Daivd Jongeward - Kushan Mystique

Craig and Eleanor Burns waited for us to settle into the attic silence. The steeply pitched ceiling meant I could not stand up straight even in the centre of the space. The room, illuminated by a single floor lamp, was furnished with a fine Persian carpet, a few cushions with Peruvian textile covers, and an antique desk with unusually shallow drawers. After adjusting the lamps cone of pale light, Craig took out a key and unlocked the desk. I could not understand why the drawers were only about two inches thick, until he pulled out one of them and carefully placed it in my hands. The drawer contained several rows of recessed circles, all lined with green velvet. Each circle held a gold coin. I was stunned. I missed most of what Craig said, but heard enough to register that the 50 or so gold coins on my lap were all nearly 2,000 years old.

In that moment, I saw the heart and soul of a seriously possessed collector. Craigs face radiated with childlike fascination. His handling of the coins expressed equal parts sensitivity and pride. I could sense his love for the feel of the round gold form in his fingertips. He clearly attributed unimaginable value to the object in hand, a value having little to do with purchase price. If I had seen the coins in a museum case, I doubt I would have given them a second glance. But in the hands of a passionate collector, the coins came alive. It was clear the coins were much more than money, more than an ancient means of exchange, more than a valuable window into history. For Craig, the coins served as an emissary from ancient kings, a special form of communication sent from an ancient source of esoteric knowledge.

Craig inserted the drawer back into the desk, then placed one of the gold coins in the palm of my hand. It was about the diameter of a quarter. I liked its weight, its slippery feel, the altogether tangible sense of connection with antiquity. On one side of the coin, the full figure of a standing king facing to his right is portrayed. There is nothing imperious or idealised in the image, quite the contrary. He is portrayed with a big nose, an untidy beard, a funny peaked hat and baggy trousers partially covered by a belted tunic. He holds a spear in one hand and is armed with a sword. The other hand is poised above a tiny form I could not identify.

A fire altar, Craig explained. The king is making an offering at a small fire altar.

What are the little marks above the shoulder? I asked.

You are looking at the great Kushan king Kanishka. He is portrayed with flames emanating from his shoulder.

Flaming shoulders? What on earth is that all about? I asked.

Craig only smiled. I wonder if he foresaw how often I would return to that question in years to come. He showed a second coin, calling attention to the image of a goddess seated on a high-backed throne, dressed in a loosely fitting robe and holding a cornucopia. Ardochsho, Craig said. A goddess of abundance and good fortune. Unknown anywhere else in all art history or history of religions. She only appears on Kushan coins.

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Several months earlier

A five-hour drive north from San Francisco in our Ford camper landed us in Chester, California, a lumber milling town catering to summer tourists and cottagers by Lake Almanor. We were on the southern edge of the Cascade Range, not all that far from the volcanic cone of Mount Lassen. My wife Carolyn and I had met a couple in Berkeley who suggested that we could likely rent one of Lake Almanors lakeside summer cottages for a reasonable winter rate.

Our 1977 West Coast wander commenced in British Columbia in late summer with a series of three- or four-day stays in a string of campsites down Highway 1. By October, we were ready to move out of the back of Ginger, our gas-guzzler pickup truck. Crystal, our three-year-old daughter, already an experienced camper, shared our fondness for campsites and small towns. In Chester, we passed a few gas stations, some touristy shops and cafs. A small sign pointed down a narrow road to the local airfield. In the one and only grocery store, empty aisles were evidence enough that the summer vacation crowd had packed up and headed back to the big city. Population? Dont know, said the store clerk, Somewhere south of 2,000. On first impression, Lake Almanor did not strike me as the sort of area where something might happen to strangely twist my attention to the other side of the planet.

We asked the clerk if she knew of cabins for rent on the lake. She didnt, but she suggested we drive ten miles along a lakeshore road and look for a sign on a fence post that said Dr Craig Burns, physician and surgeon. Not far from town, we took a right-hand turn off the main highway and down a road curving through pine forest with occasional enticing glimpses of the lake. We not only found the doctors sign without difficulty but were warmly greeted at the front gate by a soft-spoken woman with a cloud of snow-white hair. Eleanor Burns gently asked a few questions: How long do you intend to stay? What can you afford? Do you know how to take care of an open fireplace? She was gracious, but this was a woman with a commanding presence. After a few moments of what we interpreted as careful scrutiny, she broke into a smile and suggested we take a look at the cabin on the adjacent property. The doors unlocked. If you want it, come back for the keys. Well work out a rental agreement.

A brilliant sunny day was touched with October coolness from a westerly breeze off the lake. We appreciated the mysterious quietness of a freshly resurfaced road with no cars. Set back from the lakes southern shore, surrounded by towering, pitch-fragrant ponderosas, the cabin offered a view of the lake backed by deeply shadowed slopes skirting Mount Lassen. We introduced ourselves to the areas long-term residents inquisitive squirrels and rabbits, a pileated woodpecker, a few raucous jays and noisy ravens. A deer watched as we unpacked the truck. The greeting party included a bald eagle that circled and settled on a dead branch observation post of a lofty ponderosa pine.

The cabin was home for six months. Savouring the prospect of a winter of relative isolation, we decided to limit our town visits to one trip a week. Rental arrangements were quickly made, with Eleanor Burns acting as agent for the cabins owners. As we unloaded the box for Carolyns loom perched on Gingers carrying rack, a young woman from a house down the road stopped by and introduced herself as the local grade school teacher.

How did you find the cabin? she asked.

Eleanor Burns.

Have you met her husband?

Not yet. She said she would invite us over soon.

Dr Burns is a serious eccentric, she said.

Whats eccentric about a general practitioner with a specialty in pediatrics?

It wont be long before hell invite you to one of his esoteric reading groups. Hell analyze your dreams if you give him half a chance. Hypnosis? Hes been teaching himself all about it. He says it will help him take you into your past lives. Lets just say hes a good man, no doubt ahead of his time, but maybe a little weird for a country doctor.

In a tiny cabin loft reached by ladder, I arranged a desk under a small window that looked out to a patch of forest floor. After a few tries, Crystal mastered the seven-step ladder to the loft opposite. By the end of the day, Carolyns tapestry loom occupied a kitchen alcove. Within a week, my clickety-clack typing was accompanied by the incantatory rhythms of a hundred-year-old Navajo weaving comb moving confidently across rows of threads.

Our woodpile, which required three or four hours a day of exploring nearby logging roads to maintain, soon commanded local respect. But one night the temperature plunged. We discovered that the cabin was not insulated. The open stone fireplace, the cabins primary attraction, was inefficient, sucking a substantial quantity of fireplace heat up the chimney. The baseboard heaters were essentially useless. In sunny California, with November just beginning to sneak through wall cracks and cranky sliding doors, Carolyn was at the loom wearing a sweater and gloves.