The Five Fakirs of Faizabad

by P. B. Kerr

  Groanin gulped loudly. “You mean you’re Charles Dickens?” he said.

  “That’s correct,” said the man. “So what have you got against David Copperfield? Some people think it’s my finest book.”

  “But you’re dead,” said Groanin.

  “That’s right,” said Dickens. “I died on June ninth, 1870. What of it? And do stop opening and closing your mouth like a fish.”

  “It’s just that I never met a ghost before,” said Groanin. “Not a real one.”

  “You know, you remind me of Ebenezer Scrooge in another book I wrote called A Christmas Carol,” said Dickens. “But I don’t suppose you like that one, either.”

  “Er, no, I didn’t,” admitted Groanin. “I thought it was too sentimental by half.”

  “You know, since you are the sternest critic of my work I’ve met in a long time,” admitted Dickens, “and since you have nothing better to do with your time, it occurred to me that I might read you a new book I’ve been working on for the last hundred years. It’s called Philip Ironfilings. I’d appreciate your comments on it.”

  But Groanin was already running away; he kept on running and did not look back.

  “I do not like this place,” he complained as he ran across the snow. He ran and talked without getting out of breath, which was easy since you have to be breathing to be out of breath. “I do not like being visited by the ghost of the writer I most dislike in the world. I wish John and Rakshasas would come back and get me out of here because I wish I was back at the house in London. Do you hear that, Nimrod, you daft idiot?”

  He stopped for a minute to shout at the moon like a real lunatic.

  “Do you hear? I wish I was back at the Carlyle hotel in New York and tucking into an enormous lunch like the one we had just a while ago. That’s what I wish more than anything else in the world. But there’s a fat chance of me getting that wish granted, is there? What’s the point of being the butler to a powerful djinn if I can’t even have that wish come true?”

  Groanin looked back at his campfire and started running again. He kept on running until, just after dawn, he came in sight of the place where he had left Zagreus guarding his body.

  Two things struck him right away.

  One was that Zagreus was now very hard pressed by the pack of hungry wolves surrounding him. Every time he managed to drive one wolf away with a well-aimed snowball, another wolf would creep for ward to take its place. They lay in a neat circle around the bigfoot, whining, howling, and licking their chops hungrily. It seemed obvious that Zagreus could not keep up his defense of Groanin’s body for much longer.

  But the other thing that struck the butler was that the snow and ice covering his body and preserving it from decay was melting. The air temperature was warmer. The early morning sun was shining brightly and Yellowstone’s late spring snow was starting to thaw. Suddenly, the national park was getting warmer, much warmer. And things were looking extremely serious for Groanin.

  “That’s all I need,” grumbled Groanin. “Nature’s deep freezer to break down on me now.”

  If John and Rakshasas didn’t come back soon, it would be too late. And whatever disembodied afterlife limbo state Groanin was now in would become something horribly permanent.

  CHAPTER 41

  SHAMBA-LA

  It seemed utterly impossible that human beings could ever have built anything so high and inaccessible on the gray and perpendicular mountainside of the Kailash crater as Shamba-la. There was no visible way up to the monastery and no obvious way down. A condor would have thought twice about alighting on such a place in case it lost its nerve about taking off again. Even the thick snow that covered the crater seemed unable to stick to the narrow outcrop of rock where the monastery was situated. Shamba-la was both exquisitely beautiful and wholly improbable at the same time — a collection of immense, fortlike white walls, several stories high, with many golden windows, and all topped with pinkish curling rooftops, like so many rock anemones and mountain primulas picked by the hand of some intrepid climber. If someone had placed a luxury hotel midway up the north face of the Eiger or on top of Annapurna, it could not have looked more compelling to the eye.

  Descending through thin clouds onto the uppermost roof — for there was nowhere else for them to land — Moo almost wondered if the sun and altitude were affecting her, so splendid did she find the sight of the ancient Tibetan monastery.

