"Without delay," the lama, whose name was Brother Paljori, said emphatically. He waved us on as though we were so many goats. "Out, out, out! Now, be gone! The Library of Lhasa is closed to you. Begone!"
It was at this point that I lost control. "Now see here, Brother Paljori, what is the meaning of this? My foster father and I have been studying peacefully amongst your stacks for almost six months. We have done nothing wrong. Why are you being so rude over an oversight made by our friend here? Besides that, we intend to leave Lhasa tomorrow, as you well know for we have spoken of it often these last days. I don't understand why you have chosen this moment to be immensely rude and to upbraid us about a matter so small as smoking a pipe."
Horace put a cautionary hand on my arm. I shook it off and glowered at the lama who held his ground, neither elaborating nor explaining our offense or his desires any more than he had already done. Well, the upshot of the matter was that we consented to leave and Paljori shepherded us out. As we exited, and just before the vast bronze doors closed behind us, we saw Paljori bow to us, from force of habit I suppose, since he wasn't particularly enamoured of us at that moment.
Chapter II
The Fate of Poor Paljori
"Most peculiar," I said as we made our way down the long staircase, "I wonder what got into him."
"I believe the man was more agitated than he let on," Sigerson said. "His distress over my smoking was largely a ruse, and was symptomatic of a more troubled underlying condition. Of that I am certain."
"Whatever the case," Horace said, "if that's his attitude, I'll be glad when we leave tomorrow."
We continued to discuss Paljori's peculiar behavior, not making any headway, but, caught up in conversation, strode off to that very same cheese shop that Sigerson had named when observing our boots. We found a rough table, ordered the simple fare available there, and began to exchange news and experiences. It was heartening to hear from Sigerson that Gladstone had come to power soon after we left England, for I am frankly all for Irish home rule, but I was disheartened that he lost out to Salisbury shortly thereafter. Certainly Salisbury is a fine man, but I always felt he was a bit of a pawn, working for the great commercial interests. Sigerson says the man has been much involved in the partitioning of Africa, at least to the time Sigerson left Europe. It seems, also, that Queen Victoria's jubilee was a gala event, not to be missed by any except by the likes of us. And so Sigerson brought Horace and me up to date concerning our native England and other matters of interest to the Western world of which we were abysmally ignorant due to our long absence, and, for our part, we gave Sigerson our views of our ports of call in Central Asia.
Sigerson seemed just as pleased to meet us as we did to meet him, and eventually we went off to his tiny apartment in the Doring district where he smoked prodigiously and we talked and drank buttered tea into the wee hours.
Sigerson's room was, as ours was, palatial compared to the transient accommodations provided for pilgrims and such, which were generally loathsome at best, small, rancid-smelling, cramped mud affairs with only a ragged scrap of cloth for a door, sleeping half a dozen or more at a time on whatever rough mats they themselves provided. We three, at least, were provided by the head lamas on our respective arrivals with clean rooms. Horace and I shared one at some distance from Sigerson's, equipped with sufficient cots and bedding. I noticed the other accouterments, or what passed as such, in Sigerson's room were similar to those in Horace's and my room: a rude wooden bench, a simple wooden shelf attached at chest level to the wall with nails, a butter lamp, and a real door comprised of two vertical planks held together by two traverse planks.
As for Sigerson's personal effects, there was little enough: a bag under his cot, a second pipe and a row of books on the shelf, and various bits of apparel scattered about. We spoke of many things that night, but mainly of the power of love, of Ayesha, and of a woman in Sigerson's past named Irene.
It was just before dawn, when they say that the hour is the darkest and when we three began to show signs of exhaustion, that we first heard the faint sounds of men yelling and general far-off pandemonium. Of course we were concerned and curious, but not for a moment did we suspect that we would soon be the central characters in a drama of genuinely earth-shattering dimensions.
