“You’ve been gone a long time, father,” William said.
“We thought you were dead. We thought you’d disappeared like grandfather.”
“I was dead,” answered Christopher.
“But now I’m alive again.”
“Are you?” asked William, smiling a little smile.
He waited for Chindamani all that day, but she did not come. Noone came, except for a young monk who brought him food on two occasions and left without saying a word. Once, in the late afternoon, he thought he heard the sound of voices raised in anger, but after a while they died away and left him once more in silence.
At sunset, the trumpet was not sounded. When the boy came to clear away his dishes, he seemed frightened, but he would not answer Christopher’s questions and left in a hurry.
He went to bed early, uneasy. For a long time he could not sleep. He strained for sounds in the night, but there was only the wind as always. He lay in the dark, wishing sleep would come. Or Chindamani, to banish it. And it came quietly, when he was not expecting it.
The next thing he was aware of was a figure bending over him in the dark. It was Chindamani, and her hand was clapped hard over his mouth. She put her lips to his ear and whispered fiercely.
“For all our sakes, Ka-ris To-feh, don’t make a sound. Get out of bed as quietly as you can, then follow me. Please don’t ask any questions, there’s no time.”
He sensed the urgency and the fear in her voice. Without hesitation, he slipped out of bed and stood up. On the table by the bed was the knife he had taken from his assailant of two nights ago. Bending down, he fumbled for his boots, but she pushed them into his hand. He snatched up the knife and thrust it into his boot.
Outside the door of his room, the corridor had been plunged into pitch darkness. Chindamani held his hand as before. She used her other hand to follow the wall. Somewhere, loud voices called;
there was a crashing sound, as though a large object had fallen.
He thought he could hear feet running and then grow still. He thought he heard someone cry out and fall silent again.
Chindamani fumbled in the darkness. Then there was a door and they went through it. He heard the sound of a match being struck, then a sudden flame stabbed the darkness. Chindamani lit a small butter-lamp and set it back on a low cabinet. Her hand was trembling.
The girl was terrified. A long cut on her forehead was bleeding quite badly. Christopher stretched out his hand to wipe away the blood. She winced and drew away from him.
“What’s happening?” he asked in a low whisper.
“I don’t know,” she answered.
“I heard noises and went to investigate. There was someone in the corridor, one of the monks - I don’t know his name. He ... he told me to go back to my room, to stay there. He spoke to me as though he didn’t know who I was. Or didn’t care. I grew angry; I told him to mind his manners and explain what he was doing there. No-one is allowed on this floor without permission. He was carrying a stick. When I challenged him he just lifted it and struck me. I fell down. I think he was going to hit me again, I don’t know. Just at that moment someone called him from nearby and he left me.
“I went straight to your father’s chambers to look for help, but there was no-one there. At least .. .” She hesitated. He saw the lamplight twist about her face in a ragged, jittery sort of dance.
Her eyes looked frightened and blood ran over one eyebrow, matting its fine black hairs.
“There are several monks whose job is to serve the abbot,” she continued, collecting herself.
“They were all there. They .. .” She paused, leaning against the edge of the cabinet. Her hand touched the coiled tail of a sea-serpent. She had gone pale.
“They were dead,” she said in a hoarse voice. She shuddered, remembering. Christopher moved as though to take her in his arms and comfort her, but she flinched and held herself away from him.
It was too soon for comfort. Perhaps it would never be the right time for it. The blood had not yet dried on her forehead.
“There was .. . blood everywhere,” she stammered.
“The room was red with it, bright, bright patches of blood in every corner. It had run across carpets, cushions, everything. Pools of it had collected in hollows, little red pools. Their .. . their throats had been cut. Not gently, not cleanly, but with something large and heavy, a sword or a billhook, without hesitation. They were butchered like animals.”
“My father .. . Was he .. .?”
She shook her head, biting her lower lip fiercely with small white teeth.
“No,” she whispered.
“He wasn’t among them. I was afraid. But I stayed to look for him. I looked in all his rooms, but there was no sign of him Perhaps he has hidden somewhere. There are secret chambers, places he could take refuge. But I was frightened, I didn’t want to call out. It had sickened me, all that blood. I can’t tell you .. .” She shivered again, the memory taking her like an ague, filling her flesh with a dark, unexpungeable chill.
“Then I thought of Samdup and your son,” she said.
“I thought of them alone, not knowing what was happening. I ran up to the roof and got across to the lab rang but they were already gone.
Someone has taken them, Christopher. Perhaps they have already killed them. I’m frightened. I don’t know what to do.”
He gestured as if to comfort her again, but still she recoiled from his touch, not out of fear of him, but more from a simple dread of his humanity. The world had suddenly been brought close to her, and at this moment he was its nearest representative.
Christopher thought he knew what was happening. Zamyatin must have decided to act. To take control of Dorje-la alone would be a matter of little consequence to him. But to have both children and a base from which to manipulate them that would transform this little operation into something that could swing the political balance of Asia. But what had prompted his sudden action?
“Did you tell anyone of your plans to take Samdup away?” he asked.
She hesitated, then nodded slowly. -“Yes,” ‘she whispered.
