by Tom Martin
She stopped herself: people can always sense what you think of them on some level, she thought. Particularly when they’ve fixed you with glittering eyes, as if they’re speculating about your motives even as you try to analyse theirs. She should be more circumspect; he might after all know something about the bone trumpet. She had brought it with her, slung over her shoulder. As Adams released her hand, Nancy tried to get into her part, and said, in a breezy, interested way, ‘Yes. That’s right – I need to get into Pemako. As soon as possible.’
‘I see,’ he said, rubbing a hand over his chin.
Even his speech was slightly theatrical – probably born of dealing with tourists straight off the plane from the States. Naturally she was also straight off the plane, but she had travelled widely in her career and hoped she had learned a little about the many ways travellers could be exploited. Charismatic, certainly, she was thinking, but overdone, this posturing as an explorer.
As they all sat together on the cushions, Kim bringing in some cups of tea, Adams was saying, ‘I was in Pemako only last summer, I went in over the Su La pass. It’s a treacherous place – there are no accurate maps, none of the bridges are standing any more, and these days there are hundreds of Chinese soldiers, all trying to extract money from you. And then there are the witches . . .’
Krishna, fidgeting impatiently by her side, interrupted:
‘What witches?’
‘The poison witches. Pemako is famous for them. They are the old ladies who live in the villages. They poison strangers in order to take their “chi”, their vital power.’
Nancy raised an eyebrow. ‘Tell me,’ she said, ‘how much will it cost?’
‘So, I see, we have an intrepid explorer in our midst?’ Adams seemed to be sneering at her, and Nancy bridled, though she tried to tell herself this was all part of the pitch; nothing to really concern herself with.
‘Not really,’ she said briskly. ‘Pemako is hardly the jungles of Borneo, is it?’
A shadow passed across Adams’s face. He turned his head and spotting a large bone lying on the table top next to them, he picked it up. When he spoke, his demeanour had changed; he was no longer smiling.
‘You see this? This is the thigh bone of a yak.’ He slapped it into the palm of his left hand. ‘The yak is a relative of the camel but it is skinny, lazy and even more bad-tempered. The Tibetans rely on the yak just as the Bedouin do on the camel. They get their milk from it, they eat its meat, they eat its eyeballs, they eat its testicles and they even light their lamps using its butter.’
He weighed the bone in his hand as if it were a club. Then, still unsmiling, he fixed her with a stony look. ‘Perhaps, Miss Kelly, you believe all the propaganda about old Tibet? That it was a peaceful, happy place, where the Dalai Lamas presided over a contented population until the wicked Chinese arrived?’
He handed her the bone. She took it, unwillingly, transfixed by his mood change. This guy is getting curiouser by the minute, she thought. Adams was speaking again.
‘That bone that you are holding was used as a tool. If a peasant committed a crime, even something as trivial as stealing a small amount of gruel to feed his starving family, he would be held down whilst the round ends of two such thigh bones were pressed into his temples. When enough pressure was applied, the peasant’s eyes would pop out. And justice would be done in the feudal kingdom of the great lamas.’
Nancy dropped the bone onto the rug in disgust. He picked it up and replaced it carefully on the table and flicked his head up to fix her with a condescending stare.
‘The bromides that are passed around at American dinner parties about the magical, spiritual East are a long way from the truth. Tibet has always been a violent and dangerous place for those who don’t understand it. And I would go so far as to say it is scarcely even Buddhist, it is an occult kingdom where black magic has always reigned supreme. It is not and never was a Buddhist land of peace . . .’
Krishna could contain himself no longer.
‘OK, Adams, enough of your opinions. Do you want the job or not? We didn’t come here for a lecture and I very seldom attend any American dinner parties.’
Adams turned to look at him and in a businesslike tone replied, ‘It will cost you.’
‘How much?’
‘When do you want to go, how many people and what is the purpose of the trip?’
Krishna glanced at Nancy.
