Free The Breath of God by Jeffrey Small Page A

bucolic Buddhist culture and to avoid the pitfalls Nepal had experienced, the government even strictly limited the number of tourist visas granted each year. Grant was confident he
could work around this problem. Maybe he would lead a group of distinguished scholars back to study the texts.
    Even through his closed eyes, Grant could picture the nearby utse tower, rising from the courtyard like a watchtower overlooking a fortress. Similar to the rest of the dzong’s architecture, the tower’s stone walls were stark white, accented with hand-painted wood molding in vibrant reds and yellows, but unlike the other buildings, this tallest one was capped with a gold dome. And the library on its top floor possibly held the treasure Grant was banking his career on. If authentic, the texts would answer one of the great puzzles of the New Testament, and that answer would alter people’s understanding of Christianity. A small voice in his head told him that such a revelation would be disturbing, even threatening to many people, but that wasn’t his concern. His job was to uncover the historical truth.
    The anticipation began to build within him. Soon it ran hot through his veins. The possibilities spun in his head: These must be the texts related to the book that Nicholas Notovitch uncovered more than a century ago . He imagined the shock that Professor Billingsly would display when he called to explain the discovery. Early on, Billingsly had encouraged Grant to pursue other topics for his dissertation, but once Grant had made a decision, no one could shake him from his course. Now he would finally show his mentor that his pursuit hadn’t been in vain.
    Waiting for Kinley to finish teaching his morning class to the younger monks was difficult for Grant, but lying out in the sun was far better than being confined to the small cell of a room he’d been living in all these weeks.
    â€œThat doesn’t look very comfortable,” said a female voice with an American accent.
    Grant opened his eyes and blinked from the midday sun. When his vision adjusted, he noticed first the mass of curly black-as-night hair draped around a Nikon camera lens.
    â€œOften sleep in monastery courtyards?” she asked from behind the camera.
    Propping himself on his elbow, he knocked on his cast. “Not too mobile right now.”
    Now that he was upright, she was no longer backlit by the sun. He immediately noticed her unusual sense of style: hiking boots, black sweatpants with
an expensive-looking violet silk scarf twisted around her waist, faded tie-dyed T-shirt under a lime green fleece, and various multicolored beaded bracelets on both wrists. No watch.
    â€œMake the cast yourself?” She laughed as she continued to photograph him.
    â€œI might as well have.” He smiled and pulled off a dangling chunk of plaster that had peeled from his picking it out of boredom. “My medical options were somewhat limited. Broke it kayaking on the Mo Chhu.”
    â€œImpressive.”
    â€œNot really.” He cast his eyes to the stone pavers on the ground. “My guide died.” The pain of his failed rescue attempt still weighed on him most nights as he struggled to sleep.
    â€œI’m sorry.” She lowered the camera, reached out with her free hand, and touched his cast. A smile spread across her face. “Bet it’s hard to go to the bathroom.”
    Grant paused, unsure how to respond.
    She extended her hand. “Kristin Misaki, by the way.”
    Grant shook it for a moment longer than he should have, reveling in his first touch of the opposite sex in many weeks. Her grip was stronger than the delicate bones in her hand suggested, and he noted that she didn’t release his hand until he did.
    â€œGrant. Grant Matthews.”
    â€œWell, Grant Matthews, what brings you to the other side of the world, other than the superb medical care?”
    Grant gave a vague description of his research in