With the force the commander clenched the old man, gazing into the eyes of the soothsayer.

‘Ptolemy, take the warriors! We will not cross.’ This was the last phrase Alexander said quietly to himself.

People on the other side lined up in a row again. As soon as the last warrior retired to a distance of five yards from the water, Alexander heard a voice louder than the clap of spring thunder. It was coming from the sky.

‘We are the warriors of Shambhala, Messengers of the Great Mahatma are glad that you, Alexander, king of Macedon, prevented bloodshed. Come back home. Your fate is now in the hands of Heaven.’

At the same moment the fog tightened around the banks of the river again, hiding the people on the opposite side.

The army was now leaving. They waited for a difficult way home. Alexander ordered to erect on the banks twelve stone pillars symbolizing steadfastness and fortitude of the heavenly host in remembrance of his meeting with the ambassadors of Shambhala.

Alexander was the king of Macedonia, conqueror of nations and peoples, who died at the age of thirty-two under mysterious circumstances. Some of his colleagues argued that the night before the death of their commander, they saw not far from his quarters a strange man, dressed in yellow clothes.

Anton closed his tattered paperback book, switched off the torch and came out from under the blankets. There were amusing stories, especially the last one, about Alexander the Great. The boy was interested in ancient history, but, unfortunately, there was very little information in literature in the orphanage’s library. And he found this book in the boiler room, where they helped with the men to unload coal. There was an alternative history, an ancient world through the eyes of science fiction writers; here is the name of the book. Everything is clear with fiction, but the boy didn’t understand this alternative story. "I'll ask the teacher tomorrow” Anton moved his pillow and made himself comfortable. He closed his eyes. He dreamed of battle-hardened Greek soldiers, monks in yellow robes, tropical forests and high mountains.

A ray of sunshine cheerfully rolled down the snow-covered slope. For a moment, it was paused at the edge of the abyss and chasm, jumping over the gorge and ran to a narrow cleft, departing somewhere in the heart of the mountain. Running on the gray, slimy, block of granite, blocking the entrance to a small cave, it stopped at the fire embers. A scarlet petal of the flame burst from under a pile of ashes, welcoming a kindred spirit carrying the heat in the kingdom of darkness and snow.

Manlam opened his eyes. Sunbeams were dancing on the stone arches. The noise of a mountain stream came from the depths of the gorge. The heart-rending howling of the wind was not heard and the snow did not close the curtain of the cave – the storm was over. The demons of the mountains don’t often favor the traveler in the winter months. Manlam was at a distance of one transition from the target. If he was lucky, at sunset he will be at the gates of the monastery of Maitreya Buddha, located on one of the high plateaus of Northern Nepal. The youth spent three days in a cave, hiding from the raging elements. His food reserves had ended. The only hope for salvation was the monastery, where the youth was going. Manlam knew that any delay could lead to a disaster. The mountain climate was so unpredictable.

It was so hard to force yourself to get out from under the warm blankets. Sunbeams touched the boy’s face, Manlam smiled. It was nice to feel a little bit of heat. The gods loved him this morning; the sunshine confirmed this. The young man got to his knees and in one motion dropped a felt flap. The cold pierced his body like sharp icy needles. Without a doubt, the monastic toga,[5] saved from the demons, did not protect him against the frost of the Himalayas. Throwing bush wood into the dying remnants of the fire, Manlam started preparing breakfast. A handful of rice, seasoned butter pale pink tea and stale cake were the last reserves. He thanked heaven for giving him a meal and then he hastily packed up and hit the road: a fragile young man in monastic clothes, forgotten by everyone on the cold mountain trail. He was walking solid gait, without thinking about the dangers of it. He was walking simply by the call of his heart. There, behind the mountain peaks, was lying the Land of Snows, Shambhala sparkled like a diamond in an expensive frame in his heart – the land of the Gods, the abode of the sages was forbidding possession of the great Mahatma.

Manlam heard for the first time about Shambhala when he was novice. But at that time he did not pay much attention to the stories of the old Lama. He was sent to the care of the monastery near the village as an infant like many other boys from poor families. “Servants of virtue" – the name given for the little novices, who earned their livelihood in the confines of the monastery.

Manlam endured all the difficulties, associated with obedience and dignity, and in his spare time he was engaged with the monks. He learned to read and write more quickly than his peers. Seeing the boy thrust into this knowledge, the abbot handed him over under the protection of the caretaker in the monastery library. In his initiation period Manlam spent days among the shelves and racks, littered with piles of painted hieroglyphs, and scrolls of the Holy Scriptures. There were also quite a lot of new books coming from Nepal and Sikkim[6] temples. The boy studied Sanskrit,[7] Indian astronomy and astrology, and successfully mastered Chinese calligraphy. Somehow going through semi-rotting scrolls in one of the abandoned library cells, he stumbled upon an ancient manuscript, telling the story of a pilgrimage to Gelong[8] of the Great Mahatma. The young man poring over every line, trying to understand and to present what the Lama wrote about: beautiful palaces, lovely gardens, crystal clear streams, hidden high in the mountains and heaven. His imagination painted all the charm of the Earthly Gods with the candle burning out. The young monk-apprentice, with difficulty, judged the corrosion of time and dampness the signs of the Tibetan letters. He did not manage to read the scroll. The flame of a candle extinguished for the last time, and the cell was plunged into darkness. Taking the manuscript and a small object with strange signs and a huge red seal, Manlam came out into the corridor.

The teacher was engaged in rewriting some ancient text. He was sitting on a soft cushion, cross-legged and writing on his knees. Initially, the Lama did not notice the strange behavior of the young men who could not find a place in the large library. But then he noticed the edge of the papyrus, sticking out from under Manlam’s toga.

‘My son, what are you puzzled about? We can talk about this, can’t we?’

Manlam held out for the teacher a scroll that he had found. The Lama quickly scanned the initial lines of the manuscript and put it aside. But a piece of cloth, decorated with a strange seal stirred the interest of the old monk. He took a long look around the print marks. Then he put the object behind the lapel of garments under his chest.

‘You're not ready to discuss this issue.’

‘Teacher, people say much about paradise in heaven, but nobody said that heaven is on earth.’

‘Ridiculous! The mortal body cannot attain bliss in the physical world. Only spiritual perfection leads to nirvana. Nothing could be more perfect than the rest. Death is inevitable for all living things.’

‘But Gelong writes that he saw people, beautiful bodies, like gods and the immortal have.’