‘Just me,’ she said quickly. ‘And I want to go without alerting the Chinese or Indian authorities. The exact purpose will be revealed when we get to Pemako.’
Adams smiled, as if none of this was surprising to him.
‘I see. Well, then, let’s say fifty thousand dollars for a ten-day trip, all sherpas and equipment included. And I need all the money up front.’
Nancy gasped:
‘What? I don’t know much about travelling in Tibet, but that really sounds totally outrageous. Surely we could hire an army of sherpas for that price?’
‘You could, and you could even bribe the Chinese immigration officials – but if you went into Pemako without me, no one would ever see you again . . .’
Krishna interjected, ‘I simply don’t see how you run any sort of business with those prices. You and I know they’re ridiculous . . .’
‘Sure, if you think that, then good luck finding someone else to take you,’ Adams replied, in a dry, nonchalant voice. He drank down his tea and looked as if he was about to conclude the meeting. Indeed Krishna was beginning to rise, when Nancy said, ‘Listen Mr Adams, maybe we can do a deal. I don’t have that kind of money. I’m a journalist, not a millionaire.’
Adams looked hard at her and then after a long pause said, ‘I’ll think about it. When do you want to go?’
Krishna was looking at Nancy in complete confusion. She realized he had suggested the enquiry as a ruse, to draw Adams out. She had thought of it differently – or had she? She wasn’t sure whether she had intended to go from the start. Her motives were becoming cloudy to her; she felt driven by a deep prevailing purpose, but she couldn’t disentangle the elements. If he can take me, why not go? she was thinking. But she couldn’t afford his fee, that was for sure. She would have to find a way of haggling him down – quite how she didn’t know.
‘As soon as possible. I’m in something of a hurry.’
For a moment no one said anything. Krishna was looking incredulous and appalled, and Nancy and Adams were staring at each other. Nancy acknowledged once more that the man was irritatingly handsome, though his were unsubtle, over-brawny good looks that didn’t much appeal to her. Now Adams was saying, ‘Well, then you have a choice. An associate of mine is flying up tonight – it might just be possible to get on his flight. If not, then you’ll have to wait at least another fortnight. Commercials are out – if you want to go in under the radar then you have to arrive by private aircraft.’
‘What time tonight?’
‘Midnight. From Indira Gandhi airport light aircraft terminal.’
She was flushed with adrenalin, and for the first time since the interrogation she felt she was taking control again of her own destiny. This was what she had wanted: adventure and a chance to make her name. Perhaps she could actually find Herzog. If only she had more money. All she had was five thousand dollars’ worth of travellers’ cheques which she had brought with her to India and then her savings – but she would have to wire those from the States and that might take days or even weeks and even then they only amounted to about fifteen thousand dollars. She could sense Krishna’s mounting panic, but now she didn’t care at all.
‘What’s your best price?’
‘I’ll think about it,’ said Adams. And he fixed her again with his condescending eyes. What am I doing? Nancy wondered with excitement and mounting trepidation. It was certain that she was getting carried away. And to what end? He would never lower his price enough to make the trip affordable, and more importantly, none of this was exactly necessary. She had been harassed by t
he Indian police, that was a fact, but why was she now running off on a wild goose chase with a man who seemed part macho cliché and part something she couldn’t quite understand? She sensed once more Krishna’s discomfort, and knew he wanted to tell her to forget the business. A formal complaint, strong words from the editor, that was more in his line; he was firmly in the Dan Fischer camp. Absconding with this eminently untrustworthy man, he couldn’t possibly approve. But then she didn’t want to stay in Delhi, creeping around, waiting to be rearrested, or ordered back to New York – an unattractive prospect for different reasons. And she was quite certain that there would be no Indian police going into Tibet to look for Anton Herzog, nor any Americans either.
