The Mandala of Sherlock Holmes

by Jamyang Norbu

  The track wound in and out of the mountainside following the meanderings of the river. A couple of furlongs further up the road a narrow bridge had been erected across the river which was not more than seventy feet in width at this point. The bridge was of the kind called sanga by the hill people, which means a wooden bridge or a bridge of planks, contrasted with jhula, a rope bridge. The pier of the bridge on the left bank was formed by an isolated rock that jutted out precariously from the cliff side.

  Taking out the pen-case telescope from my pocket, I focused it on the cliffs on the other side of the river. I tracked their whole length, as far as they were visible, but save for a solitary lammergeyer feeding on a dead lamb, detected nothing. But, 'one has checked nothing unless one has double-checked everything,' as we say at the Department. So once again I raised the telescope to my eye and commenced vigilant observations, mumbling to myself all the while. A deplorable habit — but one that I had unconsciously acquired over the years in an attempt to commit to memory all that I was observing.

  'What's that? Rather a funny-looking rock there. Looks more like a bally topee than anything else. By Jove, it is a topee ... how the deuce an' all did it get there? ... Gosh! There's a head under it too ... let's have a better look. Oh, damn this beastly focus knob. It's too tight. Damn Lurgan ... aah ... that's better. Now ... What! Ferret-Face! O Shaitan!'

  The head disappeared behind a rock just as I laid eyes on it, making me a bit unsure whether I had really seen it in the first place. I rushed back and told Sherlock Holmes what I thought I had just seen.

  'Hmm,' he frowned,'that fellow's getting to be a regular stormy petrel. We must leave this place at once. It is too exposed.'

  'Yes, Sir! I will make preparations for departure at once. Arre, Kintup. Idhar aao.'

  I explained the situation to Kintup and the others. Kintup (admirable fellow) was a veteran of many adventures and unperturbed by such unexpected contingencies. He immediately set about preparing for our speedy departure. The others followed his worthy example. Barely was the last mule loaded when Gaffuru, the Argon, cried out, pointing to the road below, the one we had passed just a short while ago.

  'Dekho sahib! Riders.'

  About a mile away, on the road below, a cloud of dust moved rapidly towards us. I whipped out my special telescope and focused it on the sight of a company of the most desperate looking bandits, armed to the teeth, whipping their shaggy ponies furiously.

  'Look, Mr Holmes!' I cried, handing him the telescope. 'We are in mortal peril of life and limb.'

  'So it would seem,' he replied, cool as a cucumber. He handed me back my telescope and, going over to one of the pack mules, pulled out a Martini-Henry rifle we had concealed, pro re nata, under its pannier. He began to load it rapidly. 'Get those mules moving up the track quickly. If we manage to cross the bridge before they get to us, we have a slight chance of holding them off from across the river.'

  I at once perceived that Mr Holmes's plan was the only feasible course of action. Yet, it was a good three furlongs to the bridge, probably more, and the mules would slow us down a great deal — and in the meanwhile the riders would be catching up with us, fast. It would be touch and go, at best.

  'Arre! Chalo! Choo, choo!'

  Kintup, Jamspel and Gaffuru whipped the animals up the track while Sherlock Holmes, with his cocked rifle, and myself with my nickel-plated revolver, followed as rearguards. The road was, at this point, cut into the side of a near perpendicular cliff, winding in and out, following the twists and turns of the savage river a hundred feet below.

  We had not covered more than a furlong when suddenly a crackle of rifle fire echoed from across the river and the rock face by our side spurted dust and stone chips. Our ponies reared and skittered with fright.

  'By Thunder!' cried Holmes,'they have some marksmen across the river. Take care, Huree.'

  Hardly had Mr Holmes uttered these words when a bullet ploughed into the side of my wretched pony, which stumbled a few paces to the edge of the track and then collapsed with a piteous whinny. I myself tumbled ignominiously on the ground like a bally football, and would probably have rolled right off the road and plunged over the cliff and into the river, had not Mr Holmes quickly dismounted and providentially come to my aid. In the veritable nick of time, when I was just commencing my fatal descent over the cliffside, he grabbed me by the back of my collar and hauled me away from the precipice.

