We waited. Sherlock Holmes extracted a dark lantern from his saddle-bag and proceeded to light it. He then closed the shield and handed it to me. No gleam of light escaped but the smell of hot metal and oil told me it was ready for instant use.
'Keep it handy. We may have urgent need of it.'
Sherlock Holmes paced restlessly about in a fever of suppressed frustration, occasionally throwing out his hands as if chafing against the inaction. Finally, after about fifteen minutes, the gate opened and the small, cloaked figure of the Chief Secretary appeared, accompanied by our soldier, and a giant warrior monk.
'Mr Holmes, what a surprise ...' said the Lama Yonten.
'Reverend Sir,' interrupted Holmes, 'we have no time to lose. I fear an imminent attack on the person of His Holiness.'
The Lama looked up at Sherlock Holmes in a queer sort of way. Not puzzled or bewildered, mind you, though a bit dazed; but on the whole reassured and pleased. 'Then we must do something about it,' he said firmly. 'What are your orders, Mr Holmes?'
'Quick, follow me,' cried Sherlock Holmes, leaping past them and running into the Jewel Park. Mr Holmes was decidedly a swift runner and it was all we could do to keep up with him. We were permitted a brief pause by the inner wall, as the Lama Yonten ordered the gates opened. Then once again we were racing through the dark gardens. I must admit to tripping and stumbling a few times, but recovered swiftly enough to just about keep up behind Mr Holmes. He must have had the eyes of a panther for he sprinted unerringly in the darkness towards the palace building. On arrival, he paused briefly near the door to wait for the rest of us. As soon as I arrived he grabbed the lantern from me and entered the building. Past the reception hall we ran, coming to a long corridor with a number of doors on either side.
'This is His Holiness's bed-chamber,' whispered the Lama Yonten, pointing to the second door on the right. But Holmes did not seem to have heard him, for he quickly strode up the corridor to the fifth door on the left, and there paused to open the metal shield on the lantern and draw a revolver from the pouch of his Ladakhi robe. He then signalled me to push open the door. Slightiy apprehensive, I leaned against it.
The door swung back somewhat awkwardly on its clumsy wrought-iron hinges. A shaft of light from the lantern cut through the darkness of the room to reveal a terrifying red face with long white fangs sticking out of a grimacing mouth. I gave a littie start. Actually, I nearly screamed, but recovered my wits sufficientiy —and in the jolly nick of time — to realise that the fearful apparition was nothing but the idol of a yidam, a wrathful deity of the Lamaist pantheon. We were obviously in some kind of chapel. Mr Holmes did not betray any surprise but kept the lantern shining steadily on the idol. Then he slowly moved the beam of light across the room, revealing more images of fierce tantric deities, peaceful Buddhas and Bodhisattvas, all disconcertingly life-like in the silence and gloom of the chapel. The heavy scent of juniper incense contributed to the mystery of the place.
The clear, effiilgent beam of the lantern rested on the image of a divinity (or demon?) attired in black and holding two short swords, one in each hand. Its head was entirely wrapped in a black scarf, revealing only a pair of dark sinister eyes that glittered like moonstones.
Then they blinked!
'My gosh!' I exclaimed
'Look out! He's armed,' shouted Holmes, raising his revolver as the figure sprang forward to attack us.
Just as swiftly another figure — our warrior monk — leapt forward to confront the assailant. Our monk had also unsheathed his weapon — a heavy piece of iron in the shape of a large key, suspended from the end of a leather thong — which he whirled and flicked about him with practised dexterity and deadliness. Uttering savage yells both the protagonists gave battle. For a few minutes there was a confused melee of hurtling limbs and flashing weapons. By the solitary light of the lantern it was difficult to follow clearly the full course of the fray.
Awakened by the pandemonium, more guards and servants came shouting down the corridor, carrying candles and lamps. In the relative glare of the collective illuminations, our masked intruder appeared to become somewhat discomposed.
Then suddenly he initiated a flurry of wicked thrusts with his swords that caused our warrior monk to fall back a pace. That was all the masked intruder needed. He spun around, and running to the side of the room, jumped out of an open window —probably the same one he had entered by.
'After him!' shouted Holmes.
