The Midas Legacy

by Andy McDermott

A trio of yaks, outfitted with colourful saddles and reins, had been brought to them by a round-faced local woman. ‘You’ve ridden a camel,’ Eddie reminded his wife. ‘This won’t be any harder.’

  ‘I hated riding a camel,’ she retorted.

  ‘So hopefully this’ll be an improvement!’

  It wasn’t. ‘Next time I have the urge to travel to the butt-end of beyond,’ Nina complained, desperately uncomfortable after straddling her shaggy-haired mount’s broad back for an hour, ‘remind me of this, will you?’

  ‘Not much point, is there?’ Eddie said with a smug smile. ‘I do that every time, and you always still want to come.’

  ‘You know, everyone hates a smart-ass . . .’

  But the reason for the switch from four wheels to four hooves was clear. The terrain had soon become impassable for even the most capable off-roader, and only grew more extreme as they gained altitude. The narrow path they were following clung in places to steep cliffs, the yaks brushing the rock faces on one side while overhanging steep slopes the other. However, the animals, though ungainly-looking, were stable and sturdy, plodding tirelessly uphill.

  The weather improved as they went higher. It was bitingly cold when the wind blew, but the clouds had parted enough for the midday sun to break through, lighting up the snowy wastes with an almost unnatural clarity. Nina’s mood improved a little as she took in the stark beauty around them. ‘Jayesh!’ she called. ‘How much further?’

  Their guide was at the head of the little caravan, wreathed in cigarette smoke. ‘About four kilometres to go,’ he reported after consulting a map. He pointed at a mountain ahead. ‘Go around that side and up, monastery should be there.’

  Nina surveyed the peak. ‘So that’s Dragon Mountain? It’s weird thinking that an ancestor of mine was here a hundred and seventy years ago – and that I knew nothing about it until now. Why wouldn’t Mom have told me?’

  ‘Maybe she didn’t want you to rush off after him,’ Eddie said. ‘Would you want Macy to come up here?’

  ‘Perhaps? When she was old enough? Okay, fair point,’ she conceded, before a note of parental longing entered her voice. ‘She must be missing us – I know I’m missing her.’

  ‘Me too. But she sounded okay when we rang from Kathmandu, and Holly said everything was fine. I’m more worried about what happens when we get to this monastery.’

  ‘Why are you worried?’

  ‘You tell ’em you’ve worked out their secret, and they invite you to come and see it in person, but only if you don’t tell anyone? That’s not suspicious or anything. But it’s one of the reasons I asked Jayesh to give us a hand – in case things turn iffy.’

  ‘Oh God. Please don’t tell me that you asked one of your old army buddies to bring guns to a Buddhist monastery.’ An alarming thought struck her. ‘You haven’t brought that stupid hand cannon of yours, have you?’

  ‘No, I sold the Wildey before Macy was born,’ replied Eddie, slightly offended. ‘A gun in the same apartment as a kid? I’m not an idiot. Plus I got fed up of the faff of New York’s gun rules.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘But Jayesh still came prepared. Didn’t you, mate?’

  The Nepali held up a polished automatic pistol. ‘Great,’ said Nina, sighing in despair.

  ‘He’s more of a budda-budda Buddhist. But he’s got something quieter too.’

  Jayesh reached under his coat to draw something from behind his back. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘It’s a kukri,’ Eddie explained as Nina goggled at the eighteen-inch blade he had produced. It resembled a machete, though curved inwards past the dark wooden hilt rather than straight. ‘Gurkha knife. They use ’em for all kinds of stuff, but in a fight . . . put it this way, you want to be well clear even if you’ve got a gun. I’ve seen a Gurkha chuck one of those and score a bullseye from over a hundred feet away – and it hit so hard, the blade went right through the wood.’

  Jayesh put on a performance, flipping and spinning the kukri in his hand so quickly that Nina could barely follow before balancing it by the point of the blade on a fingertip – all while his yak continued its wallowing plod. ‘Second World War, Gurkha unit killed a whole German squad without using a single bullet,’ he said proudly. He tossed the blade into the air, then snatched it as it fell and smoothly returned it to an elaborate leather scabbard across his lower back.