  'Thank you for most timely assistance, Sir,' I managed to gasp.

  'Not at all,' he said, as we hurriedly crawled behind a protective rock. 'I really cannot afford to lose my invaluable guide just at the beginning of this journey.'

  More rifle fire bracketed us. Sherlock Holmes returned a few shots, but unfortunately his pony panicked in the noise and confusion and ran off. So both of us were now sans cheval. The main body of riders had by now come very close. Some of them had dismounted and were firing at us. It was an extremely alarming situation — let me assure you dear reader — to have all those deadly projectiles zooming around us like maddened bumble-bees. But by resourceful usage of boulders, rock faces and other cover available for concealment thereof; and also as Sherlock Holmes's standard of marksmanship was of a very high order — which somewhat dampened the initial ardour of the overboldened rascals — we managed not to sustain any injury for the time being.

  There was a sharp bend in the track before us that prevented us from seeing the bridge. I hoped that our men had managed to get the animals across safely.

  'The blighters are closing in, Sir,' I shouted above the crackle of another fusillade by the enemy.

  'I see them,' he replied, reloading his weapon methodically. 'We have to move before they get close enough to be able to rush us. Now listen, Huree. As soon as I begin firing, I want you to get up and start running. Don't even pause before you get around that bend. Ready? Now off you go!'

  Mr Holmes commenced an effective rapid fire that caused the opposition to keep their heads low. I sprang up from behind my boulder, banged off a few wild shots myself from my revolver, and bounded up the track — my bally legs exerting themselves eighteen annas to the rupee. Sherlock Holmes fired a few more shots and then came running after me.

  Swarms of lethal missiles whizzed and crackled around us during our precipitous flight. It seemed to be an agonisingly slow and endless run, but I finally approached the bend, and with one last tremendous burst of energy, flung myself gratefully around that crucial corner.

  I was just going to heave a massive sigh of relief when a shockingly unexpected sight caused me to renounce, forthwith, all further hopes of a continuing corporeal existence.

  As implacable as death, Ferret-Face stood in the middle of the track. The first thing I noticed about him was the very large Mauser automatic pistol in his right hand, which seemed to be pointed straight at me.

  'Angels and ministers of grace defend us.'

  Behind him, in full battle array, were the wildest looking bunch of Thibetans I had ever seen. They were scattered about the road and hillside, behind boulders and tree-trunks, but their rifles, muskets and jingals1 were charged and cocked, poised for firing. Sherlock Holmes came charging around the corner, nearly colliding into me, and was also confronted with this deadly impasse.

  'What the Devil . . . ' he exclaimed, but realising the gravity of our predicament he composed himself admirably. With steady hands he lit his pipe and calmly proceeded to smoke as if he had not a care in the world. Ferret-Face raised his pistol. I saw his finger tightening around the trigger and I thought of the little palm-lined village in lower Bengal where I was born. Tears welled up in my eyes.

  There was a loud bang followed by a sharp volley of rifle-fire and the boom of discharged muskets. I felt like I fainted dead away, for everything seemed to become suddenly dark. But when I opened my eyes I realised I was still standing — and quite alive! And Sherlock Holmes was still standing besides me, smoking his pipe.

  Ferret-Face and his men were still ther
e before us, smoke curling from the barrels of their weapons. I turned around.

  The road behind was strewn with the supine bodies of those villainous bandits who had attempted to assassinate us. They had been shot down by Ferret-Face and his men, when they had followed Mr Holmes and myself around the bend in hot pursuit — not expecting a hotter reception!

  Some of the villains, specially those who had been at the rear of their column, had survived the fusillade, and were now in ignominious flight. Ferret-Face fired a few more shots after them to encourage them on their way and then restored his weapon to the wooden (stock-combination) holster strapped to his side. He came over to us and extended his hand to Mr Holmes. 'Mr Sigerson, I presume?'

  'Yes.'

  'My name is Jacob Asterman. I am an agent of His Holiness, the Grand Lama of Thibet, and I have been instructed to deliver to you this special passport, permitting you and your companion to visit the holy city of Lhassa.