Our warrior monk unhesitatingly jumped through the window, followed by Mr Holmes and, slightly later, by myself. I am not the most agile of persons, I must admit, and I tripped on the sill and tumbled into a bed of rather prickly roses. I sprang up briskly enough, though, and sped after Mr Holmes. It was extremely difficult to see anything clearly in the infernal darkness, but I did manage to get occasional glimpses of Mr Holmes's running form, so that I was just able to follow him in the confusion of trees and bushes. Then the dark shadow of the garden wall loomed ahead and I saw Mr Holmes run into it — and disappear!
On reaching the wall — at the point of Sherlock Holmes' disappearance — I discovered a small but solid wooden door built into the wall. The door was open, so I went through it quickly. The moment I got to the other side, the moon came out from behind a bank of clouds, and I saw that we were outside the palace compound, on an open stretch of land, probably at the back of the Jewel Park. The pale moonlight clearly revealed the warrior monk and Mr Holmes running close at the heels of the black-garbed intruder who was heading for a small stone bridge arching over a little winding stream. Before the bridge was a palanquin borne by some half-a-dozen uniformed figures.
The intruder was now running very fast. He had transferred both his swords to his left hand, while with his right he extracted a white tubular object from the recesses of his clothes and held it forward, as if to hand it over to someone in that company ahead.
'Stop him!' cried Holmes, raising his revolver to fire.
But once again he was anticipated by our valiant monk. The fellow twirled his weapon rapidly over his head and released it in the direction of the fleeing intruder. The missile hummed across the distance and struck the man squarely behind the head with an audible crunch. He dropped in his tracks like wet buffalo dung. His two swords fell on the ground with a clatter, and the white cylinder rolled away from his lifeless hand. It was a rolled up scroll, or something like it.
Sherlock Holmes rushed forward to recover the object. Just then the thick curtains covering the sides of the palanquin parted slightiy, and a sickly white hand emerged. The thin, gnarled hand described some strange gestures, like the passes of a way-side jadoo wallah, and — may I be born as a louse in a Baluchi's beard if I am lying — the scroll rose from the ground, hovered in midair for a brief moment, and then flew over to the palanquin, straight into the waiting hand. The hand, with the scroll, then quickly drew back into the palanquin and the curtains closed. A thin wailing voice came from within the palanquin, issuing some kind of order, for the uniformed men quickly shouldered the closed litter and prepared to leave.
Our warrior monk was clearly a chap with a bounden sense of duty, for he charged unhesitatingly forward to intercept the departing company. The thin hand emerged from between the curtains of the litter again, and made some more of those strange passes. As if at a command the two swords on the ground flew up into the air, flicked and swung around like the needle of a monstrous compass searching for the North pole, and, on pointing in our direction, suddenly froze. A split second later they shot forward like twin arrows.
The first one flew in the direction of the monk. The second sped straight towards Mr Holmes. He raised his right hand to ward it off. At the last moment it seemed to deflect the tiniest bit and, striking his right shoulder plunged into a tree trunk behind. With a cry Mr Holmes dropped his revolver. I ran up to assist, to resuscitate, but then noticed that the first sword had struck our warrior monk in the middle of his chest, impaling him like a lepidopterist's spec
imen.
For a moment I was transfixed with fear and indecision, but then noticed that the palanquin and its bearers were fast disappearing over the bridge and into the darkness beyond. I quickly picked up Mr Holmes's revolver and fired a few rounds at our departing foes. It was, of course, a futile gesture, made more so by my previously mentioned incompetence in matters concerning the discharge of firearms. But at least the report of the weapon served to draw the attention of Tsering and the others — who had lost their way in the park — and who now came quickly to our aid.
'What has happened ...?' Tsering cried, looking around him. 'Mr Holmes, you are hurt.'
'A mere scratch, my dear fellow,' said Holmes clutching his right arm in pain, and not looking as well as he claimed to be. 'But how is he — the monk guard?'
The warrior monk — brave fellow — was dead as a door-nail. The sword had gone right through his heart. But he died partially avenged, for the masked intruder too — we discovered on investigation — was dead. The back of his head had been crushed by the force of the monk's missile. Tsering removed the black scarf from around the dead assassin's head.