* * *
The sounds of running and men crying out came closer. Suddenly Sigerson's door burst open and an army of yellow-and-maroon-clad police monks fell upon us, man-handling us in an uncouth manner, and dragging us out into the street without so much as a word of explanation. My first inclination, of course, was to fight off the wretches, but Horace was able to communicate to me by his expression and a few chosen words that he thought we should stay calm, that there had obviously been a misunderstanding, and that struggling at this time would only lead to further difficulties. Sigerson, at the start of this dismal affair, had struck a stoic expression and merely let himself be dragged. Reflecting that perhaps Horace and Sigerson had reasons for their quiescent attitude, I, too, ceased my struggles and let myself by dragged. (I don't believe we were even given an option to walk.) And dragged we were, through the mud and dung of the street and then east across the Bridge of the Pleiades and on to the Jo-Kang, the Tibetan cathedral.
We were rushed through this temple, the holy of holies of all Buddhist Asia (with an interior to match) then along several corridors and down numerous staircases (I lost track of the turns and switchbacks) and eventually found ourselves in the presence of the High Regent himself. The Dalai Lama was at this time only fourteen-years-old; and since it would be some years before he would be able to govern for himself, the secular aspect of the Tibetan state was run by the Regent, effectively the Dalai Lama's guardian.
He looked little different, to my eye, at least, than the rest of the monks in the room, with shaven head and clad in the traditional brocade robes. It was his bearing that betrayed his high role. He sat behind a plain table, looked at us sharply, and asked us what we meant by killing his librarian.
It can be imagined how we reacted to this query!
"My God, sir, what are you talking about?" were the next words I heard, and they from Horace. "We have hurt no one, let alone killed anyone. Paljori! Are you talking about Paljori? My God, he was fine when we last saw him. Is it he? "
"Of course we are talking of Brother Paljori. His heart was pierced obscenely no more than six hours ago, and a most precious holy relic has been stolen. It is certain that you Europeans are responsible and you must die, but first we must have the book returned to us. Please, if you would be so kind to tell us where you have hidden it, we will then expedite your departure from this incarnation."
"Thank you, your grace." Sigerson now chose to speak up. "It is kind of you to be so considerate of our eternal souls; however, I must disappoint you by enlightening you to the fact that neither my friends here, nor myself, have entertained any violent notions toward any of your kindred, let alone actually hurt anyone, least of all your librarian. Whatever his faults, Paljori certainly didn't deserve to die so horribly. May I ask why it is you believe we are the culprits, since I know that we have been only eating and talking since we last saw Paljori?"
At this point, another lama disengaged himself from the knot of monks standing near the Regent and stated coolly, "Why, it is self-evident! You three are the worst criminals imaginable to accept our hospitality only to murder us at your leisure and steal our most precious belongings."
"At this point," Sigerson said, "I have two questions more: Who, my good man, are you? And what is this precious book of which you speak? Some account of a previous incarnation of the Dalai Lama, no doubt?"
The Regent spread his arm in a grand gesture and said just as grandly, "Why, Mr. Sigerson, this is Wan-Po, Tibet's greatest police monk and solver of crimes. It was he who, ten years ago, solved the mystery of the Dalai Lama's stolen slippers. On his behest, a certain nurse of that time was skinned alive and blinded with burning yak butter. You can believe that no
slippers have since disappeared."
I, for one, winced at this terrifying image, but I was determined not to show the least fear. I concentrated on studying our accuser, who bowed and grinned malignly. "Hrrumph," snorted Horace, and then in English, "A fine how-do-you-do this is. Falsely accused by a sadistic swine and no recourse at all but trying to talk some sense into the Regent's head. Yet I can't help but think that the cards are stacked against us. Quite a pickle! It appears, Leo, that we will have to fight our way out of this scrape much as we had to fight off the perverts who enjoyed burning people's heads with hot pots." [Editor's note: A reference to an incident detailed in She.]
"Gentlemen," injected Sigerson, "don't give up hope yet. I suspect that the Regent will see the light before long and realize the extent of his mistake."