But what is it really that is driving me to do this? she thought again. She really couldn’t understand this yearning she had to get on the flight, to get over the Himalayas to the magical realm beyond. She shrugged it off. All of a sudden, reality took hold of her again and the fantasy deflated. It was a crazy idea. She had only just got to Delhi. Both Dan and the police had ordered her to stay put. Time to consider it later, she thought.
‘Let me see what funds I can come up with,’ she said curtly to Adams. Then, in a more conversational tone, she added, ‘There’s one more thing you might be able to advise me on, if you don’t mind. I want to know the origins of an old bone that a friend of mine gave me. Could you take a look at it?’
Adams nodded briskly.
‘Sure.’
Krishna seemed heartily relieved that the talk of a journey had abated. Nancy took the cloth bundle out of her bag and laid it on the rug. She had already removed Herzog’s Trib ID and stashed it in her bag. Adams knelt forward, his attitude expectant, perhaps even eager. She fiddled with the string and then slowly unrolled the dirty cloth, until she had revealed the strange bone with its metal mouthpiece.
‘May I?’ Jack Adams’s salesman’s swagger had gone altogether. A new guise, thought Nancy: the professional archaeologist. She nodded at him. As if it were a priceless vase, or other valuable antique, he reached down. He held it in his hands and examined it from all angles, slowly turning it this way and that. Then he paused and examined the mouthpiece more closely. He called over to Kim in Hindi and the boy trotted over with a small magnifying glass. Adams popped this into his right eye socket and proceeded to further scrutinize the metal mouthpiece. Finally, he let the eyepiece drop into the palm of his hand and with an expression of great earnestness, he gave the bone back to Nancy.
‘Do you know what this is?’ There was deep suspicion in his voice.
‘I think it’s called a bone trumpet . . .’ she replied with little conviction.
‘Put it to your lips and blow gently through the mouthpiece.’
Very tentatively she placed the mouthpiece in her mouth and blew. An eerie, haunting cry emanated from the old bone. Adams nodded slowly.
‘It’s used in Tibetan Tantric ceremonies. But bone trumpets are older than that. They were used in the Bronze Age and probably before then as well. Judging by the state of the bone, I’d say this one is very, very old.’
‘How can you tell?’
‘Taphonomy. The study of the dating and decay of old bones. It’s my field of expertise. I would have to check of course, but just looking at it I can tell it is at least twenty thousand years old, possibly much, much older.’
Then, almost absentmindedly, he added, ‘It is made from the femur of a dead man.’
Nancy shivered with disgust.
‘Euugh! What next!’
Hurriedly she placed the bone back onto the cloth and wiped her hands on the carpet. Adams seemed genuinely surprised by her squeamishness.
‘Don’t worry. I doubt the previous owner misses it. Do you know what a sky burial is?’
She shook her head.
‘In many parts of the Himalayas, they don’t bury their dead and there isn’t enough wood on the barren mountain slopes to cremate them, so instead they leave them on the mountain tops. In Tibet the priests cut up the corpses and the vultures devour them so that the soul can pass quickly through the Bardo – the world between life and death. When the birds have done their work, the priests come and break up the remaining bones and scatter them like dust. Sometimes bones are left over.’
He gestured at the bone, lying on the carpet.
‘Ancient sky burial sites, high in the mountains, are where we find most bones in the Himalayas. But this one might have come from a chieftain’s burial mound in central Asia, or somewhere further west, in Europe perhaps.’
He looked up at her suspiciously.
‘Can you tell me precisely where you got it? It’s not from the region is it?’
Nancy paused. For a moment she gazed at the bone, then she decided:
‘Why do you ask? Do you recognize the symbols?’
He paused for a second, long enough for her to be absolutely certain that he was not telling her the whole truth.
‘Yes and no. The dagger and the swastika are Aryan I would guess. The Aryans were the original conquerors of India. They swept down from the plains of central Asia four or five millennia ago, and at about the same time they also migrated westwards into Europe. They brought their own religion to the subcontinent, a sort of proto-Hinduism. The swastika which you see everywhere in this part of the world is an archetypal Aryan symbol.’