  No less moved by the majesty of the lamasery, Silvio Prezzolini felt as if, in a strange way, he was almost coming back to a place he had visited once before, albeit in a long-forgotten dream, and had longed to visit again. The Vatican in Rome he had seen many times, but this was more impressive. The Vatican looked dull and solidly temporal by comparison with this ethereal palace.

  Mr. Swaraswati, convinced that he was about to encounter a kind of heaven, closed his eyes and began to pray one of his strange mumbling prayers.

  Rakshasas wagged his tail and excitedly sniffed the air, which smelled of mint and sugar. It was more than seventy years since he had set eyes on the lamasery and he wondered if any of the monks would recognize him. He only vaguely recalled the interior of Shamba-la. He remembered fountains and warm, spacious rooms and silent feet crossing marble floors. But most of all, he remembered a girl.

  The twins, John and Philippa, who were too young to have a real appreciation of magnificent buildings and architecture, were silenced by the beauty of Shamba-la. Even Nimrod, who was used to having an eagle’s view from a flying carpet, thought the place impressive.

  “I felt my djinn power just desert me,” said Philippa.

  “Mine hasn’t worked since I came to this crater,” said John.

  “I sense we won’t have need of djinn power,” said Nimrod. “Not in this place.”

  Drums and a huge bass trumpet announced their arrival; it sounded like the foghorn on a celestial ferryboat and was quite the loudest thing any of them had heard since their arrival in Tibet — louder even than the explosion that had heralded the arrival of the golem.

  Nimrod pointed at a man standing on one of the high terraces, who appeared to be blowing into a long wind instrument that might have doubled as a pipe on an oil well.

  “A sacred Tibetan long horn,” shouted Nimrod. “I’ve heard them before, but never one as loud as this.”

  “What does it mean?” shouted John.

  “Mean?” said Nimrod. “The noise is meant to drive away devils and evil spirits, of course. So if we’re not driven away, then I suppose we’re not devils and evil spirits.”

  Nimrod brought the carpet to a halt and everyone stood as a small man wearing the claret-colored toga of a Tibetan monk came toward them. He put his hands together, raised them to his forehead, and bowed gravely. He did not say a word, but to ever yone’s surprise, they all clearly heard him ask if they had come in peace.

  Nimrod answered in similar fashion. We come in peace, he said silently.

  Philippa glanced at her uncle. “Telepathy?”

  Nimrod nodded. “One of many secrets known to the monks at Shamba-la.”

  “Er, we bring a happy man with us,” Nimrod said uncertainly. “Mr. Prezzolini.”

  The monk said nothing.

  “We can prove it if you like,” said Nimrod.

  That will not be necessary, said the silent monk. Since you have also brought someone else.

  Rakshasas trotted forward and the monk, seeming to recognize the wolf — or at least the reincarnated spirit that the wolf carried — bowed several times and, grinning a broad, gap-toothed grin, stroked the animal’s head fondly.

  “It would appear that these two have met before,” said Nimrod.

  Oh, yes, the monk said silently. We know each other very well. Rakshasas was in human shape the last time he was here; but he is no less welcome in his new incarnation. As are you, friends of Rakshasas. You are all welcome to Shamba-la.

  Only Nimrod was able to control his thoughts sufficiently to communicate with the monk tel
epathically. Thank you, he said. We also have a friend with us who has died. I hope you won’t mind us bringing him here. We meant no disrespect, but we didn’t want to leave him behind. We thought you might give him a decent burial.

  The monk said silently, He is welcome. And we shall see what we shall see. It may be that he is not as dead as you thought. Few things ever are. The original nature of things is neither born, nor extinguished. Leave him here for now and I shall ask some of my brothers to come and fetch him. He bowed again. Please come this way.

  The monk led the way through a heavy oak door that seemed to open by itself and, immediately, they were in a very long marble corridor with one wall that was made of dozens of enormous golden prayer wheels that the monk turned as he passed. Beyond an enormous library that was full of silent scholars, they walked through a kind of dojo, where dozens of monks sat chanting a sonorous deep mantra that sounded sinister to the ears of the twins but which Nimrod assured them was merely the recitation of a kind of poem called the heart sutra, which was all about wisdom.