  ‘That’s . . . cool,’ said Nina, dismayed. The Yorkshireman grinned, while the Gurkha came his closest yet to cracking a smile.

  They continued onwards. The path narrowed once more as they rounded the mountain, the wind whipping up little eddies of ice crystals, before eventually widening out into a natural amphitheatre, a large sloping bowl cut into the mountainside. A sheer drop at its lower end fell several hundred feet into a desolate valley. Above, at the rear of the great space, a towering wall of stone rose almost vertically towards the peak high above.

  At its foot was the monastery.

  Nina yanked the reins to halt her mount. ‘Oh my God, Eddie! Look at that!’

  He halted his own yak. ‘All right, yeah – that’s pretty impressive.’

  Detsen monastery was a collection of wood and stone buildings strung out along the cliff’s base, some dug into the sheer face itself. At the closest end of the ribbon of structures was a gate, the only apparent entrance, set into a high wall running the length of the remote retreat. At its far end, a tall tower seemed almost to be teetering at the top of the slope, hugging the rock face behind it. Long rope lines bearing dozens of brightly coloured pennants, Buddhist prayer flags, stretched from its snow-laden rooftop down to various points on the hillside. ‘Impressive?’ she hooted. ‘It’s stunning!’

  ‘Get your camera out, quick. You could make a few quid selling pictures to the National Geographic.’

  ‘Someone watching from the wall,’ said Jayesh, as much in warning as observation.

  Nina spotted a figure atop a small tower near the gate. The man gave scale to his surroundings, the wall over twenty feet high. It was clearly defensive, dotted with windows that were too small for anybody to get in, but large enough for those inside to aim weapons out. It would be almost impossible for anyone to gain access without the monks allowing it.

  The monastery’s residents also controlled access to higher parts of the mountain. Beyond the tower, she picked out some kind of pathway ascending across the cliff face. The only way to reach it seemed to be from the tower’s top. Was it the route Tobias Garde and his companions had taken to the Midas Cave?

  The trio set off again, their yaks shuffling through the snow towards the gate. As they got closer, Nina picked out details that deepened her suspicions about the monastery having been moved to protect the cave. Her archaeological training had familiarised her with architectural styles and techniques of the past, and it seemed that the higher, most ornate parts of the buildings dated from an earlier period than the lower levels on which they stood. It was possible that the monks had raised the top floors and built new ones underneath them . . . but more likely that they had reconstructed parts of the original monastery in their new home on the mountain.

  They soon reached the gate. Jayesh called out to the man on the wall, who bowed his head before replying, then disappeared from view. A short wait, then the wooden blockade slowly swung open.

  A reception committee waited in the narrow courtyard within. ‘Hello?’ said Nina as she dismounted with relief and approached a pair of orange-robed monks. ‘I’m Nina Wilde – this is my husband Eddie Chase, and our guide Jayesh Rai.’ She regarded the older of the two bald-headed men. ‘Are you Amaanat?’

  ‘I am he,’ he replied, placing his palms together before bowing deeply. The younger man beside him did the same. ‘I am the abbot of this monastery. This is Rudra.’ Amaanat indicated his companion.

  The abbot matched Nina’s earlier me
ntal picture, but with one major exception: he had a deep crooked scar running down the left side of his face from the crown of his forehead all the way to his jawline. He was also much more solidly built than she had imagined, still muscular despite his age. His eyes were gentle, but she couldn’t help but feel that before becoming a monk, he had lived a hard and violent life.

  ‘I’m honoured to meet you,’ she said. ‘Namaste.’

  ‘Hi,’ said Eddie, offering his hand. Rudra regarded him with barely concealed disapproval, but Amaanat smiled and shook it.

  ‘Welcome to Detsen,’ he said. ‘Was your journey pleasant?’

  ‘I’ve had more comfortable ones,’ said Nina, glancing back at the yaks as another monk gathered their reins.

  ‘Yes. They are the only way to reach us. In summer, a yak train brings supplies every two weeks and takes back our goods to sell, but in winter the weather is too bad even for them. Had you wanted to visit a few weeks sooner, it would have been impossible.’

  ‘So you’re trapped here over the winter?’ Eddie asked.