His voice trailed off as he studied the mouthpiece again.
‘And the letters?’ asked Nancy.
Adams deliberately ignored her question and instead, fixing her with his penetrating gaze, he said:
‘Where did you get this?’
‘From Anton Herzog. He sent it to my office.’
Her answer produced a complex reaction in Jack Adams. He bridled visibly. Krishna had said that Anton didn’t much like Adams, and she felt from his immediate response that the feeling was mutual. Yet there was something else: he was looking more carefully at the bone, as if it was weighted with further significance. Seeing his eager eyes upon it, his gaze somehow incontinent, almost ravenous, Nancy felt nervous again. So she began to rewrap the bone in the cloth, watching Adams closely. And, under her scrutiny, Adams forced a smile, though his eyes were still glued to the bone.
‘Listen. I know Herzog. I can help,’ he said. ‘I can identify it for you – if you just let me have it . . .’
Nancy paused.
‘But what about the letters? Do they mean anything? Do you know where they’re from?’
‘No.’
He was lying, of that she was certain. He continued urgently, desperate now to persuade her.
‘Listen, let me take it to the Delhi museum.’ He gestured to the back of the room, towards the doorway. ‘They have all the equipment. We can date it by measuring the state of decay of its radioactive isotopes . . . It’s not perfect and this bone will have been polluted a lot but it’s worth trying . . . and I can check the letters – find out where they’re from. And I can compare the design on the mouthpiece to others in my collection – and at the museum. I know everyone there.’
‘First, tell me why you think Anton might have had this bone.’
She could see he was confused – perhaps he was wondering why on earth she would be asking such a question if she really knew Herzog, or indeed, if Herzog really had given it to her.
Cautiously he said, ‘Herzog has certain ideas, about Tibet, and the history of mankind . . .’
She waited for him to continue.
‘For our own different reasons, we are both looking for evidence . . .’
She glanced at Krishna and then back at Adams and said, ‘Evidence that proves that Charles Darwin was wrong?’
Adams was being cagey. ‘In my case, something like that.’
‘And Anton? He’s not an archaeologist or a palaeontologist.’
Adams paused then said, ‘No. Our interests coincide, that’s all. We discuss our research from time to time.’
Nancy’s brow furrowed.
‘What research?’
Again he paused; he seemed reluctant to be more forthcoming. She needed something more, some small thread she might follow, some clue as to what Herzog had really been up to all these years.
‘Listen, Mr Adams,’ she said urgently, ‘I need your help. I’ve just arrived and Anton’s out of town at the moment. Tell me what Anton was researching and maybe I will let you test the bone.’
His eyes scanned her suspiciously, as if it was she who was the renegade, and then he slowly nodded his head.
‘OK. I’ll tell you what I know, but it isn’t much.’ He paused, clearly working out where to begin, how to make sense of Anton Herzog to someone who knew nothing of Tibet.
‘Anton has some strange ideas.’ He glanced down at the bone trumpet. ‘He’s a sort of treasure hunter.’
‘I thought you said he wasn’t an archaeologist.’
‘He’s not. The treasure he’s looking for is quite different from all this stuff.’ He waved his hand around the room. ‘He’s after ancient carriers of secret knowledge. The lamas call them “Terma”.’
‘What are they?’
‘Listen, I don’t really know. Temples, sacred texts, beautiful valleys, gates to other worlds – who knows? The lamas have written whole books about the “termas”, but you can never be sure if you are understanding them on the right level or if you are taking them too literally. It’s all always so vague. That’s the way with esoteric traditions. I certainly don’t understand any of it, and to be frank it doesn’t interest me. Apparently there are still lamas alive today who know the locations of these things, know how to find them and bring them back into this world.’
She was staring at him in disbelief. Now it was Herzog who sounded like the crank and the mystery surrounding him seemed to deepen by the hour.