This high up in the Himalayan mountains the air was very thin. Penelope could hardly walk around the monastery’s garden without feeling faint. She spent most of the time sitting under a tree, meditating.
Upon first arriving at Ganden monastery she had made it clear that she didn’t intend to become a Buddhist, but was looking for a quiet place where she could meditate and sort out the chaos and confusion within her. She had been brought to the Ganden Tripa, the head of Ganden monastery, who had asked her many questions before allowing her to stay at the monastery for as long as she wanted.
A cold wind made her shiver and broke her concentration. Seeing no one in the vicinity, Penelope took out her wand and performed a warming charm on her Muggle jacket. Instantly she felt better. With the new warmth emanating from her jacket, she resumed her meditation, enjoying the way the wind played with her hair.
But it wasn’t long before her peace was disturbed again, this time by a monk. “I’m sorry, Miss, but Ganden Tripa asks to see you.”
Surprised, Penelope followed the now silent monk through the corridors and halls of the monastery. She hadn’t seen Ganden Tripa since her arrival, and she hadn’t anticipated seeing him again at all.
Finally the monk stopped and indicated a door in front of her, then, with a bow, he disappeared. Penelope hesitated before opening the door and stepping into the room.
Ganden Tripa was sitting on the floor cross-legged, his eyes closed. The sound of the closing doors alerted him to her presence and without opening his eyes he said, “You didn’t tell us you were a witch or I would have immediately shown you this.”
Penelope was stunned speechless. How did he know she was a witch? She had only cast one spell, and she was sure no one had seen her do it.
Seemingly sensing her confusion, Ganden Tripa continued, “We have wards in place that alert us whenever magic is performed.”
“How do you know about witches and wizards?” Penelope asked.
Ganden Tripa smiled. “I myself am no wizard, if that’s what you’re asking; but Tsongkhapa, who build this monastery, was one of you. That’s why we have two colleges here. Jangtse is strictly for wizards and witches, while Shartse is for non-magical monks. Of course not all the students of Jangtse are monks, but it’s a convenient explanation for the non-magical folks who don’t know about wizards and witches.”
“It is a good cover,” Penelope agreed. “You said you wanted to show me something?”
“Tsongkhapa left it in possession of the monastery after his death with strict orders to show it to every wizard who came to Ganden. I trust you will know what it is and how to use it as I do not.” Rising to his feet, Ganden Tripa pushed a curtain adorning the far wall aside to reveal a small doorway. “It’s right in there. Take as long as you need.”
When he made no move to walk in ahead of her, Penelope crossed the room and entered the small chamber. In the middle of the room, on a small pedestal stood a square stone basin. A Pensieve, Penelope thought, amazed.
Without hesitation she stepped up to the pedestal and bent down towards the swirling substance within the Pensieve. Her nose touched something sticky right before she felt herself falling through time and space and a whirlwind of different colours.
When she landed on her feet again, she found herself in a small chapel, which she recognised as the Ngam Cho Khang chapel, a part of the Ganden monastery in which Tsongkhapa was said to have taught his students. An older looking man was sitting cross-legged in front of a group of twenty youths, his words held their undivided attention.
“What you will experience this coming week is something vastly important for your journey towards enlightenment and Nirvana. Up until now all of you have prayed and practiced meditation alone or in small groups, during the Monlam Prayer Festival you will learn how much more powerful prayer, ritual and meditation are when done with thousands of others,” Tsonkhapa was telling his students.
“But what if we haven’t reached Samadhi and the meditation part of the Noble Eightfold Path, yet?” A small boy sitting directly in front of Tsonkhapa asked.
“Gyalwa, the Noble Eightfold Path doesn’t have to be completed in stages in order to reach Nirvana, sometimes it’s even vital that its stages are developed at the same time. A little meditation can only help you, it can never cause you harm,” Tsongkhapa replied.
The boy accepted his explanation with a nod.
“Are there any other questions?” Tsongkhapa asked, but no one else spoke. “Then we will go down into Lhasa tomorrow and celebrate the Monlam Prayer Festival with our brothers and sisters.”
The scene shifted and Penelope found herself on a mountain path, the silhouette of Lhasa in front of her, a procession of monks dressed in red robes behind her. Falling into step next to Tsongkhapa and the boy, Gyalwa, she made her way into the town.
“I have never seen the Jokhang Temple before,” Gyalwa confided in Tsongkhapa.
“It’s magnificent,” Tsongkhapa said. “The most sacred place in the world, my boy.”
Sooner than Penelope would have expected, a tall, four-storied building, its roof covered with gilded bronze tiles, rose in front of them. She had seen Jokhang Temple when she had first arrived in Lhasa, but now with the chanting of numerous monks in the background and even more coming towards it from every direction, it seemed even more imposing.
The group of students split into two parts. Penelope was tempted to follow the group veering off to the left when she heard one of them talking about making butter sculptures as decoration for the tormas, the ritual offering cake, but resigned herself to staying with the others, when she saw that Tsongkhapa stayed as well.