The Regent made a gesture and the beefy monks who had brought us here tightened their circle around us and were about to lead us Lord knows where, when Sigerson spoke up again:
"My God, man, who do you think you are to accuse us of mischief when you yourself, only minutes ago, were consorting with the Snake Queen, which you know fully well is against all Tibetan law?"
I wish you, dear reader, could have seen the Regent's face at that moment. His mouth fell open and his eyes popped as though he had seen a spectre. In any case, Sigerson seemed successful in catching the man off his guard. Wan-Po first looked at Sigerson and then looked at the Regent and said, "Don't be insane. You are talking to the High Regent himself, sitting in the stead of the Dalai Lama. How dare you talk like that? Absurd! Insane!"
The upshot was that we were dragged off into what was, for all intents and purposes, a dungeon.
"I seemed to have touched a sore point," Sigerson said.
"Bravo, Sigerson!" Horace said. "Here's to having put one over on that bloke. Here! Here!"
"I'm afraid you may have missed the point, Holly," Sigerson replied. "I didn't 'put one over' on that fellow. I simply stated what I knew from evidence readily perceivable to the trained observer."
I saw that Sigerson, despite our situation, was on his high-horse again. Frankly, I was finding his attitude a bit tiresome.
"Well, for goodness sakes, don't leave us dangling," I remarked trying to sound sarcastic. "What did you see that Horace and I were so blind to?"
"Why, it is perfectly straightforward! When we were standing close to the Regent, I smelled an incense that I have reason to believe can only be burnt in the Snake Queen's chambers. Coupled with his disheveled appearance and the rouge on his lips...well, there was only one conclusion. But that is neither here nor there. What is important is that Wan-Po will soon be sending for us when he realizes his error."
"But how can you be so certain he will come to that conclusion?" asked Horace.
Sigerson looked at Horace incredulously. "Why, because we didn't murder Paljori, of course!"
Chapter III
The Dalai Lama Beckons
We bided our time for three days, and, truth to tell, the guards did come for us. But they did not take us directly to Wan-Po. Instead, we were led across the entire city of Lhasa and brought before the fourteen-year-old Dalai Lama himself in his royal quarters in the Potala—that most spectacular of Asian palaces.
I say "brought," but it was hardly this simple. One does not simply step into the Dalai Lama's quarters for a chat. There is a certain protocol or etiquette that must be maintained. The guards were hardly the type to impart this sort of learning to us; monks they may have been, but it seemed to us that some of them were short on the spiritual side of the scale and considerably heavy on the brawn side. So they led us through the unexpectedly drab corridors of that Buddhist Vatican, around and around until we eventually came to a portal, which we passed through, and were brought before a good-natured looking fellow, another monk, of course, for that is the only species of man there, save lamas, who are but high monks, who introduced himself as Brother Sigme.
"Gentlemen," he announced with a flourish, "I am to be your tutor. You are to attend the Presence of the Most High, and I am to instruct you."
Needless to say, we had mixed feelings about this announcement. On one hand, we were flabbergasted that we were to have an unexpected audience with the high lama, but sufficiently angry about our general treatment that none of us reacted in any but a cynical "who on earth do you think you are to be telling us anything?" manner. But, the man was sufficiently pleasant that soon we softened and allowed him to instruct us.
"Enter the room with your eyes down. Walk to a point just five feet from the Dalai Lama. Stick out your tongue, drop to your knees, and bow three times. This is a form of salute. Then kneel with your head bowed and place this silk scarf across His feet. He will then put a scarf across your neck. Finally, slowly rise to your feet and step backwards to the nearest cushion. Now you, Vincey, try it."
I went out of the room, and the lama clapped his hands as a signal for me to enter.
And so it went, with each of us practicing in turn (all the time feeling terribly silly) until several hours went by, though at one point we stopped for a quick lunch of tea and barley. Sigerson and I seemed to get the hang of it fairly quickly, but poor Horace seemed to think the whole business was contemptible and muttered under his breath constantly. Though I couldn't help but think that part, or most, of his resentment stemmed from his awkwardness in trying to manipulate his comparatively squat frame into the necessary positions.