  “What do the words mean?” whispered Philippa.

  This chant is the only sound that we make out loud, explained the silent monk. For the wisdom of enlightenment is the true knowledge that all the five senses are empty.

  Which prompted Nimrod to air his own thoughts on the matter: It’s true that we could all listen a bit more and speak a bit less. That’s the trouble with the world, I think. There’s simply not enough listening. Most of the words that are spoken today are full of emptiness. Emptiness is something the world has plenty of right now.

  The monk nodded his agreement.

  “Yes, but what does that mean?” asked John.

  You don’t have to understand the words, explained the silent monk. The words say what is beyond words for this, John, is the sound of the universe breathing.

  “You know my name?” said John. “You read my mind?”

  Of course.

  “Can you read everyone’s mind?” asked Philippa.

  Yes.

  “I don’t think I care to have my mind read,” observed Moo. “There are some things an Englishwoman regards as inviolable and private.”

  The monk took the visitors into a great hall, where he bowed and told them that the High Lama knew they were there and that he would speak to them soon, and then he left them on comfortable armchairs beside a refectory-style table with a big vase of yellow flowers and some tea and homemade Tibetan cakes.

  The hall was about the size of a good-sized cathedral. The high walls were covered with ancient paintings, many of which depicted scenes of a Tibet that, thanks to the Chinese army, probably no longer existed outside the walls of Shamba-la. A golden statue of Buddha sat in an alcove at one side of the hall. He had curly blue hair and lipstick and although he was thirty or forty feet tall, he appeared to be wearing a real robe made of yellow silk.

  “Wow,” said John. “I bet that Buddha is made of solid gold.”

  “It is,” said Nimrod. “But up here gold is just another metal and has no real value.”

  Philippa shook her head to clear it of the geometric pattern on the floor. “How long has this place been here?” asked Philippa.

  “Joseph Rock’s papers speak of a monastery on this site since the year A.D. 996,” said Nimrod. “Few westerners have ever seen this place and lived to tell the tale.”

  “Are we in any danger?” Moo asked him, although she did not sound as if she would have believed him if he had answered that they were.

  “No, not at all,” said Nimrod. “Not from the people who live here. I meant that most of the travelers who got this far chose to stay. And from what John has told us about those Nazis, it seems clear that if you stay here for long enough, time itself begins to have no real meaning. Which makes it impossible to leave, I suppose.”

  “Leave?” Mr. Swaraswati shook his head silently. “I don’t think so.”

  “Does anyone else find it peculiar?” said John. “That we’re so high up in the Himalayas and there’s no fire and yet this place is plush and warm. It feels kind of like an expensive hotel.”

  “It’s better than the El Moania hotel in Fez, anyway,” said Philippa.

  John laughed. “I’d forgotten about that place.”

  “I wish I could,” said Philippa.

  “It’s odd,” said Silvio, “but ever since I got here I feel relaxed and invigorated all at once. Like I’ve been on holiday for a very long time.”

  “I’ve been thinking the same thing,” confessed Moo. “If you put a Times crossword in front of me now, I swear I could do it in five minutes.” She glanced at her watch.

  “All my life,” continued Silvio, “people have told me I was bad luck. But here I think that maybe it’s impossible to believe in bad luck. I always tried to think of myself as a lucky guy. But here, I really believe it. I think maybe that to come here, to Shamba-la, this is the luckiest thing that has ever happened to me.”

  “Speaking for myself” — Mr. Swaraswati wobbled his head — “I feel as if this is journey’s end.” He shrugged. “But only in a good way. This is a good place, not a bad place. The last time I felt like this was when I was in the enlightened presence of the Tirthankar himself, in Faizabad. I can feel a tremendous energy here.”

  “I hope so,” said John. “That’s what we came for.” He smiled a knowing smile.

  “What?” asked Philippa.

  “I was wondering how long it would take to read all those books in the library and thinking I might like to try it.”