Tsongkhapa led his group through several beautifully decorated shrines and rooms until they reached a courtyard. In this courtyard some monks were chanting and dancing, while others were playing resonant drums.
The students joined in the dancing and chanting at once, soon losing themselves in the sounds and motions. Although there was a vast number of dancers, every one of them seemed to be completely focused on himself, they didn’t even seem to notice the others around them.
Just watching the multitudes of monks dance and hearing them chant had Penelope entranced. She now knew what Tsongkhapa had meant in his chapel. This was infinitely more powerful and calming than meditating alone. Although she did not understand the words they were chanting, they afforded her thoughts an unmitigated clarity. Hers wasn’t to be a solitary existence, she wanted, she needed to be around others, to help others in their times of need, not for profit, but to feel this closeness she was experiencing right here while witnessing the Monlam Prayer Festival.
The Jaffa School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was situated in the heart of Yafo, the old Arab part of Tel Aviv. The sprawling building didn’t differ from the other sandstone buildings lining the narrow cobblestone streets and as such wasn’t of much interest to tourists or the Muggle residents of the city. To ensure that no Muggle ever thought about entering the school, it had been charmed so that everyone who looked at it for more than a few seconds was hit with a Confundus Charm.
Students, teachers and visitors alike could only enter the school building with a port key; older students could also apparate into the main courtyard. The entrance to the street hadn’t been used in more than a hundred years and students were forbidden to go near it.
Penelope had stopped in Tel Aviv on the headmistress’s request. Apparently Adeela Mansour was an old friend of Dumbledore’s, who had told her about Penelope’s travels, prompting her to invite Penelope to visit Jaffa.
They were walking through one of the smaller courtyards when a student came running towards them. “Headmistress, there has been a fight in the Great Corridor, Nurse Na’imah has asked for you to come to the Ward of Healing.”
Turning to Penelope with an apologetic smile, Adeela said, “I’m sorry such a displeasing occurrence marred your first day with us, but a visit to the Ward of Healing will give you the chance to meet Na’Imah, she’s a delightful young woman.”
Penelope nodded and followed the aging headmistress through several corridors until they reached another courtyard, this one not open, but spanned by several large, white canopies. Beds were put up in rows throughout it, but only a scant few were occupied at the moment.
They headed straight towards the other side of the courtyard, where two boys, they couldn’t have been older than 14 or 15, were glowering at each other from adjoining beds. One of them was covered in boils, some of which had burst, causing blood and puss to run down his face and arms; the other sported an obviously broken nose and several bruises all over his torso, along with an assortment of cuts on arms and legs.
Penelope didn’t understand how they could still look at each other with such burning hatred when both had to be in a lot of pain. They didn’t seem to notice their injuries though and only the young nurse standing between their beds kept them from going at each other again.
Adeela Mansour took one look at the boys and shook her head, “It’s always the same with you, isn’t it? Can you not put these childish prejudices behind you?”
The boys merely glanced at her, before going back to glowering at each other.
“Well, you should be used to this by now. Meet me in my office after dinner tonight for your punishment.” With that said Adeela turned and left the courtyard with Penelope in tow.
Penelope looked back a few times, eyeing the boys curiously. She felt an almost overwhelming urge to go back and help Na’imah, the nurse, heal them. She didn’t know why, but the sight of their wounds hadn’t disgusted her as much as it had made her want to help ease the pain they must be feeling.
“Why did they fight? Issues between pureblooded and Muggle-born students?” she asked the headmistress.
Adeela shook her head, “Oh no, these problems you face in England don’t exist here. In fact, both of these boys are Muggle-born wizards. Their fights, and they fight a lot, are caused by the conflicts between Israelis and Palestinians.”
“I didn’t realize it was such a big deal in the wizarding community.”
“It is not, generally. For wizards and witches who are brought up as part of the magical community, the conflict is only a Muggle thing they hear about but don’t understand the motivation behind. But the muggleborn witches and wizards are brought up as part of one of the two sides in this conflict. They are told what is ‘right’ and what they should fight for. Sadly they don’t just drop these beliefs when they enter our school and fights like this one are the result.”
Penelope nodded, unsure what to say to this explanation.
“There is one good thing about the violence going on in this country though,” Adeela continued with a wry smile, “Seeing all the suicide bombings and bloodshed in the streets has made most wizards abhor every kind of violence and the problems you have in England are unthinkable here, no pureblood would raise his wand against a half-blood or against a Muggle-born wizard.”
“It’s a big price to pay for peace and harmony in the wizarding community,” Penelope murmured.
“That it is, my dear.” Adeela smiled at her warmly. “But there is nothing we can do to change it, I’m afraid, or we would have done it long ago.”
Dear Miss Clearwater,
St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries is happy to accept your application to our research department. Your apprenticeship will start on September 1st and include a basic Healer’s training as well as schooling in each of our wards, before delving into the research-specific aspects.
We hope to see you in good health on the date specified above.
Yours sincerely,
Bertram Aubrey,
Head Healer.