But finally, the time came for our audience, and we were herded in front of two gigantic bronze doors. A gong sounded, and the doors began to open slowly of their own accord—probably due to some hidden mechanism. Frankly, the three of us were startled into breathlessness when the royal chamber doors were opened and there, beyond any doubt, was the supreme head of Asian Buddhism.
For a moment, we were stunned into a sort of paralysis, but soon enough we looked at one another as though deciding what we should do next. Then Sigme coughed loudly from the corridor outside and we began our entrance one by one, first Horace, then myself, and finally Sigerson.
When after a long while we were finally seated with our eyes averted, we heard the Most High's adolescent voice speak: "Mr. Holly, Mr. Vincey, Mr. Sigerson, I am very happy to see you." We were surprised by these, the first words we heard from the young man, who is, in effect, the Buddhist pope. "Please, don't let Brother Sigme's lessons intimidate you. I invite you to look at me."
We three looked up at once, and Horace, perhaps because he felt the wisest among us, rushed to speak next. "Your Highness, the pleasure is all ours, we assure you. Speaking for Leo and myself, we never expected to be honored by your presence during our sojourn here."
"You do yourselves an injustice," the High Lama said sternly, "and myself a disservice. I am neither completely rude nor are you representatives of distant empires completely below my notice. As for Mr. Sigerson, he is a special case; and it was inevitable that he...as a...er...an official representative of that esteemed nation Norway...would be welcome in my rooms."
Horace and I both looked at Sigerson with querying lifts of our eyebrows, for the reference to him left something to be desired, but he responded only with a shrug, then spoke to our host.
"Your Highness, you are supremely thoughtful as is expected and inevitable, for though you appear young in body, you measure your age not in years but in centuries...indeed, millennia..." (At this point Horace and I couldn't help but look at one another knowingly, for such a person—one who counted her years in this same fashion—we had known before...) "...and your wisdom and compassion are correspondingly perfected."
Of course, here Sigerson was referring to the traditional Tibetan belief that each Dalai Lama is the latest incarnation of the previous Dalai Lama all the way back to Buddha himself. When a Dalai Lama dies, it is thought his spirit enters the body of a newborn boy, and monks search the country for a boy born the exact moment the High Lama stopped breathing. That baby is then taken to Lhasa and is raised to fulfill his destiny as the ne
w Dalai Lama.
"It is so, but I did not have you brought here to exchange pleasantries. My uncle, the Regent, was perilously close to resorting to torture, and I thought it prudent to intervene lest such methods prove inadequate and your bodies be maimed to no avail. In fact, it was my hope that I could induce you to speak freely with an offer of gold, jewels, or other such trifles equal in sum to the value of the volume's cover, the acquisition of which was no doubt the reason you committed the crime to begin with."
"I'm sorry to disappoint you, Treasured King," Sigerson said quite calmly, "however, neither my friends nor myself have had any aspirations toward the item in question, and I'll repeat as I have many times before that we had nothing whatsoever to do with the murder or the theft."
"How am I supposed to believe that when all the evidence points clearly against you Europeans?"
Horace at this point spoke up. "Excuse me, Your Grace, but we have been accused and confined without being told a word about this so-called evidence. Exactly what is its nature so that we, too, can understand how it points so inexorably to us?"
"Certainly that is a fair question," the boy responded. He pulled a scrap of parchment from the fold in his robe that served as a pocket and referred to the document as he listed the evidence against us.
"First, near Paljori's body were found ashes of the noxious tobacco Mr. Sigerson enjoys so well. Second, in front of the cache where the sacred book was kept were footprints in the dust that only your European boots could have made. Thirdly, it is well known that your respective sojourns here in Lhasa have been spent very nearly entirely in the said royal library. For what possible reason but to search for the sacred book and its jewel-encrusted cover? Fourth, it is well known that Europeans as a rule are mercenary, ruthless, and always liable to take the road that leads to riches when given the opportunity.
Sherlock Holmes in the Great Detective on the Roof of the World Page 3