  “It’s the altitude,” said Philippa. “He’s not getting enough oxygen. I can’t think why he would say such a thing otherwise. I can’t remember the last book he read, and I dare say neither can he.”

  “I think that’s why I said it,” said John. “There’s something about this place that makes absolutely anything seem possible.”

  “It’s an odd thing,” admitted Philippa, “but for some strange reason I seem to agree with you.”

  “Then anything is possible,” said Nimrod.

  Philippa took off her glasses. “That’s another odd thing. My glasses don’t seem to work.” She frowned and rubbed her eyes. “No, that’s not it at all. The fact is, I can see much better without them.”

  “This tea tastes better than any tea I’ve ever drunk in my entire life,” said Moo.

  “I was about to say the same thing myself,” said Nimrod. “These Tibetan cakes are delicious. I must see if they’ll give me the recipe.”

  “And —” Moo squeezed her wrists and shook her head. “No. I’m a foolish old woman, I must be imagining things.”

  “No,” said Philippa. “Say what it is.”

  “My joints have stopped aching. Just like that.” She smiled happily. “For years I’ve had pain but suddenly, the pain left me.” She snapped her fingers. “Just like that. And look at that: I can snap my fingers. It’s years since I was able to do that.” She sighed wistfully. “Suddenly, all the dirt and bustle and noise and bad manners of London seem a long way off.”

  “That’s for sure,” said John.

  Silvio wiped a tear from his eye. “Not since I was a kid have I felt like this,” he said. “I feel like I have been here before. I keep looking around for my mama.”

  Moo looked at her watch again and shook her wrist vigorously. “That’s odd. My watch has stopped.”

  “Mine, too,” said Silvio. “But who needs a watch when you’re somewhere like this? That’s what I say.”

  Somewhere a door opened and, hearing footsteps, they all turned around to see that the monk had returned. Silently, he said that the High Lama would see them in the garden.

  “A garden?” said Moo. “Up here?”

  “There’s no doubt about it,” said Nimrod. “This is Shangri-la, all right.”

  The monk bowed and led them through a long stone tunnel into a walled garden that beggared belief: There were broad green lawns and well-stocked flower beds that filled the air with their scent.<
br />
  “Remarkable,” said Moo. “It’s just like the Chelsea Flower Show.”

  “But without the crowds,” added Nimrod.

  Beside one of the flower beds was a young woman. She was in her early twenties and very beautiful. She wore a long, yellow, embroidered dress that was slashed to the thigh and her shiny black hair was bound in an elaborate knot in which a veritable garden of yellow flowers had been tied. But it was her smile that everyone noticed most. It never stopped. Which is not to say that ever it looked forced. It seemed that she was just one of life’s natural smilers and the kind of person who made smiling infectious.

  As soon as he saw her, Silvio Prezzolini broke out in an equally wide smile that the woman acknowledged with a polite bow. But her attention was mostly reserved for Rakshasas, whom she hugged on her knees as fondly as if he had been her own pet dog.

  For his part, Rakshasas was no less pleased to see the young woman in yellow. He licked her face and barked and howled several times, which echoed in the walled garden until it sounded as if there was a whole pack of wolves on the lawns.

  “I think we’re witnessing a reunion,” observed Nimrod. “These two seem to know each other of old.”

  “How did she recognize him?” asked John. “I mean, Rakshasas has only recently become reincarnated as a wolf. The last time he was here, in 1934, he was in human shape.”

  But he is still the same as he was back then. The woman’s voice was as silent as the monk’s but no less audible for all that. Her voice was sweet and gentle and full of the rushing of water and the sunshine sound of her radiant smile. We say he is gone, gone, gone over, gone fully over, awakened, and then reached the other shore.

  Rakshasas licked the young woman’s face again and lay down loyally at her feet.

  You have brought us a great gift, she said silently. You have brought an old friend back to us. I am grateful and hope that you can all stay a while and enjoy the hospitality of the monastery. But I seem to sense that three of you are already in a hurry to leave.