  Amaanat shook his head – a motion that in Nepal meant yes rather than the Western opposite. ‘We have everything we need. If there is an emergency, we have a satellite telephone. As you already know, Dr Wilde.’

  ‘I’m glad you do,’ she said. ‘Communicating by letter would have been a lot more laborious!’ The thought occurred that her mother hadn’t necessarily written to the monastery after meeting her father; with the monks being cut off for part of the year, her questions may simply have taken a long time to reach them, and longer to be returned.

  The abbot smiled politely. ‘You have had a long trip. Please, let us offer you our hospitality.’

  He led them into a large building nearby. ‘Our debate house,’ said Amaanat. The interior was dark, lit only by candles, but the square room was surprisingly warm considering the temperature outside. A statue of the Buddha dominated the wood-panelled space, the larger-than-life figure sitting cross-legged beyond the doorway. There was another door opposite the entrance, but the monk took them around the statue and through a side exit into a system of tunnel-like chambers carved from the rock. More candles lit the way, with an occasional electric light providing greater illumination. Other monks watched them curiously, moving respectfully aside to give them room to pass.

  Amaanat and Rudra brought them to an egg-like space with a low table at its centre, plain plates already set upon it. ‘Please, sit,’ the abbot said, gesturing towards cushions on the floor. ‘We will bring food, and tea.’ His eyes met Nina’s. ‘Then I imagine you are impatient to see what has brought you here.’

  Rudra spoke for the first time, his English more clumsy. ‘You have already broken promise,’ he said. He was calm on the surface, but obviously holding in anger. ‘You promise not to tell anyone you come here. But you bring others with you!’

  ‘Eddie’s my husband,’ Nina replied. ‘What I know, he knows.’

  ‘Plus there was no way I was letting her come here by herself,’ Eddie added, giving the younger man a steely glare. ‘Anything could’ve happened to her. Which is why I asked Jayesh to come along too.’ He nodded at his stone-faced friend. ‘He speaks the language, so if anything funny goes on, he’ll let us know.’

  Rudra frowned, about to say more, but Amaanat waved him to silence and smiled. ‘There is no need to worry, Mr Chase. Or you, Dr Wilde. I believe you will honour your promise of secrecy. You will understand why the Midas Cave is best kept from the rest of the world. It was a mistake for our order to have shown it to outsiders at all, but at the time they believed it justified.’

  ‘Why?’ Nina asked.

  Rather than reply, he rang a small bell. Two more monks entered, one bearing a tray of fruits and vegetables, the other an ornately decorated teapot and five cups. ‘Please, eat and drink,’ said Amaanat. ‘Then I shall give you the answers you seek.’

  9

  Nina ate her meal as quickly as politeness allowed, waiting impatiently for the others to finish. Finally Amaanat sipped the last of his tea and rang the bell, and the monks returned to take away the empty trays and crockery. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  ‘It is our honour to provide for our guests,’ the abbot replied. ‘Now, if you are ready, I shall show you our monastery.’

  ‘I’m definitely ready.’ She stood, the men following suit.

  Amaanat led them back through the rocky passages to the debate house, going through the door opposite the courtyard entrance. Beyond was a long hallway lit by hundreds of candles. The floor was old polished wood, a red carpet running down its centre between two ranks of prayer wheels: metal cylinders inscribed with Ranjana calligraphy. Tapestries depicting scenes and figures from Buddhist mythology hung from the walls behind them. ‘Are you a spiritual person, Dr Wilde?’ asked the abbot.

  ‘Not particularly,’ said Nina, slightly uncomfortable with the question. ‘I’m concerned with finding tangible truths. The intangible, the spiritual . . . it’s something I can’t really connect to. I guess I’m a rationalist.’

  ‘And there is nothing wrong with that,’ Amaanat said. ‘Without rationality, what are we but primal animals? But a mind that is not open to the possibility of there being more to the world than what we can see and touch seems . . . imprisoned, in a cell of its own making.’ He carefully rotated one of the wheels, whispering under his breath, then another as he walked along. ‘Perhaps you should try.’

  She turned the same wheel as the abbot. It made a faint singing sound as the metal points of the hubs rubbed against their mounts, but the experience left her unchanged, and unmoved. ‘Sorry, but it didn’t do anything for me.’

