on a flatbread, and looking around her with renewed interest. The room seemed to be a canteen of sorts, with roughly whitewashed walls and a smooth hard floor. The table and benches were plain dark wood, worn smooth with age. At the rear was a doorway, through which he could see another long room containing elaborate decorations: fantastic murals of complicated circular designs, and pictures of fierce gods, whilst the wooden beams themselves were painted with intricate patterns that reminded her of a tattoo she had once seen on the arm of a sailor. The floor was taken up by low benches and cushions, and otherwise covered in carpets like the Persian rugs she had seen in the posh parts of Aeropolis.