“I told the abbot this morning. I wanted his permission to go.” She paused.
“He refused. He said he knew a little of Zamyatin and his plans, but that he was in control of the situation. He thought he could make use of Zamyatin.”
“Make use of him?”
She blinked and nodded again.
“Your father had his own plans, his own .. . dreams. Samdup was part of them, I think. And Zamyatin. And ... I think, your son.”
“What sort of plans?”
She shook her head.
“I don’t know exactly. Dreams of power. Not for himself, but for the dharma, the doctrine of the Lord Buddha. Dreams of a barrier against all foreign interference, against Britain, against Russia, against China. There is a prophecy that when Dorje-la is ruled by a pee-ling, the world will be ruled from Dorje-la. Not literally, but in some sense. He believed that. He believed he had a destiny.”
“He talked of this to you?”
“A little,” she said.
“The rest I guessed. But I think it’s too late now. If you are right, if Zamyatin has taken control.”
“This morning,” Christopher continued, ‘were you overheard?
Or would my father have told anyone else?”
She hesitated, then a look of dismay came over her face.
“At one point Losang Khyongla was in the room. He’s the abbot’s secretary. He .. . I’ve just realized that he wasn’t among the dead men I found in your father’s quarters. You don’t think he .. .?”
Christopher nodded.
“Quite possibly. Anyway, that isn’t important now. We have to find out what’s going on. Do you have any idea where they might have taken my father and the boys?”
She thought briefly.
“The most likely place is Thondrup Chophel’s room. It’s a large room near the Lha-khang. Monks are often sent there to be pu
nished. Thondrup and his assistants would take care of anything like that!”
“Who is Thondrup Chophel?” Christopher asked.
“He’s the Geku, of course. He keeps discipline in the monastery.
It’s normal for a Geku to be frightening. Some of the monks get out of hand. But I don’t like Thondrup. He’s .. .” She paused.
“Yes?”
“He can be brutal,” she said.
“The abbot has had to reprimand him several times for his severity. Once he broke a man’s arms, just because he made a mistake while reciting the Tangyur.”
“Why hasn’t he been replaced?”
She smiled wanly at him.
“This is Dorje-la,” she said.
“The Geku is never dismissed.
Discipline must come first. Broken bones can be mended.”
He looked back at her, his eyes full of concern.
“What about broken hearts?”
She sighed.
“Hearts are like cups of porcelain,” she whispered.
“Once they are broken, they can never be mended.” The smile left her face and she grew serious.
“Very well,” he said.
“We’ll visit Thondrup Chophel’s room. Can you get me there without being seen?”
She nodded.
“I think so.”
She lifted her hand nervously to her forehead. The blood had dried a little and the wound was beginning to sting.
They travelled by dark or partly-lit passages, creeping like mice in and out of shadows, listening for voices or footsteps. Occasionally there were sounds in the distance, and twice they had to take cover in darkened rooms until little bands of monks went past. They acted on the assumption that, if anyone was moving, he was unfriendly. On the lower floors, Zamyatin’s handiwork was in evidence. The bodies of his victims lay in untidy bundles everywhere. Some had had their throats cut, others had broken necks, and a few had died from injuries to the skull. It had been silent work, mute and bloody.
Chindamani explained in whispers that a limited number of monks received training in Chinese martial arts from Tsarong Rinpoche. These men had been foremost among those attracted to Zamyatin. She thought he exercised some sort of control over them through Tsarong Rinpoche.
As they neared the Lha-khang, a low droning sound came to their ears.
“Listen,” whispered Chindamani.
“They’re chanting hymns to Yama.”
“Who is Yama?” asked Christopher.
She looked at him oddly, a distant lamp catching fire in the black pupils of her eyes.
“He is the Lord of Death,” she answered simply, turning her face away.
They left the Lha-khang behind, but the sound of chanting followed them on heavy feet. At the far end of the corridor, they came to a red-painted door in the right-hand wall.
“Is this the only entrance?” asked Christopher.
She nodded.
They put their ears to the door, but no sounds could be heard from behind it. Christopher felt naked, with only the small knife to defend himself with.
“This is no good,” he said.
“We need weapons. These people mean business we can’t keep them off with our bare hands.”
She thought for a while, then nodded.
“All right,” she said.
“Wait in here.”
There was a small room nearby, where robes and other items were kept for use in the Lha-khang. Chindamani left Christopher there and hurried off down the corridor. Her feet made no sound on the cold stones; she might have been a shadow. He waited in the darkness for her, anxious and nervous, knowing that matters were reaching a climax.
She returned within five minutes carrying a short sword. It had come from the gon-kang, she explained. Most of the other weapons had already been taken.
They went back to the door of the Geku’s room and listened again. It was still silent. But from the Lha-khang the hymn to Yama continued. Christopher put his hand to the door and pushed.
Afterwards, Christopher often wondered why he had not cried out at that moment. Had the horror been too great for his mind to take in all at once? Or had he passed in a single instant beyond all ordinary horror, into another realm where silence was the only speech?