  Amaanat was not offended; rather, amused. ‘Then you should start with something smaller.’ He indicated a rack containing miniature prayer wheels on handles, each about the size of a tennis racquet.

  ‘Or you could try that one,’ Eddie suggested. At the passage’s far end was a prayer wheel far larger than any of its companions, almost as tall as the Yorkshireman. ‘Spinning that thing should put you in tune with the universe.’

  ‘Either that or exhaust me,’ she replied. They continued along the hallway, both monks turning more wheels as they went. Even Jayesh joined in, shooting Eddie a look as if daring him to comment. His friend merely grinned.

  They passed a window. Eddie glanced through it, seeing that their yaks had been tethered to a ramshackle hitching post outside the monastery’s wall. ‘Will they be okay there?’

  ‘If the weather turns, we will bring them inside,’ said the abbot. ‘Do not worry, they will be fed.’

  The exit at the hall’s far end led into a large building, a staircase ascending to a higher floor, but Amaanat instead indicated another flight going down. The level below was colder and darker. A stone passage used for storage ran back beneath the prayer wheel hall, countless boxes and sacks lining the walls. However, the abbot turned in the opposite direction, bringing them to a pair of doors. The one to the side was ajar. Nina glanced through, seeing metal cylinders in the shadows: gas canisters.

  Amaanat stopped at the other, heavier door ahead and rapped on it. A muffled voice came from inside. The old monk replied, and a hefty bolt was drawn back. ‘In here, Dr Wilde,’ he said, ‘you will find your answers.’ He opened the door.

  A wave of heat hit Nina as she stepped through. The large stone-walled chamber contained a roaring furnace, seething blue flames being fed by propane tanks. Molten metal glowed in a ceramic crucible sitting above the fire. The sweating monk who had let them in bowed, then quickly returned to it. He used a set of iron tongs to lift the crucible and carefully pour its contents into a mould. Sparks spat as the glutinous liquid filled the rectangular space.

  Eddie and Nina exchanged surprised looks. Neither needed to be a metallurgist to realise what he was making.

  A gold bar.

&
nbsp; Shelves on the rear wall bore more bricks of the precious metal. ‘What’s all this?’ Eddie asked. ‘I’m guessing you haven’t taken a vow of poverty.’

  ‘We pay for the upkeep of the monastery by crafting jewellery and sculptures,’ Amaanat explained, crossing the room. He drew a key on a chain around his neck from his robes and unlocked another, smaller door. ‘Until they are taken by yak train to be sold, they are kept in here. Along with . . . other valuable items. Please, enter.’

  Nina went in. The room was dark, until the monk switched on a light and she saw what he meant. ‘Oh, wow.’

  More shelves lined the walls. The smaller items upon them were carefully wrapped in soft cloth, but the larger ones were on proud display.

  Serene faces gazed back at her, figures of the Buddha ranging from six inches to almost three feet tall. All were made from exquisitely worked metal, some inset with precious stones. Even under the glare of the single overhead bulb, they gleamed warmly as if illuminated from within. ‘These are beautiful,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you,’ Amaanat replied. ‘All are made by hand. I do not wish to boast, but our monks are very skilled.’

  ‘You’re not kidding.’ She examined one more closely. ‘Are they all made of gold?’

  ‘They are. Our work is highly regarded. It is how we are able to keep the monastery alive.’ He smiled. ‘We do not receive many visitors in such a remote place, so donations are rare. But you have not come here to see what we make.’ The humour disappeared from his face, replaced by earnest respect. ‘You have come to see this.’

  The abbot went to a squat metal chest in the furthest corner of the room. He used a second key to open a padlock, then Rudra helped him raise the heavy lid.

  Inside was something tightly shrouded in red velvet, a shape resembling a book. Amaanat stood back as Rudra lifted it out and placed it on a table. Nina moved closer, watching as he gently peeled open the cloth.

  She knew the item’s origin immediately. The distinctive colour of the metal, tinged a deeper red than the golden Buddhas, was proof enough. ‘It’s from Atlantis,’ she gasped. ‘That’s orichalcum.’