'See the small burn-marks on his shaven head, Mr Holmes,' said Tsering, holding a lantern over it. 'He was a Chinese monk.'
'Hmm ... yes. I have heard that certain monasteries in China have the reputation of training their members to become skilled assassins rather than holy men.' Sherlock Holmes remarked, rather abstractedly. Then he clutched his arm tighter in sudden pain, and spoke in a low hiss. 'But we lose precious time. The palanquin must be followed.'
Mr Holmes quickly explained to Tsering about the cylindrical object being taken by the mysterious person in the palanquin, and instructed Tsering to take some guards and follow it.
'... it left a few minutes ago so it won't be too difficult to catch up with it. Keep a safe distance. And don't, if you value your life, try to stop or apprehend it. I just want to know where it is going.'
Tsering quickly went off with two soldiers, while some other guards carried away the two bodies. Mr Holmes's wound was now bleeding quite severely and his face was drawn and deathly pale, so I helped him back to the palace.
18
The Missing Mandala
The Lama Yonten quickly summoned a monk physician who bathed Mr Holmes's wound and treated it with some aromatic herbal salve. Servants also brought in hot tea and other refreshments, which were very welcome to us after our trying experiences of the night. As he was being tended, Sherlock Holmes narrated to the Lama the strange occurrences by the bridge. The Lama seemed much troubled by Mr Holmes's tale.
'This is terrible, terrible,' the Lama said, shaking his head from side to side. 'But at least you have, for the present, prevented an unthinkable evil and a national catastrophe.'
'Is His Holiness all right?' Holmes inquired.
'Yes. I have just come from his bed-chamber. He is unharmed. Fortunately the assassin must have made a mistake and entered His Holiness's chapel instead of his bedchamber.'
'Humm ... perhaps,' said Sherlock Holmes speculatively. 'Though that could have been his intention all along.'
'What do you mean?' the Lama asked, puzzled.
'Well, when I was chasing the intruder, I noticed that he had something in his hand, which he tried to hand over to whoever it was in that covered litter.'
'I saw it too, Sir,' I ventured. 'It looked like a rolled-up scroll or a roll of parchment.'
'Exactly. Now it would not be unreasonable to assume that the article had been taken from the chapel. And, since our intruder did not strike me as a chance thief, one could possibly conclude that the man had intended to enter the chapel and steal the scroll in the first place.'
'So you do not think that he had any murderous intentions?' the Lama Yonten queried.
'I cannot really say,' answered Holmes, shrugging his shoulders. 'Of course, I must confess that such an intruder, armed with two wicked swords, is someone to whom one cannot confidentiy attribute peaceful intentions. But considering the facts it would seem that his principal task was not murder, but the purloining of some object from the chapel.'
'Well, it will not be difficult to verify,' said the Lama Yonten. 'The Senior Chapel Attendant is at this moment cleaning up the mess there. He will certainly know if anything has been stolen. I will have him summoned.'
He reached over for his small handbell, but Sherlock Holmes raised his hand.
'It would perhaps be more profitable to go there and look for ourselves.'
'But your wound, Mr Holmes?'
'A mere scratch. It does not prevent me from walking.'
'Very well,' the Lama nodded.
Holmes rose from the couch, grimacing slightly from the pain he must have felt. I started to go over to help him but he waved me away.
The chapel, now brightly lit with oil lamps, was still in some disarray, though a few monks were attempting to tidy it up and put everything in order. One of them — a wrinkled, toothless old chap with narrow squint eyes and hollow cheeks sprouting a few grey hairs — was clearly upset.
'Oh dear me ... oh ... oh ...'he wailed, holding up the remains of what had once been an exquisite Ming cloisonne vase. 'How can I get everything ready for the morning service?'
'Do not worry kusho] said the Lama Yonten. 'His Holiness is confident that in your good hands everything will be in order. Now, is there anything missing?'
'Missing?' the greybeard threw up his hands and commenced his lamentations again. 'Oh! Were I to have as many eyes as the Za demon, it would be impossible to tell in this chaos.'
'Has something been removed from there?' asked Sherlock Holmes, pointing to the far corner of the back wall.
'Where did you say?' the old man peered about confusedly. Holmes stepped across the room and indicated the place. 'I think we had a ... now what was it? Oh yes, there was a thangka hanging there.'
