The Stone Heart of Shambala

174,500 words

The Stone Heart of Shambala

By

Mark J. Brown

Prologue

The room had been in use for over 800 years, not continuously, but for most of its existence. Daylight had never entered, and its walls were coated greasy black with centuries of soot and grime. There were light bulbs glowing here and there, where before candles, and oil lamps had burnt. The walls and the ceiling were made of stone, over a metre thick, and the floor was covered with 

grey flagstones. They in turn were covered by carpeting and rugs. The room was large and deep, and had a natural disposition to be cold and damp. An electric dehumidifier was one of few modern concessions which had been added in recent years, along with the electricity, and a soft drink vending machine. 

The wall on one side had deep shelves, made of old dark wood, and on them were many well read books, some as old as the room itself. Some books were covered with dust, which spoke perhaps of subjects less interesting than others. There were seven men and women, of different ages. Two were reading, one was writing, another two were working with glass tubes and vials, while the last two were just standing and staring in wonder at something in the corner of the room. They were dressed in laboratory white coats, but underneath, their dress varied from monkish robes to modern jeans. 

In a corner of this underground space was a huge plant, which had reached the ceiling and was spreading partially over it. It was a plant unique in the world, with beautiful, and strange flowers of many colours; reds, yellows, blues, and greys. It could perhaps have been confused with a giant orchid, but it wasn’t one. In fact it couldn’t be classified with any other known plant. There were large seedpods hanging from its branches, and its roots were trapped inside a large clay pot. On the floor, was a plastic box half full of black seeds, which were being sporadically collected as the plant matured. There was a label on the box with an address in Nepal. It had been placed out of reach of the long tendrils which sprouted from the green trunk of the plant, and radiated outwards in search of something other than light. On the end of each tendril there was a flat green pad with fine hairs.

On a table in front of the plant a small, gold bound wooden chest sat. Its lid, which was painted with an image showing a man fighting a dragon, was open, and inside was a small white crystal. The green arms of the plant seemed to be straining towards it as if to the sun, and if the flowers had had eyes, they would have been staring at the box.

 The oldest man in the room was studying the scene with the satisfaction of knowing that his life’s work was coming to a gratifying end. He was over six feet tall, and had a brown wrinkled face. His hair was thin, but long and grey, and his beard was white, yellowed at the edges, and tucked inside his woollen shirt. His fingers were long and delicate, with pointed and dirty fingernails, as if he had been digging with them. He looked into his little chest; for it was his, and saw that the crystal was already changing from bright white to slightly grey, while the plant rustled with hunger. The man knew that when the crystal turned to black, he would die, but he wasn’t afraid. It was rewarding that after so long, all his efforts and dreams were bearing fruit. Quite literally, he thought to himself, and smiled.

This was a moment for celebration, not for sadness, and his colleagues had been preparing for this moment. A young woman came into the room through massive wooden doors which were studded with iron stars, carrying a tray laden with plates of sliced cheese, and glasses of red wine. She set it down and everyone took a glass. 

When the old man had his raised, he said, “Remember this moment my good fellows, for this is the weapon that will save us from change, and although I won’t be here to see it, I know that I can trust you all to finish my work. God bless you all”