  1. Jingals. Heavy match-lock muskets mounted on stdfids'and worked by two men.

  13

  Passport to Thibet

  At a sign from Asterman a young Thibetan of refined appearance came forward and, bowing low, gave him a document wrapped around an arrow. This was what the Thibetans called a dayig, or 'arrow-missive', which indicated that the document was an official one. Asterman made a formal bow and handed the 'arrow-missive' to Mr Holmes who broke the wax seal, untied the string, and rolled open the passport. It was written in the elegant umay, or flowing script, which Mr Holmes had not yet mastered; so he passed it over to me. I read it aloud. A copy of the document and a translation in English is provided below for the reader's amusement:

  All governors, district officials, village headmen and the public on the route from Tholing to Lhassa — hear and obey! The foreigner, Si-ga-sahab (Sigerson sahib) and his companion the Indian pundit bearing a godly name, Hari Chanda, are making an honourable journey to the abode of the gods (Lhassa). On their journey, all district officials are required to provide them four riding ponies and whatever pack animals required, complete with all necessary saddles, harnesses and fittings. Customary payments will be made to the owners of the animals thus hired, and proper receipts obtained from them. At all halting places, fodder must be provided for the animals owned by the bearers of this passport. Furthermore, fuel must also be provided to them, and when required, passage on ferries, coracles, and ropeways. All must be provided without fail on this journey. There must be no delays or hindrances.

  The first day of the second moon of the Water Dragon Year.

  The seal of the Grand Lama of Thibet.

  Addendum: This passport it accompanied by two 'robes of the gods,' of the ashe, or middling quality, to welcome the honourable visitors.

  The Thibetan who had been carrying the 'arrow missive/ —and who seemed to be some official functionary — reached into the folds of his robe and extracted two white silken scarves, the 'robes of the gods' grandly referred to in the passport. These scarves, generally called khatags, are used by Thibetans and other Tartars to grace every ceremony or occasion in their lives. They are used to welcome guests, to bid goodbyes, to petition lords, to worship the Buddha, to propitiate the gods, to celebrate weddings, and to mourn at funerals. The white colour of the scarves serves to denote the purity of the giver's motives.

  He unfurled the scarves and, bowing low, handed one each to Mr Holmes and myself.

  "pon my word,' said Holmes, accepting the scarf graciously, and making a slight bow in return. 'This is rather a singular turn of events. What do you make of it, Hurree?'

  'By Gad, Sir, this takes the bally bun, if you ask me. My brain is totally at sixes and sevens — though I must say that the passport does appear to be genuine.'

  'Oh, but it is,' said Asterman quickly, a note of consternation in his voice. 'The Chief Secretary of the Grand Lama himself has issued it and personally ordered its delivery to you. This ...'he pointed to the square red seal on the document inscribed with minute Sanskrit letters, 'is the seal of the Grand Lama. There is no other like it in all of Thibet and Greater Tartary.'

  Observing our quizzical expresions he added, 'Ah! I see that you require further explanation. Very well. We shall proceed to my encampment across the river, where you shall have rest, refreshments and answers. Your men and animals are there right now, all safe and sound.'

  We crossed the bridge and, proceeding a few hundred yards up the track, came upon a level tract of land. A few cotton tents and a large shamiana were erected in a circle around a small fire. Kintup and the others were squatting on the ground by the fire, but when they saw us they came running to greet us. I noticed that Mr Holmes was touched by the evident happiness of the men to see us alive and unharmed. Kintup told us that they were sure we had been killed, especially after hearing the last thunderous discharge of weapons. They also thought that they themselves had been taken prisoner by one contingent of the bandits. Much to their relief, I was able to assure them that this was not so, and that Asterman and his men were our saviours rather than our captors.

  Our 'saviour' ushered us to some low ottomans under the awning, and called for refreshments. It is strange how prejudices can alter the appearance of a person in one's eyes. Asterman now seemed to be a jolly decent sort of chap, nowhere approximating the role of the sinister 'Ferret Face' to which I had previously allocated him. He was somewhat garrulous though.