'About two feet high and a foot and a half wide?' asked Holmes.
'How did you know ...?' the Lama Yonten began to ask, amazed, then he laughed. 'Ah, Mr Holmes, you noticed the discoloration on the wall where the scroll was hanging.'
'Yes, clear observation is the basis of any investigation.'
'Which thangka was it?' the Lama Yonten asked the old chapel attendant.
'Let me think. Yes, it was the one of the mandala of the Great Tantra of the Wheel of Time. The very old one.'
'Was it of any significant value?' asked Holmes.
'In terms of material wealth, not really so,' replied the Lama. 'There are others just like it. In fact one could commission an artist to paint one exactly like it for a small sum of money. But this one originally belonged to the first Grand Lama, or so I have been told, and therefore has greater spiritual value. Even then, I really do not see why anyone should risk his life to steal it.'
As we all began to leave the chapel, the Lama Yonten turned to the old attendant and offered him a few words of consolation and encouragement. 'Don't worry. You can take the vases and ritual implements from behind the Assembly Hall to replace the broken ones. Everything will be all right.'
As we once again settled down in the reception room, Sherlock Holmes lit his pipe and spoke to the Lama Yonten. 'Could you enlighten me as to the subject of the painted scroll? My knowledge of the symbolisms of your theology is very limited.'
'Well, Mr Holmes, let me first explain to you what mandalas are in general, before discussing that particular one.'
'Pray, if you would be so kind.'
The Lama took a pinch of snuff from a jade snuff bottle and delicately wiped his nose on a yellow silk handkerchief. After blinking once or twice he proceeded to give a detailed explanation on this unique cosmological and psychological aspect of Lamaist Buddhism. The Lama Yonten's explanation was very recondite, and certainly liable to be misunderstood by someone not familiar with the tenets of Lamaism. I have therefore taken the liberty of providing a simpler (and more scientific) version of his talk.
The mandala is a circular design of ma
ny colours and great geometrical complexity. Essentially it is a symbolic map of a world; the world of the human mind and consciousness. The various circles and squares composing it represent the various stages of psychic development on the long journey from ignorance to ultimate enlightenment. The final stage is arrived at in the centre of the circle, in which resides a Buddha or Bodhisattva who represents the final goal of the spiritual quest.
The particular mandala in question was of the Great Tantra of the Wheel of Time (Skt. Sri Kala-chakra). The most complex of such occult systems, this tantra was said to have been brought to Thibet from the mythical realm of 'Shambala of the North' in the eleventh century.
Shambala, in the Lamaist world system, is regarded as a wonderland similar to Thomas Moore's Utopia, the New Atiantis of Francis Bacon, or the City of the Sun of Campanella, where virtue and wisdom had created an ideal community. This fabled land is considered to be the source of all high occult sciences, far in advance of our world in scientific and technological knowledge. The sacred scriptures of Thibet prophesy that when mankind is finally enslaved by the forces of evil, the Lords of Shambala will, in the Water-Sheep Year of the Twenty-fourth cycle (2425), send forth their great army and destroy the evil forces. After that Buddhism will flourish anew and a Perfect Age will begin. The Lama Yonten of course believed implicitly in this charming myth, as did all other Thibetans and Mongols.
At the end of the Lama's story Sherlock Holmes stretched back on his couch and looked pensively at the ceiling. Then leaning forward again he asked, 'Did you not mention yesterday that the Grand Lama would be undertaking a retreat at a certain far-away temple?'
'Why, yes. At the Ice Temple of Shambala. He will be going there in a week's time.'
'Does this temple have any connection to "the Shambala of the North", that you were describing to us just now?'
'Most certainly, Mr Holmes. The temple, which is normally buried underneath the great ice, was the very spot where the messenger from Shambala originally expounded the secret science of the Wheel of Time to the first Grand Lama. Ever since then all Grand Lamas have been required by tradition to undertake a period of retreat there, prior to their enthronement. There, through prayer and meditation, they would establish cosmic communion with the occult forces of Shambala, which would then awaken their latent powers and wisdom, thus enabling them to rule this land wisely and protect it from the dark forces.'
The Mandala of Sherlock Holmes Page 17