He felt Chindamani clutch his arm, but it was as if his flesh and her flesh both belonged in a world he had just left behind. Someone had lit lamps and hung them at intervals from the walls, so that eveything in the room stood out clearly.
Ropes had been tied to rafters in the ceiling, dozens of them, like creepers in a forest, hanging down from low branches into a bright clearing, bearing obscene and over-ripened fruit. The ropes were taut, and they twisted slowly in the shadows. Something heavy hung at the end of each one, a man’s body, turning ponderously in the gloom. The bodies hung like dummies in a tailor’s warehouse, anonymous, waiting to be displayed in a shop window in a distant town; or like rag dolls waiting for giant children to cut them down and play with them.
Christopher felt a terrible cold pass through him. All his body was filled with it, his veins flowed with ice. He remembered his dream of the girls hanging in the orphanage, the staring eyes turned to him, the red lips parted. But this was no dream.
He stepped into the room, walking slowly among the bodies, looking for one body among the rest. To one side he saw the stool on which the victims had been made to stand while they were despatched. He imagined a practised foot kicking the stool out from underneath each time, the body dropping, the face in agony as the rope bit into the neck. All the men’s hands had been tied behind their backs. Death had been slow and painful.
Suddenly, he heard Chindamani call out behind him, a cry of pain or horror. He whirled round, ready to run to help her. But it was too late. Tsarong Rinpoche held her firmly, one arm round her throat. In his free hand he held a pistol pointed at her head.
Behind him, in the doorway, stood a group of monks, all armed.
“Drop your weapon to the floor, Wylam-la,” the Rinpoche said.
“If you do not, the Lady Tara will have to look for a new body.”
“You were warned not to enter Tibet,” Tsarong Rinpoche said, addressing Christopher. His voice was sad, as though he found his position distasteful but unavoidable.
“You decided to ignore that warning. A boy died. Now your own life hangs in the balance. I would have saved you from all this. Remember that.”
But inwardly the Rinpoche was very pleased with himself. The gods had smiled at his efforts. The Russian was pleased and his masters in Moscow would send the assistance they had promised.
There would be no more fumbling now that he was in control. The gods would repay him abundantly. He turned to Chindamani.
“I’m sorry, my lady,” he said, ‘but I have instructions to bring you with me. If you behave yourself, no harm will befall you.” He removed his arm from her neck and let her move away from him.
She stepped back towards Christopher and took his hand tightly in her own.
“Were you responsible for .. . this?” She gestured towards the room behind her.
“The executions were necessary,” the Rinpoche said, ‘if there was to be no attempt to undo my work. Zam-ya-ting supervised them.
He has carried out such tasks before.”
“What about my father?” Christopher asked.
“Has he been harmed?”
Tsarong Rinpoche shrugged.
“He was the abbot,” he said.
“I could not leave him alive and hope to rule in his place. He was a trulku. It was time for him to be reborn.”
For the second time in his life, Christopher received news of his father’s death in silence. The old man had come back to him out of darkness and returned to it again, unrecognized, unforgiven, almost unremembered. Christopher was an heir to darkness now.
In the shadows behind him, the heavy bodies moved as a single body:
this was his inheritance and he knew it would soon be
time for him to claim it.
“Was the Russian responsible for his death as well?”
The Rinpoche shook his head.
“No. I took care of it myself.” He paused.
“There is no time to talk. Zam-ya-ting would like to see you. You have been much on his mind since your arrival here.”
They set off at once, Tsarong Rinpoche leading the way, followed by Christopher and Chindamani, each with a monk at either arm.
As they walked, Christopher pondered on what had happened.
The work of clearing the monastery had been finished and Zamyatin was in complete control of that there could be little doubt.
Nominal leadership of the monastery had passed to Tsarong Rinpoche Christopher had already guessed that. But the controlling force, the hand on all the strings, would be Zamyatin’s. And beyond Zamyatin the new regime in Moscow.
They climbed towards the upper storey, passing bodies that had fallen on the stairs “What will you do with the men you have killed?” Christopher asked.
“How will you get rid of so many bodies?”
At first he thought the Rinpoche was not going to anwer. Then he spoke, his voice remote and unconcerned, as though he had been a schoolmaster, one of whose pupils had asked a question about the Great Plague: “How did they bury them all, sir?”
“There will be a great sky burial,” the Rinpoche said.
“The air will be black with vultures. It will take several days at least, but they are greedy birds and monks are thin meat.”
Christopher understood what he meant by a ‘sky burial’. In a country where there was little soil and less timber, corpses were seldom buried or burned. Instead, the bodies of the dead were taken out to high places and expertly dissected by men using butchers’ knives. The meat was given to the vultures and the bones pounded to fine powder before being mixed with the brain and offered as a final titbit. Christopher had once watched a vulture after such a feast, too heavy to lift itself from the ground, its great wings flapping obscenely in the silence of the hills.
Their path led inexorably to the top of the monastery, and at last to the long chorten hall, where the tombs stood silent in the half-light. Copper and gold and silver gave off a dull glow, like death. Waiting for them at the far end, bathed in candlelight, was a figure dressed all in black.
The Ninth Buddha Page 23