  'Well, Sir, if you are to make any sense of it, I must tell you my story from the beginning.' Asterman took off his grimy topee to reveal a pink bony skull, sparsely covered with occasional strands of weathered grey hair. His thin, pinched face became very animated when he began to speak. 'I am, as you may have had occasion to observe, a Jew, Sir. An unhappy son of Shem, who because of history and circumstance has had to endure more than his share of the rigours of life.

  'My family were originally from Alexandria, my father being the third son of David Asterman, one of the most prominent merchants of that city. But my father wanted to strike out on his own, and, taking his birthright, he and my mother set out for Calcutta, where he set himself up as a spice merchant. But he was improvident, Sir, and though he had only one failing — horses — it was enough to cause the ruination of our family and his own early demise of a broken heart. May his soul rest in peace. To support my old mother and my many brothers and sisters, I tried to operate a kabari, a second-hand shop at Bow Bazaar in Calcutta, but it was a disheartening venture. I lacked capital and skill, and try as I might I could never make enough money to raise my family above penury. But we were a pious family, Sir, and faithfully kept God's commandments. Though we were close to despair we did not lose faith in the Almighty. He had caused ravens to feed Elijah in the wilderness, surely he would not let us perish altogether. Then one day an unusual customer came to the shop.

  'He was a young gendeman of medium stature and decidedly oriental features. He wore outlandish but rich silken robes, and was accompanied by a Kayeth, a bazaar letter-writer, who was obviously acting as his interpreter. The letter-writer explained to me that the gentleman was from Bhotiyal, or Thibet. The letter-writer had, a number of years ago, plied his trade up in the small township of Kalimpong, on the border of Thibet, and had picked up a bit of the language there. The Thibetan gentleman was desirous of obtaining a special item, and had approached a number of shops in the city for it, only to be turned away in disbelief and, occasionally, ridicule. Finally he had decided to give up. The letter-writer had urged him to make one last attempt, and had persuaded him to enter my humble shop. I attempted to set him at his ease, and politely enquired about the item he desired to purchase. He replied simply that he wanted a "thunderbolt"!

  ' "Now Jacob, my son," I told myself, "this is not the moment to display surprise or mirth. Fools do not wear such expensive silks (my grandfather had dealt extensively in silks and I knew a fine piece when I saw one), nor are they accompanied by interpreters to translate their follies. There may be some profit to be made in this, just at th
e cost of a little patience and courtesy."

  'So I decided that there was a misunderstanding,' continued Asterman, taking a sip of tea, 'probably enlarged by the letter-writer's incompetence as an interpreter. I patiently questioned the Thibetan gentleman many times about the exact nature of the item he wanted, about its shape, colour and properties, but got nowhere. Then I remembered that in the collection of secondhand books in the shop, there was an old Thibetan-English dictionary that I had purchased from the effects of a deceased missionary. I rushed to the back of the shop and found it lying on a pile of musty Blackwoods magazines. The moment I showed the dictionary to the Thibetan gentleman I knew that our troubles were over. He was clearly an educated person — in his own way — for he flicked over the pages of the book eagerly till he found what he wanted. With a littie cry of satisfaction he pointed to a spot on the page, and urged me, in his queer gibberish, to look there.

  'To be fair to the letter-writer, the literal translation of the Thibetan word was "thunderbolt", but what it actually meant, and what the Thibetan gentleman was actually looking for, was meteorite iron.

  'I managed to obtain a quantity of it for him from a dealer who supplied minerals and geological specimens to schools and colleges. He paid me a handsome commission, and since then has used me to locate many strange and fabulous things. He himself was an official of the Grand Lama, and was seeking these things for his master. I never knew why he wanted them, and I did not think it my business to ask. For making magic,1 maybe? Anyway, I was well recompensed for my troubles, though I had my occasional failures. But it is surprising what you can find, no matter how fantastic it may be, especially when you are being liberally paid to find it, and have carte blanche as to expenses. I could tell you some strange stories of my ventures for these things. Why, the single occasion when I had to bargain for a Phoenix egg from the treasure trove of the Grand Mage of Kafiristan, would make a more exciting tale than all of Mr Haggard's novels.'